Chapter 249: Sword Festival (II)

They stayed through two full routines before Lyra’s hand found his wrist again.

“One more place!”

“You’ve said that four times.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You’ve said that too.”

She pulled anyway, and he helplessly smiled at her actions, not caring about being led by her at all.

And the place she led him to… was none other than the Magic Tower.

The Magic Tower sat at the northern part of the academy grounds, separate from the main festival crowd, connected to it by a covered walkway that had been lined with smaller lanterns for the occasion.

“I didn’t know the tower was open during the festival.”

“They open the observation floors every year,” Lyra mumbled, holding her cup still in her free hand.

“Most people don’t come because they’d rather stay near the food.”

The tower entrance was attended by a single academy staff member who stamped their wrists with a festival seal and waved them through without ceremony.

The interior was cool and dim, the walls embedded with inscription arrays that pulsed slowly in patterns that served no functional purpose tonight and existed purely as atmosphere.

The lift array carried them upward in silence.

Lyra watched the floors pass through the open lattice of the lift’s walls, her expression becoming increasingly quieter.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“You’re going to regardless.”

“True.” She turned to face him in the small space of the lift.

“What were you like before the academy?”

He looked at her.

“That’s vague.”

“On purpose… You can answer however you want.”

The lift continued upward.

Gray was quiet for a moment, not in the way of someone avoiding the question but in the way of someone actually looking for an honest answer to something they hadn’t been asked before.

’How was I like?’

That question brought him back some memories…

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As the heir of the D’Aurélion Family, he had grown up in quite an unethical city. However, at just eight years, he already roamed through the city’s lower streets alone.

He wore plain clothes, nothing that identified him, nothing with the family crest, and happily walked through the dark streets.

Until suddenly, a man appeared in front of him.

He was perhaps thirty-five, with a warm, creased face that suggested someone who laughed easily and meant it.

His clothes were neat without being expensive, the kind of presentation that communicated reliability rather than wealth.

He carried a paper bag from one of the market vendors, half open, the smell of fresh pastries drifting from it.

He crouched down to Gray’s level when he spoke.

“Hey there,” he said, with the easy warmth of someone who had done nothing wrong in his life and had the face to prove it.

“You look like you know this market pretty well.”

Gray had looked at him.

“A little,” he said.

“I’m trying to find the Verath Street entrance, but I keep going in circles.” The man laughed at himself in a self-deprecating manner.

“My daughter’s waiting for me, and I promised I wouldn’t be late again.” He held up the paper bag slightly.

“Got her favorites and everything. Just completely turned around.”

Gray had looked at the bag, then at the man’s face.

Then, at the mouth of the side street the man had gestured toward when he mentioned Verath Street, which Gray knew did not connect to Verath Street because he had run through every alley in this district since the age of six.

But still, he smiled lightly.

“I know where it is,” he uttered innocently

“I can show you.”

The man sighed in relief.

“Really? That would be wonderful.” He straightened, holding out the paper bag.

“Want one? There’s plenty.”

“Really?!” Gray happily took one of the pantries.

“This way,” he then spoke, and walked toward the alley.

And just then…

Two others peopled ahead, positioned at the alley’s midpoint, suddenly appeared. The warm men instantly walked towards them, revealing a dark smile.

The alley dead-ended twelve meters ahead.

Gray stopped walking and then took a bite of the pastry.

It was actually quite good.

“Smart kid,” the lean one said, from ahead.

His voice had dropped the conversational register entirely.

“Relax. We won’t do anything to you as long as you help us.”

“Your family has something we need access to, and you’re going to help us get it.”

“Leverage,” the warm-faced man said, from behind him, his voice now carrying the flat, businesslike quality of someone clocking in for a shift.

“That’s all. No one does anything permanent as long as the D’Aurélion house cooperates.”

“And if they don’t cooperate?” Gray asked.

The lean noble reached into his coat.

A knife came out.

Then a second from the broad one.

Then the warm-faced man behind him, and Gray heard the sound of a blade clearing a sheath at close range without needing to turn around.

“Then the heir of D’Aurélion has an accident in the eastern market,” the lean one said pleasantly.

“Tragic. These streets are dangerous.”

Gray looked at the knife.

He finished the pastry and crouched down, slowly and without hurry, as if tying a bootlace.

His hands went to his heels instead.

The two daggers he had kept there since the age of six came out together, one in each hand, small and plain.

He stood back up.

The three men looked at the eight-year-old heir of D’Aurélion standing in a dead-end alley holding two daggers with the happy expression he had worn since the market.

The warm-faced man behind him recovered first.

He lunged.

Fwip!

Gray spun low, inside the grab, the dagger in his right hand drawing a clean diagonal line across the man’s forearm as his own body rotated beneath the reaching hands.

The arm passed over him.

He felt the displaced air of it against his hair.

SPLATTER.

Blood hit the alley wall in an immediate dark sheet, black in the dim light, running down the stone in thin, branching lines.

“URGHKK!!”

The man made a sound and staggered back, his other hand pressing against the cut with the instinctive pressure of someone whose body had responded before his mind caught up to what had happened.

The broad one moved from the front, knife leading, a downward strike with his full weight behind it aimed at Gray’s shoulder.

Gray stepped into it. inside the knife’s effective range before the extension completed, where leverage disappeared, and force hadn’t yet built.

His left dagger caught the man’s wrist from below and redirected it outward. His right elbow drove upward into the underside of the man’s jaw.

CRACK!

The man’s teeth met.

His head snapped back, and his forward momentum carried the rest of him into the alley wall shoulder-first.

THUD!

He hit the ground, and the knife skittered across the stone away from his hand, spinning once before stopping.

SPLATTER!

A second line of blood joined the first on the wall from where his face had dragged against it on the way down.

The lean noble with the rings had not moved.

He was staring.

His knife was still in his hand, but his arm had not completed the decision to use it, suspended somewhere between the intention and the execution while his mind processed the fact that the eight-year-old in front of him had just put two grown men on the ground in under five seconds.

Gray looked at him.

“The crest on your collar,” he pointed out.

“House Verath. Third-tier affiliated family. Your current head of house signed a cooperation agreement with D’Aurélion six years ago.” He tilted his head slightly.

“My father still has that document.”

The man’s face had gone a color that didn’t have a clean name.

“You should know that I walk this market every week. I have since I was five. I know every alley, every exit, and every guard rotation in this district.” He looked at the knife in the man’s hand.

“I also know that House Verath has three properties inside the city walls that exist under D’Aurélion’s continued tolerance.”

The knife lowered.

Behind Gray, the warm-faced man was still applying pressure to his forearm, breathing in the controlled, effortful way of someone managing pain while trying to think.

Gray glanced back at him.

“The pastry was good… at least that.”

He cleaned both daggers on the broad man’s coat, returned them to his boots, and walked back toward the alley entrance.

At the mouth of the alley, he stopped once, without turning around.

“I won’t tell my father about House Verath’s involvement…”

“…yet.”

He stepped back into the market.

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The lift stopped.

Gray blinked once, returning.

Lyra was watching him patiently, awaiting his response. And to her expectation, Gray deeply sighed before replying to her.

“I might have been… a little too… crazy.”

“Crazy?” she tilted her head in curiosity.

“Mhm… indeed.”

“Like… crazy from insane, or crazy like… well, the type of kid that followed his intrusive thoughts?” she asked.

“…A bit from both.”

“Both?!”

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