Inside room two on the third floor, as the landlady's voice from downstairs trailed off, the old elf gave Jenkins an awkward smile. Then, a look of confusion crossed his face.
“Hmm? I don't recall having another visitor today. And besides old Halama, no one else should know I live here. Who could it be?”
“Let see.”
As he spoke, Jenkins glanced down at the floor, though he was actually using his Eye of Reality to directly observe the newcor's spiritual aura. Unsurprisingly, the visitor was an Enchanter, and one who possessed a remarkable number of abilities.
While Jenkins didn't know every Enchanter from the city's Orthodox Churches, his instincts scread that this newcor was no follower of a Righteous God.
“I think you may have a problem. The one coming up the stairs is probably not a friend.”
He warned.
“Is that so? Damn it, what is with today?”
With that, the old elf started to struggle out of bed. Despite Jenkins's healing, his body was still frail. The exhaustion of his life force wasn't just a matter of spiritual depletion but also the indelible mark of ti—sothing Jenkins couldn't reverse.
“Don't move. I'll take care of it. It's only a third-level Enchanter—nothing serious.”
With those words, he guided the old elf back onto the bed, placed the visibly excited cat on a nearby desk, and calmly stepped out of the bedroom.
The landlady, despite her cantankerous nature, had let the visitor upstairs. The newcor's footsteps were soft; even as Jenkins stood at the apartnt door, he found it hard to guess the person's size or build from the sound alone.
Instead of waiting, Jenkins hesitated only for a second before opening the door and stepping out onto the landing. The person was still ascending and had not yet reached the third floor. They t on the flight of stairs leading from the second floor to the third.
From his higher position on the stairs, Jenkins looked down at a man in a black trench coat, his hand on the banister. The man lifted his head, revealing a black bowler hat, and his eyes t Jenkins's. As if by mutual consent, they both froze.
Neither spoke, each silently sizing up the other. Jenkins stood with both feet on the sa step above, while the man below was frozen mid-stride, right foot raised to the next step, forever in the act of climbing.
After a silence that lasted three breaths, the man below broke the standoff. With a swift flick of his left wrist, a silver glint shot toward Jenkins’s face. It was a small, palm-sized dagger, enchanted through a ritual. In the fraction of a second it took to whistle past his face, Jenkins caught a glimpse of the runes etched into the blade.
Jenkins tilted his head, easily dodging the projectile. In the sa mont, he registered that his attacker had launched himself up the stairs in a single, powerful leap. Jenkins held his ground, deflecting the man's incoming punch with his right hand before landing a solid kick that sent him tumbling back down to the landing below.
“He's stronger than !” / “Not as strong as !”
The thought struck both of them at once. Jenkins tilted his head again, allowing the dagger, now returning like a boorang from behind, to harmlessly graze his hair on its way back to its master's hand. Jenkins narrowed his eyes, replaying the image of the runes in his mind. Then, it clicked.
“That's no common elental enchantnt. You used a ritual to magnetize the blade. Your ability is magnetism!”
Even as the words left his lips, Jenkins lunged down the stairs, pressing the attack. The man thrust a hand toward Jenkins's chest, but Jenkins intercepted the blow, his fist connecting squarely with the man's wrist.
Crack!
Jenkins landed firmly on the step, closing the distance to engage the man in hand-to-hand combat. Both were skilled fighters, but Jenkins had the clear advantage in strength. After only two exchanges, he was dominating the fight. By then, the commotion on the stairs had undoubtedly drawn the attention of the landlady below.
He grabbed the banister with his left hand and took a punch to his right shoulder, absorbing the blow by surging forward. Pushing off from the steps, he used his grip on the rail to vault into the air, twisting his body and lashing out with a vicious kick.
“Hiyah!”
The kick landed squarely on the man’s chest with a sickening thud that echoed through the stairwell. He went flying, offering no resistance. The impact created an even louder racket, but before the landlady could make it upstairs, Jenkins had the man subdued and dragged him inside the old elf's room.
Even from inside the bedroom, they could hear the landlady's voice, laced with curses, coming up the stairs.
“She's always like this.”
The old elf shrugged, unbothered by her tirade.
Anticipating an interrogation, Jenkins had only knocked the intruder out instead of using his [Blasphemous Creation] to induce a permanent coma. He had, however, broken the man's arms and legs, bound him securely with wire, and, for good asure, slipped a remotely activated talisman into his breast pocket.
The old elf watched without comnt; he didn't recognize the man. However, as Jenkins was binding the intruder, they both spotted the insignia of a heretical god tattooed on his shoulder blade, marking him as a mber of the [Dead Man's Whip].
“If this tattoo gives away his identity, why would he get it?”
Jenkins asked as he twisted the wires tight.
“Because it's a matter of faith.”
The old elf offered an irrefutable reason. Jenkins considered it for a mont and had to agree.
The sheer pain of his broken limbs had already jolted the man back to consciousness. Jenkins's earlier kick had been brutal; his internal organs were undoubtedly damaged, making every word an excruciating effort.
Jenkins was about to use more brutal thods to get the information he wanted before the man expired, but the old elf, Siannod, stopped him—and not out of compassion.
“If we make any more noise,” he said, “the landlady might actually throw out of this building.”
He complained, then directed Jenkins to a flat box propping up one of the desk legs. “Get the dark green vial from in there.” The box had clearly served as a support for a long ti; the tal was visibly dented inward from the weight.
The box was covered in rust and a thick layer of dust. Jenkins instinctively raised it to blow off the gri, but the old elf stopped him, warning that he had no desire for his bedroom to be filled with a cloud of dust.
Inside were a dozen small, flexible vials of varying colors, only one of which was dark green. Thanks to the ti he'd spent studying alchemy with Old Jack, Jenkins could tell that none of the potions had expired.
Judging by the intensity of their auras, the potions were all incredibly potent—far more so than anything Jenkins had ever managed to brew himself.
“The one you're holding can temporarily hypnotize any intelligent creature,” the old elf explained. “I made it from the dust of the [Erald Dream], which I brought from my holand. Essentially, anyone who drinks it can only speak the truth. I've used most of my supply over the years; that's the last vial. Don't spill it.”
The old elf finished, then gave a small cough. It was a much healthier sound than before, more like he was simply clearing his throat.
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