Alph wiped the last trace of kohl from beneath his eyes. The charcoal smudged his cloth, leaving his skin clear. He prepared for sleep, the day’s investigations concluded. A sudden clamor ripped through the quiet inn. Shouts rose from the docks, alarm bells clanged, and the hurried thud of feet echoed in the street below. He moved to the balcony, joining other patrons who leaned over the railing.

  Flames licked the night sky, a hungry orange glow against the black. Smoke billowed from a cluster of warehouses near the pier.

  "That blaze is ripping through the gang’s main warehouses," a burly dockworker grunted right next to Alph. The man smelled faintly of stale fish and sweat, his broad shoulders bunched with tension as he watched the distant collapse. "Burning like tinder, that stretch of pier."

  Alph’s mind raced. Dock warehouse managed by gang. Yuri’s former gang. The timing was too precise, the target too specific. This was no accident. This signaled the grave robber’s return, a vendetta escalating into open warfare.

  Alph slipped away from the gawking crowd, moving like a shadow. In his room, he shed the inn’s common garb and donned the dark, form-fitting leather he had prepared. He pulled a cloth over his face, obscuring his features and leaving only his eyes visible. The familiar weight of his knives settled against him as he secured the small portable crossbow to his back.

  He moved through the tangle of streets and narrow alleys, drawn toward the raging docks. His Reduced Presence skill hummed, a subtle, cold distortion that clung to his skin and blurred the edges of his shape. He melted into the chaos, not invisible, but effortlessly overlooked.

  The air grew thick and heavy, smelling of coal smoke and burning timber. The roar of the fire intensified, beating like a vast drum, while the shouts of the dockworkers became a frantic, high-pitched din. Beneath the cloth mask, Alph's jaw felt tight. He had shed the guise of the apprentice; The scent of imminent confrontation spiked his adrenaline, sharp and metallic.

  He acknowledged the shift within himself. The contract demanded Yuri’s death. This was no longer passive observation. This was the hunt.

  Alph scaled a nearby warehouse, his hands finding purchase on rough stone and rusted pipes. He moved with the silent grace of a cat, his rogue training making the climb effortless. From the rooftop, he surveyed the scene. The main warehouse blazed, a fiery beacon of destruction. Gang members scrambled, a disorganized mess of panic and desperation. Some fought the fire, others tried to salvage goods, a few dragged injured comrades away from the inferno.

  His Hunter senses pierced the chaos, seeking the anomaly, the pattern that did not fit. At the edge of the flickering light, near a stack of smoldering crates, a figure detached itself from the shadows. It skulked, low to the ground, a predator in a field of prey. This was no panicked gang member, but a hunter.

  Is he the one? Alph couldn't be sure, not yet.

  Alph watched. The figure waited, patient and still, until a lone gang member, disoriented by smoke, stumbled past. The skulking shape erupted from the shadows, a blur of motion. A swift, brutal strike. The gang member crumpled without a sound. The figure melted back into the darkness.

  The evidence locked into place. Arson, ambush, slaughter—each escalation followed a calculated rhythm. No chaos, no chance. This was execution, deliberate and cold. Oktar’s reports had described Yuri’s vengeance in exact terms: a grave robber who turned on his own. Tonight, he was fulfilling that promise, carving through his former allies one by one.

  I cannot stand idly. If Alph remained a spectator, the gang would be butchered. Ethically, even these thugs did not deserve such a death. Strategically, this was his best chance. Yuri is exposed, operating in the open, not hiding in the shadows of the docks.

  Alph descended from the rooftop, a dark wraith in the smoke-choked air. He activated Reduced Presence, the world subtly blurring his form. He moved through the disarray, past frantic gang members and roaring flames, a ghost unseen. He used the smoke as cover, the scattered crates and overturned barrels as temporary shields. He closed the distance, positioning himself where he could break line of sight, where a threatened gang member still lived, within earshot of both him and the attacker.

  He found his moment. A gang enforcer, massive and slow, moved to retrieve a fallen comrade. Yuri, a dark shape, detached himself from a wall of shadows, knife glinting.

  Alph activated Battle Shout, drawing a deep breath. His thunderous roar ripped through the burning warehouse's din.

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  "Yuri! Stop right there!"

  The sound ripped through the night, raw and commanding. Yuri froze, his blade inches from the enforcer’s throat. He spun, his scarred face contorted in a snarl, his eyes locking onto Alph. The enforcer, startled, stumbled backward, wide-eyed.

  Yuri’s voice, a gravelly rasp, sliced through the air. "Who are you? Why interfere?"

  Alph noted the momentary shift in focus, the raw surprise on Yuri’s face. The Battle Shout had worked. He gestured subtly to the enforcer, a quick flick of his chin, urging him to retreat. He spoke, his voice low but clear, holding Yuri’s gaze.

  "From petty thievery and grave-robbing to arson and open murder of your own kin, Yuri? You've escalated." He let mockery sharpen his words.

  Yuri’s lips peeled back from yellowed teeth, his scar twisting as he spat the words. "What’s it to you, outsider?" The stench of damp earth and something fouler—rotting meat, maybe—rolled off him with the snarl. His knuckles whitened around the knife’s hilt, the stolen rings on his fingers glinting in the flickering warehouse light.

  "Dressed like that, you ain’t no constable’s lapdog. So who the hell are you, eh?" A guttural growl tore from his throat, yet his body lunged forward, blade flashing toward Alph.

  Yuri lunged. His blade, a wickedly curved dagger, flashed toward Alph’s chest. Alph met the attack with a practiced ease that belied his apparent youth. He shifted his weight, his feet finding purchase on the uneven ground. This was not a panicked scramble, but a controlled, almost fluid motion. He activated Defensive Stance, his body coiling, ready to absorb the impact.

  The dagger scraped against a hidden leather bracer Alph wore beneath his sleeve, a dull thud instead of the expected tear of flesh. Yuri’s eyes widened, surprise flickering in their depths. Alph did not counter immediately. He let Yuri overextend, then used the momentum against him, a subtle twist of his body deflecting the follow-up strike.

  Yuri was fast, a blur of motion, his movements economical and vicious. He moved like a shadow, striking low, then high, feinting with his left hand while his right delivered a stinging backhand. This was the raw, unrefined aggression of a street brawler, honed by countless desperate encounters. Alph recognized the style; it mirrored the brutal efficiency he had seen in the Fighter’s Pit, stripped of any pretense of honor.

  Alph parried, dodged, and weaved. He used Deft Movement, his footwork precise, allowing him to evade the flurry of attacks without expending unnecessary energy. He kept his guard up, his gaze locked on Yuri’s movements, searching for patterns, for openings. He did not reveal his own weapon, allowing Yuri to believe he was unarmed. The grave robber’s frustration mounted with each blocked or dodged strike.

  Alph activated Marked for Death, focusing his intent. The world narrowed, Yuri becoming the sole point of his perception. He saw the faint lines, the subtle shifts in muscle, the micro-expressions that betrayed Yuri’s next move. He stacked the mark, once, then again, a silent, internal declaration of intent. Yuri’s attacks, though relentless, began to feel slower, more predictable.

  Yuri roared, a sound of pure animalistic fury. He lunged again, a wild, desperate thrust. Alph sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past his ear. As Yuri stumbled forward, off-balance, Alph seized the opportunity. He moved with sudden, explosive speed, a quick jab to Yuri’s exposed ribs.

  Yuri grunted, the air knocked from his lungs. He recoiled, momentarily stunned. He snarled, his eyes darting around, searching for an advantage. He scooped a handful of ash from a smoldering crate and flung it at Alph’s face.

  Alph, expecting another lunge, reacted a fraction too late. The gritty ash stung his eyes, blinding him. He instinctively blinked, his guard dropping for a critical second.

  Yuri seized the opening. He lunged, a sudden, desperate blur of speed that belied his bulk. Searing pain ripped through Alph's left forearm, a shallow cut breaching the gap in his bracer. He staggered back, shaking his head to clear his vision.

  Yuri laughed, a high, cackling sound that grated on Alph’s ears. "Got you, That’s no ordinary cut!"

  He brandished his dagger, its blade still glinting with a dark, oily sheen. "You are a goner, that's my skill Corpse Poison, boy! It rots you from the inside out. Your flesh will putrefy, your bones will crumble. You’ll be a walking corpse soon!"

  Alph stared at the shallow cut on his arm. A dark, purplish line already began to spread from the wound, a cold dread seeping into his veins.

  Yuri, assuming victory, began to rant, his voice rising above the crackle of the flames. "They used me! The bastards! They wanted my skills, my knowledge of the earth, to find their trinkets. ‘Just a few old bones, Yuri,’ they said. ‘A few forgotten heirlooms.’ But then they got greedy. They sent me after the noble’s crypt, the one with the sapphire eyes. They said it was empty, a forgotten tomb."

  He spat on the ground. "Lies! It was guarded, protected by wards and steel. I barely escaped with my life, leaving their precious sapphire eyes behind. And when the noble’s guards came knocking, who did they offer up? Me! They sold me out to save their own hides!"

  Yuri’s voice cracked with a bitter rage. "I survived. I always survive. And I took my vengeance. I dug up their mothers, their fathers. I defiled their graves, just like they defiled my trust." He gestured wildly with his dagger. "But that wasn’t enough for them, was it? No, they went crying to the constables. They led them right to me, those sniveling curs."

  Alph didn't pay full attention to the rant, his focus on the spreading purple stain on his arm, but he heard enough to understand what drove this man to the current situation.