Amukelo was breathing heavily, his muscles aching from the constant defense. He hoped that his taunt would bait them into making a mistake, but the mage was smarter than he had anticipated. When he heard the mage say, "He's trying to escape, be cautious. Don't destroy the walls," Amukelo felt a wave of frustration rise within him. He clicked his tongue in irritation.
"Tsk… This mage..."
His vision narrowed as he tried to assess his options. Every few seconds, the assassin would dart forward, striking with his blades, forcing Amukelo to divert his attention to block or dodge. The swordsman hovered close, ready to intercept any attempt to break free, while the archer stayed at a distance, picking her moments to shoot, each arrow coming dangerously close to piercing through Amukelo's defenses.
He briefly considered using the potion Bao and Pao's parents had given him. It would enhance his strength and speed for a short time, potentially allowing him to fight his way through. But the potion's aftereffects were severe, and he needed to conserve his strength for Neclord, the true reason he had come here. The thought of using it felt like admitting defeat.
His enemies sensed his growing weakness. The axe-wielder, with a confident grin, called out, "Press in! He's becoming—" "AHHHH"
But before the axe-wielder could finish his taunt, a sudden scream tore through the air. A loud, guttural cry echoed from behind them, causing the entire group to snap their heads back toward the sound.
Standing over the bloodied form of the archer was a figure with wild red hair, holding a blood-stained sword. The archer fell to her knees, gasping for air, her bow falling limply from her grasp as she clutched her side, blood seeping through her fingers.
It was Padrin.
"Amukelo!" he shouted. His voice carried a mix of urgency and determination as his eyes locked onto his friend's. "I'll meet you later. Go!" And then he escaped.
Amukelo's eyes widened in disbelief, but he didn't waste a second. Padrin's arrival had provided the distraction he needed. Without waiting for another word, Amukelo spun on his heel and bolted toward the closest earth wall. In a swift, fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and, with one powerful strike, carved a gap in the wall. Dust and debris flew into the air as the wall crumbled, creating a narrow passage for him to slip through.
The remaining members of the group turned back to Amukelo, realizing too late what had happened.
"That brat!" the axe-wielder cursed, his face twisted in rage.
The mage, now kneeling beside the fallen archer, glanced up and said, "Go after him! I'll heal Ri."
Without wasting another second, the rest of the group charged after Amukelo, their feet pounding against the stone streets as they followed the path he had taken. They could still see him in the distance, his figure just barely visible as he weaved between buildings and rounded corners.
The assassin, light and quick on his feet, took the lead, his eyes locked onto Amukelo like a predator stalking its prey. The swordsman and axe-wielder followed close behind, their heavy footsteps echoing through the narrow alleyways. Despite Amukelo's best efforts, the group was slowly closing the distance. Every turn he took, they followed, never losing sight of him for more than a few seconds.
Amukelo knew he couldn't outrun them forever. His mind raced as he tried to think of a plan, any plan, that could give him an edge. His body ached, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he forced himself to keep moving. Every time he made a turn, he would knock over barrels, crates, or bags of supplies in an attempt to slow them down. But it wasn't enough. They were gaining on him, especially the assassin, whose nimble movements allowed him to slip through obstacles with ease.
"They're getting too close," he muttered to himself, his hand instinctively reaching for the ring given to him by Idin's parents. The magical ring could make him invisible when he remained still in shadow, but it would take at least few seconds for the effect to activate. He needed to find the right moment.
Amukelo's eyes darted around the alley. There was a stack of barrels and bags of wheat near the end. Without thinking, he dashed toward them and quickly crouched behind the makeshift cover. He pressed his back against the barrels, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to steady his breathing.
"They're almost here… Come on, ring, work…" he whispered to himself, willing the magic to activate in time.
The assassin was the first to round the corner, his keen eyes scanning the alley. He slowed down, his head turning from side to side as he tried to locate Amukelo. Behind him, the swordsman and axe-wielder approached, their weapons ready.
"He must've gone this way," the swordsman muttered, his voice filled with frustration.
But as they moved further into the alley, they couldn't find any trace of Amukelo.
"What…? Where did he go?" the assassin asked, his voice laced with confusion.
The others stopped in their tracks, looking around in disbelief. The alley was too long. There was no way Amukelo could make another turn. Amukelo had vanished.
The assassin walked forward cautiously, his daggers drawn, but even he couldn't detect where Amukelo had gone. The swordsman and axe-wielder exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what had just happened.
Amukelo remained perfectly still behind the barrels, his form completely invisible in the shadowy corner.
The alley was silent, save for the sound of their movements. Amukelo's senses were on high alert as he saw the axe-wielder slowly make his way toward him, his heavy steps echoing through the narrow passage. The large man scanned the alley, his eyes sweeping across every possible hiding place, but his gaze passed right over Amukelo as if he were invisible—which, thanks to the ring, he was.
The tension in the air was thick, and Amukelo dared not even blink. His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at a moment's notice if needed. But if they discovered him now, he would be overwhelmed and he'dhaveno escape root. He had to rely on his ring's magic and hope that it kept him hidden long enough for them to leave.
The axe-wielder stopped just in front of the barrels. He looked around the alley again, his gaze lingering on the shadows, almost as if he sensed something was off. Amukelo held his breath, sweat dripping down his brow as the man's eyes passed over the spot where he was crouched. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, it seemed as though the axe-wielder was staring directly at him. Amukelo's grip tightened on his sword hilt, preparing for the worst.
But then, the man turned away.
"Did you find him?" the axe-wielder called out to his companions, his voice low and gruff.
The others—Peles, the assassin, and Jezar, the swordsman—shook their heads in response.
"No sign of him," Jezar muttered, his tone frustrated. "But there's no way he made another turn. This alley is too long."
The assassin, Peles, was standing with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as if trying to puzzle out Amukelo's whereabouts. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint gleam of something—calculation, perhaps—behind his eyes.
Then, as if remembering something, Jezar turned to Peles and asked, "Did you hit him with that artifact?"
Amukelo's stomach twisted at the mention of the artifact. His thoughts raced. Were they talking about the same one he had used to track Neclord? His mind flashed back to the chaotic fight earlier. He had been slashed several times, but had Peles managed to mark him with the artifact?
Peles furrowed his brow and took out the dagger with the artifact, examining it closely. "I think I did," he said slowly, though his voice lacked certainty. He turned the blade over in his hands, as if expecting it to reveal something to him.
Amukelo's heart pounded in his ears. If that artifact worked like his own, it would show his exact location. He began to sweat under the tension, realizing that if Peles had marked him, his cover was about to be blown.
Peles held the dagger out in front of him, concentrating. He muttered a few words under his breath, and for a moment, Amukelo thought the game was up. But then, the assassin's face twisted into a frown.
"Nothing's showing up," Peles said, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Maybe I didn't hit him after all."
Jezar, the swordsman, scowled. "How could you not use it? You slashed that kid so many times."
Peles shrugged, still staring at the dagger as if it had betrayed him. "I thought I did. But either way, it doesn't matter now. Maybe Ri got him."
The axe-wielder, whose name was Ovun, grunted in frustration. He turned to Peles and Jezar. "So, what's the plan now?"
Peles narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment before replying, "You go back to Ri and Morth. See if they've found anything. Me and Jezar will keep searching for him. Maybe he really did manage to turn that fast."
Ovun gave a nod and turned on his heel, heading back the way they had come, while Peles and Jezar continued cautiously down the alley.
Amukelo watched as they walked away, his breath still held tight in his chest. He waited for what felt like an eternity, the sounds of their footsteps fading into the distance, before finally allowing himself to exhale—a long, slow breath of relief.
His entire body trembled with the release of tension. His mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Had the ring saved him, or had Peles really missed him with that artifact? Either way, he couldn't rely on luck again. He was certain now that these mercenaries were more skilled than he had anticipated, and the fact that they were using an artifact similar to his own meant they had ways to track him.
He had to assume the worst—that they would find a way to spot him again. His advantage of stealth wouldn't last forever.