As evening fell, the sky over Duskwood grew ever more overcast, and the distant cawing of crows echoed through the gloom.
Inside the inn, Allen sat on the bed, glanced out the window, then looked down at the cloak in his hands.
It had been hastily crafted during the more than a day he had been unconscious, with Wren working together with a leatherworker from Darkshire.
He had heard from Wren that everyone had agreed to give this cloak to him.
...
[Lupos's Hide]
Back Slot — Uncommon Quality
18 Armor
+2 Stamina
+3 Agility
...
At that moment, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
"Mr. Prestor, I'm the clerk from Darkshire. Your bounty, as well as your companions', has arrived. May I come in?"
Had it already reached the agreed time to collect the reward?
Allen didn't answer. Instead, he quickly fastened the cloak around himself.
[Constitution 11 → Constitution 13!]
[Agility 11 → Agility 14!]
Even without a response, the door was pushed open.
The clerk walked in, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored dark suit, still carrying that same refined air.
In his hand, he held a rather large chest—nearly half a person tall—and it looked quite heavy.
Seeing Allen sitting upright, the clerk showed a hint of surprise.
"Mr. Prestor, you're already awake?"
Allen glanced at the chest and raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Clerk, does one gold coin really need a box that big?"
"Sir, I must remind you—Duskwood is very dangerous. Letting yourself be alone is not a wise choice."
The clerk smiled faintly. He casually set the chest on the floor, then unhurriedly adjusted his collar and cuffs, his movements as elegant as if he were seated in a noble salon.
"If you're relying on that foolish paladin downstairs, I'm afraid I must inform you—he's already asleep."
Allen let out a cold laugh and dropped the act. He pointed at the man's sleeve, his voice dripping with undisguised mockery: "I should've noticed earlier. I just didn't expect you to be so depraved—killing your employer's family, then strutting around in their clothes."
On the cuff of the clerk's dark suit was an inconspicuous emblem: a shield bearing three wavy diagonal stripes.
The coat of arms of House De Montmorency—this was their clothing.
Before losing consciousness, amidst countless traces, Allen had seen Stalvan's footprints leading all the way to the sheriff's office in Darkshire.
So in his mind palace, he replayed the moment he had first arrived in town. In that memory, he noticed that when the clerk saw their group, he had tugged at his sleeve—and this time, Allen saw the emblem on it.
The clerk's smile didn't change, but the eyes behind his lenses suddenly grew deep and unsettling.
"Tilloa gave this to me," he said softly, his tone carrying a morbid tenderness. "That day, she smiled at me and said it suited me. I knew—it was her confession. She loves me. She's just been misled by that crude young man… She needs time. Time to realize who truly understands her…"
He rambled on and on. As he spoke, he drew two daggers from his waist. The blades spun deftly in his hands, like two silver serpents weaving between his fingers.
Allen raised his hand and pointed straight at him.
Only one word left his lips: "Disgusting."
The moment the word fell—
Whoosh!
From the shadows of the room, an arrow shot out like a venomous snake, piercing straight through the clerk's throat in an instant.
Pfft! Blood sprayed everywhere.
The daggers clattered to the floor. The clerk clutched his throat as blood poured through his fingers.
"How… is this possible…"
He staggered a few steps, swaying, before collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud. He twitched twice, then fell completely still.
From beneath the bed, Varian crawled out, gripping his sword hilt, his face full of vigilance.
From under the blankets, Stella poked out her blue head, her little face flushed red from holding her breath as she gasped for air.
From the shadows, Wren stepped out slowly, the string of his bow still trembling faintly.
Just like that? Stalvan was dead just like that?
Half a day earlier, Allen had told Wren that the clerk they met while turning in the bounty was very likely Stalvan.
Coincidentally, the clerk had arranged to deliver the reward this very evening.
So Allen had asked Wren that after retrieving Stella and "Mathias," they should not return through the front door, but circle around instead.
Using Stella's goblin-style rocket boots, they leapt up from the woods behind the inn and infiltrated the room in silence.
Well—not entirely silent. At the very least, Varian had accidentally smashed through part of the ceiling when he misstepped with the rocket boots.
They had been asking around everywhere for Stalvan. The clerk must have long noticed what they were doing.
If he discovered himself alone, would he be unable to resist making a move?
Allen had originally planned to probe a bit further—after all, what if it was just a coincidence? What if the clerk happened to be wearing those clothes for some unrelated reason?
But he hadn't expected that once the other party found him alone, he would immediately drop the pretense.
It saved Allen some trouble.
Varian walked over to the corpse and, without hesitation, thrust his sword into its heart, stabbing a few more times just to be certain.
"Was it really this easy?" he asked, looking up in disbelief.
"That's normal," Wren said as she put away her bow. "He may be a pervert, but he's just a tutor. Being this weak makes sense."
Wait. No—that's not right.
Allen got off the bed, walked over to the corpse, and looked down at the clean, delicate face.
Something felt off.
In his previous life's game, Stalvan had been an elite monster even more troublesome than Mor'Ladim. But this Stalvan… his strength was far too ordinary—no different from a normal person.
With such mediocre skills, would he really have chosen this moment to reveal himself and attempt an assassination?
If I were him—just an ordinary person—and saw five seemingly powerful, mercenary-like individuals searching the entire town for me, I would immediately abandon Darkshire and continue fleeing.
Thinking this, Allen crouched down and lifted the pant leg of the corpse.
He saw several dark brown patches.
Not blood. Not wounds.
Those were…
[Perception Check: 16 — Success]
[You notice clear livor mortis on the corpse's ankle. The discoloration is deep and does not fade under pressure. Livor mortis typically appears several hours after death. Clearly, this corpse has been dead for some time.]
"No—this body wasn't killed by us. It was already dead!" What had been mere suspicion was now confirmed by the check result.
Varian looked confused.
"What do you mean it was already dead?"
Allen lifted the pant leg higher, showing the livor mortis.
"Look here—this corpse died a long time ago! We've been searching for Stalvan, and he conveniently delivers a 'Stalvan' right to us. My guess is he wanted us to believe Stalvan had already been executed. Once we leave, he can just live freely under another identity."
After examining the body, Wren fully agreed. She pushed open the window.
"Controlling a corpse—this is necromancy. He can't be far. The real one must be nearby."
Varian rushed to the window as well, straining his eyes into the distance.
A blurry figure far away suddenly turned, as if sensing something, and began to run.
"That's him!"
Varian shouted and leapt out the window without hesitation!
Wren followed immediately, her agile form flipping out like a hunting leopard.
Seeing everyone jump, Stella climbed onto the windowsill with her short legs, took a deep breath, and jumped as well.
Allen watched in shock as she opened a small parachute midair, floating gently downward.
"Hey! Don't rush ahead! Wait for me and Morgan!"
Watching the three of them disappear without stopping, Allen looked at the height of the second floor, took a deep breath, and tried to encourage himself.
Don't be afraid. You can do this. Jumping from buildings, parkour, chasing criminals—this is exactly the kind of thrilling adventure a fantasy story should have.
Just jump!
Come on!
A moment later, Allen jogged down the stairs instead, short sword in hand. He shook Morgan awake, who was sleeping downstairs.
"Still sleeping? Get up—we've got a fight!"
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