Clad in a nondescript cloak and carrying a staff that served no purpose other than to disguise his identity, Amukelo walked the dimly lit streets of Llyn with purpose. His new attire transformed him into just another face in the crowd, a simple mage perhaps returning from a late-night study or errand. This guise was crucial, =to evade the eyes of the Nameless Dynasty operatives scattered throughout the city.
As he maneuvered through the less traveled paths, the echoes of casual revelry from the livelier parts of town faded into a tense silence that matched his mood. The only light came from scattered lanterns swinging outside the occasional shop or residence, casting long shadows that twisted and merged with the darkness.
Turning a corner, Amukelo's path crossed with three dark-cloaked figures, their conversation floating to him before their faces came into view. They spoke with the arrogance of those who believed themselves to be untouchable.
"I can't believe everyone has to search for that kid," one complained, the disdain clear in his voice.
"Yeah, he can't be that strong," another scoffed, dismissing the threat Amukelo posed without knowing they walked by him.
The third laughed cruelly, mimicking Pao's voice, "Remember about us... I love you. Hahaha..." Their laughter filled the street, mocking the final moments of Pao's life.
Hearing this, Amukelo's step faltered, his hand gripping the staff so tightly he almost broke it. Rage boiled within him, a seething, raw energy that screamed for vengeance. The faces of his friends, especially Pao's final moments, flashed in his mind, fueling his anger. He stood there, trembling with the effort it took to contain his fury. For a moment, he contemplated attacking them right there, letting loose the storm of his wrath.
But no, he told himself, regaining control with considerable effort. Not here. Not yet. Revenge required not just the will to act but the cunning to ensure it succeeded. With a deep, calming breath, Amukelo resumed his walk, his cloak swishing softly against his legs, the laughter of the men echoing behind him like a haunting taunt.
Finally reaching the lonely street that led to the underground market, Amukelo knocked on the door with a familiar pattern. The small window slid open, revealing the eyes of the large guard who scrutinized him briefly before recognizing the signal.
"I have to finish the deal with Ivish," Amukelo stated plainly.
The guard paused, then slowly unlocked and opened the door, allowing him entry. Stepping into the corridor that descended into the bowels of the market, Amukelo felt a chill that wasn't from the cool air. The market below was a den of the world's darkest desires, a place where morality was as absent as light in its deepest chambers.
As Amukelo navigated the dimly lit, narrow corridors of the underground market, the pungent odors of decay and desperation permeated the air. His senses were assaulted by the mingling scents of unwashed bodies, illicit substances, and fear.
Just as he was about to turn a corner, a figure stumbled into his path. The man, clearly under the influence of some potent drug, was a mess of dirty clothing and filth. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, fixed on Amukelo with a disturbing intensity.
"What a little boy like you doing here," the man slurred, blocking Amukelo's way. "come play with us?"
The disgust on Amukelo's face was evident, but it was his eyes, filled with a cold, lethal intent, that truly responded. He contemplated the ease with which he could end this man's miserable existence—here, in the shadows of the underground, it would hardly stir a ripple.
But he restrained himself. Killing in cold blood wasn't his way, not unless it was part of his quest for vengeance. The intensity of his stare was enough to make the addict step back, clearing the way with a mix of fear and confusion.
Amukelo continued on, his cloak brushing against the grimy walls. He reached the familiar door guarded by the same large figure as before, who recognized him immediately and opened the door without hesitation.
Inside, the room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished, creating an atmosphere of secretive dealings and whispered conspiracies. Ivish was there, her formidable presence dominating the space.
"Oh, I didn't expect you to come back the next day," Ivish remarked as he entered. "You are here to receive the artifact, I suppose?"
Amukelo nodded, producing the bags of gold coins. "Right," he confirmed, handing them over.
Ivish weighed the bags in her hands, her expression betraying a flicker of surprise. "Don't you worry that I might just take this money and throw you out?"
Glancing around, Amukelo noted the quiet emptiness of the room but sensed the hidden eyes that likely watched. "I don't sense any bad intentions from you," he responded cautiously.
Ivish laughed, a sound that echoed slightly in the sparse room. "I don't know whether you can truly tell, or if you're just naive, but you're right. This time I have no intention to deceive you." She then handed him a small, intricately designed artifact.
After thanking her, Amukelo hesitated before asking, "Can I ask you one question? Why do you help me? Given what's beneath Llyn, a simple fair transaction seems almost like a favor. Especially considering I don't have any backup."
Ivish's smile was enigmatic. "What do you mean? It's a fair transaction. We have to follow the rules, right?"
Amukelo thought back to the horrors he had witnessed on his way here; the 'rules' she mentioned were a farce in this underworld. "I understand," he said finally. "Goodbye."
"It's not the last time we see each other," Ivish called out as he turned to leave.
After departing the grim confines of the black market, Amukelo clutched the artifact tightly, its subtle imperfections reminding him of the delicate task ahead. The night air felt cool against his skin as he walked through the quieter streets of Llyn, weaving through the shadows to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. Every so often, his path crossed with members of the Nameless Dynasty. Their dark cloaks flickered through the streetlights, but they paid him no mind, their attention elsewhere.
Amukelo's thoughts were tumultuous. He understood the importance of maintaining a low profile; the bustling areas of Llyn were no place for the kind of reckoning he planned. Not only did he seek to avoid the collateral damage that could arise from such a public encounter, but he was also keenly aware of the pain such violence could inflict on the innocent—pain akin to his own searing loss.
Upon returning to his inn, the quiet of his room enveloped him like a suffocating blanket. He sat down at the small desk, the wood creaking slightly under his weight, and began to pen two letters to Padrin. The letters were identical—each a detailed account of the events that had transpired, sparing the intricacies of his current vendetta. He hoped Padrin would understand his absence and the silence that had likely worried him.
With the letters sealed, Amukelo turned his attention to a more painful task: sorting through his belongings. He began methodically, separating the items he deemed unnecessary, his hands mechanically moving through the motions. Piece by piece, he tossed his clothes into a pile destined for the fire.
Then, his hands paused over a particular set of clothes—the outfit he had worn on his dates with Pao, chosen with Bral and Idin's help. His fingers traced the fabric, and a surge of memories flooded through him—the shared jokes, the smiles, Pao's laughter. He held the clothes close, inhaling deeply as if the scent could bring back those happier times.
The decision tore at him. He knew that this set of clothes would only slow him down, as they would take space in his inventory and would be unnecessary weight, but hese clothes represented the best of his days. With a heavy heart, Amukelo folded the outfit and set it aside. He couldn't bring himself to destroy this last tangible connection to his friends, to Pao. It was more than fabric; it was a fragment of his soul, a reminder of who he was before the darkness consumed his life.
Resolute but with tears stinging his eyes, he lit the fire, watching as the flames consumed everything else. The heat blurred with the heat of his emotions, a pyre for his past as he steeled himself for the vengeance that lay ahead.