Chapter 913 Tiresome Affairs

Tycondrius made a sharp turn around the corner, resuming his leisurely jogging pace.

The streets of Whitehearth's business area were not safe, by any means. The number of merchants and marks, however, made an open attack on him... complex.

The possibility remained.

Thus, he kept his vigilance... watching the eyes of man and elf for cruel intentions.

The glances he received from passersby were momentary.

A sword over his shoulder. A soaked tunic. Ragged breaths.

It wasn't strange to see one of Whitehearth's many adventurers submitting themself to training.

Tycon hated running.

Rather... he loathed it.

On the field, he used his Gold-Rank mana to ease his movement and increase his speed.

For training... he went without.

In less than half a bell, Tycon worked up a healthy level of perspiration.

In the evening, his body would suffer fatigue... perhaps exhaustion, if he were careless.

The ache in his muscles and the bitter struggle of his fleshy lungs would serve to distract him from his frustrations.

A team of bricklayers was working the road ahead. Tycon skidded in the dirt, turning left down a narrow alleyway.

It was not the most careful decision... but weighing his safety against his arrogance, the latter won thrice over.

The stretch of a bowstring echoed against the building walls. When the time came for the arrow's release, Tycon was fully aware.

He caught the arrow bare-handed, spinning about with the momentum.

Inspecting the arrow, he noticed its peculiarity. Its tip was blunted stone-- or hardened clay, two ilms long, and lined with elegant runic script.

⌈Sleep⌋

It was not an assassination attempt.

The fact assuaged Tycon's pride. He thought himself particularly sensitive to killing intent.

Thus, he chose not to take offense... from that one, at least.

Was he to be kidnapped? Or was he being treated with a modicum of backward respect?

Tycon failed to stifle a groan before speaking aloud in Elven, "(This one has no quarrel with Noble House Whisperwind.)"

Something shook on a nearby roof-- the subtle movement attracting Tycon's notice.

It seemed that he was correct in inducing his attacker's species and affiliation.

An androgynous fellow leapt down to street level with a graceful and... annoyingly Elven double forward-flip.

⟬ Blindfolded Elf, Iron-Rank Scout. ⟭

It was a messenger... and a high level one, to perform both archery and acrobatics in respect to their condition.

"Sir," He or she bowed politely, "May I ask... how long have you sensed my presence?"

Tycon ignored the question. Flicking his wrist, he summoned a series of sealed missives, bundled in twine.

"I'm glad you're here. I want these delivered, post-haste."

While the Messenger Guild was reliable, Tycon would rather enlist the help of a single skilled messenger. His missives would be delivered with priority... and more importantly, he could save no small amount of coin.

It was a reasonable request. The elf would perform a menial task in exchange for Tycon sparing their life.

"Wh-what? How... dare you?" The elf responded, thoroughly confused. "Baron Tycondrius, you've brazenly sent your forces to attack House Spider Crab. The reason I'm here--"

Ah. That made sense.

The elves had ears and, as such, could easily identify the affiliations of Krysaos and the Thunder God.

Tycon patiently allowed the elf to list their grievances... though he paid attention to very little of it.

In that time, he dispelled the effect on his held stolen arrow.

The flagrant (and arrogant) display silenced the messenger. Whether it was Tycon's Metal-Rank or his expertise at formation canceling, it should have been obvious he was not to be trifled with.

Such fearmongering was best not seen... but felt-- understood on an instinctual level.

Tycon was a predator. His enemies were prey.

To that extent, he inscribed his own script onto the projectile...

⌈True Strike⌋

It was a simple First-Circle spell that typical Circle Mages rarely had a use for. In actual combat, a bolt of flame or breath of frost was more ideal.

Nonetheless, it was a favorite of martial-minded Mages like himself to memorize as a first or second spell.

Once completed, Tycon casually threw it upward.

A plain-clothes human fell from the rooftops. She was silent, save for the stone arrow's first crack against her skull... then the second upon the stone street.

Unlike the elf, that one *did* exude killing intent.

Whoever she was, Tycon did not care. Her value was in unnerving the Whisperwind in his company.

...After all, the fool girl had squandered far too many chances to escape.

The elf cleared his throat... "If I may, I am said to be the fastest and most reliable messenger in House Whisperwind."

Tycon nodded. According to their status and Metal-Rank, the obeisance was appropriate.

He handed over the bundle of magic-encrypted messages with a professional smile.

"House Spider Crab has offended me. I will submit my grievances to Lady Moonwell and subsequently to your superiors when it pleases me."

"I... will report this to my leadership, then," The blindfolded elf saluted.

The fellow tucked the package underneath their arms... but instead of leaving immediately, they fiddled with their fingers nervously.

...Tycon sighed.

"(Is there yet a song to sing, Warrior of Noble House Whisperwind?)"

The elf flinched momentarily but composed themselves quickly enough.

"(I beg for thy forgiveness, esteemed Sir. This lowly servant was merely curious. Thou must be a great personage to be favored by the houses Highblade, Moonwell, and Ebon Mask.)"

Tycon rolled his eyes. He was being tested.

It was bothersome. There was merit in keeping low-profile, but with the complex state of his affairs, being discounted could prove fatal.

"I was friend to Blademaster Arod Highblade before his untimely death. Lady Ophelia Moonwell is a friend and colleague in the school of artifice. And I've bested... Nu... Ner... What was his name? Notaku, First Warrior of House Ebon Mask in a duel. He lives-- last I checked."

The elf covered their mouth with their hands, "Th-these things..."

"And..." Tycon took in a deep breath, "I am the ward of House Morninglord's young Prince."

"That person..." The elf gulped, "They have been missing for some time."

"I speak of that person's son," Tycon shrugged. "I assume Prince Quies is dead... as should you."

"This..." The elf hurriedly bowed, "You have my deepest apologies, dear customer. This, too, I will inform to my leadership, with your permission."

"Granted."

Speaking with elves... was tiresome.