Chapter 6: A Thief, A Plan, and A Really Bad Idea

Why do I keep getting into these situations?

That thought ran through my head repeatedly as Ryn and I stood outside a rundown warehouse near the docks—the Crimson Fangs’ hideout.

The building was exactly what you’d expect from a den of criminals: weathered wood, boarded-up windows, and the occasional armed thug loitering around. A faint glow of lanterns seeped through the cracks, and from inside, we could hear drunken laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional curse.

“Tell me,” I said, keeping my voice low, “why are we standing out here instead of, I don’t know, running in the opposite direction?”

Ryn grinned. “Because you agreed to help.”

I groaned. “I was tricked.”

“That’s just how partnerships work.”

I gave him a flat look. “That is absolutely not how partnerships work.”

“Too late to back out now,” he said cheerfully.

I sighed. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Ryn pulled out a folded scrap of parchment and laid it flat against a nearby crate. It was a crude map of the warehouse’s interior.

“The Fangs are keeping the grimoire in a strongbox somewhere inside,” he explained. “Problem is, they’ve got men posted at every entrance. We can’t just walk in.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So we’re sneaking in?”

“Not exactly.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

Ryn smirked. “We’re going to hire someone to do the sneaking for us.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at a rickety table in one of Bellmare’s less reputable taverns. The place reeked of cheap ale and desperation, but it was where you went when you needed questionable help.

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Across from us sat Lena, a rogue-for-hire. She was a slender woman with sharp green eyes, dark leather armor, and an expression that said she was already regretting this conversation.

“You want me to steal from the Crimson Fangs?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Ryn said smoothly.

Lena stared at him. Then she turned to me. “Is he insane?”

“Probably.”

She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Do you two have a death wish? Because robbing those bastards is a very quick way to get one.”

“Which is why we’re paying you,” Ryn said, sliding a small pouch across the table.

Lena opened it and whistled. “This is… more than I expected.”

“Because it’s very dangerous,” I pointed out.

Lena studied us for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But if this goes south, I’m pinning it on you two.”

“Deal.”

That night, we returned to the warehouse. Lena had already scouted ahead, mapping out the guards’ patrol routes and finding a weak spot in their security—a second-floor window with a broken latch.

“Once I’m in,” she whispered, crouching beside us, “I’ll find the grimoire and toss it down to you. But if I get caught?” She shot us a glare. “You’re on your own.”

“Noted,” I muttered.

With a grace that made me question if she was even human, Lena scaled the side of the warehouse and slipped in through the window.

Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“… Shouldn’t she be back by now?” I whispered after what felt like an eternity.

Ryn frowned. “Something’s wrong.”

Before I could ask what, a loud crash echoed from inside the warehouse.

“Oh no.”

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Lena came sprinting out—holding the grimoire.

“RUN!” she shouted.

Behind her, half a dozen armed mercenaries came pouring out, weapons drawn.

“Damn it!” Ryn cursed. “Time to go!”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

We bolted.

The Crimson Fangs weren’t the fastest, but they knew these streets better than we did. As we raced through alleyways and side streets, I could hear them shouting orders, trying to cut us off.

“This was a terrible idea!” I yelled between breaths.

“You say that like we had any good ones!” Ryn shot back.

Ahead of us, Lena suddenly skidded to a halt. “Blockade!”

I followed her gaze. Sure enough, two mercenaries were blocking the street.

We were trapped.

“This is fine,” Ryn said, far too casually.

“This is not fine,” I snapped.

Lena gritted her teeth. “No choice. We fight.”

I had never been in a real fight before. Sure, I had written plenty of fight scenes, but writing and doing were two very different things.

The first mercenary lunged at me. I barely dodged, stumbling back as his blade slashed the air where I had just been.

Lena, meanwhile, had already taken down the second guard with a precise strike to the back of the knee. Ryn fought with a speed I hadn’t expected, using quick feints and counters to keep his opponent off balance.

I, on the other hand, was flailing.

The mercenary swung again, and this time I had no choice but to raise my arm to block. Pain shot through me as his blade scraped against the bracer on my wrist.

Then, instinct kicked in.

I moved without thinking—sidestepping his next strike and slamming my elbow into his gut. He doubled over, and I followed up with a wild punch to his jaw.

To my utter shock, he went down.

I stared at my fist. “Huh.”

“No time to be impressed with yourself!” Ryn shouted, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go!”

Lena had already disappeared down a side alley. We ran after her, our pursuers fading behind us.

We didn’t stop running until we reached the outskirts of Bellmare. Only then did we finally collapse onto the grass, gasping for breath.

Lena tossed the grimoire onto the ground between us. “Next time you need a job done,” she wheezed, “find someone else.”

Ryn grinned. “Noted.”

I just groaned.

As I lay there, staring up at the night sky, only one thought ran through my head:

This world is going to kill me.