The Fall of Riefeld

I run for all I’m worth, dragging Erin behind me. I guess I'm worth a surprising amount, since I run so fast, Erin’s feet aren't even touching the ground.

No, seriously, this isn’t the effects of adrenaline; it borders on superhuman speed.

We round the corner of the customs house, where I stop. “Erin, did you manage to find where they transport the slaves?” I asked, frantically.

"Y-yes, like you told me to," she pants.

"Are your parents still there?"

"I don't know. It was too dangerous for me to go in. But there's a city guard station nearby. Maybe they'll help?" she suggests.

"Good thinking. Go."

***

I sprint out from behind that corner, my sword raised. The thugs are still some ways away. Man, I really am fast. I run through them, ducking and weaving. I don’t dare slice them. The thought of a blade hacking into flesh and getting stuck is nauseating, even if that flesh belongs to human traffickers. Instead, I smack them with the flat side of my sword. I kick, punch and headbutt.

On the other hand, they have no concerns about my safety. They wildly slash and stab with little skill. Even without this sudden burst of strength, I could have dispatched them.

I count as I take them out.

Headbutt to the nose. One…

Spinning kick to the temple. Two…

Sword whack to the stomach, followed by a vicious knee to the face. Three…

Eventually, they’re all down. Only Halton remains. He draws his sword. “You can’t run anymore, you little weasel.” Thin, white smoke begins to pour from his hands. It soon envelops his whole sword. “If this sword so much as grazes you, you’ll lose your memories and be put in a coma,” he explains. Then, he attacks.

He’s quick and nimble for such a big guy. His seemingly wild hacking and slashing is far more precise than his underlings’ had been. Despite my surge of strength, I’m quickly overwhelmed.

I dodge a slash, then take off towards the custom house.

Something tells me I’ll be able to…

Yep, I’m climbing. In fact, I’m scaling that wall like a spider monkey. Fortunately, the customs house is short enough, and its pseudo-gothic architecture gives me plenty to grab onto. I reach the top in no time.

So does Halton.

I can barely catch my breath, that he’s already back to hacking and slashing.

Who is this guy? He’s superhuman!

The roof is flat, with a chest-high railing all around. Halton chases me across the entire roof. I can only do so much to avoid his swings.

I eye the railing and suddenly, an idea pops into my head. With no time to think of the implications, I stop trying to fend Halton off. Instead, I turn and sprint towards the ledge. I can hear him follow suite.

I leap onto the railing and…

I jump off.

Soaring in the air with my arms outstretched, I have no intention of flying. No. I twist my body, gracefully as a cat, so I can face Halton.

We lock eyes.

I stand atop the roof, staring into the void below. It’s dark enough that I don’t see Halton hit the ground. But my God do I hear it, ringing out in the otherwise quiet night. His flesh thuds, but that trojan horse of a skeleton crunches.

I feel dizzy, standing up here. This time, I really have killed someone.

***

Erin found her family. Good for her.

I, however, had been sitting on the floor, my back against the customs house, for well over two hours. The body of Halton of Riefeld lay nearby. It was self-defence, it was self-defence, it was self-defence, it was-

The words had bounced around my skull to the point of exhaustion. Eventually, I’d conceded. It’s true. It had been either him or I, up on that roof.

Behind Erin and her family, is a wave of tired and dirty looking people. Other slaves? I'm glad to note their smiles.

***

City Guard Station.

So reads the sign of the building we're escorted into.

It’s strange, being surrounded by law enforcement after taking a life. The city guards had swept Halton’s death under the rug, after I’d explained the situation.

Audio logs, photographs, physical evidence, my case notes and countless victim testimonies from the slaves Erin had freed. Everything was considered.

Lead investigator on the Whip case, Joseph Hollowfield, informs us that arrests are being made: the three conspiring dock workers, the thugs who had attacked us...

They even arrested the magician Erin had tied up the day before.

The investigator tells us that, as we speak, the HMS Wind-up is being raided by dozens of armed city guards.

I look Hollowfield over. He's a tall, serious man, with a crew cut and a chiselled jaw. He appears to radiate strength and righteousness, but I’m not fooled.

Lead investigator Joseph Hollowfield. You stand smug and proud now, but you and your team made less progress in the months you worked this case than two rookies did in two days.

Honestly, this goes beyond incompetence. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some corruption amongst the city guards.

“This is all very impressive work. You certainly have my admiration,” he praises. “We’ll take it from here.”

I imagine you’ll take the credit, too. I think, half-jokingly.

***

We triumphantly barged into the Investigator’s Hub, holding up a signed document. We deposited it onto the counter.

“Someone’s excited,” the woman behind the counter chuckles. She puts on her glasses and reads over the document. It instructs to declare the case closed to private investigators and states that we’re owed the full reward for this case. “100 gold coins and a free longsword?!” the woman reads out, shocked. “Did you really solve this case?” she asks.

“Honestly, it wasn’t even hard,” Erin says. She’s not lying, it only took us two days.

The woman flips through her Incomplete Investigations book. When she finds the “Illegal slave trading ring” case, she does a double-take. “According to the date, you two only came in here yesterday. In fact, I recognise you, because of your weird outfit and features,” she tells me.

Hey, screw you, too, old lady.

The woman disappears through the Staff Only door behind her. She returns a minute later with a pouchful of money.

Should she really be showing us where they keep all of their money? I wonder.

The woman hands me the pouch. “Who’s the sword going to?” she asks.

“Me!” exclaims Erin, as if she were calling dibs.

“Yes, Erin, as we agreed earlier. You don’t have to be so loud,” I glare.

The embarrassment on Erin’s face is quickly replaced with confusion when the woman gives her a tiny slip of paper. “I can’t kill anyone with this,” Erin says.

Psychopath.

“It’s a coupon for a free sword. You can turn it in at any official Equipment Shop,” the woman explains. “Congratulations to the two of you and thank you for going up against those disgusting criminals. I’m Muriel, by the way.”

Erin and I shake her hand. We introduce ourselves, even though she already knows our names.

“Well, Muriel, it was nice meeting you, but I think that was the first and final case I’ll ever take,” I admit.

“Whaaaat! You’re so boring,” Erin says.

“Then I’ll be boring somewhere else. I’m leaving,” I say. “Goodbye, Muriel.”

Muriel bids me farewell and I begin to leave.

Erin grabs me by the wrist and bounces over to the quest board. “Don’t let your talents go to waste! Let’s do one more case.”

I sigh. “Such as?”

“Maybe a missing person’s case! It’ll probably be less dangerous than the one who just solved,” she tells me, already snatching posters off the board. “Here, look! This is interesting. Twenty cases of people vanishing into thin air over the past eighteen years,” she says. “They have all of the posters stapled to the back of the quest,” she says, flipping through the pages. When she’s done, she hands me the case file.

The posters go from most to least recent. The first one has a woman sketched onto it. She has a gaunt face and straight, brown hair. From her description, I read that she was thirty-three when she went missing eleven months ago. “Nicole Jackson disappeared in the blink of an eye, whilst outside with her family. Eyewitnesses said one moment she was there, the next she simply wasn’t,” I read aloud. A part of me wants to laugh. I know just how you feel.

“Isn’t that so scary?” Erin asks.

“Maybe it’s a powerful magician?” I suggest, flipping to the next poster. Henry Sampson. Vanished under similar circumstances.

Honestly, there’s no way she expects me solve such an insane case.

I turn to the third poster. This one has a photograph of the victim. Is victim even the right term? Anyways. I look it over.

It was the face of my homeroom teacher, Mr. Matsumoto.