Chapter 451: Two Mercenaries
Blending seamlessly into the crowd of townsfolk as he descended from the warehouse rooftop, Marcus moved like just another shadow among many. His steps were casual, unhurried, his posture betraying nothing of the intent behind his movements. But instead of making for the front entrance of the apartment, his path veered naturally, casually, toward the back alley.
The alley was narrow, littered with a few crates and barrels stacked lazily against the walls. Marcus’s eyes darted about as he whistled a faint tune under his breath, hands shoved in his pockets, as though he had all the time in the world.
"Hmm, this place looks perfect," he murmured to himself, stopping to take it all in. "Time to climb."
With that, he pushed off into motion. In one fluid sequence, he stepped onto a barrel, used it to spring to one wall, flipped to the other side, and ricocheted back and forth in perfect athletic rhythm. His boots kissed stone lightly each time, barely making a sound as his body carried upward. A final push brought him to the rooftop of the apartment, where he landed with the easy grace of someone who had done this countless times before.
"That was easy," Marcus muttered with a grin, straightening himself as his dark hair swayed into his eyes. He scanned the rooftop with a lazy stroll, each step deliberate, his gaze fixed downward.
After several seconds of slow pacing, his boot scuffed against something softer than the stone beneath. He scraped it aside with his foot—sand scattered—and beneath it revealed a small trapdoor fitted neatly into the roof’s center.
"Well, well." His grin widened.
He grabbed the iron ring handle and pulled. The hatch creaked open, and without hesitation, Marcus slipped down through the opening, pulling the door closed above him with practiced ease.
Inside, he found himself in a cramped, dusty attic. The scent of moth-bitten cloth and dried wood filled his nose. Without giving the clutter much attention, he padded silently forward until he found another exit: a square hatch in the attic floor.
Pushing on it, the panel gave way and a wooden ladder unfolded downward, creaking softly into place. Marcus climbed down with swift, sure movements and landed in a brightly lit hallway. The corridor stretched straight ahead, with two adjoining passages branching left and right.
He stood still for a moment, eyes flicking across the hallway, listening. Quiet. Too quiet. "Hmm," he whispered. "Looks like everyone’s still tucked away in their rooms. Good. Less trouble for me."
With a light shove, he folded the ladder back up into the attic and closed the hatch flush with the ceiling, erasing any trace of his entry. Then, hands loose at his sides, he started forward.
Each step was measured, his eyes drifting from one door to the next, as though each might conceal the prize he was after. His lips curled in a half-smile as he muttered, "Mercs love claiming the top floors. Always think it gives ’em a vantage. Meaning... one of these doors is bound to be theirs."
He let his instincts sharpen. His steps slowed. His head lifted slightly, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. A faint musk—iron oil, sweat, the tang of cheap ale, and the sour leather scent of unwashed gear—began to register.
"There it is," Marcus breathed, stepping back a few paces. His dark eyes locked on a single door to his right. His grin stretched wide, wolfish. "Easy to find as always."
He raised his hand and knocked.
***
Inside the room, two men sat hunched over a small wooden table, discussing the progress of their mission. One was lean with a slim, wiry build, his black hair shaved into a skin fade. His sharp features gave him a sly, rat-like look—Slimy, as Marcus would later dub him. Across from him sat a broad, towering brute of a man with thick brown hair and a permanent scowl etched into his face. He was built like a fortress wall—Macho.
The knock froze them mid-conversation. Their eyes met, tension snapping in the air.
Macho gave a subtle tilt of his head. Slimy rose carefully. "Who is it?" he asked, voice low, wary.
"Room service," came a lilting, feminine voice from behind the door.
Slimy blinked, frowning. He looked back at Macho with disbelief. "Room service?"
Macho’s scowl deepened. "Not needed," he muttered gruffly.
"Sorry, but we don’t need room service, so get going!" Slimy called out, annoyed.
"Sorry, sir, but this is compulsory," the feminine voice answered again, patient yet firm.
Macho leaned back with a sneer. "Scare her a little. Maybe then she’ll get the hint."
Slimy, already frustrated, snatched a knife from the table. "Gladly." He stomped toward the door, jaw set, ready to chase off whoever was disturbing them.
He wrenched the door open. His eyes widened instantly.
Instead of a maid or server, a tall man stood before him—smooth, sharp-featured, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. His long hair was tied loosely in a messy bun, and he was clad head to toe in black. His smile was wide, taunting.
"Room service," Marcus said.
Slimy barely registered the words before a sharp fist slammed into his jaw. His head cracked against the doorframe, and the world spun black as he crumpled unconscious to the ground.
Macho surged to his feet in a flash, his thick hand snatching up a crossbow already loaded and primed. He leveled it at the doorway, eyes blazing with fury.
But Marcus was faster. A silver glint cut through the air—a throwing knife embedding itself into Macho’s chest, just under the collarbone. He staggered back, roaring, only for another blade to whistle past and bury itself in his left shoulder. His grip faltered, the crossbow clattering uselessly to the floor.
"Bastard!" Macho snarled, stumbling, trying to hold his ground.
A third knife zipped low, striking his knee. His leg buckled violently, sending him collapsing forward onto the table with a crash, scattering papers and shattering a mug.
Marcus stepped inside the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His grin was playful, mocking. "Wow... you guys are even weaker and more pathetic than I expected."
He leaned casually against the wall, twirling another blade between his fingers. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he added, "So... room service, yeah?"
His grin widened. "Right on time."
***
The two mercenaries groaned as consciousness clawed its way back to them. The pounding in their heads felt like anvils smashing together, and the soreness across their bodies only reminded them of how fast they’d been taken down. Blinking, they found themselves back-to-back, wrists bound tightly with coarse rope, their ankles tied so firmly that every squirm just dug the fibers deeper into their skin. They pulled, twisted, tried brute force—and failed. Whoever tied those knots had done it with surgical perfection.
"Damn it...!" Slimy spat under his breath, his shoulders flexing hard as he tried to shift. "These ropes... they’re not budging."
Macho grunted. "Feels like they’ve been glued shut with iron. Whoever did this knows what they’re doing."
Before their frustration could grow into another round of futile thrashing, a voice floated in from the dim-lit corner of the room.
"You guys wake up louder than my alarm clock."
Both mercenaries snapped their heads toward the sound. Sitting in a wooden chair, legs crossed, a chipped mug in hand, was a young man with dark messy hair and a crooked grin—Marcus. He swirled the coffee in his cup with an unimpressed face before taking a sip. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his face twisted in disgust.
"Blegh! My father lied to me," Marcus muttered, looking at the mug like it had betrayed him. "Told me coffee would make me feel like a king. This stuff tastes like water mixed with sand. No wonder he only drinks it when he’s pretending to look wise during meetings."
He tossed the mug lazily across the room—it shattered against the stone wall—and, without missing a beat, reached over to grab a cookie from a small tin beside him. He bit into it, crumbs dusting his lips, and chewed with the expression of someone who’d found the only good thing in the world worth living for.
"Now this—" he held the half-eaten cookie up as if it were a rare treasure "—this is happiness. Crispy edges, soft in the middle. Honestly, they should serve these instead of coffee in war councils."
The mercenaries, despite their situation, only scowled deeper, one growling under his breath like a chained dog. Marcus finally turned his full attention to them, wiping his fingers on his shirt as if they weren’t worth dirtying a napkin over.
"Oh, right. Guests. How rude of me." He leaned forward, still seated casually. "Cookie?" He held the tin out with a grin.
The mercenaries glared daggers at him, lips curling but saying nothing.
"No?" Marcus clicked his tongue, pretending to be offended. "You wound me. Do you know how rare these are? Smuggled from the royal kitchens. If you say no to cookies, I can only assume you’ve got serious trust issues."
"Who the hell are you?" Macho spat, ignoring the jab. "And why are we here?"
Marcus tilted his head, mock-offended again, then tapped his chest dramatically. "Who am I? Come on now. Don’t play dumb. You both know me. Everyone in the underworld does. In fact, I’d be shocked if you didn’t tell bedtime stories about me to scare little rookie thugs."
The mercenaries frowned, trading a quick glance.
Marcus’s grin widened. "Ah, there it is. Recognition. You know my name—it’s the one whispered in taverns when deals go wrong, when someone’s debts mysteriously vanish because someone else disappeared in the night. Marcus. And yes, before you ask, the stories are all true."
The tension in the air thickened.
"As for why you’re here..." He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs dangerously as he nibbled another cookie. "...simple. It’s about your boss. The man who paid you to wave swords around and think you mattered."
Both mercenaries stiffened, their faces giving away more than they wanted.
Marcus noticed immediately, of course, and smirked. "See, you didn’t even need to answer. Your eyes already did. People really underestimate how much their faces talk for them. Anyway—let’s skip the boring part." He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. "Where is your employer?"
Neither mercenary spoke. Macho gave a low chuckle, masking his nerves with bravado. "If you think we’re gonna rat him out, you’re more delusional than you look."
"Yeah," Slimy added. "You’re a runt compared to us. You think you can scare us? Please. Just let us go and we’ll forget this ever happened."
Marcus blinked at them slowly, then sighed like a teacher listening to idiotic answers in class. "You know what your problem is? You’re underestimating me because of this—" he gestured at himself with a lazy wave of his hand, his lean frame, his casual posture. "You see smaller build, younger face, and you think, ’Oh, we can take him.’ That’s adorable. Truly."
His grin lingered, but his eyes suddenly sharpened. The air around him shifted—subtle at first, then heavy, suffocating, predatory. His presence poured into the room like an unseen storm, pressing down on the mercenaries until their smirks faltered.
"Let me make this interesting," Marcus said lightly, though his aura weighed on every syllable. "We’ll play a game. I’ll break every bone in your bodies, one at a time. Whoever cracks first and tells me what I want—lives. The other? Well, he gets to leave this world with the honor of being stubborn. Fair, right?"
The mercenaries’ bravado wavered. One swallowed hard, but quickly tried to cover it with a scoff. "You’re bluffing. Look at you. You don’t have the strength to break us."
Marcus chuckled—soft, low, amused. Then he stood up, slowly, deliberately. The grin never left his face, but the shift in his posture was terrifying. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and with a sudden sharp crack, he clenched his fist hard enough to make his knuckles pop like snapping bones.
"Bluffing?" he echoed. "Oh, gentlemen... you’ll wish I was bluffing."
He crouched in front of them, close enough they could see the playful glint in his eyes, close enough to feel the chill of his aura crawl across their skin. "Now then—who wants to play first?"