072 A Minor Punishment

Faced with Theresa’s provocation, Johans had yet to respond when Tatu, at his side, stepped forward, using his towering presence to exert pressure on her—a man well accustomed to resolving every issue with force. It was no wonder he often clashed with Archer, whose approach was much the same. Yet, although Archer and Pedia were absent from Theresa’s side this time, she remained unfazed. Hugh, sensing Tatu’s intent even before he acted, moved to stand in front of Theresa, confronting the force Tatu projected head-on. Having spent years on the northwestern front, Hugh’s aura surpassed Tatu’s; he stood there, casual yet imposing, like a solitary snow wolf—a fitting image for a member of the Snow Wolf Knights, as Hugh possessed many traits akin to the wolves themselves.

Hugh’s officer status clearly made Johans and his companions wary. They were but interns in the military, without any rank; though above common soldiers, they paled in comparison to a seasoned officer like Hugh. Should things escalate, the matter could easily end up before a military tribunal.

Johans restrained Tatu, his gaze bypassing Hugh to settle on Theresa, who was calmly inspecting goods by the counter. His eyes, dark and hungry as a wolf’s, lingered on her for several seconds before he led Tatu and another lackey around to the materials display cabinet.

Hugh watched the trio disappear among the rows of shelves, his expression cautious and grave. Only then did he turn to Theresa and say, “Madam, that man’s hostility is intense. You must be careful.”

After instructing the shopkeeper on where to deliver her purchases, Theresa turned with a smile. “It’s nothing. He’s just a mad dog, capable only of petty tricks.” She paid for a few items from the miscellaneous section, tucked them into her small satchel, and flashed Hugh a gentle smile before stepping out the door. Hugh, puzzled by her smile, watched as she paused at a blind spot near the entrance. From the pouch at her waist, she drew a mixture of crushed black-gold ore and petrified rosewood ash, skillfully tracing seven or eight magical symbols at the doorway. The dark gold powder and blue-gray ash twisted eerily in the air, then vanished entirely.

“What are you—?” Hugh raised an eyebrow as Theresa clapped her hands, scattering the remaining ash with a smile.

“I left something on Johans—too bad my skills aren’t quite enough yet, just some minor mischief.” She wrinkled her nose, regretful. “Give me half a month more, and they’d really suffer… Well, Hugh, find us a good spot nearby. Let’s wait and see the show.”

☆☆☆

In the southwestern district of Cervantes City, a lively old castle-style building stood in perpetual bustle. Whether day or night, light or darkness, joy reigned supreme here. Men and women of every age and status indulged in all manner of pleasures. The legitimate—beauty salons, sports clubs. The borderline—gambling, masquerade balls. And the forbidden—there was plenty of that as well.

This was Cervantes’ entertainment center, its den of dissipation. Some regarded it as a pit of vice, shunning it; others saw it as paradise, an exile from which felt like descending into hell.

It was Sir Ince’s “Theater”—he observed the world’s dramas from here, thus calling it “Sir Ince’s Theater.”

…

On the elliptical track, twelve similarly sized dogs raced madly, tongues lolling, teeth bared, saliva flying. Equally frenzied were the crowds at the railings, separated by two-meter-high iron fences. The once elegant men and women now screamed themselves hoarse at their chosen numbers, hands pounding the rails or tugging at their own or others’ clothes, each desperate to vent their wild emotions.

When the first dog crossed the finish line, humanity’s rawest face was laid bare—some wept and wailed, others laughed maniacally, some raged, some collapsed as if dying. In truth, hardly a sane soul remained.

Benjamin, after destroying everything he could reach in a fit of rage, stormed into the dog track, heading straight for the resting area behind the finish line. He grabbed a purebred black racing dog from the exhausted pack, ignored its joyful greeting, and drew a short knife from his belt, plunging it into the dog’s belly.

Blood sprayed. The dog whimpered, unable to comprehend why its once caring master had suddenly turned so cruel. It whimpered and sobbed, its life taken in that moment.

The blood seemed to spur Benjamin further; he stabbed the dog repeatedly, till the scent of blood drove the other racing dogs into a frenzy, each assuming an aggressive posture. Only then did he stop, kicking the mutilated dog into the pack, leaving them to tear it apart.

…

In a dim alley, an invisible door built flush with the wall slid open. Benjamin, impeccably dressed, emerged, escorted by a staff member. Though he’d bathed and changed, the scent of blood clung to him. Glancing back at the now camouflaged door, he snorted, straightened his collar, tucked a hand into his pocket, and strode out of the alley. His luck was abysmal today—he’d lost all his borrowed stakes in less than half a day, and ruined a purebred racing dog he’d raised for months.

In his anger, Benjamin was less alert than usual. At the first corner, darkness fell before his eyes, a heavy force struck from above, and his legs and back were battered. With no time to react, he pitched forward onto the stone pavement, where fists and feet rained down, each blow expertly landing on vulnerable spots. His resistance was crushed before it could even begin.

He couldn’t even muster his battle energy.

He’d been ambushed—a premeditated ambush!

Cursing in pain, Benjamin tried to shout, but a blow to his chest made him taste blood, and a numbing pain in his throat left him utterly voiceless.

☆☆☆

Theresa sat by the window, savoring a tableful of delicious dishes. Though the presentation was lacking, the flavors were wild and rich—meaty, fresh, with crisp wild vegetables and thick, smooth soups that made it impossible to stop eating.

Outside, a commotion arose, but Theresa remained engrossed in her meal, forgetting why she’d chosen a window seat. Hugh glanced downward and dutifully reminded her, “Madam, they’ve emerged.”

“Ah? Who?” Theresa replied, then immediately understood Hugh’s meaning. She grabbed her favorite dish, moved to the window, and peered outside. Across the street, crowds had gathered, and in their midst, three men stood naked, save for the key parts covered by clothes hastily snatched from others. Shivering in the cold, they dared not dress themselves.

“Hahaha, what poetic justice! Justice, indeed!” Theresa laughed till she nearly rolled on the floor.

Finally managing to stand, she saw Hugh’s disapproving look and hastened to explain, “I didn’t mean for them to end up like this. I just cast a simple itching spell—at worst, they’d take cold showers for a few days. Their predicament likely came from a half-trained alchemist or mage trying to break the spell, only to make things worse. Ha! Serves them right, absolutely right!”

Hugh regarded her in silence as she laughed herself limp on the sofa. He turned his gaze back to the street, where the unlucky trio had boarded a rented carriage. Hugh, having chosen a good vantage point, could clearly see the fury and malice burning in Johans’ eyes—Theresa had truly enraged a beast this time.

☆☆☆

“Two thousand gold lost, a racing dog gone, over a dozen broken bones, face swollen like a pig’s head—no disability, but bedrest for two months, and at least half a year before he can step outside… Tsk, Pedia, the price for pursuing your sister is steep indeed.” The middle-aged man clicked his tongue as he tallied the losses, his face full of irreverence.

Pedia, drinking with him, kept his face cold and listened silently before replying, “If he were genuine in courting Tess, he wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

The man chuckled. “Genuine? He’s certainly sincere—sincerely out to play for a few days, then move on… Hey, kid, those aren’t my words, don’t glare at me.”

Pedia withdrew his beast-like glare, took a card from his pocket, and placed it on the table. “A token of thanks. Sorry for the trouble, Ince.”

Sir Ince, famed in Cervantes, scoffed at Pedia’s politeness. “I’ve known you nearly ten years, and this is the first time I’ve heard a ‘thank you’—so the rumor about your ‘sister complex’ isn’t entirely false, eh?”

Before he finished speaking, fists and feet collided, the dull thuds sounding quickly and loudly as two figures tangled like ghosts. Soon, silence returned—Sir Ince was left sprawled on the floor, Pedia rubbing his aching ribs, snorting coldly, and spitting out, “Despicable,” before striding out, leaving Ince behind to erupt in wild laughter.

(To be continued)