The small figure froze as if Kaisel's grip had turned his bones to stone. A thin, dirt-streaked face stared up at him—wide eyes set in hollows, messy hair sticking out in uneven clumps, lips cracked from cold and hunger. His clothes were nothing more than scraps stitched together with mismatched threads, barely clinging to his shivering frame.
"I–I wasn't stealing!" the child blurted. His voice wavered between fear and the last fragments of defiance. "I was just… just checking—my hand slipped—"
Kaisel blinked, momentarily caught off guard. A pickpocket—yes. But a child? Barely seven or eight?
He released the boy's wrist slowly. The moment the pressure eased, the child tensed as if preparing to flee into the nearest alley.
Kaisel spoke before he could bolt.
"Stop."
The single word rooted the boy in place. Not out of obedience—out of fear. Children like him didn't run from danger; they learned to freeze and hope it passed them by.
He expected a beating. His shoulders curled inward, arms lifting as if to shield his head from an incoming blow. He'd clearly done this before.
Kaisel raised a hand, and the child flinched so sharply it was painful to watch.
But instead of striking, Kaisel extended his palm.
Two silver coins rested on it, glinting softly in the morning light.
The boy stared as if the coins were a trick—poisoned bait, or a cruel test. His eyes shifted between the money and Kaisel's expression, searching for malice or mockery.
"Take it," Kaisel said quietly. "And don't steal from others again."
The child's breath caught. Hesitantly, trembling, he reached out—hands dirty, fingers thin as twigs—and gently lifted the coins from Kaisel's palm, as though afraid they might disappear if he touched them too quickly.
His voice came out small, barely a whisper.
"…T-thank you…"
Then he ran away without looking back, Kaisel watched as the boy vanished from his sight.
He sighed and muttered to himself, that child was the same age as Anton. There was faint sadness in his tone.
Kaisel turned to walk towards his destination.
.....
Kaisel stepped through the wooden doors and found himself in a spacious hall humming with activity. Clerks in dark vests moved briskly between desks, arms full of documents and ink-stained files. The sharp rhythm of typewriters filled the room, punctuated by the occasional thud of a stamped seal. Along the walls, large billboards were crowded with parchment notices—requests, escorts, monster subjugations, bounties, and odd jobs posted in messy clusters.
This was the Mercenaries' Guild—the place where wanderers forged temporary reputations, where lives were traded for coin, and where chaos was kept in some semblance of order.
Mercenaries were broadly divided into three types:
Adventurers, drawn by treasure hunts, forgotten ruins, and the promise of hidden riches.
Bounty Hunters, who chased criminals, beasts, and anything with a price on its head.
And Escorts, the most common—tasked with guarding caravans, merchants, and travelers journeying across the continent.
Kaisel walked toward the front counter. Behind it sat a middle-aged man in a dark vest,hair combed neatly back and face shaped by years of monotony and mild irritation.
The man straightened, putting on a practiced professional smile.
"Welcome. Are you here to take a request?"
"No," Kaisel replied. "I want to register as a mercenary."
The man's smile shifted into something more neutral, but still polite enough to pass for professionalism.
"Of course. I'll need your name and place of origin. Also—are you a mage or—?"
"I'm not a mage."
Kaisel kept his tone steady. Revealing his magic was out of the question. His darkness attribute was too recognizable, too tied to the Ravengard lineage. And space attribute magic—one of the rarest affinities known—would draw far too many eyes. A mercenary with such an attribute would be interrogated by nobles and guilds.
Better to keep that particular truth buried.
"Oh? Very well," the man said, adjusting his glasses. "Then please state your name."
"Mark," Kaisel answered smoothly. "I'm from the north. A village near the Black Stone Peak."
The clerk paused as if confirming the geography in his mind.
"Black Stone Peak… that's quite far from here. You must've traveled for several days."
Kaisel simply nodded.
"Well then," the clerk said as he reached for a metal plate and began stamping forms, "your identification plate will take some time to prepare. Please wait a moment."
Kaisel nodded.
...
Kaisel stepped out of the Mercenaries' Guild with a faint exhale. The entire process had taken longer than expected, and by the time he received his identification plate, the sun was already hanging high in the sky. Noon light spilled across the streets, warm and bright.
He turned the plate over in his hand as he walked. It was a rectangular badge of polished copper, the edges smoothed and the engravings sharp. A sword-and-shield insignia occupied the top half—the emblem of the Mercenaries' Guild—while his registered name, Mark, was carved beneath it in clean strokes of Varnel, the continent's common script.
It was a simple object, yet indispensable—an essential credential when traveling across the continent, and one of the few items that could reliably prove a person's identity.
Along with the badge, Kaisel had also been issued a identification card, a folded parchment sealed with the guild's mark. It listed his name, claimed place of origin, age, and a few other details. Most villagers lacked formal documents, so the middle-aged clerk had prepared one for him without question.
There had been verification as well: minor checks using the guild's magic tools to detect disguises or illusions. But Kaisel's transformation wasn't a simple spell—it didn't register as false, and the magical instruments passed over him without reaction. Even so, a thin thread of tension coiled in his chest; he had no idea whether the power of Envy could be detected or not, he didn't know—but fortunately, it wasn't.
All of this had stretched the process far longer than he expected.
His stomach growled.
Kaisel pressed a hand to it with a sigh. He had skipped breakfast to reach the guild early, and the hours of waiting had only sharpened his hunger.
He began weaving through the bustling street, eyes casually searching for a tavern. The aroma of roasted meat wafting from food stalls only made things worse.
Just as he passed the mouth of a narrow alley
–A figure brushed past him in a blur. Light footsteps, practiced speed, a faint shift of weight—gone in an instant.
Kaisel's eyes twitched.
Again!?.
This was the second attempt today.
Except this time, the thief wasn't a child fumbling with fear. No—this one was quick. Precise. Experienced.
His hand shot to his hip.
The pouch was gone.
Kaisel turned sharply just in time to see a dark silhouette slip around the corner of the alley and vanish into its depths.
His expression flattened, a small sigh escaping his lips.
"…Really?"
The thief was already out of sight, swallowed by the winding passages of Lowden's backstreets.
...
In a narrow alleyway, a figure in a hooded cloak pressed himself against a wall, peeking around the corner with quick, cautious glances.
"Looks like I lost that guy… hehe."
He shook the small pouch in his hand; the clinking of coins brought a grin to his face. When he loosened the drawstring and peeked inside, the glint of silver coins greeted him. Satisfaction flashed in his eyes.
Pulling back his hood, he revealed the face of a tall boy—blonde hair, sharp brown eyes, no older than thirteen or fourteen.
He slipped through several cramped shortcuts between the alleys, moving with the practiced ease of someone used to running from trouble. Soon, he approached a merchant stall and exchanged a portion of the stolen silver for food—mostly bread and simple supplies.
Merlin and Lucy will be happy to see this… he thought, hugging the items close.
Still wary, he made his way toward the line of caravans waiting on the far side of the street. There were few people around, only the caravan workers loading crates. The boy kept his grip tight on the bag as he walked.
Then—
"Give me my money back."
The boy froze. A shiver crawled down his spine. Slowly, he turned around, sweat forming on his brow.
Behind him stood a tall man with handsome features—brown hair, calm brown eyes, and a black cloak.
Kaisel, disguised as Mark.
The boy tried to remain composed. He had been wearing a cloak when he stole the pouch; there was no way this man could have recognized him… or so he thought.
But ever since Gluttony devoured that Dire Wolf, Kaisel's senses had sharpened beyond human. The boy's faint scent was enough. When the thief sprinted past him earlier, Kaisel picked it up instantly—and with his enhanced speed, tracking him was child's play.
"Wha– What are you talking about, huh?" the boy stammered. "What money? I don't even know you…"
Kaisel's voice held no irritation, no emotion—only cold certainty.
"I'm talking about the money in that pouch."
He pointed directly at the bag hanging at the boy's hip.
Panic flickered in the boy's eyes. With no other option, he snatched a small dagger from within his cloak and swung wildly.
Kaisel stepped aside effortlessly. A sigh escaped him as he kicked the boy's leg, disrupting his balance. The boy crashed to the ground, the food scattering across the dirt.
He scrambled up, breathing hard, eyes brimming with frustrated tears and rage.
Before either of them could move again, a voice roared from behind—
"What the hell is going on here!?"
To be continued.