Within, I muse: Quang Minh's outward shell may be plain, yet his potential within The Strays is vast indeed. The coming centralization shall grant him space to shine.
I ask:— Beyond numbers, what else art thou skilled in?
Quang Minh bows his head, a trace of hesitation upon him:— Nothing else. Numbers are my passion, my very essence. Yet I envy Aldo, whose skill is broad, and Veritas, who wields physics with great prowess in practice.
A flicker of sorrow dims his gaze, a shadow of inferiority steals across him. For a while I fall silent, pondering: surprising it is, to glimpse the hidden heart of one whom I must draw closer at this time.
I speak:— Thou must not let inferiority bind thee. Aldo too hath weakness, and Veritas is but a spearpoint of physics alone. What mattereth most is that thou hast advanced far beyond thine own self of before—that is most worthy of praise. Compare not with others only to see thy loss. Be the finest version of thyself, and break the shackles thou settest upon thy soul.
Quang Minh forces a smile, half-believing, half-doubting, his eyes holding a gleam of skepticism:— That soundeth like those vain words of empty cheer upon the social nets.
I chuckle, clicking my tongue, then press further:— Yet think—thou holdest a role most vital in Aldo's enzyme company, keeping the books, paying the workers. When the fellowship is forged in truth, thou mayest well serve as the treasurer of The Strays.
Quang Minh turns his head aside, still half-convinced, half not. I seize the chance to press on:— Pure mathematics drives the very frontier, opening paths that may shape the practical world, gifting unnumbered trades with new vigor. It is the locomotive that carries man to unveil the mysteries of existence. It also tempers the mind to reason with rigor, to craft new answers in creativity, to approach each knot from many angles, and to forge solutions unforeseen.
Quang Minh falls silent, slowly "loading" the weight of my words. Bit by bit, his face brightens; in his eyes, a glimmer of resolve stirs, though beneath still lingers traces of self-doubt. At last, he murmurs:— I shall strive harder, to render service to the fellowship.
I smile, a measure of satisfaction stirring within me. With my business with Quang Minh done, I turn and take my leave, leaving him by the riverside, where he resumes his quiet calculations upon the river's winding arcs.
Yet ere long, I hear footsteps faint behind me. Quang Minh, it seems, cannot part so easily; his heart wrestles with feelings mixed, somewhat bewildered. In the end, he follows, his steps small and hesitant, as though seeking still to learn, to connect…
Quang Minh follows me with bright eagerness, his long legs striding swiftly, yet still awkward as he squeezes through the dense throngs that flood the smooth stone-paved streets of Tarif. The sun-warmed stones glimmer with a faint golden sheen, while above, banners and cloths of many hues snap and flutter in the wind. From the stalls along the roadside waft spices into the air—cinnamon, nutmeg, star anise, and some fierce, nameless pungency—all mingled together, like an unseen mist enfolding every sense.
I glance at Quang Minh, whose face crumples, lips pressed tight. [Another soul not yet attuned to the scents of this land…]. In an even voice, I say:— Hasten thy steps, lest we linger longer in this "cauldron of men."
The crowd surges ever onward like a river of thick paste, its ceaseless eddies colliding with our shoulders and backs. I think briefly: [When shall Tarif ever widen her ways? This is not yet the heart of the city, yet so pressed already…].
After fifteen full minutes, we squeeze our way to the inn I intend to visit. Hai—second among the three Vietnamese companions, friend to Veritas—lodges here. In my mind, Hai and his band remain dim figures, so faint that few in The Strays truly pay them heed.
Quang Minh's eyes wander over the place. The inn rises wholly from massive stones, fused so tightly it seems the work of some giant's hand in ages past.— Who dwelleth… in such a wall of stone? — Quang Minh tilts his head, voice brimming with curiosity.
I sweep my gaze across the interior. A cool radiance fills the air, the chill that stone retains against the skin-searing blaze outside.— Here it is cool, fit for a city that burns like a furnace. The comfort is decent as well. — I gesture toward the counter, where a guest registry hums with enchantment, glowing circles revolving slowly. — These devices lessen error in record and calculation.
From the ceiling hang lanterns of sorcery, orbs of gentle light floating without glare. Beyond, the guest chambers glimmer with doorways like fragile soap-bubbles, passable only to host and those granted leave. Quang Minh's eyes grow wide, his face more vacant than ever.
I chuckle softly:— This is a world of fantasy. Sorcery is but commonplace. Why so full of wonder?
His voice falls low, almost abashed:— In over half a year here, I spend eighty percent of days as field-slave to Heilop, fifteen percent risking my neck with Aldo and Veritas in perilous ventures, and the five that remain on numbers and accounts for Aldo. I… have not tasted much else.
— More shall thou taste in due season. — I reply, and step straight to the counter, greeting the innkeeper and inquiring of Hai.
The keeper, a man of middle years, greets warmly, his gaze drifting to Quang Minh:— I know this lad. Oft he comes here with Hai. Thou must be another of Quang Minh's companions?
I incline my head.— Aye, so it is.
The innkeeper informs:— Hai departed for the market this very morn.
I bow lightly in thanks. Yet as we near the front door, the memory of that suffocating press—crushed like bread within a sandwich—returns. Quang Minh and I exchange glances, and both turn back within. The host raises his brows, puzzled; but when I request leave to exit by the rear, he merely shrugs and nods assent.
The back door opens upon a narrower way—still busy, yet not so choking. Freed from the crush, our steps ease. Quang Minh speaks again:— Near here lie two markets, Sayf and Fidhdhi. You asked not which Hai goes to, did you? Should we divide and seek separately?
I keep walking, offering no reply at once. [If this were a play, such a split would herald drama: in horror, spirits or beasts would strike lone wanderers; in action, an ambush awaits. But in Mikhland… never so.]
— Nay. — My answer is short.
Quang Minh's eyes round:— Why not?
— Did Hai speak yestermorn of aught he meant to buy?
He halts, furrows his brow in memory, then recites word for word:— "Tomorrow I must seek weapons in the market, to wring coin from small monster-bounties near the guild. Few guilds hold commissions—I must seize them ere the newlings touch them."
[This fellow… no less cunning than Joon-soo.] I muse, then declare:— Then we go to Sayf.
We turn into the way toward Sayf—the market renowned for its trade in arms, where the clash of iron upon iron resounds like a harsh yet vigorous symphony.
The gate of Sayf Market rises like a fortress in miniature, its twin doors wrought of blackened metal, etched with the forms of blade and shield, towering so high that even a grown dragon must lift its head. Upon the crest of the gate, banners of dark crimson whip in the wind, their frayed threads whispering of long years beneath sun and gale. From deep within wafts the breath of hot iron, mingled with oil of upkeep and the musk of tanned hides, seeping through the seams of the gate like a silent yet weighty summons.
We draw near, yet ere our feet cross the white stone line at the threshold, two guards in gleaming silver mail step forth to bar the way. With no word of reason, we are led at once to the garrison beside. The air within is thick with the staleness of old parchment, dried ink, and sweat long trapped beneath steel.
They question us in voices flat and cold. We are compelled to sign a scroll longer than a leasehold in Terre. At last, each of us is handed a scarlet token, stamped with the sigil of a nine-pointed star, as though blood congealed into shape.
[So it is thus in this tyrant realm of Mikhland: whether commoner or noble, whoso is not of the army must crawl through a hundred laws to buy a single blade…] I care not overmuch—for I am of Chinese blood yet born upon American soil, raised where firearms are but household furniture. [Other nations are no different; naught strange in this.]
I heave a sigh, and say to Quang Minh:— What burdensome decrees these are.
He looks at me as though I had urged him to eat bread with live squid:— Thou… art American? Why marvel at laws upon weapons?
I nod, answering curtly:— Chinese-American. My household keepeth ten guns at least. The Second Amendment giveth leave.
Quang Minh still stares in wonder, then asks further:— Yet… did not Joon-soo say the rulebook of The Strays is copied word for word from the American Constitution?
I nod again. His gaze scatters, as if the mind within reels—perhaps he holds only the thought that "Chinese dwell in China." [Yet beyond the Middle Kingdom dwell fifty to sixty million Chinese abroad; while the Mainland holds one point four billion. By the measure of simple chance, to meet one not of the Mainland is but four percent.]
We deem the scarlet token a pass into the market. It is not. It is but a writ to enter the "second circle"—a chamber behind the garrison, where they further probe mind, spirit, and purpose of purchase. We must present our IDs.
A soldier takes my card, sets it upon a block of black stone, polished like still water. Across its face, glowing runes unfurl, crawling like living script whose meaning is closed to me. After minutes, the card is returned.
I step outside, bearing the weariness of one who hath just sought a bank loan. [Too entangled by far.]
Before us, Sayf Market spreads like a sea of steel. Stalls stretch unending, each heaped with scimitars, double axes, composite bows, and weapons unnamed to me. The clangor of metal colliding rings throughout, mingled with hoarse cries of merchants and the pounding hammers of forges deep within. The very air thickens with the reek of iron, oil, and smoldering coal. Sunlight refracts from ten-thousand blades, dazzling so fiercely that even closed eyes hold their afterimage.
We tread not far when I behold him. Hair green, eyes green—the hue of deep forest reflecting steel's glimmer. Hai. No mistaking. He once devoured the flesh of a Corinthian, of the Acid-born race, and though he lived, his body was altered into this strange guise.
Quang Minh waves his arm:— Hai! — he calls twice.
Yet ere we approach, three masked men leap forth. They seize Hai with motions sharp and certain, as if long in wait.
Of them, the one whose left eye lies bound beneath black cloth I know at once. It is Ky—once twisted by the experiments of bondage, the scars still hidden under that band.
Ky barks at the guards, voice cutting cold. The soldiers rush, yet their strokes betray them—clumsy, feeble, as though bellies heavy with bribes. They feint at battle, granting the three free hand to overwhelm Hai and flee.
I sigh, turning to Quang Minh and Ky:— Endless regulations, and a watch that feasts on bribes…
Then I point toward the path where they vanish:— Those three are Latinos. Mark their features well for the search.
Ky sneers:— Latino? Why claim such are easier to find? What bearing hath it?
I turn my head aside, my eyes heavy with weariness:— In Terre, there are no Latinos. That is all.