The first dockworker took a long pull from his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of a calloused hand. "That's rough, lad." His voice thickened with sympathy. "Yuri used to be like us. Just a porter hauling crates, grumbling about pay."

  Then his tone darkened. "He awakened. Ran with the thief gangs down here. But even then, never caused trouble for us common folk."

  He shook his head. "He’s different now, hasn't he? They say he advanced. Changed. Got cold. Distant. Barely talks to anyone." The dockworker exhaled. "Not the same man at all."

  Alph nodded, letting the man speak. The dockworker’s words confirmed Alph’s suspicions. The target had undergone a significant change, likely tied to his professional advancement. This explained the fear, the hushed tones. A Tier 1 Professional, especially one who had embraced a darker path, commanded a different kind of respect, or rather, terror.

  "My cousin, he's with the port constabulary," the second worker said, leaning forward. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He told me Yuri injured multiple patrolmen about two weeks ago. Broke a few bones, left them bleeding in an alley. Escaped clean, too."

  "They haven't caught him since," he continued, eyes bright with the thrill of sharing insider knowledge. "But the rumors, they say he's back to his old tricks. Digging up graves, just like you said about your neighbor's mother. Like nothing ever happened."

  The pieces locked into place. Two weeks of escalation, patrols injured, arrests botched. This wasn’t some back-alley pickpocket—this was a man who met steel with steel. The title grave robber now carried the weight of fresh graves and bloodied cobblestones. Alph had what he needed. Time to move.

  "Appreciate the warning," Alph said, lifting his tankard in acknowledgment. "To prosperity and to our departed ones finding eternal rest."

  The dockworkers raised their mugs and bottles in response, tension briefly fading from their expressions. Alph drained his ale, traded hollow small talk, and slipped away. The stench of saltwater and sour drink followed him as he left the docks behind.

  He secured a cheap room at a local inn, a cramped space with a single cot and a window overlooking a narrow, refuse-strewn alley. The sounds of the docks, muffled but persistent, drifted through the thin walls. Alph lay on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling.

  He had a solid lead. The port constabulary. They would have records, incident reports, perhaps even a description of the grave robber’s fighting style. Tomorrow, he would visit them, not as an assassin, but as a concerned citizen, seeking justice for a desecrated grave. He needed more than rumors. He needed facts.

  Alph left the inn, the lingering scent of stale ale and cheap tobacco clinging to his clothes. The morning air, crisp and damp from the river, did little to clear his mind of the grim task ahead. He walked with a slight slouch, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones, a picture of a laborer heading to an undesirable shift. This persona, a shield against unwanted attention, had served him well.

  The Gloomwater port constabulary building stood a few blocks from the docks, a squat, stone structure that exuded an air of tired authority. A weathered sign, its paint peeling, proclaimed its purpose. Alph pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping into a cavernous, echoing hall.

  The air inside the building felt thick, heavy with the sharp, acidic scent of cheap ink, old sweat, and a faint, coppery undertone Alph instantly recognized as dry blood. A massive, weathered wooden counter divided the room, its surface scratched raw by years of use. Behind it, two clerks hunched over ancient ledgers, the sound of shuffling parchment their only contribution. Neither man lifted his head nor spared Alph a dismissive glance, confirming the location was less prestigious and more functional.

  The bounty board towered above the entrance, a rough-hewn wooden slab studded with faded parchments. Alph sidled closer, shoulders hunched, fingers laced tight. His gaze flicked across the notices, slow and unhurried, while the press of bodies masked his presence.

  His eyes, however, worked with methodical precision, cataloging every detail. This is standard low-tier rubbish, Alph thought, the assessment automatic. He categorized each notice in his mind: petty theft, rowdy bar brawls, minor fraud, smuggling violations. Most described non-professional criminals, their offenses small-time, their danger low enough to warrant these pathetic rewards. Nothing here represents a true threat or a high-Tier target.

  He noted the meager rewards, barely enough copper to tempt even a Tier 1 professional. Something was off. Not a single notice mentioned a broad-shouldered guy with a jagged scar across his face. No bounties for grave-robbers either. Either the constables hadn’t pieced together who was behind the desecrations, or they didn't want the news to spread. The board told the same old story—small-time crooks, petty crimes, the usual trash. Nothing about professionals who knew how to stay hidden.

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  The constabulary reserves the big rewards for those who actually pose a systemic threat, or perhaps they simply don't believe these matters should be left to civilians.

  Casual scanning would not suffice. Alph needed more direct engagement. He needed to trigger the constabulary's internal process for these cases, to gauge their routine, their level of concern, and whether a specific suspect was known within their ranks. Standing here reading their public notices tells me nothing about what they know, he reflected, his eyes still moving across the posted rewards with feigned interest. I need to see how they react when someone reports this crime directly.

  He decided to play the victim. A grieving, angry relative whose family had been violated by grave robbers. The role would grant him access to their procedures, their questions, their level of preparation for such reports. If they have protocols in place, if they know specific details about methods or suspects, their responses will reveal it.

  He approached the thick oak counter, its surface worn smooth by years of resting elbows, and selected a clerk with a gaunt face. The man’s expression was harried, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose, and his fingers were stained with black ink.

  "Excuse me," Alph said, making sure his voice was roughened and tinged with feigned distress, the false register grating in his throat. "I need to report something that happened."

  The clerk, a gaunt man whose spectacles balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose, looked up from his ledger. His eyes, magnified slightly by the glass lenses, were devoid of any warmth. The black ink staining his fingers almost matched the tired shadow beneath his jaw.

  "State your business clearly and without delay," the clerk instructed, his voice dry and flat, like dust scraping across the worn oak counter.

  Alph's fingers dug into the counter's edge, knuckles bleaching white. "My uncle." His throat tightened around the words, muscles straining to shape them into something broken. The sound came out raw, not from sorrow, but from the sheer force of bending his voice into the right kind of fracture.

  "Someone dug him up." He hunched his shoulders forward, letting the false weight bow his spine. "Left the earth scattered like carrion."

  Every detail was practiced - the tremor in his fingers, the ragged breath. He let the exhaustion show. Perfect mimicry of a man who'd buried his kin twice.

  The clerk's expression remained impassive. He pulled a large, leather-bound register towards him. "When and where was it?"

  "Buried in the common section, north side of the river cemetery." He fabricated details quickly, drawing on his knowledge of the dock's less affluent areas. "Discovered it yesterday morning. They took… they took a copper bracelet. A family heirloom. Nothing valuable to anyone else, but… it was his."

  The clerk dipped his quill, scratching the details into the register. His movements flowed with practiced ease. No surprise registered on his face, no flicker of outrage. He simply recorded the information, his body language indicating that this complaint was common. Grave-robbing was a familiar issue, a weary entry in a long list of minor crimes. The institution had grown desensitized.

  "Will you catch them this time?" Alph pressed, letting the faux yearning for justice crack his voice. Desperate hope must radiate from him; they had to believe he cared about the bracelet. "Will I at least get his bracelet back?" He leaned over the scarred wooden counter, locking eyes with the clerk. This closeness was essential; it embodied vulnerability and genuine grief. He wanted the clerk to feel the weight of his feigned loss, to absorb the unfiltered anxiety his ruse required. Every taut line on Alph's face, every sharp intake of breath, reinforced the deception.

  The clerk’s lips curled into a thin, practiced smile. "We’ll log it, lad. Patrols get the notice."

  His gaze flicked over Alph’s frayed sleeves, lingered a second too long. "Recovery, though? That’s another matter. Copper bracelets, family trinkets—they don’t fetch much on the black market. We try, but..." He let the sentence hang, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. The unspoken truth settled between them: You’ll never see it again.

  Alph clenched his jaw. "So that’s it?"

  The clerk’s fingers tapped the ledger. "That’s the process." His voice was smooth, polished by repetition. No apology, no promise—just the dull weight of procedure.

  "So, it's just… gone?" Alph pressed, allowing a hint of anger to seep into his voice. "No one cares about the poor man's rest?"

  The clerk exhaled, slow and weary. "Look, we do care. But we’re spread thin. Too many cases like this."

  He jerked his chin toward the archway. "Constable Oktar’s handling these now. Out in the courtyard. If you want, go ask him yourself. Might have something useful."

  His tone dipped, almost gentle, but his gaze stayed flat. Don’t get your hopes up.

  Alph nodded, feigning resignation. "Thank you. I will."

  He turned from the counter, a new vector opening before him. The front office offered no specifics, no internal insights. But a constable in the courtyard, one who handled these incidents, might provide more concrete details on prior cases, perhaps even a description or a pattern that could be matched to the scarred thief. Alph walked towards the archway, his laborer's slouch still in place, but his mind sharp, focused.