While Equus was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, Clayton was feeling troubled for a different reason—not because he knew Equus had uncovered the truth about Hank's death, but because of an increasingly intense sense of being watched.
Earlier, when Clayton had reached the outskirts of the outer ring's city center, he had briefly felt the surveillance on him vanish. It brought a fleeting sense of relief, like a heavy weight lifting from his chest. But mere steps later, the unsettling feeling returned—stronger than ever.
Clayton clenched his jaw. He wanted to tear someone apart. Still, he forced himself to act normal, even as his mind swirled with questions.
"Just how many people are watching me?" he muttered under his breath.
From the moment he stepped into the city center, Clayton had sensed prying eyes. At first, he assumed it was a single faction. But now, his instincts told him otherwise—there were multiple, unrelated parties keeping tabs on him.
He clicked his tongue in frustration.
"Why do all these powerful people have so much time to mess with a low-level magic apprentice like me?"
With every step, his vigilance heightened. His nerves screamed ambush. And sure enough—just as he passed a narrow alleyway, the dreadful sensation peaked.
"Fire Magic—Fireball Spell!"
"Sword Technique—Spinning Slash!"
Two attacks launched simultaneously. A blazing fireball shot toward Clayton, followed by twin slashes from knights flanking him on both sides.
His eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he activated Water Circulation Armor.
A deafening explosion rocked the alley. Dust and shards of stone filled the air, shrouding everything in a blinding haze.
As the dust cleared, Clayton's figure emerged—still standing. His shimmering blue armor clung tightly to his body, both hands gripping the attackers' swords.
The mage who had cast the fireball gaped in disbelief.
"Impossible! He just reached One-Star Apprentice level, right? How the hell is he tanking attacks meant for a Three-Star?"
This was Shameless Blaze, a notorious bandit who prowled the city's fringes. He usually worked with the twin swordsmen, Mese and Sole.
Despite the city's strict laws, thugs like them thrived in the shadows. Their M.O. was simple: isolate, strike, vanish. They called themselves the Three Musketeers, claiming to rob the rich and help the poor. In truth, they preyed on weaker mages and knights.
Their attacks were always calculated. They hunted only when certain their target was weaker.
Clayton stared them down. "Who are you? Why are you attacking me?"
Blaze scoffed. The idea of a One-Star asking questions mid-fight was almost funny.
"Us? We're your personal grim reapers, brat. Say hello to hell!"
Another fireball hurtled toward him.
Clayton frowned. He wasn't sure what move to make next—but hesitation meant death. He dodged.
The twins charged again, blades gleaming. Outnumbered and outclassed, Clayton fought defensively. His Water Circulation Armor absorbed most of the blows and gave him a narrow window to counterattack.
But each strike depleted his mana. The armor needed fresh water to regenerate, and that demand grew with every hit.
He made a quick decision: eliminate Blaze first.
But Blaze wasn't idle. A Wall of Fire erupted in front of him.
Clayton didn't slow down. He charged through the flames.
Blaze blinked, then laughed.
"Figures. This brat's an idiot. That water armor won't hold up against real fire."
He expected to hear screams. Maybe smell burnt flesh. But instead—
Clayton burst through the fire, his weapon drawn—its tip pressed firmly against Blaze's throat.
Blaze froze.
Clang!
The twins reacted just in time, intercepting Clayton's strike with crossed blades.
He was locked in place. Blaze began chanting, charging up his deadliest spell.
But before he could finish—
Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!
Four water bullets struck critical points on the trio. Not fatal, but enough to stagger them.
Clayton broke free.
Swoosh!
Three heads flew into the air, landing with a sickening thud beside their headless bodies.
Clayton stood motionless, stunned. Then a wave of nausea hit him.
He turned and vomited.
Gritting his teeth, he scrambled to collect his belongings, wiped away what traces he could, and fled the scene.
Moments later, uniformed officers arrived to investigate the alley. But by then, the killer was long gone.
Clayton staggered through the streets, pale and trembling.
"Ugh… that was disgusting," he groaned, the image of decapitated bodies burned into his memory.
He forced himself onward. No more trouble—he needed peace.
Thankfully, the rest of the journey passed without incident. When he finally reached his home, he slumped against the doorframe and sighed in relief.
After resting for a while, Clayton began inspecting the loot from the battle.
He had acquired seven spatial pouches: One with a 3-cubic-meter capacity, Two with 1-cubic-meter capacity, Four with 0.5 cubic meters.
The contents were staggering: 20 lower-tier magic crystals, 3 magic wands, 4 knight swords, 2 magic robes, 3 full armor sets, 10 books, Various ores and unknown materials And several other miscellaneous items.
It was obvious—this was all stolen property. Clayton was stunned by how much wealth had been packed into just a few bags.
No wonder people used to say: "The fastest path to riches is through robbery."
Now, he understood the truth behind those words. But he had no desire to walk that path.
It clashed with his morals—and more importantly, the risk was far too high.
He had just begun sorting the loot when—
Knock, knock.
Clayton froze.
His heartbeat spiked.
"Is this it? Have the real masterminds behind those bandits come to take revenge...?"