How did one enter a whores house? One didn’t. It was too rude. Not only were you calling them a whore, but you were going to break and enter? Nay, you entered a brothel.

  That fact did not help me one bit, mostly because it wasn’t a [Prostitute] I was looking for; it was the suspicious hooded figures that were in the brothel with them that I was interested in, but it was important to not scare the poor women in here in the process… At least to me, because, unlike the average person, I was warming up to the idea of throwing under the cart; they had more in common with me than the masses.

  It would also probably pay me well not to kick up a shit storm in a place Anna would tan my hide for visitation alone. That would get people talking.

  So first was first, I didn’t walk in the front door. I wasn’t here for libations; I was here for three dweebs interested in the desecration of mortal remains, and they went in the back door.

  I did so easily, the door not locked or bared, but heavy, leaving its unwell wood hinges simple to open with a noise so terrible it could wake the dead and have them complaining in one fell swoop.

  That led me into an unadorned back hall of the building, one wide enough to move goods like a bed through without scraping the plaster clean from the wood. The floor was patched flat stones, slightly moist.

  I closed the door carefully… And then I just closed the door when it started making a terrible racket, and I just wanted it over with because it made my poor ears want to detach and walk off into the rain.

  Once past the ear destroyer, I was in, and so I did my best to figure out what the hell was going on here.

  I checked one way, managing to walk softly enough to not stir the women cooking in a side room as they watched over their cauldrons, the vessels held above the fire on a stationary rack, fumes pulled up the chimney.

  There were three of them, but not the three I was looking for, and while I could bother them, I would probably just scare them, so I let them be. I had a feeling that the room didn’t lead anywhere.

  Instead, I continued down the hallway and found a bunch of supply rooms, broom closets, and, in one case, just an empty room with nothing inside, not even dust. The remaining room was quiet.

  I opened the door a crack and found a wide room, though not the front room. Two lines of benches lined the two tables, the fireplace to one side cast long shadows, its flame low and barely keeping the chill from the damp I brought in with me. It was a boxy room, the walls only show two possible doorways, two on the other side, each one recessed slightly.

  If this was a brothel and not a very racy tavern, this would be where the girls that lived here came to eat… Though it was quite the size, given that it would only have so many women in here at one time.

  Pushing in sneaky as could be I let the door open, only for it to thump into something that let out a tiny “oomph.”

  Confused by this, I carefully stuck my head into the room slowly, the hood still over my head, rain dripping off and onto the wood floor in the room.

  There was, sitting on the floor, a young man curled up against the wall, roused from his sleep, holding a bowl against himself.

  I turned and looked in the other direction, not finding any hooded people, but far more children, each with their own bowl, their tuckered out forms and slightly bedraggled experience, indicating that these were children of the street.

  Dozens of them are all human, most young girls, but some young boys. I could imagine why there were so many here, given what had happened.

  There hadn’t been many street kids two days ago.

  “What the hell?” I murmured before the now awoken child of the street made a noise, and I turned back to him. “Hey kid, have you seen the [Cultist] guys? Spooky cloaks? One really big guy?” I asked him.

  “Huh? Uh- M. Mm- M-” He stuttered and began shuffling back and away towards a handful of other street kids.

  I tried to calm him down, but my “wait, wait, calm down” did not register with the street child. I pushed my way into the room, attempting to clap a hand over his mouth to stop the inevitable shout of alarm, and managed to barge my way in now that he had moved, but I was too late.

  “MONSTER! Mon-” He shouted, his lungs letting out a crisp shout.

  That probably should have been expected. My look didn’t exactly sell peace and tranquillity. Neither did the shouting to the other street kids, who all roused quickly and began to panic.

  They came alive like a singular entity freaking out purely due to the others freaking out, like a swarm of insects when their hives got attacked. A ripple crossing over their sleeping forms.

  “Damn it, kid,” I sighed.

  “Do- Don- Don’t,” he stuttered, pressing back into the girl behind him, hands going back to shield her.

  I sighed, but the sound of him continuing to panic had the kids moving. He had both woken the crowd, and the horde began to react as all hordes did.

  It moved.

  Loudly.

  The confused noises of dropping objects and skittering feet on floorboards were loud enough and sudden enough to bring attention in the form of a few distant footsteps and the opening of another incredibly pained side door.

  It squealed like a dying animal, drawing my eye to it, revealing a great big hooded figure diagonally across the room from me. I stared at him, his massive form and black cloak obscuring his features, and he, in turn, took in my form. I could imagine what I must look like to him, my cloaked form dripping its last on the floor, hood obscuring all but my glowing eyes, my form in front of a cowering child, a great big polearm of some kind next to where he had been sleeping soundly moments ago.

  I could only see this going one way, regardless of his theorized class. That could have been vocal if we were in a position to do so. If I had walked in the front door instead of trying to track them down. It still could technically, but it wouldn’t be. Instead, it would be physical. If we had time to start talking, we might have, but when two people with weapons were in range of one another, it generally didn’t. Not with Humans, anyway; I had learned that the hard way once, and this was all too similar.

  Because he had a crossbow in one meaty hand, and I wasn’t going to try talking when he could shoot me with two tables between us.

  I rotated, my cooling muscles warming as I turned and pushed off, spade rotating blade down to avoid catching on the kid as I moved to the table in three steps, up on the bench in one, and then onto one of the tables in one, head coming close enough to the lowest beam that I felt the need to duck down slightly, legs first then with a hunch of my shoulders.

  He acted, crossbow drawn and loaded, not expecting someone to rush him; he raised and fired the crossbow with one hand, the bolt thudding into the wall where I had been standing about five and a half feet up.

  He also let out a shout of alarm and reached down into his cloak to reveal a simple bludgeon with a metal cap.

  As he moved to free it, I hopped across the aisle, foot thudding down on the next table somewhat precariously until my momentum carried me forward, and my weight fell on my right foot, tripping up my steps. As I did, I at least had the thought of bringing up the blade of my spade and readying my first strike. It would be better not to spill blood, better to knock him out than to have him go into the ground, too. I would rather see justice done than get blood on my hands; That wasn’t my way. Gremlins and Monsters were one thing, but as best as I could tell, he wasn’t; he lacked the supernatural wrongness of the Beast, even if they were kin when it came to stature. Ge hadn’t necessarily done anything truly wrong; a little theft and a bit of negligence with his crossbow wasn’t enough for me.

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  So I wound my hands into position to disarm him, smash the flat into his upper arm, give him some shakes and stop him from holding his melee.

  Then I would [Rapid Action], smashing his shin to get him to drop to one knee. With him down, I could quickly and safely knock him out before the rest of his buddies could help.

  I crossed one step of the table, planted my feet, and swung as my boots slid, [Woodsman’s Stride] helping me ensure enough footing to make my spade impact correctly as the spade whipped through the air.

  It connected as the figure hastily shouted, “[Parry]!” the spade rebounding off the dense and inflexible wood of the bludgeon, the only sign that they had felt anything was a flinch as some of the power of the strike managed to rattle down into his arm.

  Worse yet, the [Parry] halted [Rapid Action]. It had stopped the first action from ‘going off,’ meaning I couldn’t repeat it.

  The action was a net neutral. I failed to hit, but the big man had hurt himself and failed to follow up while I was open.

  I cursed not having a single dedicated fighting class and vowed at that moment I would get one as soon as possible… Right after, I got one that let me talk like I was under Gunther's skills all the time.

  My reeling strike strained my arms, the force rattling down bone deep as it travelled up my arms in a tide of discomfort.

  This was not going the way I had envisioned it, but it was useful knowledge, even if it was useless.

  It was useful because now I knew they were trained fighters.

  It didn’t help because now I was wide open, and a second figure was coming out of the room, and they had a sword and a crossbow, though the crossbow was stowed under their cloak, the only sign that it was even there was the bolts showing on their thigh.

  Twice the enemies, twice the problems; they probably all had fighting classes. Luckily, I had a few other tricks.

  Namely, magic.

  I let my auras slip out from me a few feet. Not enough to reach the kids, but enough to blanket the area in my [Aura of Death] and [Aura of Decay]. The big guy was hurt, and so as I recovered, I went for his undefended side.

  If he reached across himself to block me, he would hurt himself, and regardless, whatever wound he had would become worse as his body began to decay. With him inside both auras, his life mana would decay rapidly, his life mana would be pressured into becoming death mana, and so every wound would hurt all that much more.

  My auras would force the big man to fight against a timer. The weaker he got, the easier he would be to fight. Even with that bonus, three would be a bit much; one and a half was more than I could fight.

  I let [True Strike] guide my next blow. I needed to get the momentum, so I went for weak points. It had been less than useful so far, but this time, it gave me the right leg, so I tried it out. Aiming down to his right leg, I let out a quick “[Felling Blow].”

  Luckily, the big man, driven by the impending blow of my skill, good name that one, went to block my strike and flinched, it was ‘weak’ because he couldn’t protect the leg.

  Audibly gasping as he tried to move further than his wounded arm would allow him, leaving my strike to snake down and smash him in the calf, his leg buckling from the strike.

  His club came up, a weak strike from the look, though one that was beneath my guard. It came in with the slow of a tree falling, shifting down from my lower chest to catch me across the gut.

  I stumbled back on the table, the force doing more to move me than hurt me as it shoved me back far enough that my back foot slipped, my wet boots unable to grip the table well enough, even with a bit of skill help.

  It wasn’t like I had [Sure Footed] or anything. It was if anything, surprising that it was able to keep me grounded on my large opening swing.

  While I swung back, managing to catch myself and step down from the perilous bench, the [Swordsman] came at me. He had to go around the bench and the large cussing man with the club who was holding his shin like the sorest kickball looser in history.

  Well… Maybe not like that at all.

  “Maybe the fact that that was the first thing that came to mind is less than great,” I thought to myself.

  The land gurgled at me, though there was some aspect of a giggle in it. “Play.”

  “I kicked someone one time,” I thought to it. “It’s not funny!”

  The land ribbing me almost made me miss the swordsman, his footwork far faster than I could have hoped for. He… Or rather, she, planted her foot and took a stance as she spoke, “[Quick Thrust],” her words even-tempered, as her blade flicked out in a thrust so quickly the animal in me screeched so loud I let out a shout of my own, arms reaching out like I was going to hug her in shock leaving me completely open, spade out like a dolt.

  I ducked as the blade slipped forward, my lack of composure, stance, the fox riding in the side seat in my head, and the ribbing from my oldest companion messing with my composure. It slipped into my hood and just between my ears, the flat of the blade giving my short hair an even shorter trim, the blade nicking my ears before catching the back of my hood.

  I could feel my neck curl as it pressed into my back. The woman was too close for me to swing or push her with the haft, but I could catch her, and that was just what I would do. I reached behind her, finagling the spade’s long half around and into my hand in the most awkward movement of my wrist I had ever done, and I pulled her in, the blade pulling my hood free as I threw myself into her and the two of us crashed to the floor.

  Her arm cocked to the side, the blade pulling free from my cloak and nearly cutting my ear off. Instead, it just started bleeding like mad. A pain, but not one that stopped me. Instead, it just got me annoyed.

  Almost as much as when she instinctively headbutted me, her head slamming straight into my sensitive little nose with a sickening snap.

  My head rocked back as I blinked and looked back down at them, thrashing on the ground. Cocking my head to the side, I spit before turning back to the figure and punched. No skills, no skill, just a good old knuckle sandwich right into their cheek.

  Their head snapped to the ground, coughing, and I stood up, small rivulets of blood trailing down my lips and scalp. My ears move instinctively, trying to flick away the moisture, but that just got them bleeding even worse, stinging with a suddenness reserved for the moment of observation.

  And then my nose started to hurt.

  The [Swordwoman] was groaning, but I ignored her after a quick kick that got her rolling off the spade. Re-armed instead of dismembered, I began to stomp back around to the mountain of man muscle only for [Cultist] number three to walk in confused, crossbow loaded, and right between where I was and where the shaky fucker was.

  He walked in, confused too, but that only lasted for all of one heartbeat.

  I almost stopped in place; looking between me and him, I could see that I couldn’t get close enough to hit him before he shot me, and not only would I be so hard to miss this close, but unlike the meat stick, he held the crossbow in both hands.

  The upside was that, unlike the other two, he looked like he had a harder time standing than a handicapped eighty-year-old with one working foot and two left legs and had a stance to match.

  I did something at that moment that was quite possibly the stupidest thing I could do; I wound the spade back… And threw it.

  It was not a good idea, and it didn’t hit well, but it did hit… It just hit lower than I was aiming for.

  It hit him right in the junk.

  Well, it's not right in the junk. It smashed into him sideways.

  The second man, seeing this, winced sympathetically.

  To frazzled for ending his lineage to phase me and absolutely fucked in the head from being cut, punched, hit in the gut, and pissed at the multitude of horseshit I had dealt with so far, I performed the great scrabble for my weapon. Because… And I know this sounds obvious, but the downside of throwing your weapon was that you didn’t have it, and I kind of needed that for the big fuck.

  I would have to admit, however… It would have been quite the sight, given that I slipped a second time and got halfway there on all fours, like some kind of undead demonic hybrid from the deepest reaches of hell.

  I did not do myself a great service by doing so by doing this, but I didn’t particularly care.

  The man's face was cloaked in shadow as I scrabbled toward him, but he expressed himself well enough when he started shrieking so shrilly it sounded like a teenage girl was being murdered very slowly. It was the kind of scream you heard on stage when the actors got spicy and decided then wanted to add emotion. His voice dragged on as I made a beeline for him, barely regaining my balance in time to snatch my prize.

  At that moment, multiple things happened at the same time.

  I, regaining my glorious tool and having just regained my balance, begin to stand up properly, the main threat being the big man. I could simply smash the crossbow at this distance, and the fallen man had fallen in a way where he couldn’t get up, I assumed wrong.

  As I turned and stepped over him and moved to break the crossbow into range for the club wielder, the man on the ground, still hefting his crossbow, shot me right in the ass, and at the same time, the man who was stumbling forward shakily said, “[Guardian Strike],” and his club lanced up so quickly It didn’t even blur, simply skipping through the space like the movement of the Mynes family guards before slamming into the side of my head.

  I blinked and found myself on the floor about four feet from the fallen guard, the one man calming the fuck down while both men began to shout in pain and confusion.

  “Huh?” I asked as if the two of them would answer my perfectly good question, sitting up only to continue to fight the ground as the world spun. Then my ass screamed, and my face scrunched up like a lemon.

  “When had I hit the floor?” was probably somewhere in my head, though it was probably competing with “When did I hit the wall?” and “Why does my ass hurt?”

  I stood, or rather, I ‘Stood,’ using my one-and-a-half legs, the spade, and the wall while my head failed to tell me which way was up. One of my legs simply refused to extend all the way down.

  How was it that you were supposed to tell which way was down? You spit or something?

  I spit again.

  The blood from my broken nose flowing backward and into my throat made the colourful speck that barely slid out of my face and stained my clothing a gross red.

  I probably should have just paid attention to the blood that was getting into my eyes.

  That would have been smarter. Now I just look gross.

  I stared, confused, dry heaved, sucked in a big breath, and nearly keeled over, and the two men together started shouting again, though, at this point, they were holding one another. Stunned at the display of courage and hearing the woman shouting, I turned around, flinched as the bolt scraped against the wall, and decided to turn my head instead of my whole body toward her.

  She was shouting, too… And familiar.

  “Hey! Wait a minute…” I half shouted, “You again?”

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