The exhilaration of the fight faded the moment Vane crossed the threshold of the mansion's east wing.
The air here did not smell of mud or ozone. It smelled of lavender, boiled cabbage, and the sickly sweet cloying scent of a body that was slowly giving up on the concept of living.
Vane stopped at a heavy oak door. He took a breath, adjusted his leather jacket to hide the blood spatters from the morning's work, and pushed it open.
The room was dim. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the grey morning light. In the center of the room, seated in a wheelchair that faced the window, was a woman who looked less like a human and more like a collection of sharp angles wrapped in parchment.
"You're late," a voice rasped. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone.
"I got held up, Mom," Vane said softly. He walked to the bedside table where a collection of expensive glass vials caught the candlelight. "Just settling some accounts."
"Bullying, you mean," Helena corrected. She did not turn around. She kept watching the street below. "I could hear the shouting from here. You were playing the big man in the dirt again."
Vane did not argue. He picked up a spoon and a bowl of broth he had left earlier. He tapped the bowl with a finger.
[Skill Activated: Thermal Equilibrium (Grade F)]
He poured a tiny amount of mana into the soup, warming it to the exact temperature of a human mouth. It was a domestic use for a skill he had copied from a baker's daughter, but Vane did not care about the mana cost.
"Just eat," he said, holding the spoon near her shoulder.
Helena turned her head. She was beautiful once, in the way a ruin is beautiful. You could see the structure of what had been there before the world had taken a hammer to it. Her eyes were the same shade of grey as Vane's, but where his were predatory, hers were tired. Infinitely, exhaustingly tired.
"I don't want your stolen soup, Vane."
"It's chicken," Vane said patiently. "Geryon's wife made it this morning. It's actually clean for once."
"You're throwing your life away," she wheezed, a cough rattling her thin frame. She looked at his nose where a faint trace of dried blood remained from the morning's copy. "You did it again. You keep taking pieces of other people, Vane. Eventually, there isn't going to be anything left of you."
Vane lowered the spoon. The irritation flared, hot and familiar.
"The magic keeps the food warm," he said. "And the money keeps you breathing. That's just how this works."
"It's a trap," she hissed. "You're eighteen. You're smarter than anyone I've ever met, and you're wasting it shaking down shopkeepers for copper in a swamp."
"I'm the one in charge here," Vane countered, his voice hardening. "I'm Rank 3. Do you know what that means? It means I'm at the top. No one in this town can even look at me sideways."
"And that," she whispered, "is the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."
Vane froze. The spoon trembled slightly in his hand.
"You think you're a giant," Helena said, her voice gaining a sudden, sharp strength. "But you're just a big fish in a tiny, disgusting pond. You've convinced yourself this little circle of sky is the whole world."
"We're safe here," Vane snapped. He set the bowl down with a clatter. "I built this. I pay the guards. I keep the peace. That should be enough for you."
"You don't own anything!" she coughed violently, spots of red appearing on her lips. "You're just waiting for a boot to come down. You think being the toughest rat in the gutter matters? The hawk is still going to eat you."
"There aren't any hawks here," Vane said. "Just scavengers, and I already dealt with them."
Helena looked at him. Her expression was not angry anymore. It was grieving.
"I know you still have that letter," she said. It was not a question. "You could go to the coast. You could be somewhere that actually matters. But you're hiding in this mud because you're scared that if you leave, you'll just be a nobody again."
Vane stood up, turning his back to her. He walked to the window and looked out at the grey sky.
'She does not understand,' he thought. 'She sees a cage. I see a fortress. I am Rank 3. I have forty-three skills. I am not a minnow.'
He opened his mouth to tell her that he was not leaving, that Oakhaven was enough. That he was the big fish and he would never be anything else.
And then, the air changed.
It was not a gradual shift. It was instantaneous. The sounds of Oakhaven, the shouting merchants, the barking dogs, the squelching boots, were severed. A silence fell over the mansion so heavy it felt like physical pressure.
Vane froze. The hairs on his arms stood on end. His mana sensed it before his eyes did.
A density.
A presence massive enough to distort the atmosphere.
"Vane?" Helena called out from the bed, her voice trembling. "What's happening? Why does the air feel like that?"
Vane did not answer. He stared down into the courtyard.
The iron gates were gone. They had not been blown open. They had been melted. Puddles of glowing slag hissed in the mud.
Walking through the breach was a single figure.
He wore full plate armor of white steel, polished to a moral high ground that seemed to repel the filth of the town. A white cloak drifted behind him, unstained. He did not walk with the swagger of a bandit or the caution of a soldier. He walked with the terrifying indifference of a glacier.
Vane's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He tapped his temple.
[Target Analysis]
Name: Gareth
Rank: 4 (Sentinel)
Danger: Fatal
Authority: None
Rank 4.
Vane stopped breathing.
The gap between Rank 2 and Rank 3 was a wall. The gap between Rank 3 and Rank 4 was a canyon. A Sentinel had condensed their mana into a liquid state within their core. They did not just cast spells; they exuded power.
The Knight stopped in the center of the courtyard. He looked up at the window. The T-visor of his helmet revealed nothing, but Vane felt the gaze like a physical touch.
'The boot,' Vane thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. 'The hawk.'
Vane gripped his daggers. His knuckles turned white.
"Stay in bed, Mom. Don't move."
Vane vaulted over the windowsill, activating [Featherfall (Grade F)]. He landed softly in the mud, ten meters from the Knight.
He was the King of Oakhaven. He was Rank 3. He had forty-three skills.
He prayed it was enough.