Chapter 453: Finding The Thief
After slipping out of the apartment the same way he had entered, Marcus wasted no time heading toward the warehouse the mercenaries were supposed to target. He hadn’t been given a precise description, but to him, that hardly mattered. Tracking down the place—and more importantly, the owner—was never going to be an issue.
The logic was simple. Those two half-wits had chosen to rent an apartment in the area, and Slimy had confessed the warehouse wasn’t far. That meant the building Marcus was looking for had to be within half a mile at most. And even if there were multiple warehouses crammed into that distance, the mercenaries’ target would always stand out. It would either be the cleanest, most pristine operation around, or—if the Pureblood’s tastes were involved—it would belong to a woman beautiful enough to catch their eyes. Purebloods, after all, loved to feast on beauty as much as blood.
What Marcus never fully understood, though, was why a Pureblood would even bother hiring mercenaries to kidnap someone. With their abilities, they could hunt down prey themselves without a shred of struggle. But then again, Purebloods were twisted things. They weren’t content with raw power—they liked to play human. To pretend. To experience the thrill of schemes, contracts, and dirty dealings, as though mimicking humanity’s flaws brought them some sick satisfaction.
"And they say I’m the crazy one," Marcus muttered as he darted across the rooftops, his body a shadow leaping from tile to tile.
After scaling and racing over countless buildings, his sharp eyes finally landed on what he knew to be the right warehouse. The certainty struck him the moment he saw her: the owner herself, standing tall, her voice commanding as she issued orders to the workers below. She was striking—beautiful even at a glance, her presence radiating strength and poise. She looked to be in her late forties, yet carried herself with a confidence and vitality that made her glow amidst the dust and grind of labor.
"Wow," Marcus whispered under his breath, his grin tugging upward as he crouched on the rooftop’s edge. His gaze followed her movements for a moment longer. "Stunning. As much as I hate these damned demons... I can’t deny their taste is impeccable."
Satisfied that he had confirmed enough for now, Marcus eased himself back against the roof tiles, choosing a shaded spot where he could rest his legs and catch his breath. He leaned into the cool shadow, his arms folding casually behind his head.
Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he spoke aloud, as if the open air was his companion. "Restricting myself from using magic really does force me to lean on my physical abilities more. Pain in the ass, honestly. Draining. But... useful."
He lifted his right arm lazily into the sunlight, studying it with mild interest. The forearm was bound tightly in black bandages, with a worn leather guard strapped over it. He flexed his fingers, turned his wrist, then dropped the arm back down onto his stomach. His eyes drifted shut, his body settling into a rare stillness.
With the faint sounds of labor rising up from below, Marcus allowed himself a short rest, letting the shade and silence cloak him before he made his move toward the southern district of Ilis.
***
After getting about three or less hours of rest, Marcus dragged himself into the southern district. His body ached for more sleep, but his mind was sharp and fixed on the task at hand. As soon as he reached the area, he began searching for the bar Slimy had mentioned. Locating it wouldn’t be much of a challenge—Marcus knew how to sniff out such places—but the timing was what irritated him. The sun was still high, burning down on the streets, and that meant most bars, especially grand ones, weren’t truly alive yet. Establishments like that thrived under the blanket of night, when drunkards stumbled over themselves, when whispers of schemes and dirty deals slithered through the air, when men and women alike gave in to every filthy, perverted desire they could conjure. Daylight was never their hour.
It took Marcus less than ten minutes to find the bar, and when his eyes landed on it, an ugly thought churned through his head. The grand structure stood tall and luxurious, its polished wood and golden trimmings giving it an air of wealth and decadence. He narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw in bitter annoyance.
"Unbelievable..." he muttered, perched on a nearby rooftop, staring down at the opulent den of sin. "That bloodwretch bastard had the guts to steal from me, only to crawl his way here? To this place? A bar that screams of wealth, of greed, of indulgence?"
The corner of his lip twitched as he spat his words through clenched teeth, his envy, annoyance, and resentment all boiling together in his midnight glare.
"This bastard really knows how to get on my nerves." He exhaled harshly through his nose, his voice low, bitter, but tinged with a kind of dangerous amusement. His tongue clicked. "Blood Demons... they’re always the same. Annoying, vile, greedy creatures."
For a moment, his expression darkened further, but then, as if pulling on a mask he’d worn countless times, Marcus straightened, brushing the irritation aside. His usual carefree charisma returned in an instant, as though he had forced the storm within back behind an easy grin.
"Well," he said, stretching his arms lazily, rolling his shoulders with practiced nonchalance. "I suppose the bastard can wait. First things first—I need food. A full stomach makes for a sharper blade." He rubbed his hands together, licking his lips with a hungry smirk.
That was when he finally glanced down at himself properly. His clothes were still smeared and spattered with the dried blood of Slimy and Macho, the crimson stains stark against the fabric. Marcus stared for a moment, then let out a snort of laughter.
"Damn, I look like a mess," he chuckled, turning his arms to observe the stains under the light. "Covered in blood like some lunatic fresh out of a slaughterhouse. If I walk into a crowd like this, every idiot on the street will think I lost my mind." He sighed, shaking his head. "Guess cleaning up comes first, then food."
***
After managing to wash himself off, at least enough so that he wouldn’t stand out like a deranged killer, Marcus secured a decent meal from one of the street vendors in the district. His hunger satisfied, he decided not to dive straight into chaos. Instead, he climbed up onto a nearby rooftop, one with a clear vantage point of the grand bar. There, beneath the fading light of the sun, he let time stretch and pass, killing it by slipping into meditation.
He crossed his legs and slowed his breathing, his body steady, his mind sharpening, until the shift of day into night began to unfold. Slowly, the sun dipped low, swallowed by the horizon, and as the moon’s pale glow began to claim the sky, the bar came alive.
Music spilled out into the streets, mixed with the chatter and laughter of nobles, rogues, and scoundrels alike. Light glimmered from lanterns and torches, casting a golden hue over the gathering crowd. Carriages lined the street, and the air swelled with the heady scents of alcohol and perfume. The bar was full, bursting with life and noise—exactly the kind of environment Marcus had hoped for. A crowded den was perfect for slipping through unseen, for finding his prey without drawing attention.
Perched above, Marcus’s lips curved into a predatory smirk. "Good," he whispered to himself. "The hunt begins."
With one last glance down at the thrumming, chaotic scene below, he descended from his perch, dropping from rooftop to alley with practiced grace. His steps were calm, confident, and purposeful as he slipped into the sea of bodies, moving toward the bar where his quarry surely waited.