By the short time Oiva caught up to the boy, he found him in the middle of a dark alleyway. His eyebrows were furrowed, most likely in trouble.
“Kid! What’s going on?”
“Oh… you’re the man from the dojo.”
The boy showed an unusual amount of surprise on his face. He probably didn’t expect Oiva’s to have given chase.
“Hm. I’m Marco. I came to this city from the countryside, accompanied by a woman. I figured the scream might have been hers, and it seems my fears were on the spot. I’ve asked around, but alas…”
“From the countryside, huh…”
When he heard that piece of information, Oiva shook his head inwardly. The town was curiously discriminant of villagers and peasants. While a normal city-dweller might’ve been able to request some help from the city watch, would they come to aid a villager? Most likely not.
The perpetrator was likely a big deal. Why was everybody clueless? They probably didn’t want to get involved, for fear of retribution. This probably wasn’t even his first stint. Rationally, Oiva would also be best off following this course of action. But...
“Can I ask for more information about you and the woman? It might grant us some clues.”
“Okay.”
According to Marco, he and some others were sent to the city from a remote village on the frontier to conduct business transactions. The group consisted of three men, baggage carriers, Marco himself, and an elderly woman as his escort. The woman, the victim of the crime, was named Hannah. The group had secured their night's lodgings at an inn, but the boy was lured away by the sounds of the dojo. As his escort, the old woman rightly sought to follow him and was, along the way, likely kidnapped.
“...And I told her I’d be right back, too.”
Oiva took on a stern tone and said, “She’s your guardian. Obviously, she wouldn’t let you run off alone at this time of night, especially in a town you’ve likely never been to. You’re not an adult, she is.”
“…You’re right. I was in the wrong.”
Oiva softened his expression as it seemed his message got across. He was only a child, after all, and everyone makes mistakes.
“You came quite the long distance. There were surely some closer towns, no?”
“Yes, but we have an established relationship with the client.”
“Can I ask for this client’s name?”
“The Yamakaze Trading Company.”
“Hmm…”
Oiva knew of Yamakaze’s merchant business. It was openly clean, no skeletons in the closet he knew of either. No kidnapping or extortion. He was probably not involved in this.
If we were talking big shots… Oiva figured it might be a local noble. The baron was known for his… amorousness. Otherwise, it might’ve been the leader of a local gang. Both would probably sprout at an unaccompanied woman from a village, easy prey and all.
“I’ve come up with some ideas.”
“Really? Who do you think it is?”
Oiva felt the anger in the boys words. Was the boy planning to take action himself? Oiva felt strangely interested in the idea, despite himself.
“There are only two guys who I think’d be behind something like this. One of them is Bertrand, an Eberian mercenary leader. He basically runs a gang around here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
The boy asked without hesitation or pause. Oiva almost broke out into a grin.
“Of course I do. Bertrand usually hands out at the local bar. I’ll show you the way.”
“I appreciate your help, but you’d get yourself in trouble if you followed me, no?”
The light in the boy's eyes grew. Oiva was even more intrigued, and wasn’t just about to back out now.
“Heh. You’re not the only one with something against that bastard.”
“You’re acquainted?”
“On the battlefield where the hero died… I clashed with that man.”
“During the war?”
“Yep. But don’t worry. I’m hundred percent sure I’m stronger than him.”
Marco smiled at Oiva’s confidence. The smile held a beauty that Oiva had never seen before.
Oiva ran down the street, and Marco followed. The streets were dark, and the alleys even darker. People in the tenements were reluctant to use even the smallest amount of fuel, after all.
The bar was guarded by a tall, stout man.
“What you… unless you’re here to sell the kid, go home.”
The guard growls at Oiva. Oiva glares back, and they seem close to blows.
Before that can happen, Marco intervenes. “Please take me to your boss. I think he abducted one of my acquaintances.”
“Huh?”
Marco slips past the guard, who was so surprised by the question that he froze. Before the guard could recover, Oiva took him into a chokehold.
Everyone in the bar, meanwhile, turned their attention towards the intruder.
“Call your boss. I need to talk to him.”
But Marco’s request received no answer. The customers and employees alike merely laughed at the boy. Even the man Oiva held started laughing. The laughs turned into insults.
“Wooh. Prince, is this your first time out of the castle?”
One of the more drunk men moved towards Marco and tried to grab him by the neck, but Marco nimbly dodged him and ran towards the stairs.
“H-hey! Wait!”
Marco had merely guessed as to Bertrand’s location in the bar, but the employees panicked voices gave it away. Well, that and the two armed guards.
But before the two guards could even take out their swords, they staggered and fell down the stairs. Blood streamed down their faces after the tumble.
“What?!”
Even Oiva was shocked. There was no one else nearby those guards, so unless they both tripped themselves, Oiva was responsible. Both possibilities were equally ridiculous.
Oiva ran to follow the boy, but was quickly surrounded by employees. He threw the guard at them before pushing his way up the stairs.
Once in Bertrand’s room, he found Marco staring him down. Bertrand was sitting in front of a table. The room was dimly lit. Bertrand himself had a chiseled, masculine face, covered by long hair and a beard.
Oiva had several encounters with this man, none of them particularly nice. The first was seven years ago, during a battle between Athria and Eberia. The battle during which the hero died. Bertrand and Oiva met as soldiers of hostile camps.
The battle initially favored the Eberians and Bertrand, before Solomon arrived and the scales shifted in favor of the Athrians and Oiva. Ultimately, however, neither could kill each other, and the Eberians and Bertrand withdrew from battle.
“Agh! Shit, nice aim!”
Oiva kicked down a man coming up the stairs, and turned towards Bertrand. Bertrand’s hand was covered with liquor and pieces of pottery were stuck in. Oiva realized that the boy had likely thrown a cup of liquor at the man.
“I’m only asking once: did your minions kidnap a village girl tonight?”
His voice was quiet, but it carried a conviction, like the boy was declaring war.
“Ugh… stupid.”
Bertrand was clearly in pain. His eyes were wide open, while he hugged his hands. Oiva felt doubt. Was this truly Bertrand? This couldn’t be Bertrand the Green-Hooded, a mighty warrior.
Before he could question him, though, Bertrand muttered four letters. Oiva could not hear them, but he figured.
The four letters represented someone’s name.
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