Kael didn’t stop moving, even as his body screamed at him to do exactly that. The street wasn’t hostile in the obvious way, no monsters lunging from alleyways, no ambush circle closing in, but it had its own cruelty.

Too many eyes. Too many ears. Too many people who had learned to read pain the way merchants read coin.

The world around him kept its rhythm anyway. Boots clicked on stone, wagon wheels rattled over uneven seams, and somewhere nearby a loud group laughed like they’d forgotten what fear tasted like.

Kael didn’t have the luxury of joining them. His steps stayed measured, no limp, no stumble, no pause long enough to invite attention. He kept the mask on even though it was soaked from the inside, paper clinging warm against his face.

Each breath came heavier than the last, dragging heat through his lungs like he was inhaling embers instead of air.

It wasn’t the clean burn of sprinting or fighting. It was wrong, sharp where it should’ve been dull, deep where it should’ve been shallow. The kind of pain that didn’t stay in one spot, the kind that crawled.

The Fist King’s words echoed faintly in the back of his mind, unwelcome and unclear.

A day.

Kael clenched his jaw behind the mask as another cough threatened to break through. He forced it down, swallowing the metallic taste rising in his throat. His throat felt raw from the effort, like sandpaper scraping every time he tried to breathe through the irritation.

Stopping here wasn’t an option.

Not in the open. Not where eyes lingered a second too long on weakness.

He needed something, anything, to stabilize himself. And the potion shop he was heading toward was the most obvious answer.

Even if whatever was happening to him wasn’t something a simple potion could fix, it would at least buy him time. Slow it down. Keep him moving. And right now, that was all he needed.

Time.

He shifted direction without hesitation, following the broader streets where shops clustered closer together. He chose the routes with noise and bodies, the ones where a lone man could vanish into a crowd without needing [Presence]. The map showed that his destination wasn’t too far away, but distance in this state was a different kind of measurement. Every block came with its own tax.

His pace wasn’t fast, but it was steady, controlled. Anyone watching would see a slightly tired climber, nothing more. That illusion mattered more than pride. It was the thin thread keeping predators from testing him.

Behind him, far enough not to draw attention but close enough to matter, another group moved with purpose. They didn’t look like hunters, at least not on the surface. Their formation was casual, scattered, like strangers who happened to share the same direction. But their spacing was too clean. Their heads turned at the same angles. Their pace adjusted together in a way you didn’t learn from friendship; you learned it from orders.

Inside their formation, Iori walked in silence, listening as the others talked about trivial things, prices, equipment, and complaints about recent floors. None of it held his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere, circling back to the report he had just heard.

A masked climber. Bleeding. Walking like it didn’t matter. Wearing Journeyman’s leather armor for the off chance that it’s the same person, that small chance. He was willing to personally go with these guys and check.

He had seen people act tough before. Seen climbers pretend strength to avoid being prey. But there was a difference between pretending and not caring.

The man described earlier hadn’t sounded desperate. He hadn’t sounded like prey when he definitely was just a first-floor climber if it’s the same person, of course.

But that was also what made him suspicious enough to probably be Kael. After all, for a first floor climber Kael was incredibly confident in whatever he did. Even if it meant risking his own life.

Iori’s gaze shifted slightly as they passed through another crowded stretch of the street. If the man was injured and truly needed help, there were only a handful of places he could go.

And all of them were predictable.

"We’re wasting time," Iori said suddenly, cutting through the idle chatter.

A few heads turned toward him, mild irritation flashing across their faces at the interruption. They didn’t like being redirected by someone they didn’t fully respect yet, especially someone who still carried the stink of "new arrival" even if he tried to talk like an old hand.

One of the senior members raised a brow. "Got something to add?"

Iori didn’t hesitate. "If he’s bleeding that badly, he won’t wander aimlessly. He’ll head for a potion shop. Closest one to where he was seen."

There was a brief pause as the others considered it. You could almost hear them weighing whether they wanted to trust him, whether they wanted to be right more than they wanted him to be wrong.

The Senior member remembered immediately why he was called the Hound. He really knew how his ’prey’ would act.

Then one of the two men who had reported Kael earlier nodded. "He’s got a point. There’s one not too far from the guild. If the guy’s still moving, that’s where he’ll go."

The senior clicked his tongue once, then gave a short nod. "Fine. We check it. If he’s there, we approach. Carefully."

His gaze hardened slightly, like the next words were meant to be nails hammered into place. "We’re recruiting first. Don’t forget that."

That last part wasn’t directed at anyone specific, but it lingered on Iori for half a second longer than necessary, just long enough to make sure he understood the hierarchy here.

Iori didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence wasn’t agreement. It was restraint.

They changed direction as a group, their pace sharpening just enough to cut through the crowd without drawing unnecessary attention.

No sprinting. No blatant pursuit.

Just the quiet inevitability of people who were used to cornering things.