Chapter 13 – The Tainted Breed

It had been over a month since an unusual guest took up long-term residence at Bron Brothers’ Rest, an inn operated by the former mercenaries, Freeman and Saker.
In all the years since opening their doors, none had stayed as long without interruption. For the Bron brothers, this guest was not merely another lodger—he was a small miracle.

Given their backgrounds, it was only natural that mercenaries frequented the place. Connections drew them like moths to flame.
Ordinary travelers, however, often found the constant racket too much to bear.
Mercenaries came and went—two days, five at most—before duty called them back to the road, to war, to contracts soaked in steel and blood.

But this one… this Curtis  had remained.
Over a month of quiet presence. No complaints. No trouble.
He mingled not as one above or below the others but walked among them, showing neither contempt nor fear—only a curious ear and open eyes.

“How odd,” Freeman murmured one day, wiping his hands on a rag as the sun slanted through the tavern window.

“What’s that now?” Saker tilted his head.

“Our long-term guest. Just crossed my mind.”

“You mean Curtis ?”

“Aye.”

“He said he was a traveler.”

Freeman folded his arms, brow furrowed. “Nigerte isn’t exactly a city one explores for over a month.”

Saker shrugged. “To each their own. Maybe he’s thinking of settling.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, whatever it is—it’s his business. If he wants to tell us, he will. If not, so be it.”

Freeman let out a soft chuckle and nodded in agreement. Saker was right.
They were friendly, yes—but not close enough to pry. And besides, it was only curiosity—not suspicion—that sparked the question.

Ding—

The bell above the inn’s door gave its soft chime.

Both brothers turned as if summoned by spell.

There, stepping through the threshold with his usual calm, was the very man they had just spoken of: Curtis .

“Of course it’s you. Like clockwork,” Saker greeted him with a grin.

Curtis , brushing dust from his shoulders, offered a warm smile in return.
“I always seem to return just in time for hunger to strike.”

“You’ve spoiled yourself. Try too many places and you’ll realize ours is the best for the coin.”

Curtis  laughed. “The secret stays in the kitchen, I swear.”

Saker chuckled. Freeman stepped forward with a nod. “Going to wash up?”

“Yes.”

“Water’s ready. Take soap. If you’ve laundry, toss it out.”

“Ever grateful.”

With a nod, Curtis  ascended the stairs, retrieved a change of clothes, and returned.

Behind the inn stood a modest, semi-outdoor bath area—partitioned stalls, a large cistern, and buckets for scooping water.
There was the option of a private bathhouse with hot water—if one paid extra—but with summer fast approaching, few opted for it.

Sssshhh—

Water surged upward in a graceful arc, manipulated by Curtis ’s spell, cascading down upon him like a summoned waterfall.
He needed no bucket—his hands shaped the water like a master potter with clay.

The scentless soap scrubbed away the sweat and dust of the day.
Of all the hours in a day, this was the most refreshing.

“Haa…”

His body was clean, but his spirit remained troubled.

It had become a familiar state.

He smiled for the Bron brothers, played the part, but behind his eyes a storm brewed in silence.

At least… the danger from the family seems to be past.

He hadn’t exactly been hiding, but neither had he shouted his name from the rooftops.
If the House of Plagius had truly sent someone to find him, they would have by now.

A full month had passed. Not once had he sensed a shadow tailing him. Not once had steel sought his throat in the night.

That was the entire reason he had chosen Nigerte—a city so far from the Sun Isles that its very name was unknown to most of their kin.
No trade. No messengers. No whispers shared between nobles over wine.

Unless the Plagius family unleashed a flood of gold or dispatched hounds by the dozen, they would never find him here.

Still, Curtis  had acted with caution—not out of fear, but the quiet dread that fate might pull the thread of the impossible.

So he’d played the part of a man on leave.
Learning to live without the chains of servitude.
Watching the lives of common folk.
Listening to rumors and gossip.
Breathing, for once, as a man rather than a shadow behind nobility.

Nothing had happened.

And perhaps now… nothing would.

He could finally let the past die.

But it wasn’t the family that troubled him now.

[Flowweaving Lv. 39]
[Progress to Next Level: 31%]

When he had arrived in Nigerte over a month ago, he was already level 39.
And now—he still was.

The signs had begun near the end of his voyage.

For days, he had leveled steadily—gaining a level a day, each motion of water guiding him upward.
But the moment he reached 39, the progress slowed to a crawl.
Not even a single percent.

At first, he dismissed it—a plateau, a lull.
Perhaps he had pushed too hard, or needed a break.
He waited.

But the days passed. Weeks, now.

And still, he remained at 39.

His once-thundering ascent had turned to a whisper. A drip.

One percent in a day?
He would be lucky to gain one-tenth of that.

If this continued…

Only two possibilities came to mind.

The first?
This was the edge of his power—his limit.
If so… then no effort, no will, no struggle would push him further.

And if that was true—

It would mean the end of his journey.