Chapter 17 Stroll

While Cassy slept, Maple awoke.

Such a weakling. He couldn't even handle that much. Tch.

He gazed around their new home, a quaint terrace house that felt almost stifling in its simplicity. The room held only the bare essentials: a bed, a washstand, and a worn armchair near the window.

Morning light trickled in, muted and gray, filtering through dusty curtains like mist settling over the floor.

In the washroom, Maple dabbed ointment on the burns Cassy had gotten last night. The cold sting was a welcome jolt, grounding him. Using the mirror, he wrapped a linen bandage around his neck, his gaze catching the reflection.

He rarely bothered to come out like this; Cassy usually had to beg him to handle the "minutiae of life." Too tedious. Too slow.

The fast life. that's what he craved. Fighting, stealing, killing… Those were the moments he lived for. The rest? Just sleep...

That hadn't changed today either.

With his things gathered, Maple tucked his knife into his waistband and holstered his revolver. He glanced in the mirror, attempting a smile, Cassy's smile.

But it looked forced and unnatural, like a puppet's grin, each corner pulled up with effort.

"Perfect," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Then his expression shifted, annoyed. "Shh. I'm not talking to you, hateful wraiths. Cease your incessant babbling."

He shut the door, hearing the Langsly belltower strike five in the distance.

In the cool morning air, he made his way to the public carriage stop, threading through the half-awake crowd with a pace that demanded space.

These people lived such pitiful lives. What was the point of it all? He sighed, looking away from the carriage window with a flicker of disgust.

As he lost himself in thought, he felt Cassy stirring in the back of his mind, a subtle tug at the edge of his consciousness, timidly requesting control.

Not yet, foolish child. Someone has to clean up your mess.

When he arrived, the familiar stench of the slums hit him, thick with the odor of poverty and despair. To him, though, it was almost… nostalgic.

Charming as always, he thought with a smirk. I don't see why we had to move.

I love it here!

He walked through the filthy streets with a casual air of disregard, a natural dominance in his step. People noticed. Heads turned as he passed, but none dared approach.

The cutthroats, swindlers, and thugs here knew better. His years on these streets had made him a legend in his own right.

His reputation forged in the underground pits and alleys, where only the brutal survived.

A flicker of eye contact was all it took to dissuade the would-be toughs. They at least had the sense to know a predator when they saw one.

Maple absentmindedly twirled his knife on his thumb as he approached Lion's Share, the shabby pub where fights were held. Humming a lighthearted tune, he shoved the door open.

Inside, only the most hopeless of alcoholics clung to their seats, nursing mugs as though their lives depended on it.

The dim room reeked of stale beer and smoke, and their faces, marred by drink, had already faded into glassy indifference.

With a quick glance of disdain, Maple approached the bar counter and took a seat, casually twiddling his knife. Sunlight gleamed off its edge as it spun.

The barkeep, a shifty-looking man, froze when he spotted him. Of course he did; this place was under gang control, and nothing happened on these streets without their say-so.

The man's eyes lit up in recognition. "Maple? Where the hell've you been? The boss has been looking for you!"

The barkeep started to turn, clearly planning to inform someone in charge. But Maple was quicker his knife sailed across the room, missing the man's head by a hair and embedding itself in the wall in front of him.

"Not so fast, old friend. I'm thirsty. What kind of establishment are you running here? I'm a paying customer, after all," Maple said, feigning a wounded look.

The barkeep shot him a hard glare. "...Have you lost your mind? You forget who rules these streets? Couple days off the block, and suddenly you think you own the place."

Maple leaned forward, a smile twitching at his lips. "Oh, I'm sorry! It's just been a rough few days, you see. How about you pour me a drink to soothe my weary soul? And while you're at it, lend me an ear for my story."

The barkeep grunted, his eyes narrowing. Maple probably did look worse for wear.

"Aye, must've been one hell of a trip to leave you lookin' like a made man. Thought you were a pig for a second there!" The man laughed hoarsely, though a hint of wariness edged his tone.

"Pick your poison, kid."

"Stellarian wine. Strongest you've got," Maple replied, leaning back, his grin feral as he watched the barkeep work, the man's hands just a little unsteady.

Though he raised his eyebrow he did not question maple and poured him a glass of fragrant purple wine.

Maple savored the fizzy sweet taste for a moment before levying a gaze towards the barkeep.

"When did the boss start looking for me?"

"Emm about 3 days ago the night you beat down goliath and scampered off like usual."

"I see.. that's unfortunate I've been very busy you see why not we go see him together?" Maple downed his drink before grabbing the bottle of the counter.

"Just because you work here don't mean you drink for free."

"Have I ever? Come on let's go he's surely impatient! I could use the coin as well."

Maple hopped over the counter grabbing his knife from the wall and smiled half bowing and beckoning the flabbergasted man.

He was not used to Maple behaving this way.

The barkeep lead him down the musty backrooms before they descended to the basement where the fight ring was held.

Sitting there with a woman in either arm was boss Herald.

His looks were truly deceiving. He looked innocent like a boy you could find attending Sunday school. Short with a cutesy face you couldn't help but pinch. His eyes were brown his hair black.

The boy was of course handed his position by his father , yet under him the stormborn flourished . He had earned his spot through blood and sweat.