Chapter 81

Chapter 81: Chapter 81 Someone had just launched a deadly strike at Clayton—strong enough to kill him outright. The thief and the old man even felt a flicker of satisfaction, imagining that one of Clayton’s enemies had delivered a clean, untraceable act of vengeance. If Clayton died like that, it would look like a personal grudge. Even if the city authorities investigated, the focus would be on the attacker, not on them. But what they never expected... was that Clayton was still standing. He was battered, pale, and barely upright, but unmistakably alive. Faint blue filaments and droplets of water shimmered around him. The thief’s expression twisted with rage. "Damn it... that armor again! That cursed armor! Does it ever run out?!" he snarled. He’d already accepted the loss of his hand as the price for Clayton’s life. But now, that magic had saved Clayton once more—only adding fuel to his fury. "Useless!" he spat. "You’re all useless! Not a single one of you could kill him?!" Consumed by rage, the thief decided to do it himself. Clayton looked weak—barely conscious. This was the perfect chance. Driven by revenge, the thief approached, eager to savor the look of regret on Clayton’s face. But just as he closed in, his foot suddenly sank into the ground. He froze, instantly sensing something was wrong. He tried to pull away—but too late. Clayton’s mini skeletons swarmed him. Their short legs had kept them lagging behind earlier, but now they’d caught up. Now it was the thief’s turn to experience helplessness—immobilized, unable to move. "Hey! What do you think you’re doing?! Attacking others to cover up your own crimes?!" the old man shouted in feigned outrage. Clayton scoffed and gave his command. The skeletons began searching the thief. One by one, stolen items tumbled to the ground—magic pouches, crystals, knives, wands, trinkets. Most noticeably, several spatial pouches spilled out. Some were old but neatly maintained. Others were luxurious but messy. One was even bright pink and adorably decorated. The very people who had been cursing Clayton earlier now stared in shock. "That’s... that’s my pouch!" "Wait—that one’s mine too!" Voices rose in realization. People were beginning to understand they’d been robbed. Not by Clayton—but by the thief who had fooled them all. The thief panicked. "No! No, it’s not me! I’m being framed! He set me up!" he screamed, pointing at Clayton. But the crowd’s sympathy had vanished. Their eyes now burned with rage. The thief knew—he was finished. A group surged toward him, fists raised, ready to pummel him. But just as the first blow was about to land— Boom! A thick wall of earth erupted between them, blocking the mob. "Stop! Everyone calm down! We can’t rush to judgment! If we punish the wrong person, we’ll carry the guilt!" the old man declared. Clayton’s fists clenched in fury. This man... He had nearly gotten Clayton killed by inciting a mob— And now he was preaching restraint? Without hesitation, Clayton fired a water cannon straight at him. Swoosh! The blast shot forward like a bullet. The old man dodged and blocked it with practiced ease—far too smooth for someone claiming innocence. "You little brat! Are you attacking me now?! You think you can defy the city’s laws?!" he growled. Clayton snorted. "City laws this, city laws that... When I was cornered, you stirred up a mob to kill me. But now that you’re in danger, suddenly the law matters to you?" He narrowed his eyes. "Don’t tell me... you’re one of them too. No wonder that thief stayed so calm, even after getting caught." Then he turned to the crowd and shouted: "Everyone! They’re working together!" A murmur spread. The pieces began to fall into place. Swoosh! Boom! Spells flew again. At first, they targeted the thief and the old man—but then chaos erupted. Stray blasts hit bystanders. Accusations flew. Tensions boiled over as the crowd split into factions—some defending Clayton, others too confused to know what to believe. Clayton realized something else—this wasn’t just two people. More pickpockets had infiltrated the crowd. They were redirecting spells, sabotaging attackers, and stirring confusion. It was a well-coordinated operation. Clayton gritted his teeth. He couldn’t let them escape. But their retreat was silent and swift—clearly professionals. Suspicious, Clayton ordered Dingo to track them. At first, they kept up. Dingo moved fast and expertly, weaving through the chaos. But the thieves were slippery—using the terrain, the crowd, and even magical interference to stay hidden. Eventually, Dingo lost the scent. Clayton slumped by the side of the road, exhausted. He checked his wounds—minor injuries, but painful. He patched them up and sat quietly with Dingo, sipping some water. After a moment, he pulled out the preservation jar he’d found in the mysterious ice stone. Curious, he activated it. Suddenly—a severed human hand burst out, still warm and twitching. Blood sprayed everywhere. Eventually, the hand stopped moving and turned pale. Clayton stared, amazed—and mildly nauseated. Originally, he’d considered storing body parts discreetly to avoid public panic. He hadn’t expected the jar to actually preserve a human limb so perfectly. It worked. Even if he didn’t know for how long, it was clearly a powerful item. Satisfied, he cleaned off the blood and walked away from the scene. As he continued on, a strong stench hit his nose—a mix of urine, feces, and livestock. He’d arrived at the animal market. Clayton wrinkled his nose and was about to turn around— But something unusual caught his attention. A huge crowd had gathered. Curious, he pushed closer. They were haggling over the price of a deer. But not an ordinary one. Its entire body was clear, almost glass-like. Its form shimmered—beautiful, elegant, and fragile. It looked weak and thin... but enchanting. When Clayton locked eyes with it, he felt something strange. Something familiar. But how? He was certain he’d never seen this creature before. Then it hit him. That sensation—that energy—it wasn’t the creature’s face or body that felt familiar. It was its aura. The same kind of illness he and his father had once suffered from.