When Soren brought Vivian back to the slums, he spent three copper Dalers on a loaf of black bread as thick as his forearm. The stuff was hard enough to bludgeon a burglar with -- the lower poor ground unhulled rye straight into flour, husk and all, and the crude result came riddled with wood shavings and worse. Once it cooled, it set like a club. The only way to choke it down was to saw it open with a knife and soak the pieces in hot water.

  Plenty of people in this world had turned to crime simply because they couldn't stomach food like this.

  That was how many a thief got his start -- Soren included.

  Perhaps it was because this world felt more real than the game ever had. Or perhaps it was the small girl sitting across from him. Whatever the reason, Soren was calmer and more deliberate than the old version of himself would have been. He cut the black bread carefully, softened it in hot water, and handed the first piece to Vivian. Then he bit into his own share, endured the woody, sawdust texture, and swallowed without complaint.

  It wasn't that he had no way to get money.

  But he knew exactly what would happen if he got caught.

  This wasn't a game anymore.

  He was no longer a player. In this strange yet familiar world, he had to answer for his own choices -- and more importantly, for the small girl beside him. Amber City had plenty of powerful professionals. The city guards all carried class templates of at least Militia 10 / Warrior 3 or higher. Unless he raised his Theft skill above 75, there was still a real chance of being spotted.

  Getting caught stealing meant the dungeon. If the mark happened to be a noble, it could mean a broken arm.

  The bread had no salt. The texture was barely tolerable. But Vivian ate happily, because she was a girl of small expectations.

  And she was truly, desperately hungry.

  As long as her brother was beside her, everything would be all right.

  The strain of the past two weeks had worn the little girl to the bone. All she wanted now was to stay close to her brother and quietly disappear into his shadow -- a small, unremarkable girl that nobody would bother with.

  "Tomorrow," Soren said, stroking her hair, "I'll buy you something good to eat."

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. His voice was steady, certain. "Everything's going to be all right."

  "Mm." Vivian nodded softly.

  If there was one person in this world who held her trust without reservation, it was her brother. He had been her shelter since she was three years old -- the one constant in a life that offered none.

  She still remembered being very, very small, back when he came home hurt almost every day. She hadn't known how to do anything then. All she could do was cry, useless and afraid, and her brother -- face bruised and swollen -- would always tell her the same thing.

  Everything will be all right.

  Later they stopped sleeping in the streets. They finally had a small place of their own in the chaos of the slums.

  Everything will be all right.

  The girl had just turned eight. She understood little of the world, but she understood this: as long as her brother was here, he would protect her.

  That was enough.

  Soren watched her sleep. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

  She was utterly spent. An eight-year-old girl surviving half a month alone in this hellhole -- it was a miracle she'd held together at all.

  She probably hadn't slept soundly a single night since he'd fallen.

  Soren lifted the loose floorboard and drew a dagger from the hidden compartment beneath it. Lamplight slid along the blade, and his smile turned cold.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The men who'd dared set their sights on Vivian were overdue for a visit.

  Night fell quietly over the slums.

  Darkness swallowed the district whole. Only a handful of lights still burned -- the brightest of them spilling from the Furnace Tavern, one of the few indulgences the poor could afford. A single copper Daler bought a tall mug of watered-down malt beer that tasted like something a bird left behind, but for the wretches down here, it passed for luxury. Beside the tavern stood a row of low shacks where five more coppers could buy a man a brief, joyless escape with a woman who was, at best, identifiable as female.

  Outside the Furnace Tavern, the alleyways branched into darkness.

  Few ventured down them after sundown. This was where the city's dregs prowled -- and the slums were full of passages just like these. Once night fell, anyone with a shred of sense stayed behind a locked door.

  Inside the tavern, the noise was deafening.

  Dock workers nursing their aches. Gang members with faces like clenched fists. Drifters and bottom-feeders of every stripe. The loudest topic of the evening was the turf war between the two local gangs, though a scarred, wiry man near the bar was holding court on a different subject -- how some idiots had actually tried to sell Vivian while Soren was down, and now that Soren was awake, those idiots were in for a very bad time.

  The scarred man shot a meaningful look toward the corner of the room.

  Two men sat there.

  Balas and Canopo -- the pair who'd tried to snatch Vivian and deliver her to Sossia. One of them walked with a pronounced limp, a souvenir from Hiss's teeth during their first attempt.

  "Let's go," Balas muttered, casting a dark glance around the tavern. "Back to the house. We'll figure out how to deal with Soren."

  Canopo drained the last of his cheap beer. He was a miserly man who never wasted a drop.

  They'd already pocketed Sossia's deposit days ago. If they failed to deliver the girl, someone would come collecting soon enough. Backing out was no longer an option. And Soren had always valued his sister above his own life -- if these two had moved against her, he would never let it go.

  A gust of cold wind pushed through the tavern door.

  The drinkers grumbled and cursed, then turned to find Balas and Canopo already gone.

  The moon hung overhead, gray and sickly.

  The two men shivered as they stepped outside. Maybe it was the drink, or maybe it was the cold -- either way, Balas ducked straight into a narrow alley to relieve himself against the wall.

  This was the slums. People pissed in alleys. They did worse than that in alleys.

  He was loosening his belt when he caught the rhythmic creak of bedsprings from one of the shacks beside the tavern. He swore under his breath in a Qiebei dialect.

  His expression was grim. Perhaps he was thinking about Soren.

  Then every hair on his body stood on end.

  Something shifted in the dark corner of the alley -- a shadow that didn't belong.

  His hand shot toward the small of his back, where he kept a dagger.

  Too late.

  Soren materialized from the gloom as if he'd been part of it. There was no telling how long he'd been waiting. A blade flashed once, cold and precise, and buried itself in Balas's back.

  A hand clamped over the man's mouth, swallowing the scream before it could form.

  Balas dropped.

  Soren withdrew the dagger without expression and wiped it clean on the dead man's shirt.

  Data scrolled across his vision:

  Shadow Lurk successful.

  Backstab triggered. Critical x2 -- 12 damage dealt.

  Target eliminated.

  Soul energy extracted. Kill Experience gained: 30.

  He was only a level-one rogue, but a successful backstab still dealt double assassination damage. An ordinary slum dweller had roughly five hit points. Even Soren, with his high Constitution of 15, only possessed twelve hit points after advancing to Rogue 1 -- a common thug was more than enough to drop in a single strike.

  Against anyone who wasn't a classed professional, Soren could kill with ease.

  The faint sounds from the alley made Canopo freeze. A chill ran through him. He called into the dark. "Balas?"

  No answer.

  He hesitated, then crept closer, peering into the shadows. If something looked wrong, he'd bolt.

  A figure kicked off the alley wall and launched into the air. With Dexterity at nineteen, Soren could vault onto a first-story rooftop without aid. He came down on Canopo like a hunting cat -- one hand seizing the man's throat, cutting off his cry, the force of impact slamming him to the ground. A flash of steel. The dagger opened Canopo's throat, then drove in through the front of his chest and found the heart.

  Soren pinned him until the convulsions stopped. Only then did he rise.

  Blood covered him.

  He frowned, looked himself over, then fished a coin purse from the corpse and tucked the dagger away.

  The two thugs hadn't carried much -- five silver Dalers and a couple dozen coppers between them. On Balas, he found a packet of cheap poison. Probably meant for Hiss.

  "Roughly equivalent to a first-tier adventurer," Soren murmured, glancing at his own palm.

  Then his figure dissolved into the shadows, and he was gone.

  This was a rogue's stealth -- the art of hiding within darkness itself. Before leaving tonight, Soren had poured every available skill point into Stealth. At 45, he could blur into the shadows, silent and indistinct, invisible to most ordinary eyes. At 100, he could vanish entirely within any patch of darkness. At 150, the effect approached true invisibility -- a man could stand directly before you and you'd never know. At 200, even shadows became unnecessary. The rogue simply ceased to exist.

  The Furnace Tavern carried on, loud and oblivious.

  It wasn't until some stumbling drunk wandered out that anyone discovered the two bodies at the mouth of the alley, already cold.

  No one raised an alarm. No one investigated.

  This was the slums. Death was nothing new here.

  Someone would deal with the corpses by morning.