Chapter 4: Oops, Did I Do That?
Fun fact about mercenary groups: they really don't like it when you humiliate their members and steal their protection money. Who knew?
"Six men?" Young muttered, peeking through a crack in his hideout's wall at the Wolf Fang assassins surrounding the building. "Seriously? I'm worth at least eight."
The abandoned storage room he'd called home base for now wasn't much, but what it did have was three perfect features: multiple exits, good lines of sight, and enough structural damage to appear uninhabitable while actually proving surprisingly sturdy-perfect for a guy playing possum.
"Spread out," the leading assassin ordered the men. "That little shit is in there somewhere. Remember, it is to serve as a message from the boss."
Young rolled his eyes. "Of course he does." Everyone in this world was obsessed with sending messages. It was like they'd all attended the same "Dramatic Villain 101" seminar.
He did a quick gear check: borrowed sword-still shit, stolen daggers-slightly less shit, and the crowning glory of his arsenal was a bunch of thin tripwires he had spent his protection money on. Because if one is going to fight six killers, one might as well make it interesting.
The first assassin hit the wire at shin height and went down with a crash which would have been funny if it hadn't immediately alerted his friends. But that was okay – all part of the plan.
"What the—" The man didn't get to finish as Young's sword—enhanced with just enough mana to give it that signature blue glow—emerged from the shadows and opened his hamstring.
"Evening, gentlemen!" Young called out cheerfully, already moving to his next position. "Quick question-do you guys have a union? Because I feel like 'getting sent to kill the weak kid' should really be entry-level work."
A throwing knife whizzed past his head. Rude.
"You're dead, brat!" one of them yelled, which, really was the best they could do?
"Technically, I already died once this week," Young said, slipping between broken crates as they tried to pinpoint where he was. "Wasn't a fan. Zero out of ten, would not recommend."
Another assassin tripped a tripwire, this one at chest height. He caught himself, which was impressive right up until Young's boot introduced itself to his kidney. The man went down cursing, and Young borrowed his much nicer sword before disappearing back into the shadows.
Four left, and now they were truly angry.
"Since when can the weak brat fight?" one of them asked, his blade out as his eyes scanned the darkness.
"Since when can he use mana?" another added, because apparently these guys shared a single brain cell.
Young grinned, channeling mana through both swords now. The reflected glow of blue off of broken glass and debris made it impossible to tell where the light was actually emanating from. "Oh man, you guys are going to love this next part."
He'd been practicing the same one move, actually, over and over, for three days-the "Stumbling Star" form of the Drunken Sword Style. Which was just right for what he needed because it looked exactly like a guy who had no clue, right up until it didn't.
Young burst from cover, apparently tripping over his own feet. Two assassins immediately moved to cut him down, exactly as planned. He stumbled between them, swords moving in seemingly random patterns.
In three seconds, both were down, clutching various non-lethal but extremely painful wounds.
"What the fuck?" one of the remaining assassins breathed, taking an unconscious step back. "That's not. he's supposed to be."
"Weak?" Young suggested helpfully, letting more mana flow into his blades until they cast long shadows across the room. "Yeah, about that. Turns out your intel needs updating."
The last two exchanged a look that spoke volumes about their survival instincts. Unfortunately for them, Young had already maneuvered them precisely where he wanted them.
"Tell you what," he offered, swaying slightly in what looked like exhaustion but was actually the setup for his favorite combination. "Run away now, and I'll only slightly maim you. Counter-offer expires in three… two…"
They broke and ran, just as he'd hoped. Right into the last tripwire.
The fight that followed was short, brutal, and ended with six groaning assassins in various states of injury, none of them life-threatening but all of them extremely memorable.
Young panted hard, standing in the middle of his hideout and trying not to show just how exhausting channeling mana still was. The blue glow faded from his blades as he spoke to the defeated pair.
"All right, here's what is going to happen. One of you is going to go back with a message for your boss." He stopped momentarily to appreciate how the threat hung in the silence. "Actually, you are all going to go back because it really says more if there's several of them surviving instead of only one survivor, if that makes any sense. Besides, I'm actually not a murderer so, you know."
He knelt beside the apparent lead assassin, nursing a pretty savage cut across his chest. "Tell your boss the 'weak brat' appreciates the practice. Oh, and let him know that next time?" The edge of Young's grin just got sharper. "Next time, I want at least eight guys. You know, professional courtesy.
As he watched them limp away, Young allowed himself a moment to appreciate just how absolutely batshit this situation was. Here he was, some random martial arts nerd from Korea, successfully pulling off the "hidden badass" routine in a fantasy world's worst neighborhood.
"I should probably feel bad about this," he mused, gathering up his tripwire to reuse. "But honestly? This is way more fun than being some noble's pampered heir." Besides, he had more important things to worry about-like the fact that his mana control was improving way faster than should be possible, or the way his borrowed memories seemed to be integrating more smoothly with each fight.
"Wonder if the real Muriel was actually a genius who just never had the chance to learn properly," he muttered, gathering his meager belongings.
Time for a new hideout-this one was definitely compromised. Young whistled a jaunty tune as he slipped into the night, the last remnants of blue light from the abandoned storage room fading away.
Things were going along real nice. Now he just had to survive long enough to figure out what in tarnation was going on in the city. And maybe work on his one-liners. They were getting better, but still not quite at the level of badassery he was aiming for.
Baby steps.