Alex followed Joel, and the two vanished into the narrow alleys behind the square.
"Joel—run ahead and hide. I'll find you soon."
"What? Where are you going?" Joel asked, confused.
Then he saw him.
A figure stepping from the shadows of a nearby alley.
He ran faster.
"There's someone in this town," the man said, his voice cutting through the crowd like a blade, "who dares to kill sentries."
He looked directly at Alex.
"Maybe people have forgotten the consequences."
Alex's face was grim.
This man is strong…
The one approaching was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in black armor etched with crimson lines. A heavy axe rested lazily against his shoulder—but every step made the ground feel heavier.
The street went quiet.
Even the wind seemed to halt.
Whispers spread like wildfire:
"That's Varnes…"
"One of Thorne Valrick's Fangs…"
Alex didn't respond. His body tensed, muscles coiled.
I can't beat him—not yet.
"You've got guts. I'll give you that," Varnes said, voice like gravel dragged across iron. "But guts alone won't save you. Not after killing a sentry."
Alex didn't speak.
Varnes sighed—and dropped his axe.
The impact thudded like thunder.
"Let's see what you're made of."
He lunged.
Alex dodged the first swing—barely.
The force of the attack shattered stone, sent dust flying.
Even with Dash, Alex was a step too slow to counter.
His strength… it's unreal.
Alex retaliated—dashing in and aiming a palm strike at Varnes' ribs.
But the Fang caught his wrist mid-air.
SLAM.
Alex flew backward, crashing into a wooden stall. Splinters exploded in every direction.
Pain stabbed through his ribs. He coughed blood.
Level 22. That's what Varnes was.
But Alex didn't stay down.
He rose from the rubble, lips bleeding, breathing hard. His eyes narrowed—not with fear, but clarity.
So this is the gap... this is what levels mean.
Skill means nothing when power outclasses it.
He wasn't strong enough.
Not yet.
Varnes strode forward, each step radiating pressure.
"You're weak," he growled. "A Level 10 pulling this kind of stunt in our town? I should rip your eyes out just for the way you look at me."
He raised his axe.
"Enough, Varnes,"
A woman stepped from the shadows—tall, poised, wrapped in red leather armor that fit like a second skin.
Her presence silenced even the tension.
"We need to execute him publicly—and only with the Right Fang's permission."
Two Patrol Commanders, both Level 14, arrived with a squad of sentries, pushing through the crowd to surround Alex.
Varnes clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Lucky day, boy."
He turned with one final glare. The crowd parted before him.
Alex staggered slightly, clutching his side. Then—
He vanished.
Stealth.
Gasps rippled through the people.
"Did you see that?"
"He just disappeared!"
"That was two of the City Lord's Fangs…"
"Who the hell is that guy?"
"He won't get far. We'll be watching his execution in a few days—mark my words."
Varnes paused mid-step, glancing back.
"A good skill, that one," he muttered. "He escaped because of you, Martha. I would've killed him."
Martha's face remained calm. "Don't worry. He'll be caught sooner or later. We saw the boy he was with, didn't we?"
She turned slightly, watching the last trace of Alex vanish from sight.
"I stopped you because public execution makes a better example than a back-alley slaughter."
"Tch. Whatever," Varnes grunted and walked off.
They didn't realize it—
But this moment would be the only chance they ever had to kill Alex Liefield.
And they would carry that regret with them…
To their graves.