Chapter 52: Worms
The heart of the district was unknown to him. His actions were driven by confidence—or perhaps stupidity. A kind of heroic recklessness.
But even so, he remained impassive. He recognized that investigations involved trial and failure.
Only those who remained distracted and fearful of trying would be the ones who would never achieve what they had set out to do. And the history of the streets of the Frozen North simplified that lesson like a poem.
Gabriel never ignored the gazes that fixed on him, scrutinizing every movement he made.
He counted at least fifteen pairs of eyes in just a few seconds. His brief combat had attracted more attention than he desired.
Without altering the rhythm of his breathing, he moved with elegance. He slid his figure toward the shadows of a narrow alley and disappeared.
He activated Shadow Illusions.
His body blended with the darkness. His breathing was held back until it became a whistle of wind that vanished between the alleys.
Each step was agile and precise, like a predator that knew every square meter of the terrain.
In his mind shone the connection of the Blood Trail. An invisible red thread that pulsed with Francis’s desperation.
The boy had ventured much deeper than expected.
The smile on his mask remained unchanged.
***
Meanwhile, Francis focused solely on escaping.
His street thief agility, a quality that had saved him on countless occasions, now betrayed him out of pure cowardice. The streets of the Frozen North became an intricate labyrinth of worn buildings and shadows that wanted to devour him.
His mind blurred between reality and his desperation.
Any noise alerted him and he felt gazes on his back piercing through him.
Here they kill with the same ease that a slaver discards the useless, he thought.
When his resistance failed and he fell, he finally had to surrender to his unfortunate situation. He took a breath and tried to figure out where he was.
As always, he tried to maintain a big, confident smile while walking, but his face trembled.
The fear betrayed him. He did not belong in those places and would probably suffer endings he preferred to avoid.
At one point, he was hit from behind. He had no time or opportunity to react. His fear had clouded him to the point where his instincts were undermined.
When he woke up, a few minutes later, seven men surrounded him.
Their gazes were cruel and professional. They were not simple alley thugs.
They discussed among themselves in low tones, evaluating his qualities. Using his thinness, worn clothes, and panicked face as arguments.
"Believe me, he’ll serve well. The slave traders pay well for this kind of young man," said one, with a crooked smile.
Francis opened his eyes in panic, his expression degrading to the purest fear.
"Gentlemen, there must be a mistake. I am the son of House Hillas, I’m just lost," he tried to say calmly.
One of them let out a hoarse laugh and pulled out a long butcher knife.
The blade gleamed palely under the gloomy light.
Francis’s heart threatened to explode.
He could only curse the masked stranger who had condemned him. If only he had let himself be robbed!
But at that moment, the fire of hope ignited in his chest.
Soft footsteps echoed from the entrance.
Only for the rhythm to change, becoming heavy and deliberate. That quickly caught the group’s attention.
A brown overcoat waving slightly, with a characteristic mask.
"Allow an extra guest?" he asked in a calm voice.
Francis’s eyes lit up like two giant stars. Hope returned like fresh rainwater.
"Him! It’s him! The man who insulted your mothers by calling them prostitutes and sows! You have the wrong man!" he suddenly shouted, pointing at Gabriel.
Silence filled the environment instantly.
Gabriel tilted his head slightly. For a moment, even he doubted who was really the enemy here.
One of the men reacted first.
A ceramic glass flew and smashed savagely into Francis’s head. The boy fell like a sack of potatoes, completely unconscious.
"Filthy Larnac scum," he cursed.
Gabriel noticed the discrepancy. They probably came from other places.
From the rough and worn stairs at the back, a man descended. Blond, unkempt beard and long hair.
Even so, his appearance was refined and conveyed a certain degree of danger.
"Is this your protégé? He meddled in matters he shouldn’t have. You know what the price is," he said in a deep voice.
Gabriel analyzed the group.
They were organized, with decent armament and controlled movements. He immediately determined that this was not just any gang.
The bait worked quite well. I should try it again, he thought silently.
He advanced only one step.
"As you said, he is my protégé. I sincerely apologize for his mistake. Now..."
"We don’t make deals with you, sir. You have to leave... Now," the leader interrupted.
Gabriel remained silent. His eyes analyzed the man leading the rest.
"I can’t leave without him, you know? The uncertainty would kill me before the edge of a sword."
When the first man drew his weapon at the refusal, the battle erupted.
Gabriel became a wild tempest.
A force of nature.
His chest expanded and he leaped with superhuman agility. The first blow shattered the group’s front defense.
His dagger cut without obstacles, opening throats and targeting tendons.
One man tried to block, but he was too slow for his reactions.
Gabriel’s blade pierced his guard and sank into his chest. He withdrew the dagger with a clean twist.
Hot blood flew and stained his shirt.
Another screamed and attacked from behind.
Gabriel dodged with natural inertia, spun on himself and stabbed the dagger directly into his heart.
The scream drowned in blood.
He kicked Francis’s unconscious body toward a safer corner, placing it behind him.
The remaining ones tried to overwhelm him with numbers.
A trick he had learned how to deal with.
Gabriel moved like an extremely agile experienced warrior. He dodged, cut, and killed.
Each movement was fluid and extremely lethal. In less than a dozen seconds, the floor was covered in blood.
He had taken advantage of the natural advantage of his contempt and won like an overwhelming force.
Feverish anger and contempt shone in the leader’s blue eyes. In his hands he held a long sword, in knight position.
The energy emanating from him was very different. Disciplined and deep.
His muscles bulged while his breathing became more concentrated.
The battle between the two exploded.
The leader was strong, with trained and strategic movements.
He pushed Gabriel several steps back, forcing him to defend with precision. The steel clashed with bright sparks in the small hall.
A true challenge.
The knight launched a series of precise thrusts. Gabriel blocked, counterattacked, but the man parried every blow with the experience of fierce combat.
Finally, his enemy managed to conceive an opening.
His sword pierced the guard and scraped Gabriel’s stomach.
A burning pain settled in him.
But Gabriel did not flinch.
He grabbed the blade with his left hand, enduring the edge with his skin.
And with his right he he wrenched the sword from his enemy’s grip. Throwing it away.
"If you want to live, cease your resistance. Or you will die now."
The blond man spat blood.
"You, son of a bitch... I want your mother."
Gabriel knocked him to the ground violently.
He began to hit his face. He showed no mercy. His face swelled and blood splattered with each impact.
"If you don’t speak now, neither of us will have a good ending!" roared Gabriel.
The mercenary resisted, cursed and writhed on the ground, until finally the man broke.
"Please, please, no more! We-we’re just mercenaries!"
Gabriel pressed the cold dagger against his neck. The mercenary hugged his own knees, trembling.
"I’ve heard of very bad people on this side," said Gabriel in a melodious tone, almost as if telling a story, "People who walk, live and feel like humans... But who don’t seem human. What kind of people are these?"
The mercenary breathed agitatedly, with his blood covering the floor.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about!"
"I’ve heard it all. They are people who belong here."
The words seemed to ignite something in the mind of the man who feared death.
"They are the Despots! The haters and the persecuted! They... They are not from here... They come from outside, with their robes, with unscrupulous deals."
He paused, his eyes bulging.
"Ask about The Ring!"
At that instant, his body convulsed.
Black worms emerged from his orifices. They writhed in a grotesque feast.
The mercenary screamed horribly, a sound that faded like a lamp.
Gabriel separated immediately, retreating several steps. He did not want to touch that thing.
He had heard of curses and forbidden methods, but witnessing it was another thing.
His figure rose slowly, covered in blood. The wound on his stomach had bled and was beginning to close.
His mind spun around his doubts and the despicable method that ended the mercenary’s life.
The Ring?
Francis opened his eyes for the first time.
He could only see Gabriel’s silhouette contemplating the outraged corpse.
His stomach clenched.
The fear he felt toward that masked man became something deeper and more instinctive.
Gabriel slowly turned his head toward him.
Francis closed his eyes tightly, pretending to be unconscious.
The boy had been responsible for many of the answers Gabriel had found... He should thank him properly.
