Marcellus counted his remaining coins as he walked down the cobblestone street, the weight of his purchases lending a certain satisfaction to his steps.
On an island as treacherous as Mythralis, it paid to be prepared. He had 12,870 copper coins left, some of which were still in their original silver form, tucked safely inside a hidden pocket in his newly acquired black leather pants. It was a comfortable amount, enough to afford some security but not so much as to attract unwanted attention.
If his mother had heard him call such an amount comfortable she would beat him till he was red, he could start a business with such an amount but his sense of comfort was skewed now that he had seen so much more gold from the price on the viper.
While Marcellus had splurged on a few items, he'd managed his funds wisely, erring on the side of practicality over luxury. His medium-quality sword hung at his side, well-balanced and serviceable; not the cheapest option available, but certainly not the most extravagant either.
As he walked, his new boots flexed and adapted to the contours of his feet, a marked improvement over his previous, worn-out pair. They were worth every one of the 12 copper coins he'd parted with. His brown shirt was simple but sturdy, ideal for someone whose life had taken an unexpected turn toward the adventurous.
Tucked under his arm was a bundle containing his new writing supplies, purchased with the intention of communicating with Adin. He planned to put pen to parchment as soon as he found a quiet moment, to share updates and coordinate their next steps.
And then there was the dagger—the antique piece he'd bought from a street vendor. It was an enigma, its handle wrapped in leather laces and inscribed with characters Marcellus couldn't decipher. A risky buy, perhaps, but the blade was of undeniable quality, and he had a hunch it might come in handy. Its presence in his belt offered a subtle, reassuring weight.
All in all, Marcellus was well-equipped for whatever came next, and his remaining funds provided a buffer against the unpredictability of life in Mythralis.
He might still have questions that demanded answers and a labyrinth of mysteries to navigate, but for now, he had resources, and that was a good start.
Marcellus sensed them before he saw them, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with a warning.
Three shadows detached themselves from the dim recesses of the alleyways he was passing. The figures moved to surround him, their intentions written in their furtive glances and the predatory narrowing of their eyes.
One of the men, bulky and sporting a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped in front of Marcellus, blocking his path. "Nice boots you got there," he sneered, "Give 'em here, along with everything else."
Marcellus's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his new sword, but he hesitated.
Drawing the weapon would escalate the situation, and he didn't wish for bloodshed if it could be avoided.
Instead, his fingers subtly brushed against the curved hilt of the antique dagger he'd just purchased.
The second man, lanky and twitching as if wound up on nerves or some illicit substance, approached him from the right, eyes on the bulging pocket where Marcellus kept his remaining coins.
The third was circling him silently, positioning himself as a catch-all should Marcellus attempt to flee.
Sizing them up, Marcellus's newly acquired clarity and mental acuity kicked in. With a swiftness belied by his calm demeanour, he flicked the antique dagger out from its sheath and swung it in a low arc.
The blade caught the sunlight as it whistled through the air, close enough to the twitchy man's leg to make him reconsider his life choices.
"I suggest you find another target," Marcellus said, his voice ice-cold, the edge of his curved blade mirroring the edge in his tone.
The burly man looked at his companions, then back at the blade that had so effortlessly appeared in Marcellus's hand. "You think you're some kind of hero, do ya?"
"Far from it," Marcellus replied, locking eyes with the man. "But I'm not your victim either. The question is, do you feel lucky?"
Unknowingly Marcellus had picked up the Viper crew's superstition.
As the tension reached a boiling point, the burly man snarled, "Guess we'll see how lucky you are then." With that, he lunged at Marcellus, his meaty fists aimed squarely at his face.
Marcellus sidestepped smoothly, pivoting on his heel to maintain his defensive stance. The dagger in his hand glinted ominously as he made a quick but measured slash, not to wound but to discourage. The blade skimmed across the man's forearm, leaving a superficial cut.
The dagger movements were too quick for the man to react.
"Dammit!" the man yelled, clutching his arm.
Emboldened by the sight of their leader in distress, the twitchy man darted in with a makeshift knife, trying to stab Marcellus from the side.
Anticipating the move, Marcellus parried with his dagger, the metals screeching upon contact. Using his free hand, Marcellus delivered a quick jab to the man's ribs, causing him to stumble back, gasping for air.
Now the third man, who had been circling quietly, saw his chance. He rushed in from behind, aiming to grab Marcellus in a chokehold like a monkey. But the heightened clarity Marcellus had acquired from his newfound status as a sword saint gave him an almost uncanny awareness. Sensing the man's approach, he ducked at the last moment, causing the would-be assailant to collide clumsily with his own companion. They both toppled to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Seizing the momentary advantage, Marcellus spun to face the burly leader, his dagger poised for action. The man looked at his fallen comrades, then back at Marcellus, his eyes finally showing a hint of doubt.
"Still think I'm an easy mark?" Marcellus asked, his voice tinged with a cold, hard edge.
Realizing the tables had turned, the burly man muttered a curse under his breath. "This isn't over," he spat, before retreating into the darkness, signalling for his cohorts to follow, and the three of them melted back into the darkness from which they'd emerged.
Sheathing his dagger with a smooth motion, Marcellus continued on his way. His heart rate gradually returned to normal, but the clarity remained—the sharpened awareness of a world.