He paused, reached up, and straightened the collar of his garish Hawaiian shirt.

  “Nobody appreciates subtlety anymore,” he muttered, brushing dust from his sleeve.

  The night air was cooler now. Bjornfell’s streets had quieted—only a few lanterns flickered, and most of the town had long since shuttered in for the evening. It suited him just fine. Less chance of running into guards or well-meaning townsfolk asking if he was “doing okay.”

  Because he wasn’t. But he didn’t have time to fall apart.

  He had what he came for.

  “Hidden door behind the butcher shop,” John repeated to himself. “Loose sewer grate, down the alley, just left of the rain barrel. Knock twice. Wait. Knock again.”

  The thugs hadn’t even made it difficult. They were arrogant, bored, and not expecting a man half-dead to fight like he had something worth losing.

  He stopped walking and looked down at himself. The blood-spattered Hawaiian shirt, while iconic, stood out like a beacon. He might as well paint a target on his back.

  John exhaled slowly. “Time to go full ninja.”

  He opened his inventory and scrolled to a project he’d been working on between fights and campfires—something stitched together from Shadoweave fibers looted back on floor two, reinforced with bits of thread infused with Kaia’s leftover mana crystals.

  With a grin, he pulled it out.

  A lightweight, black hoodie shimmered in the torchlight. The fabric seemed to ripple faintly, absorbing the shadows around it like it belonged in them.

  [Shadoweave Hoodie of Stealth]

  +3 Dexterity

  +20% Stealth while in dim light or darkness

  Passive: Whisperstep – Your footsteps make no sound

  Camouflage: Gain +15% evasion from ranged attacks when standing still

  “Hello, beautiful,” John murmured. “Let’s cause some trouble.”

  He slipped it on. The hood fell low over his brow, his figure blending immediately with the darkness at the edge of the alley.

  The street noise dulled. His heartbeat steadied.

  No more swagger. No more quips.

  Just the work.

  He turned, boots silent on the stone as he vanished into the shadows of Bjornfell—headed for the butcher shop. For the den.

  For the book.

  ***

  The alley behind the butcher shop was narrow, damp, and smelled faintly of blood and spoiled onions. John crouched near a crumbling wall, hood drawn low, eyes scanning for the entry point the thugs had described.

  There it was—a grate half-hidden behind stacked crates and grease-slick barrels. Rusted iron bars covered in moss, bolted down but poorly maintained.

  John tugged gently. It groaned.

  [Stealth Check: Passed]

  He smirked and pulled out one of his thinner daggers, using it as a pry bar. The bolts gave with a metallic pop and a splash of foul water.

  He slipped inside.

  The tunnel beyond was tight, barely wide enough for him to move in a crouch. It sloped downward, curving sharply every few yards, like a twisted rat maze. The walls were slick with slime, the floor riddled with half-rotted planks and bones.

  [Passive: Whisperstep – Active]

  His footfalls were silent.

  Still, he moved slowly, senses tuned for trouble.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  The first trap was simple—a tripwire strung at shin height. The second was nastier: a pressure plate linked to a poisoned dart launcher buried in the wall.

  John disarmed both with ease. One advantage of being tired, angry, and very low on friends—you took your time.

  He passed a fork in the tunnel and heard voices—goblin voices. High-pitched. Arguing.

  He crept closer and peeked around the corner.

  Two thieves stood beside a flickering lantern, one holding a spear, the other adjusting an oversized helmet—clearly part of some misguided attempt at uniformity. Their gear was a mess: one wore a dented metal breastplate, the other had a barrel lid strapped to his chest with fraying rope.

  John could’ve fought them.

  He didn’t.

  He slipped past, clinging to the ceiling beam supports and moving like a ghost.

  [Stealth Check: Passed – +XP]

  One of the thieves scratched his head. “You feel that breeze?”

  “Yeah. Probably rats again.”

  John grinned and vanished into the dark.

  Another corridor opened into a larger chamber—pillars crumbling, a makeshift barracks hastily abandoned. A lone thief patrolled lazily, chewing what looked like jerky and holding a shortbow loosely.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  John stalked up behind him and tapped the back of his head with the hilt of his dagger.

  The man crumpled without a sound.

  [Non-lethal Takedown – Stealth Maintained]

  John dragged the body behind a barrel, looted a handful of coppers, and moved on.

  The deepest hallway felt different—older stonework, smooth and worn by time. Lanterns flickered lower here, and faint traces of chalk or ash lined the edges of the walls. Whoever built this section hadn’t done it for comfort. It was meant to keep things out—or in.

  Two more thieves stood at a locked iron door, better equipped and clearly alert.

  “Guess we’re doing this one loud,” John muttered.

  He sprinted forward before they could react, ducking low and throwing a dagger mid-charge. The first thief gurgled and collapsed.

  The second lunged.

  John blocked the blade with his forearm bracer and twisted, slamming the man into the wall. He swept a leg and drove his knee into the thief’s chest as he hit the ground.

  Silence returned.

  Another passage forked off to the left, this one glowing faintly with warm lantern light. John crept closer, flattening himself against the wall as the soft murmur of voices reached his ears.

  “…two silver on the redhead.”

  “You’re daft. She hasn’t landed a clean strike all night.”

  Laughter. The clink of coins exchanging hands. A grunt of impact, followed by louder cheering.

  John edged toward the opening and peeked around the corner. It was a makeshift fighting pit—sunken slightly below floor level, ringed by crates and barrels. Two thieves circled each other inside, bare-knuckled and bloodied, while a loose ring of others shouted bets and heckles. An old man in a scarred leather vest handled the money.

  Tucked behind them was a gambling table. Cards, dice, and something glowing faintly in a glass jar—maybe an enchanted beetle?

  John grimaced. Definitely black market.

  He started to slip past along a dark ceiling beam—but just as he shifted his weight, a nail gave a soft creak.

  One of the gamblers turned sharply. “You hear that?”

  John acted fast. He pulled a copper from his pouch and flicked it down the opposite hall. The coin hit stone with a crisp ting and bounced into the shadows.

  All eyes turned that way.

  “What was that?”

  “Rats.”

  “Big damn rats if they carry coins.”

  Laughter resumed, louder now.

  John used the moment to slip past. Silent. Unseen.

  A flicker of text rolled across his vision:

  [Environmental Awareness – Lv. 2 → Lv. 3]

  [Stealth Check: Passed – +XP]

  He smirked. “Always bet on distraction.”

  And kept moving.

  John pressed his hand to the lockplate.

  [Lockpicking – Lv. 4 → Lv. 5]

  [Success – Door Unlocked]

  The door creaked open, revealing a small vault room lit by a single enchanted lantern.

  At the center sat a pedestal. On it: a thick, leather-bound book with silver edges and a snake motif burned into the cover.

  [Item Discovered: Skill Book – Poisoner’s Craft]

  Unlocks Passive: Toxin Affinity

  Unlocks Active: Apply Poison

  John stepped forward.

  “I’ll be taking that.”

  A slow clap echoed from the far side of the room.

  From the shadows near the back wall, the old bartender stepped forward—his posture straighter, his eyes sharper, his robe now laced with hidden daggers and enchanted leather.

  “Well,” he said, smiling thinly, “you’re a clever bastard. But you’re still not a rogue.”

  John blinked. “You’re the master?”

  The man’s grin widened. “Let’s find out what you’ve really learned.”

  John’s hand froze inches from the book as the old man stepped into the light.

  Gone was the slouching, half-deaf bartender who poured weak ale and laughed too loud at bad jokes. In his place stood a predator. The leather undercoat was stitched with dark runes, his boots silent on stone. His eyes gleamed—not with malice, but with precision.

  “You really didn’t peg me for the boss?” the old man asked, amused. “That hurts.”

  “I mean…” John slowly raised both hands, stepping back from the pedestal. “You literally poured me flat beer last time I was in here.”

  “Gotta keep up appearances.”

  The man took a slow step forward. “So, what now? You take the book, run off into the night, and try to go toe-to-toe with Drevan like some kind of half-trained tourist?”

  John's fingers flexed near his belt. “I was thinking more ‘fully committed, desperate dad on a revenge quest.’ But sure, tourist has a ring to it.”

  Without warning, he moved—daggers flashing.

  The master didn’t even flinch.

  In one motion, he stepped inside John’s swing, slapped away both blades, and pivoted. John found himself airborne for a brief, humiliating moment before crashing onto his back with a grunt.

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “Sloppy.”

  John rolled and sprang up. “Rude.”

  He attacked again—faster this time. One blade aimed high, the other angled for the ribs.

  The master spun, catching the wrist of John’s left hand and yanking him forward off balance. His knee clipped John’s side, and in the same motion, he slammed him face-first into the ground.

  “Still sloppy,” he said, stepping back. “You're strong. Fast. You even move like someone who’s fought before. But you don’t fight like a rogue.”

  John coughed into the floor. “I’m more of a freelance stab enthusiast.”

  “I noticed.” The master stepped back to the book. “You’ve got instincts. Rage. Even a little flair. But Drevan would gut you in under a minute.”

  “That’s fair,” John groaned.

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the cracked ceiling, chest heaving.

  The old man tilted his head. “But you’re not beyond help.”

  John blinked. “Wait. That wasn’t your final beatdown?”

  “Nope. That was the interview.”

  The master grinned. “Get up. If you’re going to rescue your friend and take down a Black Knight, you’re going to need more than one-liners and luck.”

  John dragged himself to his feet. “Do I get to keep the book?”

  “Eventually. First, you learn to use it.”

  He motioned toward a small circle of floor tiles marked with worn symbols. Training space.

  “Lesson one,” the master said, slipping into a low stance. “The best rogue wins before the blade ever leaves the sheath.”

  John stood, wiping blood from his lip. “Look, I get it. I’m rough around the edges. But I don’t have time for a training montage right now. Kaia’s out there—Drevan’s probably dragging her across the countryside and—”

  The master raised a hand. “And the last time you faced him, he beat you like a child.”

  That stopped John cold.

  The old man crossed his arms, gaze level. “You couldn’t land a single meaningful hit. He shattered your team in seconds. One of you died. You limped here, barely breathing.”

  John clenched his fists. “We got surprised. I wasn’t—”

  “You weren’t ready,” the master cut in. “You’re not now either. You’ve been fighting like a warrior with daggers. Charging head-on. Showing off. Rogues don’t win that way.”

  John looked away. “She doesn’t have time—”

  “And she won’t get time if you charge in and get yourself killed again,” the master said, voice low and sharp. “You want to save her? Learn to do it right.”

  Silence filled the chamber. The old man let it sit.

  John stared at the floor. His fists slowly unclenched. He exhaled.

  “Alright,” he muttered. “Fine. Teach me.”

  The master’s tone shifted instantly, turning wry. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  He tossed John a weighted sash. “Put that on. We’re starting with footwork. Yours is loud enough to wake the dungeon.”

  The training was grueling. Not physically—it was precise. Controlled. The old man showed him how to move without shifting weight too early, how to keep his balance during quick turns, how to stay invisible before the blades came out.

  They drilled throws, reversals, and joint locks. John learned how to disarm without force. How to vanish mid-move, how to hide even while striking.

  “Again.”

  The old man’s voice cracked like a whip.

  John ducked left, tried a feint, and lunged with his dagger.

  Too slow.

  The master sidestepped, grabbed John’s wrist, and flipped him face-first into the padded mat.

  “Subtlety, Bradford. You’re not swinging a sword at a goblin. You’re stealing a king’s coin purse without him noticing.”

  John groaned into the floor. “Feels like you’re stealing my spinal alignment.”

  “Get up.”

  He did.

  They moved to the next drill—blending. The master paced him through a dimly lit market alley carved from illusion magic. Shadows moved like shoppers, drifting through aisles.

  “Pickpocket the woman in red,” the master said.

  John crept in and was immediately clotheslined by a phantom fruit stand.

  “Blend,” the master snapped. “You’re not invisible. You’re ignored.”

  Later, during a water break, John wiped sweat from his brow and turned to ask a question, only to freeze.

  His pouch was gone.

  The master stood twenty feet away, holding it up with a grin. “Always be aware. Never assume a break means safety.”

  He tossed the pouch back. John caught it, scowling.

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Oh, immensely.”

  They reset.

  This time, the master reached into a pouch, pulled out a handful of fine sand, and—without warning—threw it in John’s face mid-spar.

  John coughed, staggering. “What the hell?!”

  “Rogues fight dirty,” the master said. “So do your enemies. Learn or die.”

  They drilled until John could disarm, slip between attacks, vanish into flickering torchlight.

  Until his breath came steadier.

  Until his steps left no sound.

  Until even the master, briefly, lost sight of him during one spar.

  He emerged from the shadows behind the old man and whispered, “Gotcha.”

  The master turned slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  “Now you’re starting to get it.”

  “You don’t fight fair,” John said during a break.

  “Fair’s for the dead,” the master replied. “We fight to win.”

  By the time the final technique was done, John was sweating through his hoodie, breathing hard, but focused.

  “You’ve got instincts,” the master said. “Now you’ve got training.”

  He walked to the pedestal and retrieved the skill book.

  “Take it. You’ve earned it.”

  John reached out, fingers brushing the leather.

  [Skill Unlocked: Apply Poison]

  [Passive Unlocked: Toxin Affinity – Poison effects last 20% longer]

  The old man handed him a thin, black vial next. “Spider Widow Venom. Rare. Fast. Perfect for what you’re about to do.”

  John tucked it into his belt.

  The master smirked. “Now go save your friend. Just don’t fight like a warrior.”

  John turned to leave, pausing at the doorway.

  “I’ve got one more thing to say,” he said.

  The master arched a brow. “Yeah?”

  John looked back, face shadowed beneath the hood.

  “When I win… I’m coming back for another flat ale.”

  The master laughed. “We’ll keep a stool warm for you.”

  "Come with me, I can help you get to your friend," The old man said.