The euphoria of the verdict still vibrated in the air when the time came to reveal the prize. Fate, however, seemed to have a cruel sense of humor. After proclaiming Hans as the victor, the magistrates brought forth an imposing oak chest, carved with worn heraldry and adorned with reliefs depicting ancient deeds. The crowd gathered around this symbol of fortune, holding their breath in an almost sacred silence. The dim twilight blended with the expectation of an imminent destiny.

  With unwavering solemnity, the judge approached the chest. With measured movements, he lifted the lid, and to everyone's astonishment, instead of the promised gleam of coins and gems, the inside revealed an immutable void—a bottomless abyss of nothing. For a moment, the silence became sepulchral. Disbelief spread like an echo among the crowd.

  Voices rose. The people, unable to comprehend the scene, shouted, "Fraud!" and questioned the judge’s words. Then, a man emerged from the crowd with unsettling confidence. Tall, with a cunning gaze and a crooked smile, he called himself Leontius. Dressed in a manner that contrasted sharply with the rest, he spoke in a persuasive tone, drawing everyone's attention.

  —"This is a scam! Do you really believe someone like Hans had no idea?" —he turned to the crowd, gesturing theatrically—. "Think about it! How can someone win so absurdly, only for the gold to suddenly vanish? And what about Ignacio? His inseparable friend! Doesn’t it seem suspicious that both of them are at the center of this whole mess? This is no coincidence, my friends. We’ve been deceived!"

  His rhetoric inflamed the crowd, further fueling the hostility toward Hans. Suddenly, Leontius grabbed a glass from a nearby table and hurled it forcefully. The cup spun through the air and crashed to the ground in front of Hans, splashing his face with its contents. A murmur spread among the crowd, now seeing Hans and Ignacio as the faces of betrayal.

  —"Where are the gold’s custodians?"— an elderly man shouted with a trembling voice. Another villager angrily pointed at the guards, who stood confused, glancing around.

  —"They were supposed to protect it!"— another exclaimed, and doubts multiplied until the once-festive atmosphere turned hostile.

  —"Hans was too calm!"— murmured a woman among the crowd.

  —"How could he have won without even realizing it?"

  —"It’s impossible he knew nothing!"— added a man with a furrowed brow, pointing at him accusingly.

  The crowd reacted in various ways. Some shouted furiously, demanding explanations. Others, overwhelmed by fear, searched for a way out of the turmoil. Some merchants attempted to protect their stalls, while others joined the swelling mob clamoring for justice. A group of young men, thrilled by the chaos, took the opportunity to loot unattended carts, while the elderly clung to the hope that someone would restore order. The general uproar turned into a deafening roar, filled with accusations and threats.

  Soon, many accused Hans of being a conspirator and a traitor, blaming him for allowing the theft. The tension escalated abruptly, and in the blink of an eye, a full-blown brawl erupted.

  The fight broke out in a frenzy of shoves and punches. Hans looked at Ignacio, but his companion wasted no time trying to calm the situation. Without hesitation, he bellowed:

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  —"If you want answers, go after the ones who stole it, not me!"

  As the blows and struggles intensified, Hans felt his blood boil. His mind swarmed with desperate questions:

  Where is my gold? What am I going to do now? Will they still think I owe them money, or will they consider the debt settled? And what will happen to Dorian and Viktor?

  Ignacio knocked a man down with a right hook as the chaos spread. Hans, trying to back away, found himself surrounded by two aggressors.

  —"You were in the race, bastard! This must be your doing!"— one growled.

  —"You’ll pay for what you made me lose!"— another yelled, raising the hostility.

  Hans instinctively defended himself. He headbutted one of them and shoved another away, his chest burning with adrenaline.

  Through the scuffle, a burly man with a rugged face and dark gaze stepped forward.

  —"Did you really think you’d get away with this?"— he spat, brandishing a dagger.

  Hans barely had time to react. He dodged the attack and kicked the aggressor in the shin with force. The impact made the man let out a howl of pain, bending over as he struggled to regain his balance. His face twisted in a grimace of fury and frustration, stumbling as he clutched his injured leg, but with rage flickering in his eyes, he prepared to strike back. Before he could recover, Hans vaulted over an overturned table and dashed into the dense forest.

  As he fled, the uproar of the thugs blended with the echoes of chaos. Without stopping, Hans ran deeper into the woods and, upon reaching a well, found refuge among thick bushes. There, taking a brief breath, he waited for his pursuers to get closer. At the right moment, he picked up a stone and hurled it in the opposite direction, simulating the sound of a retreat. The enraged attackers continued chasing the noise without realizing it was a trick.

  Determined to get another moment of respite, he made his way to a nearby stream. Submerging his face in the cold water, he felt the moisture momentarily soothe his tension and cool his fury. The murmuring of the brook offered brief relief, allowing him to regain his breath and clear his mind.

  But just as he began to process what had happened, a thug—who had been tirelessly searching for him—burst through the underbrush. With a cruel grin, he loomed over Hans, savoring his desperation.

  —"Not so fast, friend. You owe us something, and it’s time to collect."— he said, his voice dripping with mockery.

  Hans tried to stand, but his body still ached from previous blows.

  —"I have nothing to do with this,"— he gasped, spitting to the side.

  —"Tell that to those who lost all their money,"— the thug sneered, raising his fist.

  Rain poured down harder, intensifying the dark, humid atmosphere. In an instant, Hans found himself face-to-face with his attacker. Without hesitation, he launched into a desperate attack. In the middle of the violent struggle, Hans struck with a stick he had picked up; though fragile, it hit the thug’s arm with a dry crack, snapping in two from the force of the impact. A shard flew through the air as the thug staggered, shocked by the unexpected breakage of the makeshift weapon. Seizing the moment, Hans shoved him, but in his hasty maneuver, he slipped and fell to the ground. The thug lunged at him, pinning him down and pummeling him with relentless blows, leaving him dazed.

  At that moment, a shadow emerged from the darkness. A faint gleam of steel flickered for an instant in the dim light, and a scent of damp leather and unknown spices filled the air. Tall and wrapped in a dark cloak, the figure moved with unsettling precision, as if they had anticipated every move in advance. No one had seen them arrive; the figure appeared silently and, just as the thug was about to strike the final blow, a knife whistled through the darkness. Before the thug could react, he felt the blade tear through his side. His breath stopped short as he tried to clutch the wound, but the shadow had already moved, evading his wild swings. The thug’s body collapsed with a dull thud, his eyes frozen in terror.

  Hans, dazed and surrounded by darkness, couldn't make out anything clearly. He only heard a nearly imperceptible whisper before silence swallowed everything again. Who was that person? Why had they saved him?