Robbery

At the mouth of a narrow alley less than half a street away from the public carriage stop, Cyril and Owen, who had taken a shortcut from Backlund University, were cornered by several tall Highlanders.

"Yo~, are you two little kids from Intis? Wandering into alleys in broad daylight, how very open-minded of you~"

"Heh, I know this one. Those Intisians sure know how to have fun."

"Don't you know this is Blood Axe Gang territory? We aren't like you open-minded Intisians. You've polluted this pure air—tell me, how do you plan to compensate us?"

Owen's face turned pale, and he subconsciously took two steps back. Highlanders were not exactly known for their reputation in Backlund; the vast majority of them drifting through the city were either thugs or hoodlums.

Although he didn't know why they insisted on calling them Intisians, he was certain they were just trying to rob them.

Cyril's expression wasn't much better. There were three of them against the two of them, putting them at a disadvantage in numbers. Furthermore, the Highlanders were naturally stronger than the average person; as students who had never done manual labor, the two of them probably couldn't even handle one of them, let alone three.

Damn it, is public security in Backlund really this bad? Or has the East District expanded to cover half of Backlund, where you get robbed just by stepping outside?

The three Highlanders urged them impatiently: "Don't dawdle like a bunch of girls. Speak up, how do you plan to pay for our air pollution damages?"

"And our emotional distress fees."

"And the lost wages for wasting our time."

Owen glared at them: "This is robbery!"

The Highlander standing in the middle looked at him as if he were an idiot: "You just figured that out?"

"..."

Owen fell into a reluctant silence. Despite his indignation, in terms of physique, the opponent could teach him a lesson with one hand.

Cyril reached into his pocket and fumbled for a moment before pulling out two paper notes and handing them over.

"2 pence? Are you trying to brush off a beggar?"

Although his tone was disdainful, the Highlander opposite him still reached out and took the 2-pence notes.

"You can't expect two students who haven't started working yet to have much money on them. This was the breakfast money I hadn't spent yet today."

Cyril replied very calmly, reaching into his pocket again while his gaze swept rapidly across the three men.

As he focused his attention, the pale white spiritual radiance on the three men became clearer and more detailed.

He then noticed that the distribution of spirituality on their bodies was neither uniform nor fluid, much like an old machine with mechanical issues; while it appeared to function normally on the surface, it would immediately break down the moment any weak link was overloaded.

This is... can I see weaknesses?

He paused, his gaze sweeping unobtrusively over Owen beside him, comparing the spiritual radiance on his companion to that of the three men.

In terms of the density of spirituality, Owen was actually stronger than the three burly Highlanders, but the spirituality on his body carried a hint of black, as if it had been subjected to some kind of interference.

As for the three Highlanders, they seemed to be putting on a brave front; had they been injured recently, which was why they were here robbing students who liked to take shortcuts?

"What are you fumbling for? So slow—don't want to pay up?"

His constant fumbling in his pocket drew the dissatisfaction of the Highlanders. The one who had just taken his two pence stepped forward, placing one hand on his shoulder while the other reached toward his pocket.

"You..."

The words he had just started to speak suddenly cut off. His eyes filled with shock, and he looked down in disbelief.

Cyril had his other hand positioned at the man's lower abdomen, gripping a silver dagger. The other end of the blade was buried in the man's body, and he had even given it a twist.

Bright red blood quickly bloomed outward. The sudden, sharp pain and blood loss made the man's head swim, draining his strength and causing his body to collapse uncontrollably toward Cyril.

"Shorty, what are you doing? Since when did you have hobbies like this? But now is not the time to be enjoying yourself."

The question from his companion came from behind. The Highlander in front of Cyril—who was not short at all—opened his mouth:

"Hrk~"

Bang!

Cyril didn't give the man a chance to speak; he pulled out the dagger and simultaneously delivered a knee strike that sent the man flying.

The other two Highlanders reacted quickly. One caught his companion, while the other charged at Cyril with a fist. The latter raised his dagger with an expressionless face, swinging toward the weak point on the opponent's body.

Thud!

"Ugh..."

Before the dagger could even touch the opponent, Cyril was sent flying by a punch, slamming into the wall behind him with a heavy, muffled groan.

Damn it, I overestimated myself. I can see the weaknesses, but it's useless if I can't hit them. Even if they're injured, the physical constitution of a Highlander crushes a weak student like me.

"Kid, you've got guts, trying to sneak attack us."

The Highlander who had just punched Cyril away charged over again, his bandage-wrapped fist whistling through the air.

Bang!

Cyril ducked just in time, and the man's fist slammed into the wall, creating a muffled thud and kicking up a cloud of dust.

With that kind of force, he had no doubt that if that fist had landed on him, he would have died on the spot.

"Paralysis!"

A strange incantation suddenly rang out. It wasn't a language commonly used on the Northern Continent, but Cyril miraculously found that he understood its meaning.

The voice came from Owen, who was holding a dark green, square-shaped charm in his hand.

Following the incantation, the square talisman instantly turned to ash in his hand. A strange, visible ripple erupted from where the talisman had vanished, sweeping rapidly across the surroundings and freezing the three Highlanders in place.

"Hurry, the effect of this talisman won't last long!"

Hearing the voice of Owen Garcia, Cyril did not hesitate in the slightest. He bypassed the Highlander in front of him, grabbed Owen, and bolted toward the street outside the alleyway.

Killing them was out of the question—not because he didn't dare, but because he didn't want to be dragged to the police station or the basement of a church. The former might allow for bail, but the latter might just provoke the God of Steam and Machinery into sending him off personally.

Alright, truth be told, he was also a little afraid to kill.

32 Weldi Street, South Bridge District, the home of Owen Garcia.

Cyril sat on the living room sofa, his right hand gripping a cup filled with tea, while Owen applied medicine to his injured shoulder nearby.

After taking that punch from the lead Highlander, he felt as if his entire left shoulder blade had cracked; the pain was piercing.

"Hiss~" He turned his head to look at Owen, who was still applying the ointment, and said hesitantly:

"Is your medicine reliable? Should I just go to the hospital instead?"

The injured area had only been painful before, but after Owen applied the ointment, it was now not only painful but also incredibly itchy.

Owen, feeling insulted, retorted indignantly: "This is a Beyonder potion! This single bottle cost me 10 pounds, 10 pounds!"

"Fine... then..."

Cyril nodded gently, reluctantly choosing to believe him.

After the medicine was applied, Owen sat on the other side of the sofa and asked with curiosity:

"Why did you pull me away earlier? We had already controlled those Highlanders; shouldn't we have turned the tables and taught them a lesson?"

Cyril looked up at the young man, who clearly hadn't vented his frustration yet, and felt speechless: "Do you want to be dragged to the police station cells or the ones under the church?"

"Even though they are gangsters, we would definitely be implicated if we killed people in the street. Besides, two ordinary students counter-killing three Highlander gangsters—any fool would know there's something wrong with that."

Owen realized it belatedly, then said with concern: "They will definitely think about taking revenge on us."

Cyril nodded and replied: "But they can't find us. At most, they'll stake out near Backlund University, but we've taken leave; we don't need to go to school for a while."

Owen: "Then what if they keep staking out the school for us?"

Cyril: "If they keep staking us out, how would they have money to eat?"

"Uh... you're right."

Owen nodded blankly. This was an angle he had never considered, but he had to admit, it was very realistic—gangsters needed to make money to eat, too.

As the topic ended, the two suddenly fell silent, neither knowing how to start the next conversation.

Although they were classmates and members of the same club, the current Cyril was no longer the Cyril of the past, and his fragmented memories contained no details of his interactions with Owen.

As for Owen, he had distanced himself from his classmates and club members after his parents passed away, and long periods of solitude had left him unaccustomed to interacting with others.