Tycondrius made a sharp turn around the corner, resuming his leisurely jogging pace.
The streets of Whitehearth's business area were not safe, by any means. The number of merchants and marks, however, made an open attack on him... complex.
The possibility remained.
Thus, he kept his vigilance... watching the eyes of man and elf for cruel intentions.
The glances he received from passersby were momentary.
A sword over his shoulder. A soaked tunic. Ragged breaths.
It wasn't strange to see one of Whitehearth's many adventurers submitting themself to training.
Tycon hated running.
Rather... he loathed it.
On the field, he used his Gold-Rank mana to ease his movement and increase his speed.
For training... he went without.
In less than half a bell, Tycon worked up a healthy level of perspiration.
In the evening, his body would suffer fatigue... perhaps exhaustion, if he were careless.
