The market was loud, overflowing with color and noise. Merchants were all over the place, calling out prices to different items, children darted through the crowd with sticky fingers, and somewhere nearby a man was getting beat up by around a dozen other men. He'd assaulted a lady.

Raiden trailed behind Miss Hilda for a while, trying his best to look patient. She was deep in conversation with an herb seller, arguing about the difference between "fresh sprigs" and "half-dried weeds."

But Raiden's mind wasn't on herbs. It was on the glowing blue screen that still hovered faintly at the edge of his vision.

[Mission Progress: 40%]

It mocked him. He needed more. He wanted to see what kind of reward the system had hidden behind this mission, and watching Miss Hilda haggle wasn't going to get him anywhere.

He glanced up at her, then at the stall beside her, then the narrow alley just a few steps away. Nobody was looking at him.

"Perfect."

Raiden smirked to himself and slipped into the alley without a sound, his small boots scuffing lightly against the cobbles.

The noise of the marketplace dulled behind him, replaced by the murmur of dice clattering against wood and the low grumble of men's voices.

A group of thugs sat lounging against stacked crates. They smelled of sour liquor even from a distance, and the greasy shine of roasted meat clung to their fingers, proof that they'd just finished having a nice meal. Coins glimmered faintly as they tossed dice across a barrel lid.

One of them glanced up lazily at Raiden's sudden appearance. "Tch. Just some rich brat that got lost," he muttered, going back to his drink.

The others chuckled but didn't spare him a second thought.

Raiden's grin spread. 'Exactly the kind of people I want.'

He crossed his arms, puffed out his chest, and let his voice drip with mockery. "What a pathetic sight. Lazy pigs rolling dice in the dirt. I've seen chickens gamble with more style than you lot."

That got their attention. A few heads snapped up, and a round of laughter followed—though not entirely friendly.

Raiden stepped closer, eyeing their leader. A bald, barrel-chested man leaned against the crates with a mug in hand, his shiny dome glistening under the afternoon light. Raiden pointed straight at him.

"And you—shiny head. Careful with that glare. You'll blind the others with the sun's reflection if you lean out too far."

The men howled with laughter this time, some nearly choking on their drinks. But the bald man didn't laugh. His smile twisted, eyes narrowing like a predator's.

"Little brat's got a mouth," he growled, setting his mug down.

One of his lackeys cracked his knuckles and rose, glaring at Raiden. "I'll shut that mouth of yours."

Raiden's pulse quickened—not with fear, but with glee. Finally. He was finally going to beat someone.

The thug swung his leg forward, aiming a hard kick toward Raiden's side. But Raiden was already ready. His eyes lit up as he channeled a thin stream of mana.

"[Wind Gale]," he whispered.

A sharp gust burst outward, invisible but merciless. The thug was lifted clean off his feet and hurled backward, slamming into a metal cart with a thunderous crash.

Bang!!

The cart toppled, spilling its contents across the cobblestones.

The alley fell silent. The dice rolled to a stop. The remaining thugs froze mid-breath, their jaws hanging slack.

"What the—?!" one finally blurted, staring at Raiden as though he'd sprouted horns.

The bald leader's face twisted in disbelief. His voice was low and venomous. "Impossible. A kid that small? It's gotta be some kind of protective amulet." He jabbed a finger at Raiden. "Rip it off him!"

Raiden's grin widened, almost ear to ear. His small hands curled into fists as he whispered, "Come on then… let's play."

The bald leader's order had barely left his lips when another thug stepped forward, spitting on the cobbles as he marched toward Raiden. "I'll yank that trinket off you myself, brat."

Raiden tilted his head, his grin still in place. 'Perfect. Next victim.'

He snapped his fingers. A small ripple of mana pulsed across the cobblestones, invisible to anyone else.

The thug stomped forward—then suddenly yelped as the ground beneath his boots betrayed him. Instead of pressing down, his feet slipped upward.

"Wha—?!"

The man's body shot several feet into the air as though a giant hand had scooped him up. He flailed wildly, arms pinwheeling, legs kicking uselessly at empty space. His curses turned into frantic squeals as he spun in midair, completely helpless.

Raiden clapped his hands together in delight. "Look at him spin! A real circus act! You should start charging for tickets!"

The floating thug's companions gawked, their faces pale. None of them dared step under the strange shimmering space where their friend hung suspended.

Except one.

The last thug standing ground his teeth, his fists trembling with rage. "I don't care what kind of toy you've got—no brat makes a fool out of us!"

He lunged forward, muscles straining, swinging a heavy fist aimed right at Raiden's smug little face.

Raiden's smirk widened. He was ready to unleash something bigger—maybe even test out a new mix of his skills—when a new voice sliced clean through the chaos.

"Oh, there you are, little Raiden."

The words dripped with calm exasperation, like sweet honey hiding a knife.

Every thug froze mid-motion. The leader blinked, confused, staring at the figure now standing at the alley's entrance.

A woman, delicate-looking, with auburn hair tied back, her arms full of herbs. She seemed harmless—like she belonged in a temple or sickbed, not here.

But Raiden knew better.

His stomach sank.

"Uh-oh," he whispered, shoulders stiffening.

Miss Hilda stood there, arms crossed over her chest, bundles of plants balanced against her hip. Her eyes weren't angry—not yet.

That was the problem. She was too calm, too sweet. And Raiden knew that was worse than if she'd come in screaming.

The thugs exchanged nervous looks. "Who's the lady?" one muttered.

"Forget her," their leader hissed, though there was unease in his voice. "Grab the brat and—"

"Silence."

Hilda's tone cut sharper than a blade. Somehow the entire alley went quiet, as though the air itself dared not disobey her. Even the floating thug stopped screaming, his terrified eyes darting between her and Raiden.

Behind her back, Raiden fought the urge to laugh. The whole scene was absurd—the thugs frozen like cornered animals, Hilda's shadow stretching long behind her, and himself standing at the center of it all with an innocent smile.

Then, just at the edge of his vision, the system screen blinked.

[Mission Progress: 60%]

Raiden's grin returned instantly, bright as the sun. 'Yes! Progress! This is way too much fun.'

But the victory felt short-lived as Hilda let out a long, weary sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.

"I leave you alone for five minutes…"

Raiden chuckled nervously, rocking on his heels. "Uhm... It was an accident."

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