High on his progress and still feeling the faint afterglow of victory from the S-class dungeon, Fenrir made his way back home.
His clothes were torn and singed in places, and the Mystica Herba was safely tucked into a reinforced flask in his bag.
The road ahead of him was clear—for now. With the herb in his possession, he was one major step closer to recreating the potion that had once propelled him to the top of the tower.
But as he turned the corner into his quiet street, Fenrir slowed. Someone was standing near his front door.
He squinted. A familiar figure—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in casual combat gear and looking very out of place in this part of the city.
Fenrir's expression shifted, and without hesitation, he drew the shortblade at his side.
"Rick. You've got three seconds to explain why you're standing outside my house like some second-rate stalker."
He called, his voice low and wary.
Rick sighed, lifting both hands in mock surrender.
