“Where have you locked up Doraf’s wife?” In a narrow alley, Rhode pressed a dagger to the throat of a randomly grabbed guard, his voice icy.

To muffle the man’s cries, he lightly covered the guard’s mouth with one hand—enough to let words out, but not loudly.

Truth was, that cold, ruthless tone was just an act. Rhode still couldn’t pull off true chill yet.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected snagging a guard for questioning to be this easy. After sneaking around, everyone seemed clueless—like total fools.

“The prison… at 12 The Queen Street. She’s locked up there,” the guard stammered, struggling but shocked Rhode, a mere boy, held him firmly. He had no choice but to talk.

Rhode’s face was shadowed by his collar; the guard couldn’t make him out in the dark.

Rhode fell silent for a moment, then frowned. Could he trust this? If it was a lie, walking into that prison would be suicide.

He locked eyes with the guard, dagger pressure slowly increasing.

“I’m telling the truth!” Sweat beaded on the man’s brow.

But Rhode barely heard him. His mind raced: *What do I do with him?* Let him go, and his trail would be exposed. A city-wide lockdown would make rescuing his mother near impossible.

Should he kill him? The guard was just doing his job… yet leaving him alive was dangerous.

Rhode had killed before—but not like this. Hesitation gripped him.

“If you don’t wanna kill him, don’t, kid.” Black Sword’s voice echoed in Rhode’s mind.

“But if I don’t…” Rhode faltered.

“Don’t kill unless you must. Someday you might forget how *not* to.” Black Sword’s tone deepened.

Killing was simple. Infinitely simpler than saving.

If he could spare Rhode this path now—just a little less blood on the blade—he would.

“I can teach you how to knock someone out. Guaranteed three-day nap.” Black Sword added, “Handy against weaker foes.”

To Rhode, it was music. “Really?”

“Truer than pearls,” Black Sword grumbled. *Never thought I’d babysit. Why’s my Master gotta be a kid? Ugh. What a headache.*

Rhode knocked the guard out using Black Sword’s method, then dragged him into a dead-end alley rarely walked before dawn. Lifeless. Forgotten.

He repeated the process with several more guards. Every answer pointed to the same place: that so-called prison at 12 The Queen Street. The first guard hadn’t lied.

Rhode had never seen a real prison—only imagined one. Now, facing it, he understood just how “secure” it was.

Plain but towering outer walls. Inner barriers designed to repel climbers. No sewer grates after a full perimeter check. Sneaking in that way? Impossible.

Climbing in was feasible—but escaping? Prisons were built to keep people *in*, not *out*. Who’d willingly jump inside?

From the guards, he learned: small facility. Reserved for nobles. Even prisons had hierarchies—ridiculous, but useful. Fewer inmates meant less searching for his mother.

He gazed up at the silvery moon.

*The moon… the sun… the stars…*

The old Rhode would’ve pondered them dreamily.

Not now. Cloaked in cold light, he took a slow breath.

Night was best. Less risk than daylight, even with guards alert.

But getting *out* with his mother? She wasn’t agile like him—just an ordinary woman.

Would he have to fight his way free? A heavy dread settled in.

“Black Sword… Uncle,” Rhode murmured to the dagger, “Can I really get her out?”

“Kid,” Black Sword scoffed, “your swordsmanship—ah, scratch that—your dagger skills are trash.”

Even beating Leona hadn’t changed that. To Black Sword, Rhode was still green.

He knew countless styles. No technique was inherently “strong” or “weak.” Only the wielder mattered. Styles served humans, beasts, spirits—comparing them blindly was pointless.

Yes, under specific conditions, some styles earned the label “powerful.” Black Sword’s teachings qualified. But Rhode? Not there yet. Rookie.

“Still,” Black Sword’s tone shifted, “you’re stronger than you think. Push hard—you *can* break out.”

“Seriously?” Rhode doubted. Black Sword couldn’t know the layout.

“Your stealth’s solid, at least.”

“Have confidence. You’ve got berserker potential.”

“Wait—I *don’t* want to be a berserker…” Rhode muttered, frustrated.