Chapter 42: The Thief from the Hero's Party
One of the Hero's party members was the Thief. No one knew his real name.
He rarely stood out, overshadowed by the Hero himself, but in terms of pure talent and ability, the Thief was every bit the Hero's equal. Starting from nothing, he had risen to superhuman status, seized control of the Empire's underworld, and even reached the inhuman realm. From nothing. That was the key.
The mage and the saint had foundations to build on—sources of momentum for their growth. The Thief and the Hero had nothing. What had propelled them to those heights was talent, pure and simple.
In some tavern somewhere in the Empire, the Thief stroked his beard and asked one of his underlings, "Hey, this ain't half bad, right? Just a little more grooming and it'll be perfect."
"Boss, can I be straight with you?"
"Yeah. When have I ever given you shit for speaking your mind?"
Not just shit—he'd roast you alive. The man kept his true thoughts to himself. Say them out loud, and he'd be bedridden for days.
"You look like a kid playing grown-up."
"What?"
"See? There you go, giving me shit."
"No, I was just asking. Why's that shit-worthy? Hey, do I really look like a damn kid?"
"Go out to the back alleys without your name preceding you. You'll have punks swarming you before you can count to five."
The Thief looked like a young man in his twenties. His skin was flawless, his hands soft without a single blister. With a beard tacked on to an appearance that could pass for a nobleman's bookish son, he had no gravitas—just comedy.
The Thief had been active for over twenty years. His looks didn't match the timeline.
"Fuck me. Did I catch the Demon King for nothing? Why'd I have to get young again?"
The Thief had once looked his age—rough and weathered. But after wrapping up business at the Demon King's Castle, he woke up one morning looking like this. A dream come true for most, but in the underworld where appearances were half the game, it wasn't an unqualified win. At least the Thief preferred his old rugged face. With this one, he got challenged nonstop outside—it was a hassle.
"Won't age a day in ten years... what a pain in the ass."
"Boss, isn't that immortality?"
"Nah. I can feel my life's core roughly. I'll outlive most by double, but I'll still kick the bucket eventually. Anyway, back to business."
"What do you think of the West?"
"What's the West got to do with anything?"
The Thief, staring blankly at the ceiling, turned his head. The man who'd served him for ten years knew that small gesture was never small.
"Word from the guys we sent ahead first is it's pretty lucrative. Don't you think it's time we dipped our toes in? Leaving all that land untapped is a loss."
"Don't touch it."
"Since the Emperor's declaration, the whole Empire's mobilizing, led by the imperial family. If we want to ride the wave, now's the time."
"We short on cash?"
"No, sir."
They were swimming in it. Crime paid. If it didn't, no one would break laws to do business. The Thief practically ruled the Empire's underworld; tribute flowed in from across the Empire—and beyond—without him lifting a finger. Even great nobles with generations of history couldn't match his liquid assets.
"Our rep gonna take a hit?"
"No way."
The Thief was a living legend. The word "thief" had become synonymous with him personally. His name would live on eternally as history, legend, myth—even after death.
"Then why?"
"'Cause it looks profitable. One word from you, and we could swallow the ownerless West. It wouldn't even break your promise to the Hero, right?"
The promise between the Hero and the Thief was as famous as the Thief's exploits with the Hero's party. The Thief had been a beast lower than human, the kind of criminal for whom execution was a luxury. He still committed crimes, but back then? Pure monster.
Then the Hero came calling. They made a few promises, and those pacts still shackled the Thief's operations.
"And crucially, someone's already out in the West copying our methods. We can't just let that slide, can we?"
"Copying our ways?"
"No doubt."
They'd deliberately leaked info to confirm it. Someone in the West was running an organization just like the Thief's. A blow to his pride he couldn't ignore.
Normally, the Thief would rage. But he didn't react as expected.
"Oh, yeah?"
"It's the noble-taming techniques you stole with blood on your hands. And someone's using them?"
"I taught 'em."
"You taught who?"
"What, I can't teach? It's been over ten years—time to move. But not the West. That's got an owner now."
"Who the hell did you teach that you'd say something like that?"
The Thief didn't spare others' circumstances. That's how he dominated the Empire's underworld. If he needed something, he took it—no matter from whom. That was the Thief.
This was the first time the man had seen him pass up tasty prey. The Thief fell silent.
Last he'd seen him was seven years ago? He'd taught everything worth teaching, so the kid should be fine on his own.
He reminisced briefly.
If there were a "brag about your miserable past" contest, the Thief could aim for world champion. Objectively or subjectively, his life had been a nonstop parade of tragedies too awful to witness with eyes open.
His rise owed to talent, sure—but also the history piled from that horrific past.
Even he thought his life was livable after meeting the mage and saint. And after meeting one little brat, he was genuinely relieved his lot wasn't worse.
He'd seen plenty of dead-eyed wretches in his time. But none compared to that kid. Eyes like the world's ended—and he'd shouldered half the ruined world himself.
Started out mute, ended up nagging: wash up, stop stealing side dishes, endless gripes. Even in front of the Demon King, that mouth never quit.
"Talks better than me."
"Boss, you know what?"
"What, punk?"
"You're no good with words."
"The hell? I'm a master negotiator! Hey! This building—didn't talk my way into it?"
"Bend a coin in their face while demanding the deed, and anyone'd run."
"That's negotiation!"
"That's a threat."
"Kids these days can't concede a single point!"
Clicking his tongue, the Thief rose and opened the window. Ignoring the perfectly good door—hence the name.
"Where you off to?"
"Booze!"
The Thief leaped out the window. The man had spent over ten years under him, but the Thief had never taught him a single skill. Nor had he sought to learn. The Thief's arts were his alone—not teachable, and he wasn't the teaching type.
Who could make a man like that teach personally? The man got curious.
Five days passed. The carriage intel Azenman Riantl mentioned reached Marhal too.
"Three carriages. Escort numbers around a hundred."
Marhal scratched his ear. Over a year without digging it out—clogged?
"You sure you didn't miscount?"
"Positive."
"A hundred for three carriages is overkill. Screams 'valuable cargo here' to any bandit. They haven't hit?"
"Local bandit gangs tried a few times. No survivors, so details are scarce."
Suspected imperial cargo. Bandits wouldn't dare. But zero survivors? Surprising.
"Hundreds strong, and not one?"
Assuming knight-level foes, equal numbers meant ambush success followed by slaughter under superhuman blades. Smart leader? Double, quadruple, even five times the men. Easy to muster—mercs were bandits on horses. Call in locals, get a veteran crew who knew when to bolt.
"Scouts reported blue lightning. And all escorts look knight-grade."
"Not knights proper, but equivalent. Plus a lightning mage. Definitely shady cargo headed West. Question is, who's shoving what in. Bay, any ideas?"
"I've barely been out. Revela might know."
"No choice. It's life-or-death for her family too."
Revela had left. Not her own skin, but her kin's—tied to the palace. One vengeful royal, and they'd vanish overnight. No more delays.
"Can we hit it?"
"Not impossible. Strekl alone could handle ten, twenty knights."
"No helmet's a problem. Tsk. Thought no need for it in the West—didn't expect regrets."
Armor parts he wore under cloak daily. Helmet? Too conspicuous to wear, bulky to carry. Knight-weight irrelevant; volume was the bitch. Months lugging a head-sized lump? Hell if you haven't tried.
Left it behind. Who foresaw this?
"We could scrounge one. Put out feelers. Without it, how many you good for?"
"Battlefield? Nothing's certain. Even I can't dodge an arrow to the skull from some nobody."
"Gotta avoid open fights."
"Can Azenman Riantl really muster forces to clash?"
Knight hundred plus mage—war-altering. Imperial guards vs. Marhal and Azenman's men. Maybe two hundred total, but condensed violence equaled war.
Azenman was sharp, but army-scale in under a month? Doubtful.
"He can. West's depth surprises Easterners."
"And us?" Marin asked.
"Just who's here."
Hired mercs crossed his mind, but this was optimal, Marhal judged.
"Won't they ignore us?"
Marin knew the West second to him. Azenman's crew all loyal? She'd bet a knuckle they weren't. Clean living with power in the West? Tough. Dash of violence netted fortunes no honest grind touched. Why bother?
Strekl helped, but two women, two men. Hugo made five. Raw power aside, numbers bred confidence. Ten-plus from Azenman? Cannon fodder.
"Knight hundred easy to gather, but motive for West trek? Hard. Azenman knows—sends proper force. Pride demands a clash."
"Then..."
Better bail. Hate to admit, but women in force-needed spots got underestimated. Plain looks? Mercs/bandits dismissed high knights or mages. Men too; women worse—dragged to dark corners by lunatics.
Beasts chose beast life—no human morals. Beasts needed blood to know place. She could oblige, but upcoming scene? Minimize blood.
Before she spoke, Marhal cut in. "Talk wins best; fight if not. Hugo, you good?"
"Mind if I warm up?"
"Go. Work kept you away lately?"
"Yes."
"Speaking of, wanna sniff some fight? Marin's been; Bayola, never?"
"Where?"
"Late-night arena. West nights demand it."
The arena. Blood-splattered. Bayola's face soured.