Enemies

Four clusters of light, three small and one large.

The three smaller clusters were roughly a meter off the ground. Judging by their height and outlines, they were most likely coin purses.

The fourth cluster was large and bright, above the three smaller ones. If he imagined it against a human body, it would be roughly where the face was.

This was how Lorry applied Exceptional Observation.

During his few days here, aside from going out to clear weeds during the day, he had also taken time alone to familiarize himself with his Beyonder Ability.

He was no longer as ignorant as he had been on the first day.

"Three people? Who are they? Old enemies of the old man?"

"How is he doing now?"

Anxiety and worry flashed in Lorry's eyes. Having absorbed the original owner's memories, he immediately recognized that faintly sweet, rusty smell for what it was-blood!

I have to get in there and save him. No, I can't rush in blindly.

He suddenly remembered being chased by a dog a few days earlier. The foot he had just raised quickly came back down. His anxious gaze swept his surroundings, and he soon came up with a plan.

Lorry took a deep breath and quietly circled around behind the bedroom.

The old man's house was not built of reinforced concrete, but wood. Years of exposure to damp had long since begun to rot it.

During his few days here, he had heard the old man complain more than once about cracks in the walls letting in drafts. Summer was tolerable, but winter was miserable.

Even with old newspapers pasted over them, the cold still seeped through.

Lorry found the largest patch of paste marks. Holding his breath and focusing, he pressed his ear tightly against the wall, apprehension stirring inside him.

Soon, a shrill male voice rang out.

"Who'd have thought this dying old bastard could put up such a fight? Good thing Glowa was here, or we probably wouldn't have been able to take him."

"You can say that again. The boss really thought ahead."

Another voice chimed in.

After that, the room fell briefly silent.

Outside, Lorry's eyes widened at the name.

Glowa?

The original owner had heard that name before!

And he had heard it from members of the Pickpocket Organization!

So they're here for me! I dragged the old man into this!

As that thought surfaced, guilt flooded Lorry's heart. If he had left sooner, perhaps none of this would have happened.

But there was no point dwelling on that now.

Less than a minute later, the shrill male voice sounded again.

"Lorry really is one lucky bastard. He'd definitely stopped breathing when we carried him, but somehow he came back to life."

"Too bad his luck's run out."

"We have Old Jack to thank this time. Otherwise, the kid might really have gotten away. The boss said we have to bring him back this time."

"In Emperor Roselle's words, alive, we bring him in; dead, we bring his corpse."

Old Jack? That sewer worker? He was the reason I was exposed? Did he go into the sewer afterward? Hearing this, Lorry felt hatred well up inside him.

The shrill voice continued:

"Think that old bastard will tell us where he is?"

"When we came in and asked him, he actually tried to deny it. Took us for idiots, heh! If he was alone, why would he have prepared so much food?"

"What a stubborn fool... This had nothing to do with him. All he had to do was tell us where the kid was, but he just had to make things hard for himself."

"Hard to say," said the deeper voice that had agreed earlier. "That old man looks stubborn to me. I doubt he'll talk easily."

"But Glowa's the one questioning him in the kitchen!" the shrill male voice countered. "He can pry open even the tightest lips."

"I bet fifteen minutes!"

The deeper voice paused, then snapped, "Who wants to bet with you? Glowa told us to look for valuables. Why aren't you getting to work?"

"Did you forget how he broke three of Nathan's ribs with one punch last time?"

"Even the boss didn't say anything when he found out."

"Tch, that's because Nathan's one of his men. I'm not," the shrill-voiced man retorted defiantly, lowering his voice.

But anyone could hear the uncertainty behind his words.

Lorry did not know the two men inside. Their voices were unfamiliar, and the outlines of their faces glimpsed through the crack rang no bells. Glowa's name, however, was notorious.

He was one of the organization's best enforcers, but he spent most of his time elsewhere handling other business, so the original owner had never actually dealt with him.

That had not stopped the original owner from hearing about his exploits from the other enforcers.

He was said to have been born with tremendous strength. Even as a street child with too little food and clothing, he had already been as strong as an ordinary adult at twelve or thirteen.

Later, he joined the gangs and became infamous throughout East Borough.

When the Pickpocket Organization was established a few years earlier, it clashed with the gang Glowa belonged to. The two gangs fought bitterly for a time, and who knew how many bodies were sunk in the river in the dead of night.

Later, through some unknown means, the boss suddenly brought this formidable fighter under his command. The two gangs merged, becoming the present-day Wanderers Mutual Aid Association.

Even so, Glowa's temperament had not mellowed in the slightest.

His brutality was not reserved for his enemies. Even his own people, if they offended him, could spend more than ten days bedridden at best-or be beaten to death at worst.

It was fair to say:

Within the Wanderers Mutual Aid Association, this man was the very embodiment of violence and cruelty!

I never thought they'd send even him.

I'm just a petty pickpocket. Am I worth all this trouble?

Lorry felt his face stiffen and bitterness fill his mouth. An indescribable trace of fear rose from deep within him-partly the original owner's instinct, partly a warning from his spirituality.

It was as though a voice were shouting inside his head:

Run!

Get as far away as you can!

But soon, he let out a quiet sigh.

"If I leave, what happens to that kind old man?"

Lorry took a deep breath, his gaze turning resolute in an instant. This had happened because of him. He could not simply walk away!

He lifted his feet gently and headed toward the courtyard gate.

Two men in the bedroom, Glowa in the kitchen. That was what Lorry had gathered from their conversation. He eased the courtyard gate open and saw that the kitchen door was tightly shut, with a large amount of dark red liquid flowing out through the gap beneath it.

These bastards deserved to go to hell.

Scum!

I'll deal with you last! Hatred seethed inside Lorry as he cast a cold glance at the kitchen. Suppressing his grief, he forced himself to look away.

He turned toward the bedroom, its door and windows wide open, and approached without a sound.

The two enforcers were rummaging through the bedroom. Unnatural bulges showed at their waists.

They were clearly weapons such as daggers or hatchets.

One stood beside the old man's bed, roughly tearing through the bedding in search of anything hidden inside. The other knelt on one knee before a cabinet, absorbed in examining a thick stack of items in his hands.

Both had their backs to Lorry!

On the table not far away lay the old man's double-barreled shotgun.

Lorry fixed his gaze on it, exhaled silently, and raised his right foot.