Splinter - Point Zero

Part 5

I bolted from my spot so fast it was as if I’d spent my entire life running from armed bastards. Though, judging by the reflexes of this scrawny body, that was exactly what its previous owner had done.

I flew into a narrow gap between two merchant stalls, nearly bowling over some old woman with a basket of turnips. A dull thud and a string of colorful curses echoed behind me—it seemed the scarred man had tripped over a discarded crate, but he quickly regained his balance.

"Stop, you runt! I'll spill your guts!" he roared, rapidly closing the distance.

He had long legs and wasn't suffering from chronic starvation. My head start was evaporating before my eyes.

«Warning. Target 'Thug with a knife' is approaching. Distance: seven meters. Six. Five. I recommend increasing your speed, User. Or should I start searching my database for instructions on how to stitch stab wounds with dirty thread?»

"I'm already... running... as fast as I can!" I wheezed, feeling my lungs beginning to burn. An Endurance of "2" was certainly better than "1", but it was clearly not cut out for a marathon.

I burst back out into the main market square. The crowd here was denser. I began weaving between the shoppers, ducking under the elbows of burly men and dodging handcarts.

I needed to create an obstacle. Running past a stall selling some sort of foul-smelling pickled vegetables in massive wooden vats, I grabbed the edge of the flimsy plank serving as the counter with both hands and yanked it toward me.

There was a loud c***k, the board tilted, and one of the vats tipped over with a wet splat right at my pursuer's feet. A puddle of foul-smelling brine mixed with slippery cabbage spilled across the cobblestones.

The scarred man flailed his arms, slipped, and crashed back-first into a neighboring pottery stall. The crash of breaking clay drowned out his cursing.

"Stop, thief!" the vegetable vendor shrieked, pointing a thick finger at me. "Guards! Grab him!"

I didn't stop to explain that I hadn't stolen anything and was merely engaging in vandalism for self-defense purposes.

Drawn by the commotion, three guards rounded the corner. They looked like local knockoffs of Musketeers: blue woolen cloaks, wide-brimmed hats, rapiers at their sides, and long, heavy muskets in their hands. Seeing a running ragamuffin (me) and a screaming merchant, they instantly jumped to the obvious conclusion.

"In the name of the King! Halt, scum!" barked the patrol leader, raising his musket.

«Situation analysis: critical. Appearance of the city guard. Smoothbore muskets, low accuracy, but at this distance, they could hit you by sheer luck. Furthermore, there is a dead end of grouped carts ahead. There is only one way out—up.»

"Up? Are you crazy? I'm not Spider-Man!"

«You have no choice. To your right is a stack of empty birdcages. Use them as a ladder. I will highlight the optimal route. Move it, Splinter!»

The saving interface instantly flared before my eyes. Reality was overlaid with a translucent grid, and bright green markers appeared on the stacked wooden cages.

I swerved sharply to the right. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would shatter my ribs. Leaping onto the first cage, I felt it crunch ominously under my weight, but it held. A step, a pull-up, another step.

"He's going for the roof! Shoot him down!" a guard's voice echoed from below.

A deafening gunshot rang out. A cloud of bluish gunpowder smoke blanketed the street. A bullet slammed into the wooden wall half a meter from my head with a nasty whine, showering me with splinters.

"Motherfucker!" I yelled, hauling my body over the edge of the sloping tiled roof with one desperate heave.

The soles of my oversized shoes slipped on the rain-slicked clay tiles. I started sliding down, frantically digging my bloody fingernails into the gaps.

«Lower your center of gravity! Spread yourself flat against the surface! Left foot half a meter to the right, there's a foothold!»

I instinctively obeyed the System's voice. My foot found the chipped edge of a tile, and the sliding stopped. I hung at the edge of the roof, breathing heavily, while the crowd raged below.

"Got away, the little rat!" a guard spat angrily, reloading his musket. "Well, to hell with him. He'll break his neck anyway."

The scarred thug, apparently deciding not to mess with the guards, had quietly melted into the crowd, leaving me alone with the wet rooftops of the Lower City.

I carefully crawled upward, toward the ridge of the roof. The rain had intensified, turning an already dangerous surface into an icy slide.

Reaching the very top, I swung my legs over to the other side and sat down, hugging my knees. I was shaking. Whether from the cold or an adrenaline overdose, I wasn't sure.

The view from here was impressive, though depressing. An endless sea of crooked, sagging roofs from which brick chimneys jutted out, spewing thick black smoke. Down below, in the narrow ravines of the streets, people swarmed, looking from up here like ants in a dirty anthill.

"So what now?" I asked aloud, wiping my wet face with a dirty sleeve. "Are we going to live on the roof, like Carlson?"

«Given your physique, you'd need to eat about a ton of jam before you resemble Carlson,» EVA replied. «But the maneuver wasn't bad. The System recorded a non-standard use of your muscular frame under extreme conditions.»

Ding!

Skill [Parkour] is not unlocked due to insufficient physical stats. But you tried. Attribute Agility increased by 1! Current value: 5.

"At least it's something," I grumbled, feeling my body become slightly more responsive and my movements less jerky. "Alright, we need to get down. I'll get soaked to the bone and die of pneumonia if I stay up here."

«Agreed. Plotting a route. Move west along the roof ridge. Three houses down, there's a gentle slope leading to an annex. From there, you can safely jump down into an enclosed courtyard.»

I got to my feet. Balancing on the narrow ridge turned out to be surprisingly easy—apparently, the 'five' in Agility was making itself felt, and EVA was highlighting safe footholds in green. I walked with my arms spread wide, like a tightrope walker in a freak show.

Crossing over two roofs, I reached the designated slope. Below, I could indeed see a small, cobblestone-paved courtyard. It was empty, save for a couple of wooden barrels and a broken cart leaning against the wall.

I carefully slid down the tiles, hung by my hands from the edge of the gutter, and let go.

The landing was less than stellar. I splashed into a puddle, bruising my heels and painfully biting my tongue. But at least I was safe. No guards, no thugs.

The courtyard belonged to a large, solid building made of dark brick. Unlike the hovels in the Leatherworkers' Quarter, it didn't reek of slop here. It smelled of wet stone, wood, and... sweat? Yes, the distinct smell of hard physical labor.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, chilling me to the bone. My torn shirt clung to my body, and my teeth were chattering like a drum roll.

I looked around for shelter and noticed a slightly ajar, heavy oak door, which seemed to lead into a utility room or the basement of the building. A dim yellow light from an oil lamp spilled through the c***k.

"It's warm in there," I muttered, heading for the door.

«And there might be someone in there who will break your legs for trespassing. I recommend exercising caution, User. In 'stealth' mode, you currently move with the grace of a drunk elephant.»

"I have no choice. I'm freezing."

I squeezed through the gap and found myself in a narrow, dry corridor. It was warm in here. There were mops, buckets, rags, and stacks of wooden sticks that looked suspiciously like training swords.

Strange sounds echoed through a slightly open inner door. The clack of wood against wood. Sharp exhales. The creak of floorboards.

I tiptoed to the door and peeked through the c***k.

It was a huge, well-lit hall with a highly polished parquet floor. Weapons hung along the walls: broadswords, sabers, rapiers, fencing masks.

In the center of the hall stood a man. A large, heavyset man in his fifties, with graying close-cropped hair. He was dressed in a simple white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and dark culottes. In his hand, he held a wooden training rapier.

He was moving. Despite his weight and age, he glided across the parquet with frightening ease and grace. Lunge, volt, parry, another lunge. The wooden blade sliced through the air with a whistle, cleaving an imaginary opponent.

I watched this dance of death, mesmerized.

«Target analysis...» EVA's voice suddenly lost all its irony and became dry and mechanical. «Warning. Identification impossible. Threat level: critical. This man is capable of killing you with a toothpick in 0.4 seconds. I recommend immediately leaving...»

She didn't get to finish.

I accidentally shifted my foot, and my wet shoe squeaked loudly, traitorously, against the wooden floor of the corridor.

The man in the hall froze. His head turned sharply in my direction. His eyes, cold and piercing like a bird of prey's, stared right at the c***k I was peeking through.

"If you came to rob me, kid," he said in a deep, calm voice that carried the clang of steel, "then you've picked the absolute worst house in all the Lower City. Come on in. And keep your hands where I can see them."