————————————————

  ///: “Unable to find any Talents on any of the targets”

  ————————————————

  Hector sighed, stepping next to Lincoln and scratching his cheek. The group of men gathered in front of them forming a circle, with the bearded man at the front. Flapping gently on the clothesline, the blankets shook as a light breeze rolled in.

  Eight men in total—it would be a nice even split. Lincoln would take four, He’d take four. While they had more muscle than the average slum dweller, they wouldn’t be much of a threat, providing something didn’t happen.

  Lincoln nodded to him, then turned back to the man. “You don’t want to do this, friend. We are Mana Cultivators. This won’t end well for you.”

  The man let out a rancorous laugh, gripping his stomach as his meaty fingers rubbed dirt along his shirt. “Children like you wouldn’t be a match for us, even if you are cultivators,” a cruel smile spread across his lips. “We’ve had experience.”

  What the hell does that mean? Have they just been attacking untrained cultivators?

  Hector glanced around at the men that stood in the courtyard. Had they attacked unwitting children in the past? Had they attacked his fellow disciples? He’d heard nothing about that.

  “Alright, you clearly want to talk this out,” the bearded man said. “But I would rather search you, make sure you aren’t hiding anything. Lads, grab them and pick up the sleeping one. If nothing else, he could make some good cannon fodder.”

  The men stalked forward on his command.

  I should give Lincoln the slightly bigger fish this time. It’s only fair.

  “I take the right. You take the left,” Hector whispered to Lincoln. Sizing up the four on his right. At least they took them seriously—sending one or two would have just been an insult.

  Lincoln nodded, swiping his thumb across his nose. “Try not to hurt them too badly. We don’t need another Adrian situation.”

  Oh, come on. That was a bad day. I’m not some psychopath. At least I don’t think I am.

  Kicking up loose rocks, Lincoln shot forward, charging towards the four men—including their bearded leader—on his left, who went wide-eyed.

  Not to be outdone, Hector shot forward. He closed the distance in an instant, leaping off the stone and slamming forward with a double kick. The first man raised his arms, crossing them for a block.

  Hector slipped past, slamming one heel into the man’s chest, twisting and swiping the other foot across his jaw. With a snap, the man flopped to the side like a sack of potatoes and bounced off the cobblestone. Though Hector didn’t get to appreciate his work for long.

  The second man tackled forward, his shoulder slamming into Hector’s gut, knocking the air from his lungs. Slamming him onto the cobblestone, the man reeled back and threw jab after jab. Hector braced his arms, blocking each blow.

  Well, this is getting a little annoying.

  Hector made out the third and fourth men, both holding long sticks in their hands. Were weapons really necessary? Though they were fighting cultivators. So it made sense that they’d want some advantage.

  Pulling on [Quickening Brace] time slowed to a crawl. Those men were going to start pummeling the moment the one on top of him gave them the opening. That wouldn’t be too good—at least not for Hector.

  Well. I was never one to play fair.

  He jabbed out at the man’s throat, crunching into it as time snapped back into motion. Hector’s fist then cracked across the man’s jaw, sending the man reeling, as Hector lashed out with two kicks. One to the gut of the third and one to the hand of the fourth.

  The rod fell from the fourth’s hand, spinning through the air. Hector snatched it as he pushed off the stone and leapt to his feet. His body moving faster than he could think.

  With a dull crack, he brought the rod down onto the head of the fourth man. Spun and ducked. The third man’s stick swung wide, causing the man to stumble forward. Hector moved in a blur.

  He slammed the butt of the rod into the man’s gut, causing the man to wince. As he bent over, Hector’s knee was there, cracking into his nose, crushing it and sending the man flopping back, slamming onto the cobblestone like a slab of meat.

  Spinning again, he swung his rod, cracking it across the head of the fourth. Sending him crumbling to the ground—nothing more than a pile of splayed-out limbs. Hector spared the second man a glance as the man clung to his throat, trying to breathe.

  Stepping over, Hector whipped his foot up and slammed his heel into the man’s head, knocking him unconscious. The first man lay still on the floor, so Hector turned to Lincoln, who held the bearded man by his very beard. The other three men lay unconscious, scattered around him.

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  On his knees, the bearded man’s eyes were wide with terror as he stared at Lincoln. “You should have listened to me,” Lincoln said, with a carefree smile. “Let this be a lesson. Just because you can beat one Gravity Forging realm cultivator doesn’t mean you should challenge everyone you come across. Some of us pack more of a punch than others.”

  The man took his eyes off Lincoln for a moment to look at the surroundings, but as he did, Lincoln’s hand whipped out. It cracked into the side of the man’s neck, knocking him unconscious. Lincoln then threw the man to the side, thudding him onto the wet stone.

  He landed right in the brown river. Hector cringed slightly as it flowed through the man’s beard.

  “I gotta say, I was a little excited,” Lincoln said, patting Hector on his shoulder. “When they said they’d fought cultivators in the past, I thought this would have been a challenge. But it was only so-so.”

  Hector regarded the fallen gangsters and shook his head. Who had they attacked in the past? Whoever it was would probably not bring it up. It was rather embarrassing to be beaten by a mortal, especially if you were part of a dojo.

  Though I don’t see why. There isn’t much you can do when you get ganged up on. For most people, anyway.

  “They must have gotten lucky,” Hector said, “Though that’s what we are assuming, not everyone is like us.”

  “Is that a little pride I hear from Kamble’s star pupil?” Lincoln said, letting out a laugh. “Either way, we should get going.”

  Hector nodded. The Farmhand was still out cold against the wall. Part of Hector wondered if he was faking—but what would be the point of that?

  He bent down and scooped him over his shoulder, adjusting him to make sure he didn’t fall off. Hector scrunched his nose as an unspeakable stink crawled up it. A rat scurried by, splashing through thick black puddles and darting out of sight.

  They needed to find somewhere better to put this guy when they placed him down. It should have been bearable, but somehow the smell was getting worse.

  “Oi,” Lincoln called.

  Hector turned, ducking under a blanket and frowning as Lincoln stood in the middle of the courtyard, shaking his head. “What happened?” Hector asked, adjusting the Farmhand on his shoulder.

  “The idiot wasn’t as knocked out as I’d thought he was,” Lincoln said, biting his lower lip. A look of annoyance flashed across his features. “And he held his face in the crap river for so long. How did he do that without gagging?”

  Hector’s gaze snapped to where the bearded man had once been. So he wasn’t unconscious. “Did you hold back or something?” Hector asked, stepping next to Lincoln, his gaze lingering on the direction the bearded man had fled.

  “No, I hit him good and proper. He must have had a thicker skull than I’d realised.” Lincoln said, shaking his head.

  “Well, it’s not our problem anymore,” Hector shrugged his free shoulder. “Which way is it now?”

  “No, but it is our problem. Guys like that will definitely want revenge.” Lincoln dragged a blanket out of the way as he headed down an alleyway. Hector was close behind. “Now, if he’d stayed on the ground, that could have shown that he didn’t want any more trouble. But as it is, he could be watching us. Or have someone else watch us while he goes and gets reinforcements.”

  Hector stepped over another small river running across the alleyway, this time filled with black liquid rather than brown. “You think he’ll come back for another beating?”

  Lincoln glanced back and nodded. “Idiots like him always do.” Lincoln waved his hand dismissively in the air. “You would know this if you left your house and spent more time in the streets—like me.”

  “I love you, Lincoln,” Hector said, smirking, “But when it comes to life choices, I think I’ll stick to my gut. I mean, how often is it that you miss practice at the dojo?”

  Lincoln fell silent and hopped over a collapsed crate. Laughing, Hector shook his head.

  “Besides,” Hector said, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The alleyway was quiet. A dull noise from the central street flittered in, but nothing but dripping of rotten liquids and the smell of filth greeted him. “We can just keep our heads on a swivel. If we spot anything suspicious, we can deal with it when it pops up.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” Lincoln said, falling in line with him. The boy threw a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll catch up for a while. So I’d say keep an eye on the windows.”

  Hector glanced up at the houses and their open windows. Many of them were open—only the heavens knew how, with the stink of this place. It was worse than Digby Street. He adjusted the Farmhand on his shoulder.

  In one window, a young woman sat, with her cheek resting on her palm, her thin arm propped up on the window frame. She didn’t look like she was watching them, just staring out at the world—if she was anything like the average slum dweller, she was waiting for the hunger to end.

  The two of them continued to walk through the winding alleyways, occasionally backtracking to make sure they weren’t being followed. Lincoln and Hector shared very few words during this time. They had wordlessly come to the agreement that it was better to stay focused on not bringing too much trouble down onto their heads.

  Hector and Lincoln did swap from time to time. With Lincoln hoisting the Farmhand over his shoulder and looking rather uncomfortable doing it. But in the end, he’d said he didn’t want Hector doing all the work, and Hector was more than happy to let him help.

  They had to stop at one point. Some hooligan decided that the afternoon was a good time to try to rob someone in a dark alley—though Hector couldn’t say the man wasn’t an opportunist.

  He just picked the wrong time.

  Hector gave the mugger a dirt nap and sent the victim swiftly on his way. The delay was minimal, with little fanfare. They kept their eyes about them until they pulled up to the end of the last alleyway.

  Hector watched as Lincoln paused, resting a hand on the tattered stone of a house. He braced against it, looking back at Hector. “Well, this is it.”

  Hector sighed, adjusting the Farmhand on his shoulder as he took in the sight outside of the alleyway. A large, decrepit building loomed tall in front of him. The old brewery. Its roof was partially collapsed, ravaged by time. Large, aged, and rotted wooden tankards poked through the side of it.

  “Took us long enough,” Hector said, stepping next to Lincoln. “Do you think—”

  “You and your group better get out of here, lad, unless you want a beating.”

  Hector paused, his head snapping towards the voice. Outside the alleyway, a few feet from the entrance of the brewery. A large, weathered man stood with a group of others, dwarfing those around him. He had a scar on his left eye and was dressed in leather armour. He wouldn’t look out of place among a mercenary group.

  Hector’s eyes went wide when he saw one in particular. Standing not too far from the large man. The bearded man stood, his eyes shifting around nonstop. Next to him, with a calm expression, a brown-haired man with a lazy eye rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered something.

  The bearded man’s head dropped.

  “Well, it seems they knew where we were going,” Lincoln said, dragging a palm down his face. “Figures. At least Jodie is already here.”

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