"You know, you don't exactly strike me as a connoisseur of the fine arts, Keelgrave," Symon said as he walked down the streets of Brackstead, keeping his conversation mental so he didn't seem like a crazy person to anyone who saw him seemingly talking to himself. His destination was the inn he'd had lunch at, the same one his friends were currently in. Today would be a nice relaxing time, celebrating their return to civilisation as well as the success of a hunt for a monster worthy enough to bring as a trophy for their elders. Plus, Aslan had mentioned something about celebrating Symon's new skills, so all in all he expected a lot of drinking and fun.

  It would be the first time in a while he'd do something for enjoyment, and not just survival.

   the spirit replied.

  "I'm not talking shit about bards, I'm just saying that you seem like the type of guy who would."

  

  Symon frowned. At the idea of book burnings, that was, not the spreading of fabricated rumours. "I'll keep that in mind. That reminds me though, how common are skill evolutions? That tailor lady had one and seemed quite proud of it, but I'm not that far off in some of my skills and I've barely been here more than a week."

  

  "What about those guards the Baron brought with him? Can you guess how high their combat skills are?" Symon asked. They definitely seemed intimidating, but they hadn't actually demonstrated any skills. The builders had seemed terrified of them, but he wasn't sure if that was because of their personal strength or the power of their authority.

  

  Symon wasn't planning to get on their bad side, so that was fine with him. "And what about you? How far did you get before you, you know, died?"

  The spirit tsk'd disapprovingly but Symon could tell his heart wasn't in it. Not that he had a heart, literally and metaphorically.

  "Rude question for a rude old ghost, seems fair. Besides, you see my Ledger all the time."

  

  The numbers didn't really mean much to Symon. His healing was already at 15, and while he knew every level got harder and harder to acquire, especially when you started evolving skills, he didn't understand how impressive something like level 64 was supposed to be.

  "That's nice, I guess. What'd the evolutions do?" Symon asked, intentionally keeping his reaction minimal just to spite Keelgrave.

  

  Symon paused in the middle of the street. "You did what?!" he accidentally said aloud. One of the villagers on the other side of the street glanced his way briefly. Symon cleared his throat and quickly resumed his journey, his steps quickening to get him away from his embarrassment faster. "Where did you get a soul from? Don't tell me you trapped someone inside your ship..." he said, maintaining the presence of mind to keep his words contained.

  

  "You tried to kill me first, dickhead!"

   Keelgrave explained.

  That wording struck Symon as odd. Awakened? Did that imply everything already had a soul, and it was just hibernating? He glanced suspiciously at his sword. "How would that even work? Did it... she, talk?"

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

   the spirit said before trailing off.

  "Okay, fine, that does sound pretty cool. What was it like?"

  

  Farron Keelgrave's head emerged from the foamy seas. There was no Captain title, as this was a solo mission — neither ship nor crew accompanied him. They were a talented enough lot, and every one of them was loyal until death, but they weren't suited for this task.

  As his head breached the surface of the water, he resisted the urge to gulp down air. Even for a man with his impressive Constitution and Swimming skill, it taxed him to him to hold his breath for over a half hour. It was an unfortunate necessity, as there was no way his Grymjaw could have directly dropped him off on an Empire port, especially one so deep into their territory.

  Silently, he made his way up the sea wall. The slick coating of moss and algae wasn't enough to slow him down as he grabbed onto the rough stone handholds and hauled himself up. The sound of a cart rolling by caused him to pause, dangling on the outside of the wall by his fingertips. Looking down, he saw the waves smash hard against the dark stones of the wall. The continual sound of waves thunderously roaring the anger of the seas drowned out any noises Farron made, although he still made an effort to minimise them.

  As the noise of the small cart faded away until all he could hear was the waves, he peeked his head over the lip of the wall. It was near midnight, so the only source of illumination was that which was provided by the scant few lamps. This close to the docks, and in the poorer southern part at that, most of them were non-functional. They were either damaged or stolen, pawned off to provide enough food to keep a poor family fed for at least a few days. The moonlight did next to nothing to provide any visibility, considering it was the youngest sister in the sky.

  All things considered, it was the perfect night for what Farron had planned.

  In one smooth motion he lifted himself over the wall and firmly planted his feet onto solid ground. He'd already spotted a nice seedy alleyway, so he quickly made a break for it. At this hour the streets were nearly deserted, but he hadn't made it this far trusting assumptions. His clothes, finely made yet understated, rapidly dried as the cleaning enchantment got to work. The drain on his mana was negligible, but the erasure of his tracks were priceless. It wasn't easy to track someone in a city, but not if they were dumb enough to leave a trail of water droplets behind them. Besides, being sopping wet would draw extra attention, the opposite of what he needed.

  No one spotted him as he entered the alleyway, though he waited in one of the shadowed doorways for a minute just to make sure. If the alarm was raised, he'd much prefer to make a quick getaway instead of having to run through half the city. Paradoxically, he was so far into imperial territory that he was actually less likely to get into trouble here than in a frontier town. This province hadn't seen any fighting for hundreds of years, so the guards had never experienced true battle. Perhaps there were some old veterans here having a cushy half-retirement, but they wouldn't be on the midnight shift. Even a squad of second step guards wouldn't be much of a threat, so the first steps were essentially bugs to him.

  Of course, there were bigger threats than simple watchmen in such a big city. Lots of peasants meant lots of nobles, and nobles meant Praetorians or even Inquisitors. Farron had grown powerful, much more than most would have predicted given his humble beginnings. A life of fighting and an unconventional build had propelled him to impressive heights, but there were limits, especially when compared to the Eternal Empire's elites. A single Praetorian would probably be within his capabilities to handle, but a squad of them, or if he was unlucky enough to encounter an Inquisitor? Too much of his power was tied into his ship and crew for him to stand a chance solo.

  Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, so he felt confident in saying his beachhead infiltration had been successful. He used his Navigation skill to highlight the safest path to his destination, something only possible thanks to his extensive preparations. The maps he'd had were old, so he'd splurged and brought out the farseer. It had cost a weeks worth of mana generation from the Grymjaw's reserves, but it was a small price to pay for an accurate and up to date bird's eye view of the city.

  Farron twisted one of the many rings on his finger before stepping out of the shadows of the alley. The man who exited had short hair, light skin, and a slight pot belly. He passed his fingers through his 'hair', feeling the bald scalp underneath as he shifted the illusion to a more natural position. The embedded core would only last twenty minutes, but it would be enough if he hurried. He was too recognisable to put the disguise off any longer, as the more he pushed it the higher the chances some urchin or upstart adventurer hungry for his bounty would run to the guards. He strongly doubted they'd pay out the small fortune to some powerless kid, but hunger and simple greed could mar even the sharpest of faculties — not that he expected much from the uneducated masses in the first place.

  He couldn't blame them, though. He'd been a starry eyed kid who thought he could save his country once, too.

  Farron winded through narrow alleys and marched across streets, maintaining a pace that was fast enough to seem purposeful but slow enough to seem casual. His Stealth wasn't particularly high, but no one expected him here. Plus, he had a few magic items to fill in any gaps for him.

  No plan survives first contact with the enemy, so Farron wasn't surprised when a cloaked figure jumped off a rooftop of the alley he was in and landed in front of him, blocking the path forward. His enhanced senses picked out two more figures landing behind him, too. Farron stopped but didn't turn around, taking in the man across from him. He was not impressed with what he saw.

  "Oi mate, giz us yor' stuff, yesh?" the figure slurred. His blue lips, unfocused eyes, and knife in hand marked him as a nectar addict looking to score a few coins.

  The idiot had landed barely a few metres in front of him, so with a dismissive sneer Farron stepped forward and wound up a backhanded slap. The ensuing blow was so fast that the nameless man didn't even register it coming. Even if he wasn't inebriated, the way he held his knife made it clear he wasn't even on the first step. As Farron's hand impacted the kid's face — he was a little under 20, based off the Imperial calendar — the neck snapped with a sharp crack as the body landed with a light thud a moment after.

  "Yew... yew killed Georgie!" one of the two men behind him said, the noise making Farron wince. This was supposed to be a stealth operation. Thankfully, he had an extensive bag of tricks, born of both Skills and items. An unexplained body would put the guards on high alert, so he'd give them an explanation — a simple mugging gone wrong, then a fight over the loot after. He placed one hand over the amulet hanging around his neck — a gift from a siren — and coupled it with a high Leadership skill.

  He glanced over his shoulder, quickly making eye contact with both of the lowlives. "Kill each other."