Chapter 30 The Young Fox of the “Leopard’s Rupture”

At that moment, Vinigo leapt onto the burly man's shoulders, his legs tightly locked around the man's neck. He hammered his elbows down mercilessly on the man's head, all the while emitting the signature strange cry of Aton. Not until the brute crashed to the ground did Vinigo remember to stomp hard on his chest before rolling away. Leopard Crash—Aton’s most savage, ultimate assassination move.

“Um… is he dead?” Honey peeked timidly from behind Sophie, asking.

“A normal person would be dead, but this guy… should still be salvageable,” Vinigo replied, panting.

“To be able to hire such a powerful bodyguard, the Thief Prince really is formidable,” he remarked to Sophie.

Sophie nodded slightly. If it were her, she would have dispatched the brute with even greater ease, though perhaps she would have sustained heavier injuries in the process.

Vinigo took out several pieces of “jelly” and chewed them vigorously—gel-like healing potions he had crafted through alchemy. Though their effects weren’t exceptional, they were convenient to carry and tasted decent enough.

Inside the room, they found a mess of letters and scrolls scattered about. Vinigo signaled for Sophie to smash open the bookshelf and chest nearby, bypassing their anti-theft mechanisms with sheer brute force.

True to his title, the Thief Prince was not lacking in wealth. Vinigo bundled up the spoils, stuffed them into his backpack, and tossed them to Sophie, then glanced around the room.

“Under the bed,” Vinigo prompted.

Sophie nodded. With a sweep of her sword, she shattered the luxurious bed that stood out awkwardly amid the other furnishings. A plump body rolled out from beneath.

Vinigo swiftly grabbed the fat man’s head and flipped him forcefully, sending him crashing to the floor, limbs flailing.

“So you’re not much of a fighter, are you?” Vinigo chuckled.

“I-I-I…”

“Let me guess… your strengths lie in strategy and coordination, correct? So you’re not the mastermind, just a useful pawn. Oh, and your thieving skills are quite impressive,” Vinigo continued, checking his belongings and reaching out to the fat man. “Hand it over.”

“Habit, I suppose…” The Thief Prince extended his hand, revealing that he had somehow pilfered one of Vinigo’s magical pouches from his belt.

“Sheepcall Cult?” Vinigo seized the Thief Prince’s hand, exposing a subtle tattoo.

BAA—the single word symbolizing a newborn lamb’s cry, the very origin of the cult’s name.

“Sheepcall Cult…” Sophie frowned. “A sect trusted by the lower-class and slaves, claiming that with devoted practice, one can enter the divine realm after death and obtain eternal happiness, free from want.”

“A doctrine for the ignorant, but very alluring for those who have nothing,” Vinigo sneered. “Unfortunately, it’s merely a mask for their sinister aims.”

“You know them?” Sophie asked, eyeing Vinigo.

“Many lower-tier followers may genuinely strive for noble ideals, but the upper echelon… only leverage the masses for their own benefit. They abuse this power for their selfish ends,” Vinigo explained. “Sophie, you see the lower and middle-class believers working for their dreams, but you miss the darkness lurking behind them—the so-called leaders in the shadows.”

Sophie remained silent.

“Sheepcall Cult accepts anyone, indiscriminately. If this continues, it will soon descend into a dangerous, uncontrollable weapon—its fate, inevitably, will be destruction,” Vinigo said. “Thief Prince, tell us what you know.”

“No, if I say anything, I’ll die,” the fat thief replied in terror.

“If you don’t speak, you’ll die right now,” Vinigo retorted. His Aton persona was perfect for intimidation: that vicious face, the bulging muscles, everything screamed, “I’m a villain, don’t give me the chance to hurt you.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll talk,” the Thief Prince relented, evidently lacking any loyalty. After weighing his options, he confessed everything he knew—at least, the least important parts.

Vinigo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening in silence, occasionally pressing with pointed questions. Each time he did, the Thief Prince shuddered.

Under Vinigo’s relentless probing, secrets the Thief Prince would rather not reveal were dragged, one by one, into the light. The Prince tried lying and misdirection, but failed every time.

Vinigo used seemingly unrelated questions to expose contradictions. Sometimes he asked the Thief Prince to recount events in reverse order, and the carefully constructed narrative collapsed under this demand.

Inventing stories backward is far harder than forward—and matching the original account precisely is nearly impossible.

Vinigo didn’t make things unnecessarily difficult; however, every time he caught the Prince in a lie, he delivered a swift kick. Aton’s kicks were brutal—not even the Prince’s burly bodyguard could withstand them. Each kick meant at least a broken bone and blood spat.

Such was Aton: a ruthless assassin.

With this, the Thief Prince became ever more forthcoming, terrified of making mistakes.

Perhaps he still hid his most crucial secret—but Vinigo neither noticed nor pressed further.

He was a small player.

So was the Thief Prince. Despite controlling most of Free Haven’s thieves, pickpockets, and some smugglers, any noble in the High Council could crush this underground network with a flick of their wrist if they cared to.

The only reason they survived was that the High Council simply wasn’t interested—nothing more.

“Hand him over to Anthony Stone,” Vinigo said lazily, pointing to the Thief Prince.

“I should take my leave,” the big cat murmured, lifting its head.

“Next time, I’ll find a way to remove that loyalty brand,” Vinigo promised. “Honey won’t be waiting long.”

“I never agreed to that,” the big cat crouched, ready to pounce.

“We’ll meet again, it’s a promise!” Honey called loudly.

“Meow…” The big cat made a strange face, shrank back, and dashed away.

“Now, time to claim the treasures the Thief Prince stashed away,” Vinigo said, flipping a key deftly between his fingers.

“Huh? That? How did you find my key? I clearly hid it…”

“Hid it behind the iron grate’s mechanism, right?” Vinigo grinned. “Creative hiding spot, but not enough to fool me.”

“It’s actually true?” The Thief Prince licked his lips, a little heartbroken.

“What, did you actually stash something valuable in there?” Vinigo’s eyes sparkled with interest. “I’d assumed it was just a few hundred coins, or some jewelry.”

“Just my luck,” the Thief Prince grumbled. “I’d just received a grant—planned to hire some muscle to boost my strength.”

“How much?” Vinigo asked, eyes gleaming.

“A thousand gold coins, plus weapons and armor of equal value. I had to work hard to squeeze that out of a big shot. Now you get it for nothing,” the Prince complained.

“Then why did you so readily tell me?” Vinigo retorted.

“The key’s already in your hand, and you’re clearly heading for my secret vault…what’s the point in hiding it? Tell me, are you sure you’re not my long-lost brother, linked to me by some psychic bond?”

“I’d never be brothers with a fat fool like you, idiot!” Vinigo shouted.

The secret vault’s loot was indeed delightful.

A finely crafted black elf longsword, imbued with fierce fire magic, capable of producing heat akin to an oxyacetylene flame. Its matching black elf chain mail not only offered solid defense but also enhanced the wearer’s agility.

Such a set was enough to lure a skilled swordsman to the Thief Prince’s side—good gear was rare, and gold coins were valuable, but finding the right equipment was often impossible, even with money.

Sophie received the sword and armor, though she kept her greatsword, using the longsword as a backup, worn at her waist.

As for the cold-aura longbow, rings that slightly enhanced alchemy, and other treasures, Vinigo claimed them without hesitation.

Leaving the sewers, Vinigo accompanied Sophie to deliver the Thief Prince to the temple, confident the priests would hand this hot potato to Sir Stone.

Vinigo’s mind began to race with new ideas.

Aside from the enchanted weapons and armor, the Thief Prince’s secret vault contained a batch of standardized gear—perfect for water magicians to practice “innate magic.” With luck, they might craft valuable magic gear and turn a hefty profit.

Vinigo lacked innate magic, but he had Nanoka’s “inventions.”

Nanoka’s Workshop of Inventions: miscellaneous goods, manufactured.

Selecting materials—longsword, copper ingot, a block of butter—the result might be a butter gun, a giant frying pan, or…

A chainsaw sword—rugged, reliable, and cheap, with all the brute black-and-bold style of old Russian engineering.