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Asher leveled his revolvers at the man's knees and pulled the trigger, the deafening crack of the gun echoing through the office. The man screamed in agony, collapsing to the floor, clutching his shattered legs. Asher stepped over him, the sight of the man writhing in pain only fueling his resolve.
With cold efficiency, Asher walked over to the safe, blowing it open with a calculated shot. The door swung wide, revealing stacks of cash and illicit documents inside. He worked quickly, shoving the contents into a bag as he heard distant sounds of chaos outside—a cacophony that would only grow louder.
"Time to go," he muttered under his breath. He pulled a length of rope from the satchel, turning back to the man. "You're not going anywhere." He signaled to his knight, who stepped forward from the shadows, silently binding the man's wrists and ankles with practiced ease.
Once the man was secured, Asher pressed the cold barrel of his revolver against his temple. The man's eyes widened in terror, and before he could plead for mercy, Asher slammed the butt of the revolver into his skull, rendering him unconscious.
With the bag slung over his shoulder, Asher slipped back into the night, moving through the shadows like a ghost.
The man stirred awake, his mind hazy and disoriented. Panic surged through him as he realized he was bound, the rough rope digging into his wrists. He struggled to sit up, but pain shot through his knees, and he gasped, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.
"Where the hell am I?" he croaked, his voice trembling with fear as he scanned the dimly lit parlor. The shadows seemed to loom larger, mocking his helplessness.
Before he could fully comprehend his situation, the door to the parlor swung open. Captain Bolard stood in the doorway, a confident smile on his face. "Well, well, well," he said, taking in the scene with amusement. "Look what we have here."
The man's eyes widened in disbelief as he recognized the captain. "You!" he stammered, panic flooding his system. "You think you can get away with this? I'll have you fired!"
Bolard stepped into the room, the door closing ominously behind him. "You thought you could win against the church? You dare scheme against the mother? Goodness me, you must have a death wish. You're smarter than that, aren't you?" He leaned closer, the smile on his lips curling into something more sinister. "But then again, you always were too arrogant for your own good."
The man opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips as the reality of his situation sank in.
The man's heart raced as he realized what was coming. Bolard's smile only widened.
Asher slipped through the dimly lit streets of Menthil City, his heart still racing. The night was eerily quiet, save for the distant clatter of horses' hooves echoing off cobblestone streets, but he felt a sense of urgency pushing him forward. He had a mission, and it was far from over.
After leaving the ringleader of the security firm in the parlor of the office, he knew he had to act quickly. The last thing he wanted was to become a target for the very organization he had just dismantled—or worse, the force behind them, lurking in the shadows. He couldn't shake the feeling that they would not take his actions lightly.
As he navigated the winding alleys of the city, he employed his anti-tracking training, making frequent turns and circling blocks to ensure he wasn't followed. His extensive knowledge of the slums was invaluable, allowing him to weave through familiar streets like a ghost. Every shadow was his ally, every corner a potential refuge.
Once he felt he was sufficiently hidden, Asher ducked into a narrow alley and quickly changed his attire. He stripped off his dark clothing and mask, revealing a simple shirt and trousers that helped him blend into the commoners of Kensington. He didn't want to draw attention, especially not now.
After making sure he was undetected, he headed toward his old apartment in the slums. The streets were familiar but filled with haunting memories. The damp air clung to him, a reminder of the struggles he had endured in this place.
As he approached the building, he paused for a moment, scanning his surroundings. The worn facade of the apartment complex stood before him like a ghost from his past, memories of laughter and pain swirling in his mind. It had been some time since he last set foot here, but he had unfinished business to attend to.
Asher slipped inside through the back entrance, navigating the narrow hallways with ease. The peeling paint and flickering gas lamps were a reminder of the neglect that had overtaken this part of the city.
Asher closed the door to his old apartment behind him, the click echoing in the quiet room. He made his way to the small kitchen table, his heart racing with anticipation. He set his satchel down and unzipped it, revealing the spoils he had taken from the ringleader's safe.
He pulled out stacks of banknotes, their crisp edges barely touched by time, and a selection of glittering jewels that caught the dim light of the lamp. Next came the security firm's business records, brittle with age, detailing their shady dealings. Asher flipped through the pages, noting shipments and routes that painted a picture of corruption and despair. But it was what lay beneath these documents that held his attention.
Among the papers, he discovered a stack of letters, their envelopes marked with elegant handwriting. Asher's eyes narrowed as he read the name at the top: "Lotta Langry." The letters detailed communications between the ringleader and this mysterious woman, each word heavy with implications.
As he skimmed through the correspondence, a chilling reality began to unfold. The letters detailed human trafficking shipments, outlining how the ringleader was receiving Shadestalker potions and various mystical ingredients in exchange for his services. It became clear that he was sourcing his stock from the unfortunate dock workers, luring them in with promises of legitimate work, only to sell them off to the cult that Lotta Langry represented.
Asher's eyes narrowed as he flipped through the letters, each one meticulously dated. A chill ran down his spine as the timeline began to weave a sinister pattern.
"Not even a week after the red-haired woman owner of Jester's Guise left Urbs Stellarum," he muttered, recalling Jack's words about her involvement. "These correspondences with Lotta Langry began almost immediately. So, Lotta Langry, that's your name, is it?"