Aren and Isla hurried back toward the main street, intending to cross into another part of the city. Every time they found themselves alone in an alley, they broke into a run. Only three hours remained until the dinner at the castle, an event they absolutely had to attend, and the trek back through the forest was no short journey.

  When they finally reached the shadow district, the change was immediately apparent. Stone buildings and cobblestone streets gave way to well-trodden dirt and dilapidated wooden houses. The people were noticeably worse off, their clothes patched and faded, their faces etched with hardship. Now, Isla and Aren's disguises blended in much better. An oppressive atmosphere hung in the air, devoid of any real activity. The sounds of the city seemed muffled here, replaced by an unsettling silence. A sluggishness permeated the air; even the people moved with a languid, almost reluctant pace. Their eyes narrowed with suspicion as they cast sidelong glances at the hurrying, newly-minted adventurers. Although their mission was unofficial, Aren and Isla had mentally dubbed themselves adventurers – it just felt better that way.

  Aren wondered why such a district existed in the capital at all. The city seems rich and prosperous on the surface, but this place... it's like a festering wound. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  "We're here," Isla announced. She stopped in front of a ramshackle hut that looked as though a strong gust of wind could topple it. The wood was already starting to rot, and the roof sagged precariously. She checked the map with the marker several times, her brow furrowed with doubt, hoping she was mistaken.

  "What a dump," Aren muttered, his voice tinged with disdain. He scanned the surroundings, his senses on high alert. "Alright, this place might be dangerous. Follow me and stay close."

  Isla nodded, instantly alert. She adjusted the cowl of her cloak, pulling it further down to obscure her face. Aren slowly approached the door and pressed his ear against it, trying to listen to what was happening inside. He could hear the murmur of two voices, but the words were indistinct, lost in the general decay of the building. He knocked, three sharp raps that seemed to echo in the oppressive silence.

  The voices stopped abruptly, and heavy footsteps approached the door.

  Without opening it, a gruff voice from the other side asked, "Who's there?"

  "We have a delivery for you from the information broker," Aren replied quickly, keeping his voice neutral.

  The door creaked open, revealing two men in dark, ill-fitting clothing. Their faces were rough and scarred, their eyes cold and calculating. They looked like they hadn't seen a bath in weeks. Their faces practically screamed, 'We are the bad guys.'

  One of them fixed his gaze on Isla, who was hiding her face. His eyes lingered on her figure with a predatory gleam. Aren didn't like it one bit. Perverts.

  "Where's the package?" the one in front asked, his voice a low growl. He was a hulking brute, easily twice Aren's size, with a thick scar running across his cheek.

  Aren showed the box, holding it out slightly. "Before I hand it over, the information broker said you'd tell me where the black market is."

  The two suspicious men exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. A flicker of something dark and calculating flashed in their eyes.

  "Come in. We'll discuss it inside," the brute said, stepping back to allow them entry.

  Aren really didn't like the situation. This feels like walking into a trap. Letting Isla go in with him was dangerous, but leaving her on the street was out of the question. He could feel someone had been following them ever since they left the Adventurers' Guild, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. After a moment of thought, he took Isla's hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and, keeping her behind him, entered the house. One wrong move, and I will fuck them up.

  He closed the door behind him, the sound echoing in the small, cramped space, and moved from a small hallway into the main room. It was clearly an abandoned building, or at least, one that had been long neglected. Dust lay thick on every surface, cobwebs draped from the ceiling, and the smell of mold and rotting wood filled the air. The only furniture in the room was a rickety wooden table, a couple of overturned chairs, and a dusty cabinet pushed against one wall.

  The other man, silent until now, gestured to the table in the center of the room, implying Aren should place the box there. Aren gave him a distrustful look.

  The second man spoke, his voice raspy and unpleasant, like nails on a chalkboard. "We need to see what's in the box. The information broker has his ways of validating the authenticity of his commissions."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Aren relented, though his instincts screamed at him to stay on guard. He let go of Isla's hand and approached the table, carefully watching the suspicious figures in front of him. He placed the box down and stepped back, putting a distance between himself and the two men.

  The closer of the two men, the brute, picked up the box and opened it, revealing a rolled-up piece of paper tied with a thin string. He untied the string and unrolled the paper, his eyes scanning the contents. A slow, cruel smirk spread across his face.

  "And why would youngsters like you need the black market? Are you in a hurry to die?"

  "We're risk-takers. We really need the money," Aren answered curtly.

  The man who had read the note glanced at his partner, a silent signal passing between them. He slowly folded the paper and put it back in the box, his movements deliberate and menacing. "Money, huh?" he said, turning his gaze back to Aren. His tone shifted from mocking to menacing, the words dripping with malice. "In this neighborhood, money isn't easy to come by. And sometimes... it's easier to take it from others."

  In that very instant, the second man, the one with the raspy voice, without warning, whipped out a knife. The blade glinted in the dim light, and he threw it at Isla, aiming for her heart.

  Aren reacted instinctively, his mind racing, but his body was still slow and weak, hampered by his lack of training. He couldn't shield Isla completely, but he managed to reach her with one wide stride, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, and yank her by the clothes, pulling her slightly off course.

  The knife plunged into her chest, just below her collarbone.

  Aren held Isla in his arms, his heart pounding in his chest. The girl gasped, her eyes wide with shock and pain. A crimson stain blossomed on her clothes, spreading rapidly with each passing second.

  While Aren was still reeling from the attack, a powerful kick, delivered with brutal force, landed on his head.

  He released the bleeding girl, his vision blurring, and flew backward, crashing into a rickety cabinet against the wall. The cabinet splintered and collapsed under his weight, sending shards of wood and dusty debris raining down upon him. He remained there, dazed and disoriented, buried under the wreckage.

  This should have knocked him out, but the sight of Isla's blood, the look of terror in her eyes, just before the kick, triggered something deep within him. A flood of memories, long suppressed, surged to the surface. The tragedy in his past life on Earth, the image of his daughter and wife being murdered before his eyes...

  The memory awakened an incredible, blinding rage, a primal fury that had lain dormant for decades.

  While the attackers approached Isla, their eyes gleaming with greed, Aren rose from the wreckage, his movements jerky and unnatural. His eyes glowed dimly yellow, an eerie light that seemed to leave a trail behind them as he moved. With each ragged breath, a vapor-like ethereal aura, crackling with energy, emanated from his mouth. His gaze held no personality, no trace of the gentle librarian he was supposed to be, only pure, absolute fury.

  "What the..." one of the attackers, the brute, began, his eyes widening in disbelief. But before he could finish, Aren was in front of him, his fist already connecting with his body.

  The man reflexively covered himself with an aura of Ether, a shimmering shield of energy, and tried to retreat, but Aren was too fast. He clenched all of his joints, channeling his rage into a single, devastating blow. The floorboards beneath his feet splintered and cracked, and a punch, seemingly without movement, slammed straight into the enemy's gut.

  The man's eyes bulged, his face contorted in agony. He flew backward with incredible force, crashing into the opposite wall, spitting out a large amount of blood. He slammed against the wall before sliding to the ground, dazed and broken.

  The second attacker, the one with the raspy voice, realizing the danger, cursed under his breath. He threw another knife, this one charged with Ether, a shimmering energy that crackled around the blade, at Aren, but it was in vain.

  Aren easily dodged the projectile, his movements now fluid and lightning-fast, and, in the next instant, appeared before his opponent. Even more vapor poured from his breath, swirling around him like a shroud. He roared like a wild beast, a guttural sound that echoed through the small room, and began to unleash a series of blows.

  To a casual observer, it might have appeared as if he was blindly beating his enemy, but each strike was deliberate, precise, hitting vulnerable points with deadly accuracy. He aimed for the joints, the pressure points, the vital organs, each blow designed to inflict maximum damage.

  After just three blows, the enemy was ready to fall, but the onslaught pinned him to the wall. Aren continued to hit him even after he lost consciousness, his fists a blur of motion.

  The wall began to crack and crumble under the force of the blows, and the opponent's body fell into the next room, his legs dangling over the remaining part of the wall.

  Aren stood still, his chest heaving, the vapor still rising from his mouth. The yellow glow in his eyes began to fade, replaced by a flicker of recognition. Consciousness gradually returned, and he realized what had happened – the dark side of his personality had taken over.

  This hadn't happened in over 20 years; he thought it was long behind him, buried deep within his subconscious. He closed his eyes, his face etched with horror and regret, and began to regulate his breathing, trying to regain control.

  But the process was interrupted by the memory of Isla, bleeding out on the floor.

  He rushed to her side. Her heart was still beating, but her eyes had dimmed, the light fading from them.

  The knife was still sticking out of her chest, the blood pooling around her. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

  Aren had no idea what to do; panic surged through him, threatening to overwhelm him. If this is a fantasy world, maybe they have healing potions or scrolls? Something, anything, to save her.

  He frantically searched the fallen enemies, rummaging through their pockets and pouches, but all he found were two pouches of coins, a few rusty knives, and a strange ring on the hand of the one who had fallen through the wall. It was metallic but transparent blue, seemingly made from an artifact.

  His frantic search was interrupted by a voice from the entrance.

  "Hey, kid, you handled them pretty well," the voice said, laced with amusement.