Path of the Unmentioned: The Missing Piece-Chapter 60: No Turning Back [4]

The warehouse was silent except for the slow drip of water from the leaking pipe.

The masked figure walked away, his footsteps echoing through the carnage.

In his hand, the curved ornamental sword gleamed dully under the flickering lights.

He paused once, glancing back at Kyle’s lifeless body sprawled across the cracked concrete.

Then, without another thought, he vanished into the shadows.

Five minutes passed since Kyle death.

Then—

A twitch.

Kyle’s fingers jerked against the cold floor.

His chest suddenly heaved. A wet, choking gasp tearing from his lips as his lungs fought for air.

Blood sprayed from his mouth, splattering the ground beside him.

His vision swam. The world tilting violently as consciousness returned in a nauseating wave.

"Fuck..." he cursed, his voice raw.

Every breath sent fresh agony through his shattered ribs.

His left arm gone, severed just below the elbow, throbbed with phantom pain.

His right hand trembled as he reached for the storage ring on his finger. His movements sluggish, uncoordinated.

His mana was a mess, scrambled from the trauma of near-death.

’Come on... come on...’ he gritted out, fingers fumbling.

It took three tries before the ring finally responded, spitting out an advanced-grade healing potion.

The vial nearly slipped from his bloody grip, but he clutched it desperately, uncorking it with his teeth.

The bitter liquid burned down his throat.

The effect wasn’t instant.

His ribs were still shattered, his lung punctured, his arm gone.

But the bleeding slowed. The pain dulled from a roaring inferno to a bearable throb.

His breathing steadied just enough to keep him conscious.

Its not enough to fix him.

He needed a doctor, a healer. A real one.

Someone who could reattach his arm and mend the damage before his body gave out completely.

Despite everything. A slow laugh bubbled up from his throat.

It hurt.

Every chuckle sent fresh agony through his chest, sharp spikes of pain radiating from his crushed ribs.

But he couldn’t stop.

Because despite everything.

He had won.

With great effort his remaining arm twitched, fingers dragging across the blood-slick floor toward his severed limb.

His vision blurry but he forced himself to focus.

There.

His left hand pale, lifeless, fingers curled slightly, on his index finger...

The ring.

A simple black band, unremarkable looking.

Kyle’s lips curled into a bloody grin.

He tapped the ring once and circulated mana in it.

A soft click echoed in the silent warehouse.

The ring dissolved into shimmering mist, reforming into a curved, ornamental sword. The real artifact he had stolen.

It clattered to the ground beside him, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness.

Another laugh escaped him, this one darker, edged with triumph.

He had lost the battle.

But he had won the war.

***

[Flashback - The Black Market]

After exiting the from the Gray Owl Consultations.

Kyle moved through the crowded stalls, his hood pulled low, ignoring the merchants who shouted at him as he passed.

"Rare artifacts! Direct from the ruins!" barked a man with too many gold teeth.

"Elixirs to make you stronger, faster and invincible!" promised a woman in tattered robes, shaking a suspiciously green vial in his face.

Kyle ignored them.

Most of it was junk, counterfeit charms and watered-down potions that would do more harm than good.

But then something caught his eye.

A small, dimly lit shop tucked between a weapons dealer and a fortune teller’s tent.

Unlike the flashy stalls around it, this place had no sign, no merchant shouting for attention.

Just a simple wooden door, slightly ajar, with the faint scent of herbs and alchemical reagents seeping out sharp, medicinal, real.

Kyle stepped inside.

The shop was cramped, shelves lined with glass vials and clay jars, each filled with liquids of varying colors.

Some bubbled faintly.

Others glowed with an eerie inner light.

A wooden counter stood at the back. Cluttered with mortar and pestles.

Half-melted candles and a ledger filled with cramped, runic script.

But no one was there.

Kyle frowned. "Is anyone here?"

Silence.

"YOU’VE GOT A NERVE, WALTZIN’ IN HERE AND ACTIN’ LIKE I’M AIR!"

A voice rough, deep, and way too loud for such a small space, boomed from behind him.

Kyle spun, hand flying to his tachi—

—only to see no one.

A beat of confusion.

Then he looked down.

A dwarf.

It was the first time Kyle had ever seen one in person.

Not just any dwarf, this one was built like a barrel of ale with arms thick enough to crush stone.

His reddish-brown beard was braided with metal rings, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least three times.

His leather apron was stained with potion spills and burn marks, and his fingers were calloused from years of grinding ingredients.

Kyle blinked.

’He’s really that tiny.’

The dwarf crossed his arms, scowling. "You humans! Always looking over our heads like we are rats scuttin’ about!"

Kyle quickly raised his hands. "Sorry. Didn’t see you there."

The dwarf huffed. "Aye, that’s the problem."

He stomped forward, his boots making surprisingly heavy thuds for someone barely reaching Kyle’s waist.

"Now, what d’you want? I don’t got all day."

Kyle’s eyes flicked to the nameplate stitched onto the dwarf’s apron

GRIMMORD OATHKEEPER.

He nearly choked.

’No way.’

Grimmord Oathkeeper: the legendary alchemist from the novel.

Who would revolutionize potion-making within the next five years.

A genius whose work would later be sought after by kings and assassins alike.

’What the hell is he doing in a back-alley shop?’

Kyle needed to be sure if he is real deal or not.

"Got any healing potions?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.

Grimmord snorted. "What kind o’ fool question is that? ’Course I do." He stomped over to a shelf.

He grabbed a small vial of murky green liquid and tossed it at Kyle.

"Low-grade. Good for cuts, scrapes, not much else."

Kyle caught it, then without hesitation drew his dagger and sliced his palm open.

"Oi! What are you—?!"

Kyle ignored him, downing a sip of the potion.

Almost instantly, the wound stitched itself back together, the skin sealing as if it had never been cut.

’Too fast.’

A low-grade potion shouldn’t work that quickly.

Kyle smirked. ’He is definitely the real deal.’

Grimmord’s scowl deepened. "You some kinda madman?"

"Just testing quality" Kyle said smoothly. "Got anything stronger?"

The dwarf eyed him for a long moment, then grunted. "Aye. But it’ll cost ya."

They haggled briefly before Grimmord pulled out a small wooden box from under the counter.

Inside were three vials of shimmering blue liquid.

"Advanced-grade. Heals broken bones, stab wounds, won’t regrow limbs, though."

Kyle nodded, then hesitated. "You got anything else? Something... discreet? For infiltration?"

Grimmord stroked his beard, thinking.

"Disguise potions, but they wear off quick. Smoke pellets. Truth serums—"

Kyle shook his head. "Anything more... extreme?"

Grimmord hesitated. Then, with a grunt, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden box.

Inside lay a single black pill.

"This one’s... untested."

Kyle leaned in. "What does it do?"

Grimmord launched into a rapid, technical explanation involving ’cardio-inhibitory enzymes’ and ’neural suppression’.

Kyle held up a hand. "Simpler."

The dwarf scowled. "Fine. Swallow this and your heart slows to near-death levels. Pulse drops so low, even a trained medic would think you are a corpse. Lasts about 5-6 minutes."

Kyle’s eyes widened.

"And the catch?"

Grimmord’s expression darkened. "Your heart might stop for real. Or burst from the strain. Like I said—untested."

Kyle stared at the pill.

A gamble.

But if it worked...

Kyle didn’t hesitate. "I will take it."

Grimmord stared at him. "You are either very brave or very stupid."

Kyle smirked.

***