He sat motionless for a long while, hunched within the fragile shell of his beggar's disguise—eyes obscured beneath a veil of wrinkles and illusion.
Beneath it, Kyle's mind was anything but still.
Plans formed. Collapsed. Rebuilt. Discarded.
This route had too many guards.
That path demanded a distraction he couldn't afford.
The sea was suicide.
The front gate was madness.
Every blueprint he crafted—woven from boldness, luck, and relic-fueled trickery—unraveled under the crushing weight of uncertainty.
His fingers tightened around his cane.
Was he really doing all this… just to save money?
A seized ship. An unpaid fine. An escape plotted like a grand heist.
Was it even worth it?
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
For the first time since setting foot on this cursed island, doubt crept in—cold and insidious, sliding down his spine like a blade.
What was he doing?
Had he crossed the line into obsession? Into lunacy?
Was this truly about the ship… or something else entirely?
Pride.
The refusal to lose.
Or worse—habit.
Had he lived like this for so long that he no longer knew how to stop?
His jaw tightened.
Should he have asked that brute for help?
The thought alone conjured Emil's smug expression—
No.
He'd rather die.
Besides… how would he even find him now?
He's probably already lost—
Wait.
Should I have given him the map?
The question died as quickly as it came, smothered beneath a rising wave of frustration. Regret followed close behind, creeping toward something far more dangerous—self-loathing.
Then—
Movement.
The behemoth.
He came steppiñg down from the observation tower.
His path the Main exit of the dock. Kyle's eyes, once dull with frustration, flared instantly with sharp, renewed light. He blinked. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. Blinked again.
Gone.
One major variable—eliminated.
And not just eliminated.
No… This wasn't just good luck.
This was an opportunity.
The corner of Kyle's mouth lifted, just barely. The gleam in his eye returned, sharp as the blade of one of the many daggers hidden in his void pendant.
Not only was the biggest threat leaving the area—but Kyle could already feel it, the gears of chance turning in his favor. The brute wasn't just gone.
He was about to become the key.
The perfect tool to open a locked door.
*****
The behemoth's footsteps grew louder, heavier with each thunderous stride across the stone path. Kyle—still cloaked in the frail guise of a hunched, brittle hag—watched intently, every movement imprinted into the meticulous folds of his mind. The man's gait was wide and commanding, the kind that demanded space and attention. His shoulders rolled with coiled tension, and his breath came in quiet, deliberate puffs like a soldier surveying a battlefield.
The Eye of Misfortune pulsed faintly beneath Kyle's left lid—first a shimmer, then a glow, then a searing red pulse of warning that spread like embers through his temple. It was screaming at him now—disaster ahead, abort, turn back.
But Kyle didn't budge.
He never did when it mattered most.
Let the omens wail and the eye bleed warning fire—he'd gambled against fate before and lived. What was one more roll of the dice?
He leaned into the illusion, stooping lower in his rags, shoulders shaking with feigned fragility. As the towering brute neared the gate—mere paces from where Kyle slumped like forgotten refuse—he raised one quivering hand, gnarled and liver-spotted by illusion magic. His voice, delicate and withered, cracked the air like brittle glass.
"Spare a coin, kind sir... the gods bless those with soft hearts…"
The words slithered out like a soft chant, bait dipped in performance. He didn't need much—just a word. A sound. A breath. Anything that would let him mimic the voice, cadence, and tone. The illusion ring could handle the rest.
The behemoth slowed, boots scuffing against the stone. His head tilted, eyes narrowing.
A hard, piercing glare bored down into Kyle with the weight of a hammer held just inches above his skull. There was suspicion in that gaze. Sharpness. Awareness.
Kyle felt the Eye of Misfortune surge again, a blinding red flash behind his eye socket, more intense than before. The message was clear now—Turn back or lose everything.
Still, he didn't flinch.
Not an inch.
Because Kyle wasn't just chasing luck. He was about to bend misfortune to his will.
******
Mount grumbled, his voice a guttural rumble from deep within his chest.
"You're not supposed to be here…"
His gaze drilled into the hunched figure before him—scrutinizing, sharp, and edged with suspicion. Even with the full weight of his armored bulk looming over the "elderly woman," he didn't move closer. Instead, his voice—gruff and laced with quiet menace—cut through the tension like a drawn blade.
"Old lady," he added, his tone jagged, as if daring the words to ring false.
Kyle's pulse skipped. The voice was too low, too muffled through the brute's helm. The timbre wasn't clear enough—not yet—to accurately mimic. But he kept up the charade, feigning confusion with a frail rasp, head cocked to one side as if her hearing had long faded with age.
"I... I didn't quite hear you, kind sir... Are you gonna help this old lady, or must I keep wandering... cold and hungry...?"
Mount's reply boomed louder this time, the vibrations finally escaping the confines of his helmet. The sound echoed across the empty stretch of Dock E.
"I said you're not supposed to be here! Dock E is a restricted zone." His voice crackled with controlled ire. "And you being here is interfering with an ongoing operation. Now leave!"
Kyle nearly cracked.
For a moment, he felt the tug of laughter rise unbidden to his throat. Gods above, he hadn't expected such a perfect yield. Not only had the brute spoken clearly—he'd offered far more than Kyle had even hoped for. Cadence, tone, phrasing, inflection. It was all there now—complete.
Still, the sharp edge in Mount's tone demanded care. One slip and the ruse would dissolve. So Kyle bowed his trembling head, voice meek and pitiful.
"Oh… I meant no trouble, kind sir… Just trying to survive another day..."
Mount huffed. A flicker of discomfort passed through his eyes before he reached into his side pouch and—surprisingly—tossed her a gold coin.
"Then survive somewhere else," he muttered. "And don't let me catch you 'round here again."
Kyle caught the coin with a soft clink, tucked it into his robe, and gave a slight bow—half genuine, half mock.
"Bless your kind heart, sonny... bless you," he croaked, slowly staggering off in the direction of the outer piers, arms shaking, back hunched.
Mount lingered, casting one final look over his shoulder. Suspicion remained in his eyes—a flickering flame not yet snuffed out. But after a moment, he turned away and continued down the path toward the city, his heavy steps fading into the distance.
Kyle waited until the sound was gone.
Then he smiled.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—could describe the satisfaction burning through his chest.