Chapter Nine: Clumsy Escape Skills

"I have a vague feeling," Little Spoon said as they walked along the pipeline. She and Albatross had decided to head to Ula Town to take a look. "Could it be that you let him go on purpose?"

Albatross, still carrying a pig over his shoulder, gave a soft chuckle. "Distrusting your teammate during a mission can be fatal. Still, since it's your first mission, I won't say much more."

"I know that," Little Spoon replied, "but something still feels off. Even if I lack experience, you're a four-star assassin who’s hunted far craftier prey. How could a mere bard slip away from you?"

"You have to remember, it was you who revealed yourself prematurely, not me," Albatross replied. "If I were you, I wouldn't have let him out of my sight so easily, not even for a conversation. But you took the mission, so I kept quiet."

"But he said he was just going to wash his hands. I couldn’t very well follow him, could I?"

"Moments like those—washing hands or going to the toilet—are when people let their guard down. That's actually the best time for an assassination."

Little Spoon had nothing to say, only flinging her clothes in frustration.

"Your outfit is far too clean," Albatross noted, lifting his foot, "it's a muddy day, and I even made sure to dirty my shoes. You revealed your strength too soon, and your reading in the tavern was much too deliberate. As an assassin, you still have a long way to go."

"Fine, but I still feel like you’re misleading me," Little Spoon said. "You gave me the mission, but then followed me all the same. Why not just kill him yourself? Or… could it be you’ve taken a liking to me and wanted an excuse to work together?"

Albatross didn’t reply. Instead, he tossed the pig he’d been carrying at her. Little Spoon caught it and set it on the ground, whereupon the pig gave an awkward squeal.

"I’m heading back. You can borrow the pig," Albatross said, hands in his pockets as he walked away. "I’ll wait for your news in Sam's Mountain Village."

Truth be told, the reason Albatross had sought Little Spoon for the mission was precisely because he didn’t want Kevin dead. If anyone in the Assassin’s Guild could defy the Guildmaster, it was probably his daughter. Still, to say that Albatross let Kevin escape on purpose would be a grave injustice. He may have had the thought, but he certainly hadn’t acted on it.

Among assassins, some things are better left unsaid, and showing your true intentions is not wise. So after some thought, he simply threw her the pig and let her make her own decisions.

Little Spoon was annoyed by Albatross’s attitude, as if he believed she couldn’t manage without him. Young and prideful, she refused to accept that. She hoisted the pig from the ground. "Still got the scent? Show the way!"

But the pig hung limp, its front legs dangling lifelessly. Perplexed, Little Spoon wondered if she was carrying it the wrong way. She shifted it to her left shoulder and shook it. "Hey! Lead the way!"

No reaction. Little Spoon set the pig down, not because it was too heavy, but because its musky smell was unpleasant.

"Hey!" she said, pinching its snout. "What’s your problem? Looking down on me?"

The pig only opened its mouth, unmoving.

She pinched its mouth shut as well, and after a moment, the plump, white pig finally grew agitated, thrashing its head wildly. Seizing the opportunity, Little Spoon threatened, "Show me the way, understood?"

The pig nodded almost imperceptibly, so she let go. Instantly, it flopped back down, as if lying motionless was its greatest pleasure.

"You…" Little Spoon pinched its nose and mouth again. The pig thrashed, and as soon as she let go, it collapsed again. After several repetitions, the pig remained listless, and she was left with nothing but a handful of pig drool.

"Sigh!" She wiped her hands on some grass by the roadside. "Fine, go on then! Get back to your master!"

In an instant, the pig's eyes lit up. With a grunt, it sprang to its feet and darted off. Little Spoon fumed, her teeth on edge, but since it was someone else's pet, she couldn’t take her anger out on it.

At the gate of Ula Town, several carriages finally arrived. They belonged to local farm owners who had been sent to collect kitchen scraps. The town was used to this routine—every other night, the taverns and inns would leave their slop buckets outside the walls, along with other trash for the collectors to deal with. Normally, the wagons would come early in the morning, but today’s rain had delayed them.

The town guards approached to negotiate, and two beastkin slaves climbed down from the wagons. They were hulking brutes with upturned tusks and greenish skin, their muscular torsos crisscrossed with lash marks, wearing only tattered trousers and walking barefoot. If they stood upright, they’d be half a head taller than most humans, but the law required them to keep their heads bowed, never exceeding a human's height.

Most beastkin living among humans were slaves, long since tamed, their bestial instincts replaced by obedience. There were various tribes among them, but all shared brute strength, making them ideal for hard labor. One beastkin could do the work of three humans—though he ate enough for three as well.

Following procedure, the two paid their dues, left behind two empty barrels, and loaded the slop buckets onto the wagon. The slop seemed fuller than usual, but they didn’t ask questions. Once the buckets were loaded, they departed in silence, and the guards returned to their posts. The town remained peaceful as ever.

Shortly after, Little Spoon arrived alone and asked the guards again if they’d seen a bard pass through. The answer was still no. With no other options, she decided to stay in town for now; her clothes were soaked from the rain and needed changing.

By evening, the slop wagons reached the great city of Stanbins. Here, the security was far stricter. The beastkin were required to get down for inspection and present their passes. Though this was deep in the heart of Laubor, far from any hostile borders, internal disputes among nobles often erupted into skirmishes, and the lords formed shifting alliances. The main city, therefore, kept a close watch—even the slop buckets were poked with sticks during inspection.

Suddenly, with a splash, a man sprang up from inside one of the barrels, flinging vegetable scraps and broth everywhere. Everyone at the gate was startled; the guards drew their swords at once. "Who are you?"

"A bard!" he replied, his eyes squeezed shut, soup stinging them as he frantically wiped his face.

"Hiding in a slop bucket? Why?"

"For inspiration," he said, finally clearing his eyes enough to see. "I needed to experience what it’s like to hide from assassins in a slop bucket for my new novel’s protagonist."

The guards exchanged bewildered glances. But since he wasn’t a fugitive or a suspicious character, there was no reason to bar him entry. One of the captains recognized him. "Kevin?"

"That's me," Kevin replied with a sheepish grin as he climbed out of the bucket, reeking so badly the guards instinctively stepped back.

"Life’s tough for a bard, it seems," the captain remarked, still hardly believing his eyes. But since Kevin was a familiar face—he’d played in many a tavern here—entry was granted.

But Kevin shook his head. "I won’t go in; I’ll wander outside the city," he said, already walking away, leaving the guards and townsfolk murmuring.

To truly escape the assassins, he’d need to disappear to a place where no one knew him and start over, or find a haven, or else confront the Assassin’s Guild head-on. The third option was the stuff of legends and fools. The first was nearly impossible. Kevin decided to seek sanctuary instead, but too many people in Stanbins recognized him, and his soupy attire made him stand out. He’d hoped to stay hidden until he reached a farm, but the city guards were too thorough.

If the assassins had quick information, they might already know he was here. And the city’s teleporters had strict dress codes—no disheveled folk allowed. He’d need a bath first, but who would let a man drenched in kitchen soup into their home? He’d have to manage outside the city.

He also hadn’t eaten since the previous night and was starving. Foraging for wild food would have to do.

Night was falling. Normally, hunting after dark was inadvisable, but there were no dangerous beasts in these woods. The region was home to the rare black-feathered fowl, a delicacy that only emerged at night. Many villagers hunted them in the dark, but the birds were so wary that torches would send them fleeing. Most villagers searched blindly, and luck was a big factor.

Selling a black-feathered fowl to the inn fetched three silver coins—a tidy sum for a farmer. Kevin doubted he’d be so lucky; he was only after some wild fruit or mushrooms to stave off hunger.

He needed no torch. Scavenging in the damp shadows, he soon gathered a pile of mushrooms, then washed them in a stream. Finding dry firewood was harder after the rain. Kevin peeled the wet bark from some branches with his knife and scraped up tinder to build a fire near the stream.

He’d tried making fire by friction before—an exhausting process. Luckily, he possessed a magical firestone, a castoff from a mage’s staff core that could conjure a flame for years. With it, the fire was blazing in no time. He set the wet wood nearby to dry, confident it would be enough to cook his mushrooms. Now all he needed was a bowl.

But for a mage, that wasn’t a problem. Kevin conjured a magical shield with his left hand, expanded the concave surface, scooped water from the stream, and set it over the flames.

Magic was cast through spells, diagrams, or other means. Before reaching the seventh rank, spells were fixed—one incantation for one effect. Only seventh-rank mages who truly understood the essence of magic could vary their spells. A magic shield always appeared arched at the caster’s side, large enough to cover half a body at most, never smaller than the caster’s hand. With practice, you could cast it silently, but the effect was always the same unless you advanced beyond the basics. High-level mages were rumored to shape shields into statues or anything their imagination could conjure.

But the shield’s power barely increased with skill; even archmages couldn't change that. Of course, they could conjure hundreds at once, overwhelming an enemy by sheer numbers.

Kevin was only a first-rank mage, commonly known as an apprentice. He’d studied magic for twenty years, but his body simply couldn’t channel elemental power. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t cast a single second-level spell. This condition was common—sixty percent of mages on the continent faced the same limitation, forever stuck with magic missiles and shields.

This was a large part of why Kevin became a bard—realizing he’d never be a great mage, he settled for another path.

Even so, a first-level mage could still manage useful tricks. Kevin could reshape his shield into a bowl with ease. Though he couldn’t channel elements well, he could sense them, letting the fire below pass through the magic shield and cook his mushrooms more efficiently than any iron pot.

His years of mental training meant he could keep the shield up without fatigue. Still, a good pot wouldn’t help the taste—plain boiled mushrooms, not even a pinch of salt. But hunger didn’t allow him to be picky.

Soon, the water was boiling. Kevin held the shield in his left hand, fed mushrooms in with his right, and kept the fire going, busy as could be. Suddenly, a farmer emerged from the woods, curious about Kevin’s doings. The man was shocked, kicking the shield so hard it shattered, sending soup and mushrooms flying.

"Poisonous!" the farmer shouted.

Kevin could only stare in dismay. (After ten years of wandering, would I not know which mushrooms are poisonous?)

"Gods, you smell awful," the farmer said, pinching his nose. "I’m out of here."

Kevin was left speechless.