CHAPTER 3: THE FLASHBACK OF THE LEGEND - PART 4
The Forging of the Legend
Year 3 of the Partnership
The warehouse had become a museum of peculiar knowledge. Walls were covered in hand-drawn schematics of noble estates, chemical formulas for non-magical explosives, anatomical charts highlighting points the System called "critical hit zones," and John's meticulous notes on the psychological profiles of their targets. In one corner, a makeshift shooting range using painted silhouettes on stacked crates. In another, a library of stolen ledgers, love letters, and bureaucratic documents that told stories of corruption in dry ink.
Rocky, now nineteen, moved through this space with the familiarity of a craftsman in his workshop. His body was a symphony of controlled power—every movement efficient, economical, purposeful. The pretty boy from the bakery was still there in the bone structure, but now tempered into something sharper, more dangerous. His gray eyes held the calm of deep water over unseen currents.
John was teaching him about memory.
"People are libraries," John said, tracing a finger over a map of the city's sewer system. "But most are terrible librarians. They leave things in plain sight. A man with something to hide will secure his vault but leave the blueprints to the vault in his mind, accessible through pattern recognition."
He pointed to a series of marks on the map. "Councilman Vayne. [Aristocrat] class with [Silver Tongue] sub-class. He's been diverting public funds meant for orphanage wards into his private arcane research. He thinks he's clever. He uses five different banks, three shell companies, and a blind trust managed by a cousin."
Rocky studied the patterns. "The withdrawals always happen three days after the city treasury disbursement. The deposits into his research account happen through a currency exchange in the docks district that doesn't keep records."
"Good," John said, his pale eyes gleaming. "Now, the comedy. Vayne is vain. He has a weekly appointment with a [Cosmetologist] who uses minor rejuvenation magic. He's sixty but looks forty. His vanity is his library's front door."
The plan was audacious.
The Hunt of Councilman Vayne
Phase one involved Rocky becoming a "temporary apprentice" to the cosmetologist, Madame Zelda. This required two weeks of study on skincare, the memorization of pseudo-magical jargon, and perfecting a slightly effeminate, utterly obsequious manner.
"You must be both invisible and remarkable," John coached. "He must remember the excellent service, not the servant."
Madame Zelda's establishment was opulent, scented with essential oils and whispered secrets. Rocky, in a pristine white tunic, played his part perfectly—mixing elixirs, folding towels, and speaking in hushed, reverent tones about "dermal radiance" and "mana-channel optimization."
When Vayne arrived for his appointment, Rocky was ready.
"Councilman, Madame Zelda has prepared a new revitalizing serum," Rocky murmured, bowing slightly. "But first, the standard diagnostic. If you would recline?"
As Vayne lay back, Rocky went through the motions—checking skin elasticity, observing pore structure, all while making inane small talk.
"And how has the council's work been? The stress must be terrible for your aura's luminescence."
Vayne, preening, spoke freely. "Oh, the budget negotiations are brutal. But I secured funding for my dimensional stability research. Vital work, you know. The city's future."
Rocky's fingers, coated in a conductive gel he'd formulated himself, made subtle contact with Vayne's temples as he "checked for magical residue buildup." The gel contained a mild neuro-conductive agent derived from electric eels—non-harmful, but enough to heighten suggestibility when combined with precise pressure on the trigeminal nerve.
"Think of your greatest success," Rocky whispered, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality. "The feeling when the numbers align..."
John's research had been exhaustive. Vayne was a synesthete—he saw numbers as colors. His illicit transactions would be remembered as visual patterns.
Under the gentle probing, Vayne's eyes fluttered. "The blues and silvers... flowing so smoothly from the municipal coffers... transforming into the brilliant gold of discovery..."
Rocky committed every detail to his memory palace—a technique John had beaten into him over months of grueling mental exercises. Blue and silver streams. Gold transformation points. Temporal sequences.
Twenty minutes later, the session ended. Vayne left, complimenting Madame Zelda on her "excellent new assistant."
That night, Rocky transcribed everything. The color patterns corresponded to specific amounts and dates. The "transformation points" were the currency exchange locations.
"The comedy," John noted as they analyzed the data, "is that his mind's security system is based on beauty. We didn't crack a vault. We gave him a facial and he handed us the combination."
Phase two was execution.
They didn't steal Vayne's money. They redirected it.
Using forged documents that matched Vayne's synesthetic patterns perfectly, they set up automatic transfers. The next time city funds were diverted, instead of flowing to Vayne's research, they branched. Sixty percent went directly to the orphanage wards' actual accounts. Thirty percent went to public infrastructure projects Vayne had publicly voted against. The remaining ten percent went to a series of absurd causes: a sanctuary for flightless pigeons, a museum of mildly interesting rocks, a scholarship for the study of theatrical sighing.
The comedy reached its peak when Vayne, checking his accounts, saw the transactions. His synesthetic mind perceived his beautiful blue-silver streams turning into a carnival of clashing colors—the dull brown of orphanage porridge, the garish yellow of road repair, the ridiculous polka-dots of pigeon care.
He panicked. He tried to reverse the transfers, but the authorization signatures were perfect—his own neural patterns rendered in ink. He went to the banks, but the clerks showed him the paperwork, all in order. He consulted [Truth-Seeker] mages, but no magical forgery could be detected because there had been none—just impeccable penmanship and psychological insight.
The final note arrived at his estate, delivered by a child paid in candy:
"Your beauty was your truth, and your truth was ugly. Now your accounts reflect your conscience. The pigeons thank you for their new roost."
Vayne suffered a nervous breakdown. He resigned from the council, claiming he needed to "focus on his spiritual alignment." The orphanages had their best funding year in decades.
The Legend Grows
Word spread in certain circles. Not of two vigilantes, but of a phenomenon. The "Ghost Audit." The "Karmic Accountants." The stories grew with retelling:
"They say he can kill a man with a ledger entry!"
"I heard he made Councilman Vayne fund a pigeon hospital!"
"My cousin's friend swears they're not human—just concepts given form!"
The comedy often overshadowed the brutality. People remembered the ridiculous outcomes—the corrupt shipmaster who found his vessel permanently painted bright pink, the loan shark who woke to find his debt ledgers replaced with children's drawings of smiling monsters, the slaver whose magical control collars were replaced with decorative necklaces that played cheerful music.
But the work was taking its toll. Rocky's hands, once calloused from bakery work and pit fighting, now bore the marks of a different trade: chemical burns from non-magical explosives, gunpowder residue etched into his fingertips, faint scars from encounters that hadn't gone according to plan.
One rainy night, after dismantling a protection racket run by a retired [Battlemage], Rocky looked at his reflection in a rain barrel. The face that stared back was handsome, yes, but the eyes... the eyes held shadows that hadn't been there before.
"We're making ripples," Rocky said to John as they cleaned their tools in the warehouse. "But the pond is ocean-sized. For every Vayne we humble, ten more take his place. We're pruning a forest that grows back faster than we can cut."
John didn't look up from the pistol he was disassembling. "You're thinking like a gardener again. We're not here to save the forest. We're here to prove it can be pruned."
"To what end?" Rocky's voice held an unfamiliar edge. "We live in shadows, hunting rats while the wolves rule in daylight. The system isn't just corrupt individuals—it's corrupt by design. The classes, the hierarchies... they create these monsters."
John finally looked up, his pale eyes assessing. "You want to hunt wolves."
"I want to understand why the forest grows this way," Rocky countered. "We work around the system. What if we could change it?"
"A revolutionary," John said, and for the first time, Rocky heard something like disappointment in his voice. "Revolutionaries make speeches. Then they make graves. We make examples. Quieter. More personal."
The philosophical divide had been growing for months. Rocky saw patterns now—not just of individual corruption, but of systemic failure. The way [Aristocrat] and [Merchant] classes had legal protections [Laborers] couldn't access. How [Mages] could bypass certain laws with "academic privilege." How the entire structure was built to preserve power for those the System deemed worthy.
The Incident at the Gala
Their next target brought the conflict to a head. Lady Seraphina, a high [Diplomat] class, was using her position to broker illegal magical component trades that were draining mana from protected ley lines, causing sickness in nearby neighborhoods. She was untouchable—protected by diplomatic immunity, powerful friends, and a personal guard of [Spellblades].
John's plan was typically intricate: infiltrate her annual charity gala, switch the authentic mana crystals in the auction with corrupted ones that would expose her suppliers, and plant evidence linking her to the ley line draining.
The gala was a spectacle of magical aristocracy. Floating lights, illusionary displays, guests in enchanted silks that changed color with their moods. Rocky attended as the "assistant" to a minor noble John had coerced into cooperation. He wore a suit that felt like a costume, his weapons concealed in items of jewelry and tailoring.
The comedy began immediately.
A [Socialite] with [Charm] aura latched onto him. "Darling, who are you? I must know. Your aura is... fascinatingly blank!"
"A recent illness," Rocky demurred, using a technique John called "social jiu-jitsu"—redirecting attention with vulnerability. "The healers say my mana channels may never fully recover."
"Oh, you poor thing!" she gushed, missing the fact that he'd just confessed to being magically crippled in a room full of magical elitists.
The plan proceeded. Rocky switched the crystals. He planted the documents. He was moments from extracting when everything went wrong.
Lady Seraphina wasn't just a corrupt diplomat. She was paranoid. And she employed a [Truth-Watcher], a rare subclass that could see intentional deception as visual auras.
The [Truth-Watcher], an unassuming man in servant's livery, had been monitoring the room. His eyes, glowing faintly silver, locked on Rocky as he moved toward an exit.
"Guards!" the man shouted, pointing. "That one! His words are gray lies wrapped in black intent!"
Chaos erupted.
Spellblades materialized from the crowd, their blades already shimmering with energy. Rocky dropped the obsequious act. He moved.
What followed was seven minutes of pure, brutal improvisation.
He used a champagne flute, shattering it to create a distraction. He threw a caviar canapé at a [Spellblade]'s face—not to hurt, but to trigger a blink reflex. In that blink, he closed the distance and delivered a nerve strike to the wrist, disarming the man.
But these weren't thugs or corrupt guards. These were elite, class-trained fighters with actual combat skills.
A [Force Mage] tried to pin him with [Gravity Bind]. Rocky dropped and rolled, the spell catching the edge of his jacket, tearing it but missing his body. He came up firing a concealed holdout pistol—not at the mage, but at the enormous crystal chandelier above them.
The shot was perfectly placed. The chandelier's support chain shattered. Two tons of crystal and enchanted light crashed down between him and his pursuers.
He ran through servant corridors, his memory of the estate's blueprints guiding him. But Lady Seraphina had sealed the mansion—[Ward of Containment], a powerful barrier spell.
Trapped.
From the shadows, John appeared. He'd been the "elderly valet" serving drinks. His face was grim.
"The comedy has become tragedy," John said, pulling a small device from his coat—a non-magical smoke bomb of his own design. "We exit through the kitchen. The wards are weakest where the plumbing passes through."
"But the evidence—"
"Will be found tomorrow when she tries to sell the crystals," John finished. "The plan succeeded. Extraction failed. Priorities."
They fought their way to the kitchen. A [Spellblade] captain awaited them, his sword humming with contained lightning. "Jobless filth," he sneered. "You dare violate this house?"
John moved first. Not with a weapon, but with words. "Captain Vellor. Your son attends the Azure Academy. Scholarship funded by Lady Seraphina's 'charity.' How will he continue when her corruption is exposed?"
The captain hesitated—just for a second.
Rocky was already moving. He didn't attack the captain. He attacked the kitchen's giant iron stove, kicking out a support leg. It toppled toward the captain, who had to leap aside. In that moment, John produced a glass cutter and went to work on a window where a water pipe breached the ward.
They were through as guards flooded the kitchen.
But the incident had consequences. Lady Seraphina survived, her reputation damaged but intact. More importantly, she had resources. She hired investigators. Not city guards, but [Inquisitors]—a subclass of [Paladin] dedicated to rooting out "systemic anomalies."
The Inquisitors
Brother Lanthorn was a [Truth Inquisitor]. He didn't hunt criminals; he hunted patterns. And the pattern of the "Ghost Audit" intrigued him. A series of corrections, humiliations, and redistributions that bypassed legal and magical systems entirely. Efficiency without authorization. Justice without jurisdiction.
He came to the Warrens asking questions. And unlike city guards, he asked the right questions.
"He doesn't care about the crimes we stopped," John observed from a safe-house rooftop as they watched Lanthorn interview a shopkeeper they'd helped. "He cares about the method. The system cannot tolerate unauthorized correction. We're a glitch. And he's the debugger."
Lanthorn was methodical. He tracked the non-magical explosives used in one intervention. He followed the chemical signatures of Rocky's homemade adhesives. He interviewed every victim of their hunts, building a psychological profile.
"He'll find the warehouse in two weeks," John estimated coldly. "Maybe three if we're lucky."
For the first time, Rocky saw genuine concern in John's eyes. Not fear for themselves, but for the work.
"We could leave the city," Rocky suggested.
"And go where? This disease is everywhere. Just different symptoms."
"Then we fight him."
John shook his head. "Inquisitors don't fight. They unravel. They have [System Backtrace] abilities. They don't need to catch you—they need to understand you. Once they do, they can petition the System itself to... correct the anomaly."
The implication hung in the air. The System could do things to Jobless individuals. Memory wipes. Personality recalibration. Or simply flagging them for automatic apprehension by city wards.
The Final Hunt
They had one target left before going to ground. Guildmaster Brayle, head of the Adventurer's Guild chapter, was skimming dungeon loot and assigning suicide missions to parties that questioned him. He'd caused seventeen deaths in six months.
"He's the worst kind," Rocky said, studying the files. "He uses the system's trust. Adventurers think the guild protects them. He uses that trust to get them killed."
"Simple extraction," John decided. "We expose him to his own people. Publicly. Then vanish."
The plan was clean: Infiltrate the guild's annual awards ceremony. Use a projection crystal to show Brayle's records. Let the adventurers handle the rest.
But Brother Lanthorn was closing in.
The ceremony night arrived. The guild hall was packed with adventurers in their finest—polished armor, gleaming weapons, the air thick with the smell of ale, roast meat, and ambition.
Rocky attended as a [Cartographer]'s assistant, equipment cases filled with surveying tools and the modified projection crystal. John was somewhere in the rafters, overwatch.
As Brayle took the stage to give his speech, Rocky positioned the crystal. He was about to activate it when the guild hall doors burst open.
Not city guards. Inquisitors. Six of them, led by Brother Lanthorn.
"By authority of the System Oversight Council," Lanthorn announced, his voice magically amplified, "this gathering is under investigation for anomalous activity. All present, submit for [Truth Scan]."
Panic. Adventurers reached for weapons. Brayle looked terrified for reasons of his own.
Rocky's eyes found John in the rafters. A silent signal passed between them: Abort. Run.
But as Rocky moved toward an exit, Lanthorn's gaze found him. The [Truth-Watcher] ability.
"You," Lanthorn said, pointing. "Your existence is a contradiction. The System has no record of your class development. You are an unregistered variable."
The Inquisitors moved toward him. Adventurers, confused, stepped aside.
Then, from the rafters, John spoke. His voice, usually so quiet, was projected through a small amplifier.
"Brother Lanthorn! Before you chase phantoms, consider the real monster in the room!"
He dropped something—not a weapon, but a packet of documents. They fluttered down, scattering over the crowd. Adventurers grabbed them. They were Brayle's records—the loot skimming, the rigged assignments, the deaths.
The room erupted. Brayle screamed as adventurers turned on him.
In the chaos, Rocky ran. Lanthorn, torn between his quarry and the riot, chose the riot—preserving system stability came first.
They met at a pre-arranged sewer access point. John was already there, breathing heavily.
"He'll come for us now," John said. "Not as criminals. As system errors. We can't stay together."
Rocky stared at him. "What?"
"We're a pattern. Together, we're predictable. Apart..." John reached into his coat, pulled out a small leather notebook—his life's work, his philosophies of asymmetric conflict. "Take this. Go to ground. Not in another city. In the system itself."
"You're not making sense."
"The Hunter Academy," John said, his pale eyes intense. "They take anyone who passes the trials. Class is secondary to capability. Get in. Learn their rules from the inside. Understand the system you want to change. A ghost outside the walls is a phantom. A ghost inside the walls..."
"...is a haunting," Rocky finished, understanding dawning.
John nodded. "They'll never expect it. The Jobless vigilante, seeking to become a system-sanctioned Hunter. The comedy is sublime."
"And you?"
"I'll be the distraction. Lanthorn will chase me. I'll lead him on a merry dance across three kingdoms." For the first time in years, John smiled—a thin, terrifying expression. "It will be hilarious."
They didn't embrace. They didn't say goodbye like friends. They nodded to each other, two craftsmen acknowledging a completed collaboration.
"One last lesson," John said as he turned to go. "The system is a story everyone believes. To change it, you don't break the rules. You become a better storyteller."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the sewer's darkness.
Rocky stood alone, the notebook heavy in his hands. He opened it. On the first page, in John's precise handwriting:
"Lesson 1: Everything is a weapon if you understand it. Even a system that calls you worthless."
Epilogue: The Decision
Rocky spent six months in hiding, moving between safe-houses John had established years before. He studied the notebook. He trained. He planned.
The Hunter Academy entrance was in eight months. He would need to build a new identity, one that could explain his skills without revealing their origin.
He thought of Sunstone, the laughter, the humiliation. He thought of the bakery, the groping hands and hungry eyes. He thought of the Grindhouse, the roar of the crowd, the boredom of victory. He thought of John, and the cold satisfaction of their work.
He wasn't a revolutionary. He wasn't a hero. He was... a craftsman. And the world was full of broken things needing correction.
But to fix the system, he had to wear its uniform. To haunt the house, he had to live in it.
He began assembling his kit. Not just weapons, but tools. A sniper rifle for long-range corrections. A shotgun for close-range persuasion. A sword for tradition's sake. A staff to confuse expectations. A shield because sometimes you had to weather storms. Every item chosen, every skill practiced, every technique refined.
He would walk through the Academy gates not as a victim of the System, not as its enemy, but as its most perplexing creation: a Jobless who refused the limitations of his classification. A self-made man in a world of pre-fabricated heroes.
The laughter would come again, he knew. The mockery. The disbelief.
Let them laugh.
He had learned from John that the deepest comedy often preceded the most profound correction. And he was ready to correct a great many things.
[END OF CHAPTER 3: THE FLASHBACK OF THE LEGEND]