CHAPTER 80: CHAPTER 80

Swoosh!

Swoosh!

One knife flew through the air while the other slashed sharply toward Clayton’s body.

Caught off guard, Clayton’s pupils shrank in shock.

The thief smirked in satisfaction, convinced Clayton wouldn’t be able to react in time. He was a seasoned criminal, well-versed in ambush tactics like this.

The blades were only centimeters away. In his mind, the thief could already see blood splattering—Clayton’s body torn open.

But then—droplets of moisture condensed around Clayton’s body, forming thin, thread-like filaments of water.

The thief sneered inwardly, thinking Clayton’s "defense" was pathetic. He had already planned his escape after landing the killing blow.

He had underestimated Clayton from the beginning, dismissing him as no more dangerous than a chicken or a mutt.

Srett! Cpus~

But when the blades struck—there was no blood. Instead, a splash of dense water burst outward.

The thief’s eyes widened. His right hand had hit something as solid as a wall.

He looked up and saw Clayton encased from head to toe in a shimmering layer of deep-blue water filaments.

"W-What the hell is this?!" he gasped.

Clayton gave him a faint smile.

"Water Circulation Armor."

The thief froze. He knew that spell—it was infamous for being useless. Weak, inefficient, and rarely used. But what he was seeing didn’t match the rumors at all. Was Clayton bluffing? Was this some variation?

Still, rage overtook his hesitation. He lunged to attack again.

But before he could strike, Clayton’s right hand swung toward him—gripping a sickle he’d drawn from his storage space.

The thief tried to pull his arm back, but it was too late. Water threads from the armor had already wrapped around it.

Panicked, he yanked with all his strength—but the threads held tight.

Cepluk!

A sharp, wet sound echoed through the air, followed by a spray of blood.

The thief stared at the wound on his arm in disbelief. Then the pain hit.

Fear replaced arrogance.

Clayton didn’t hesitate. Calm and focused, he raised the sickle again.

The thief watched the curved blade approaching, paralyzed with fear.

A moment ago, he had been the predator. Now, he was prey. He cursed himself for choosing the wrong target.

But regret always comes too late.

All he could do now was wait for death.

Thud!

Just before the sickle could reach his neck, a hand caught Clayton’s arm mid-swing.

The strike stopped—saving the thief’s life.

Clayton turned angrily to see a well-dressed elderly man with a refined demeanor and a kind face.

From his aura alone, Clayton could tell—he was a Four-Star Apprentice Mage.

"Hey! What do you think you’re doing, young man?! Don’t you know killing is forbidden in Sunlight City? Do you want to be punished by the City Council?!"

His loud voice drew attention. People turned to look, their stares sharp—cold, mocking, judgmental. A spectacle was unfolding.

Clayton’s heart sank. He knew that unless he explained himself fast, this could spiral out of control.

"I didn’t break the law! I was upholding it!" he declared firmly.

Laughter erupted from the crowd. They scoffed, assuming it was just a poor excuse.

The old man shook his head and replied in a soft, patronizing tone—like a teacher scolding a lying child.

"Oh really? And what law were you ’upholding,’ exactly?"

The crowd leaned in, ready for another excuse to jeer.

But Clayton stood tall and met their gaze.

"The law that punishes pickpockets, robbers, thugs, and public offenders!"

A hush fell over the crowd.

No one had expected that.

Even the old man paused, taken aback, before regaining his composure.

"I see... then where’s your proof?" he asked coolly.

"There!" Clayton pointed to the spatial pouch lying near the thief. "That’s mine!"

All eyes turned toward the pouch.

Despite the pain and the missing hand, the thief still tried to lie.

"No! That’s mine! He’s the one who stole it from me! When I caught him, he tried to kill me!"

Clayton was disgusted.

But the thief’s wounded, pitiful appearance swayed the crowd. Sympathy crept into their expressions, clouding their judgment.

The old man smirked smugly.

"Well then, any more excuses?"

"I’m telling the truth! Don’t be fooled just because he looks pathetic!" Clayton said, growing frustrated.

But the crowd wouldn’t listen. They jeered and muttered accusations.

The old man stepped forward, relishing the moment.

"Well then, it’s obvious who the real criminal is. What should we do with him, folks? People like this are a plague on society!"

The crowd roared:

"Kill him! Kill him!"

"Burn him alive!"

"Off with his head!"

The atmosphere turned savage.

Clayton started sweating. If this turned into a mob attack, he could really die here.

The old man smirked in satisfaction. The thief, though bleeding and weak, looked at Clayton with twisted hatred.

Clayton couldn’t believe it.

All I did was defend myself—and now I’m being painted as the villain?

His eyes darted between the pouch and the thief. Then suddenly—a spark of an idea.

"No! Wait! I can prove he’s the thief!" Clayton shouted desperately. "Check his body! There’s something off about him!"

But no one moved. No one believed him.

Clayton’s last hope was slipping away.

"Hahaha! Just give it up," the old man sneered. "You’ve been caught red-handed. If you stop resisting, maybe your punishment will be lighter."

The words hit Clayton like a blow to the chest.

The mob surged forward. Hands reached out, grabbing him roughly.

His arms were pinned—he couldn’t move.

The old man leaned in with a sneer. "You’re still too green, boy."

And then—

Swoosh!

The first wave of attacks came flying at Clayton.

Without mercy.

A barrage of attacks rained down on Clayton with unrelenting force. The pickpocket and the old man, watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the wide grins spreading across their faces.

But those smiles didn’t last long.

Bang!

A deafening explosion rang out, followed by a shockwave that sent people flying in every direction.

Both the thief and the old man were stunned by the sheer power of the blast.