Reaching the Waystation entailed two days of blessed tedium. As it turned out, when you weren't waylaid by starvation, slavers, Sealed Demons, or Fell Beasts...traveling wasn't so bad. Simon appreciated the opportunity to rest and decompress.

  Though without the carriage's Navigation Crystal on auto-pilot, he wasn't sure he could've found the Waystation on his own, even if he was pointed in the right direction. The Severed Isles were an empty wasteland mostly absent of landmarks. Apart from faint marks on the ground indicating that caravans sometimes traversed these pathways, everything looked the same to him.

  The Waystation itself was a fairly large building surrounded by stone walls and Warding Orbs. Unlike Springwater, its defensive perimeter seemed up-to-date and cared for. A thick metal gate barred the entrance, guarded by two soldiers who appeared bored out of their minds.

  "So how does this work?" Simon asked, as their carriage rolled to a leisurely stop outside. The Navigation Crystal was advanced enough to self-park. "We pay the toll, gain access inside, then our caravan gets teleported by..."

  "A specialized Artifact. One of Victoria's make, as I've heard."

  Simon tapped his forehead.

  "Oh." Katarina showed a sheepish grin as she was reminded of his 'amnesia'. "Victoria is a–"

  She was interrupted by the Waystation's front gate swinging open. Simon peered curiously out their carriage window, watching as the two soldiers drew closer.

  Both men were equipped with swords and rough leather armor. The one in front was a middle-aged man, striding forth with an arrogant swagger and a piercing glint in his eyes. The one lagging behind wasn't much older than 20, his steps more unsteady, lacking the confidence of his senior.

  Simon turned towards Katarina. "Is this normal?"

  "Maybe." Her tone was uncertain. "For now, let's exit the carriage and make our greetings." She snorted with amusement. "As two prospective Con Artists, neither of us should have any trouble pretending to be merchants."

  Katarina took point. They'd agreed beforehand that in matters of day-to-day socialization, she should handle the talking. Less chance that way of Simon accidentally revealing the gaps in his knowledge.

  Yet all that planning was rendered irrelevant when the older guard got a look at her face.

  "I remember you," he said, with mild surprise. "The redhead pair. A girl and her father."

  The guard eyed Simon, sneering. "Minus the father. Found a merchant fool to hitch yourself to, did you? Left the old man behind to rot? Don't blame you. Better to strike now before your youth withers and fades."

  Simon blinked. Fascinating conversation starter. I wonder, how much unwanted attention would we attract from assaulting a Helmund-backed soldier?

  He glanced over at Katarina, intending to follow her lead – and discovered that she didn't seem upset. If anything, the woman was unfazed, like she'd heard much worse in the past.

  "We're heading to Caelryn City," she remarked. "What's the toll price?"

  A frown flickered across the older guard's face. As if he'd anticipated more of a response from her. Craved it, even.

  Just from that, Simon could already predict how the rest of their talk would play out. He'd met people like this before.

  They all read from the same script.

  "Prices have changed," the guard lied. "Orders from the Duke himself." He graced them with a conciliatory smile – when inside, he sought to punish them for an imagined slight. "It's out of my hands."

  The younger soldier winced. "Sir, you said you wouldn't–"

  "Not now, boy. I'm carrying out my duties." He made a show of examining their carriage. "In truth, the Duke's toll has raised exorbitantly. You won't have sufficient funds to access the Waystation at all...unless we come to an understanding, that is."

  In that instant, Simon connected multiple thoughts at once.

  The transmigrator turned to address Katarina. He affected an aura of helplessness, like he was an inexperienced merchant hopelessly out of his depth. "I'll, I'll check the carriage. See what we have to spare."

  She didn't question him as he rushed off. That was another thing they'd established beforehand. If Simon ever did something completely unexpected, it was probably because he had an idea – but not the time to explain himself.

  Best to just roll with it.

  Katarina patiently kept the soldiers busy as Simon entered the carriage, then looked through the window, focusing his gaze on each guard in turn. He wasn't actually searching for anything; he'd simply needed a place where he could be safe and undisturbed for the next twenty-ish seconds.

  Identify. Sin Scry.

  Identify. Sin Scry.

  The trances faded, and the decision was made.

  Summoning a pouch of coins from Inventory, Simon exited the carriage. He walked forward with a morose, dejected air about him.

  "Didn't sell much in Springwater," he muttered, unable to look the guard in his eyes. "This is...this is what I've got. All of it."

  Simon didn't need to meet the guard's gaze to tell what he was thinking – greed and triumph were plain in the man's voice. "Smart lad," he purred. "Give it over, and we'll see if it'll satisfy the Duke."

  A poor, cowering merchant reached his arm out.

  Crack.

  And turned the motion into a haymaker to the jaw.

  Simon fell upon his target with a flurry of blows. There was no finesse to it, only momentum empowered by Strength. The guard was an Estimated Level 13, and he could've put up a strong fight if he'd been prepared – but he wasn't, so he couldn't.

  No one truly has a plan after they've been punched in the face.

  Still, this clearly wasn't his first rodeo. At one point, the man gathered his senses for long enough to unsheathe his sword and plunge it into Simon's gut. Steel speared through flesh, the man bellowing with furious glee as he assumed his victory had been won.

  The transmigrator responded by landing a crushing jab. Pain flashed within his body, but he easily brushed it aside.

  A rudimentary impalement was like a slap on the wrist compared to Kirkelas' mana or the Ravenous Wanderer's acid.

  Soon enough, the older guard was sprawled out on the ground, moaning in subdued agony. Several of his bones were broken, and much of his skin was starting to purple and bruise.

  Close by, Katarina was holding the younger guard hostage. She'd pressed a knife against his neck. He was frozen in fear, having offered no resistance whatsoever.

  Simon gave her a grateful nod for the assist – although he'd known that the second soldier was unlikely to intervene. Identify had described him as a Level 7 neophyte. Underqualified for his position, and too timid to stand up to people in general, especially his overbearing boss.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "You're welcome," Katarina grumbled. "I trust that there's a reason for this? We could've just paid the toll and continued onward. I know you don't really care about being cheated."

  No, not really. Money was immaterial. He could get more by looting slavers.

  "This won't take long." Simon pointed at the younger guard. "Keep him restrained, just in case."

  That one was a superfluous extra. Sin Scry hadn't divulged any repulsive, abhorrent secrets that were deserving of scorn.

  The older guard, however...

  Simon knelt down, pressing his weight onto the injured man's chest, pinning him to the ground. A piteous gurgle floated up through the air.

  "Irving Stroud," the transmigrator began. "Forty-nine years old. Waystation guard for two decades. No family. No friends, either. You ever thought about why that is?"

  The guard named Irving didn't fully gasp, as he was having difficulty breathing, but the sound that choked out of his throat was a close approximation. "How do you...who are…"

  "We're not focusing on me right now. You're the star of today's show, Irving."

  "My money...take it...you can–"

  "Didn't you listen to what the nice lady said? Money doesn't matter to me. Thing is, I'm not the only person you've tried to rob."

  Simon tilted his head. "Are you even aware of how many you've killed, Irving?"

  The man flinched. "Never...hurt people."

  "There's more ways to hurt than with a sword to the gut. Sure, sometimes you targeted naive merchants – those who could survive an unforeseen loss of coin. That's sketchy, yet ultimately atonable."

  The transmigrator narrowed his eyes. "But they were just the tip of the iceberg. It didn't matter if people couldn't afford your predations, or if they might starve to death because you wanted to fatten your coinpurse and stroke your ego. You didn't care. You went for anyone who was weak. Anyone who annoyed you. Anyone who you thought couldn't fight back."

  He pressed down harder. "Guess you thought wrong this time."

  Tears welled at the corners of Irving's eyes. He presented no argument in his defense. Mostly due to the air leaving his lungs, but hey.

  "Besides," Simon continued. "While your murders so far have been indirect, you were also working yourself up to killing someone directly. Was getting tired of the same ole' routine. Would've gotten a little too eager disciplining whoever defied you next."

  He tapped the blade still lodged inside his stomach. "I have proof."

  "Please...let me go...won't hurt people...I'm sorry...do anything..."

  "Of course you'd say that after I beat you black and blue. As an apology, it seems a tad insincere."

  Simon sighed. "With that said, you haven't killed anyone directly, and I can't execute you for a potential crime you never actually committed. Shame. What to do, what to do."

  Making a binding Contract wasn't an option. Based on the Skill's Description, he doubted this situation would apply.

  -Contracts must be *willingly* accepted. Any Contract signed under magical compulsion, or forced onto someone by direct threats to their person, shall be automatically voided.

  That clause had been broken when Simon pummeled the guard halfway to hamburger meat.

  "Hmm. If I ask you to repent, Irving, will you? Has our friendly spar shown you the error of your ways?"

  Unfortunately, it hadn't. Irving was a man who venerated power and dominance. When shown an inch of mercy, he would interpret that kindness as weakness. People like him almost never changed.

  But they could be taught a lesson.

  With a burst of blue light, a dagger materialized into the transmigrator's palm. He reached down and seized Irving's hand, holding it with a vice grip.

  Then, for just a moment, Simon hesitated. Something about what he was doing felt...off.

  He immediately locked the feeling away. This much was nothing compared to what he would need to do in the future. Hesitance at this juncture was a ridiculous notion.

  Someone who'd already killed without remorse didn't get to entertain that kind of self-indulgent hypocrisy.

  Slicing down, Simon cut off Irving's left thumb.

  The guard screamed. The transmigrator let him, idly flicking blood off his knife. He waited for Irving's pain and sense of loss to settle in.

  When he'd at last finished blubbering, Simon grabbed the man's head and turned it to face him. "My friend and I are going to make use of the Waystation now. I strongly recommend that you don't go crying to your superiors about this incident. I'm sure Duke Helmund would love to hear that you've been using his name to trick people into paying higher tariffs – none of which went to him."

  "Yes. Yes." Irving couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Go through. Never have to see each other again."

  "Oh, we'll be seeing each other again."

  A tortured moment passed by.

  "What?" Irving croaked.

  "I'll be back within one year," Simon intoned. "As a checkup. If you've targeted anyone since then...or if you've tattled about what happened here today...I'll know. Remember, Irving, that this was just a thumb."

  His foot came crashing down, stomping the severed digit into a red, pulpy mess.

  "You still have so much more to lose."

  The guard would recall that threat whenever he looked at the tiny stump on his left hand. Bones and bruises healed – this was a lasting blemish that would forever remind him of the Sword of Damocles hanging above his head.

  With any lesser punishment, he would've backslid to his former ways. Yet while men like Irving were often stubborn and delusional, even they couldn't ignore marks of permanence.

  Simon wasn't 100% positive...but he believed that this was the amount of cruelty necessary to make him stop hurting others.

  Heroic Valor remained silent as the transmigrator stood up. He dusted himself off and faced Katarina. "Told you it wouldn't take long," he said, his voice chipper. "Ready to go?"

  Katarina glared at Irving as if he was a cockroach, then nodded. "Very much so." She shoved past the younger guard and stalked off towards their carriage.

  Simon allowed himself a few seconds of satisfaction before following her. This had been a solid warm-up for Caelryn City. A prelude to sinners punished, monsters slain, and progress made.

  Soon, it would be time to go hunting.