He slipped into a narrow side alley, boots tapping lightly against the cobblestone. The night swallowed him whole.
And then—he vanished.
---------
(Michael POV)
Michael pressed his palm against the stone wall, calling upon the familiar tug of mana.
[Skill: Shadow Swap]
The world warped for an instant, his body dissolving into darkness and reforming high above—inside the canopy of an old elm tree.
Leaves rustled softly around him as he crouched on the thick branch, silent and hidden. From up here, the alley stretched like a black ribbon beneath him.
He waited.
A moment later, four figures spilled into the alley from the street. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novel⁂fire.net
Draped in dark, assassin’s garb, their movements were sharp, disciplined. The moonlight caught on faint blades strapped to their thighs and curved daggers glinting at their belts.
Michael’s eyes narrowed. Their auras burned brighter than most of students as Fourth years dense, dangerous. At least C-rank strength, all four of them.
The leader raised a hand, and the group halted.
"Leader... where is that kid?" one whispered, his voice low and irritated. "He was just here. How can he suddenly disappear?"
Another clicked his tongue. "I was following his mana trace a moment ago, but it’s gone. Like it was cut off."
A third scoffed, muttering with a hint of frustration. "Ahh, this time we missed the cow."
Cow? Michael’s jaw tightened. So that’s how they see me? Just livestock to be herded and slaughtered?
The leader said nothing. His hood obscured most of his face, but his silence carried weight measured, calculating.
The first assassin spoke again. "Yeah... his aura was only around E-rank. His mana density was weak."
"Exactly," the second hissed. "That’s why I thought we’d get him easily. He had no guards, no protection. Just a kid with too much money on him."
The third spat on the ground. "Unlucky night, then."
Finally, the leader exhaled through his nose, low and sharp. "Enough. We’re leaving. Back to the stronghold."
The group exchanged reluctant nods.
And with a series of soft shoosh sounds, they disappeared into the shadows as quickly as they had come.
---
Michael didn’t move immediately. He remained crouched on the branch, eyes locked on the alley even after the assassins were gone. His breath came slow, steady only the faintest sheen of sweat on his palms betrayed the tension running through him.
That was close... too close.
If not for Shadow Swap, he’d already be in their hands or worse.
The designs on their cloaks, the way they moved, the cold professionalism of their whispers... there was no mistaking it.
The Heavenly Thieves Guild.
Michael’s eyes hardened.
A black-market syndicate. Parasitic scum who preyed on low-ranked hunters and careless nobles alike. Thieves, assassins, kidnappers ,they were all of it, wrapped in one name.
Michael finally let out the breath he’d been holding.
He leaned back against the thick bark of the tree, staring through the leaves at the empty alley below. The moonlight stretched long, broken shadows across the stones—shadows that had almost been his grave if he’d been careless.
So, the Heavenly Thieves Guild has a foothold here too.
He’d read about them in the game’s lore: a notorious underground guild that thrived in black markets, feeding off chaos like vultures. Their main trade was in stolen goods, assassination contracts, and "collecting debts" from anyone too weak to defend themselves.
And in the original story... Michael couldn’t recall them playing a big role this early.
His fingers tightened into a fist.
That means I’ve already diverged from the script again. Just by being here.
The guild targeting him meant one thing—they’d noticed his spending at the auction. It didn’t matter that he’d worn the Loki Mask to hide his identity. Wealth always drew predators.
"Damn it," Michael muttered under his breath.
He didn’t feel relief—only frustration. Every time he thought he was following the story safely, a detour appeared. Now he had assassins sniffing around him.
Still, he had to admit—he’d gotten lucky tonight.
If they’d realized he wasn’t just some random E-rank rich kid... things would’ve been different.
He adjusted the case in his lap, thumb brushing over the latch. Inside were the potions, the Sealing Gem, and a few other rare finds. No matter what, he couldn’t let them fall into the wrong hands.
Michael exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the stars peeking through the canopy.
I need to be more careful. From now on, every trip outside the Academy will carry risk.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"Lucky, huh? ...Feels more like I barely crawled out of a noose."
--------
The city gates were too dangerous. Walking back openly was out of the question.
Michael climbed down silently from the elm tree, boots meeting the cobblestone without a sound. He stuck to the walls, slipping through side streets where lanterns didn’t burn, every step guided by instinct and caution.
Eventually, the towering silhouette of the Hero Academy came into view. Gleaming spires rose against the night sky, the main entrance heavily guarded.
Michael paused in the shadow of an abandoned stall, observing.
Two guards leaned lazily on their halberds, chatting quietly about their shift and complaining about cold meals in the barracks. Their armor gleamed faintly under torchlight, and their eyes never strayed far from the gate.
No chance of walking through.
Michael’s lips thinned.
If I try to enter here, they’ll ask for a record of departure. And since I never signed out when I left...
He pictured it: questions, suspicion, maybe even a report to the professors. The last thing he needed was drawing attention to himself after slipping into a black market auction.
So he chose the other option.
The risky one.
Michael exhaled once, steadying his heartbeat. Then he waited.
A joke from one guard sent the other into a brief laugh. Their shoulders shook, their eyes half-closed.
That was enough.
Michael darted forward, hugging the wall, slipping into the blind spot created by the large torch mounted on the gatepost. He moved low, quick, silent. The edge of his cloak brushed the stone but not loud enough to catch attention.
A shadow passed, and he froze.
One guard turned, yawning loudly, scanning the darkness. His gaze swept over the spot Michael had just slipped past.
The boy’s breath stilled in his chest. His body pressed flat against the wall, as if willing himself to become part of it.
The guard muttered something about "damn cats" before turning back.
Michael slipped through.
He didn’t breathe until he was past the gate, back inside Academy grounds.
The familiar stone paths stretched ahead, leading toward the dormitories and the training fields. Lanterns cast pools of light across the grass, their glow soft and warm—so different from the suffocating darkness of the city.
Michael’s pace slowed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He was safe. For now.
As he walked along the path toward the Supreme Hall, something caught his eye.
The clang of steel.
A figure stood alone in the training ground, sword flashing under the moonlight. Sweat glistened on his arms and back. He swung again and again, but the blade trembled, the form sloppy.
Michael stopped, watching quietly.
The boy wasn’t skilled. His stance was off, his strikes lacked flow. But his effort was undeniable every motion fueled by stubborn persistence, as if trying to carve strength into himself through sheer repetition.
Michael’s lips curved faintly.
Even late at night... some people keep fighting forward. Doesn’t matter how ugly it looks.
For a brief moment, he thought about walking over. Offering advice, maybe even correcting the boy’s grip.
But he didn’t.
Not tonight. He’d already had enough chaos for one day.
Michael turned away, the case heavy in his hand. His mind wasn’t on sword swings or training anymore.
Then he turned around and walk towards the supreme Hall and take lift to his floor.
He arrives infront of the door of his room.
The soft click of the keycard sliding into the lock echoed louder than it should have in the silent corridor.
Michael pushed the door open with his shoulder, half stumbling inside. The air of his private dorm greeted him is a cool, still, and faintly carrying the sterile scent of the Academy’s automated cleaning system.
He didn’t bother turning on the lights at first. Just stood there in the doorway for a moment, letting the shadows wrap around him. After the noise, the heat, the flashing lights, and the suffocating tension of the Auction House, this darkness felt like a reprieve.
Finally, with a sigh that came from deeper than his lungs, he stepped in. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing away the world.
Michael tugged loose the strap of his jacket, tossing it over the sofa carelessly. His throat was dry like ash.
He grabbed the glass pitcher from the counter, filled a cup, and downed it in one long gulp. The water was cold, crisp, but even as it slid down his throat, he couldn’t shake the taste of iron and smoke from earlier.
"...What a damn day." His voice was a rasp, barely audible.
He sank onto the sofa, letting his weight drop into it. The cushions gave, and his muscles loosened all at once. For the first time in hours, he let his guard fall even if just a little.