Crushed My Brother’s Relic? Then I’ll Slaughter Your House and Erase Your Nine Clans

In the Grayroot District of Gemstone City, afternoon sunlight was a luxury.

The Silvercrown District’s towers stabbed the sky like blades, pinning those of us below in their shadow.

The alley reeked of fermented residue from cheap potions, mixed with the mossy churn of the sewers.

I squatted on the broken stone steps outside my apothecary, a heavy bone pestle in my hand.

Inside the mortar were dried Startear petals, herbs I’d saved for a full month to afford.

The pestle ground down again and again, clicking in a dull rhythm.

The calluses on my fingers burned from friction. My apron was stained with indigo and emerald medicinal blotches that would never wash out.

My pointed ears drooped without me noticing, just like every resigned lowborn elf on this street.

Three years were enough to grind the edge off a man.

Until a thick boot caked with crystal dust kicked to within three inches of my nose.

“Grayroot trash. Deaf?”

A drunken elven miner looked down at me.

His coarse Elvish breathed sour cheap ale as he pushed his foot forward.

“Clean my boot.”

He deliberately smeared the dust across the stone steps I’d just scrubbed. “Or I’ll tear down your little stall today.”

I didn’t look up.

A few threads of Startear powder puffed out from the mortar from the vibration and fell into the muddy water.

“Five copper.” I stared at his toe, my voice flat as stagnant water.

Nearby vendors who’d been peeking instantly pulled their heads back.

Everyone knew this miner had snapped an out-of-town merchant’s arm last month.

He clearly hadn’t expected me to demand payment. He froze, then burst into laughter.

“You want money? I’ll ‘let you win it back,’ you bastard.”

He lifted his boot and slammed it into my herb rack.

A heavy thud.

The rotting wood frame collapsed on the spot. Clay jars shattered. Bottles rolled across the floor.

The dried herbs I’d prized for half a month were crushed into filthy mud underfoot.

In the mess, a silver dagger engraved with ancient elven runes slid out from a hidden compartment.

The blade flashed a sharp cold gleam in the alley’s darkness.

An object like that didn’t belong in Grayroot.

My eyes tightened. My toe moved. I kicked it back into the shadow beneath the counter, smooth and silent.

Fast enough that even I felt a brief blur.

“What, you can’t bear to lose your junk?”

The miner belched and grabbed an empty bottle from the next stall.

He raised it high and swung it down toward the back of my head with a dull rush of air.

That was when I finally looked up.

My pale-gold pupils locked on him in an instant, a tactical scan.

Wrist muscles loose. Old injury in the left knee. Three poisoned spikes at his waist.

A street bully. No discipline. All bluff.

The bottle’s shadow filled my sight, less than half a foot from my forehead.

I moved.

My left hand snapped out like iron clamps and caught his falling wrist.

Before he could react, my right hand turned and twisted his joint the wrong way.

Crack.

The clean sound of bone splitting exploded in the dead alley. White bone ends pushed up under skin.

As the bottle slipped free and dropped, I leaned forward. My right knee hit like a sledgehammer, precisely smashing his left kneecap.

Two moves. Not even a second.

The heavy impact of his body hitting the ground and his shriek tore through the Grayroot afternoon.

He writhed in the mud like a snake with its tendons cut, both hands clutching his twisted leg, tears and snot running into the crushed herbs.

“Sorry… I’m sorry!”

He begged in warped Elvish, his swagger gone.

The nearby elf vendors sucked in breath and backed away in awe.

I looked down at him, expressionless.

“Apologize.”

“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have wrecked your stall. I’ll pay. Please, let me go.” He screamed, breaking down.

I bent, picked up his crystal-dusted boot from the mud.

My fingertip twitched. A faint green healing glow rose.

It was the lowest-grade magic, but perfect for cleaning crystal dust.

The glow swept over. The boot turned spotless, dust falling away.

I threw it into his muddy face.

“Five copper. Waived. Get out.”

He crawled and dragged his broken leg out of the alley, not daring to look back at me even once.

I ignored the strange stares around me and turned to clean the mess.

As I lifted a torn cloth bag, its frayed mouth slipped open.

A heavily worn obsidian token showed itself.

Two ancient elven letters were carved into it: “S.S.”

My fingers touched the cold obsidian and my heart tightened.

Three years ago, the name Shadow Song was enough to keep Gemstone City’s underworld awake all night.

Now I was only a poor apothecary mourning crushed Startear petals.

I shoved the token into the pocket against my skin and dusted the mud from my hands.

This cesspool didn’t seem to have room for someone trying to wash clean.

By dusk, the sky looked like an old rag.

I was about to pull the ruined wooden door closed and end a miserable day when hurried footsteps broke the alley’s quiet.

Eileen, the old elf woman next door who sold flatbread, stumbled over, panic on her face.

She grabbed my apron hard. Her hands shook like leaves in the wind.

“Jalen. Don’t go back. Run.”

Gasping, she pointed at my half-closed door with despair.

“A few thugs in black leather armor… they’re inside smashing your place.”

Following her finger, I looked into the dark crack.

Inside came the crash of shelves being overturned and the sound of shameless cursing.

“Black leather armor…” I repeated softly.

That was the street gang’s mark.

In the shadows, my pointed ears rose slowly. My hands, which had been hanging loosely, closed into fists.

Knuckles whitening. Blood boiling under callused skin.

I closed my eyes, took one breath, and opened them again.

The pale-gold in my pupils no longer held an apothecary’s warmth.