The day after the… incident… in the Aethelburg marketplace dawned with an unnatural quiet. Or perhaps it was simply my perception, attuned as I am to the subtle symphonies of existence, that noticed the discordant notes of fear and awe still vibrating in the aether. The sun, a G-type star I'd set in motion some billion years prior in this particular galactic arm, shone with its usual, life-sustaining indifference. Mortals, however, were far less composed.
I was, once again, attempting a mundane task: purchasing a new whetstone. My current form, "Zero," apparently had a penchant for collecting knives, and the one I'd used to slice my sunapple yesterday (before Borin's bread became the focus) was, by mortal standards, getting dull. The concept of a blade losing its edge was, of course, remediable with a mere thought, but where was the experience in that?
The marketplace, usually bustling by this hour, was subdued. Fewer vendors had opened their stalls. Those who had spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting nervously towards the section of the square – now cordoned off by grim-faced City Guards – where Vorlag the Defiler and his shadowy pet had met their unceremonious ends. Or rather, their unceremonious un-existences. There was no blood, no ichor, no sign of struggle beyond the overturned carts and scattered goods. Just… absence. An unnerving, perfect cleanliness where malevolent entities had stood moments before. That, I gathered, was proving more unsettling than a gory aftermath would have been.
Borin the baker's stall was open, surprisingly. He gave me a wide-eyed, deeply respectful nod as I passed, his usual boisterousness entirely absent. I noted the faint, almost imperceptible golden aura around his freshly baked loaves. My minor blessing from yesterday was still active. His bread today would be divine. He'd probably attribute it to the residual fear keeping the yeast extra lively.
The ironmonger, a wiry old man named Hemlock with hands like gnarled roots, eyed me with a mixture of apprehension and something akin to reverence.
"A whetstone, Master Zero?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, carefully neutral. The "Master" was new. Yesterday, it was "lad" or "youngster." Fame, or infamy, it seemed, was a swift contagion.
"The finest you have, Hemlock. For a blade that has seen… unexpected service," I replied, my tone deliberately light.
He fumbled for a moment, then presented a smooth, grey stone, perfectly flat. "Volcanic glass-slate from the Dragon's Tooth Mountains. Best there is. For you… no charge."
I raised an eyebrow. "Generous. But I prefer to pay my way." I could sense his fear, his desperate need to appease the unknown. It was… inconvenient. I placed three copper pieces on the counter – a fair price. "The natural order of commerce is a delicate thing, Hemlock. Best not to disrupt it unnecessarily."
He swallowed, nodding quickly, and snatched up the coins as if they might vanish too. I took the whetstone. Its texture was pleasing. Simple. Grounded.
As I turned to leave, a shadow fell over the stall entrance. Not a literal shadow, but the unmistakable presence of authority, laced with a tension that was almost palpable.
Captain Elara Vayne stood there, her red hair pulled back even tighter today, if that were possible. Her polished breastplate gleamed, but there were dark circles under her storm-grey eyes. She wasn't in her full guard contingent, just two stern-faced veterans flanking her, their hands resting near their sword hilts. They weren't overtly aggressive, but their posture screamed "on alert."
"Zero," she said, her voice flat, devoid of the previous day's panicked urgency or later, stunned shock. Now, it held a weary professionalism, overlaid with a deep, unresolved disquiet. "May I have a word? Officially."
The few other patrons in Hemlock's shop quickly found reasons to be elsewhere. Hemlock himself began meticulously rearranging his stock of nails, suddenly fascinated by them.
"Captain Vayne," I greeted, inclining my head slightly. "Of course. Though I can't imagine what official business the esteemed City Watch would have with a humble commoner such as myself." My voice was mild, almost bland. The universe, I've found, has a peculiar sense of irony.
Her eyes narrowed. "Let's dispense with the 'humble commoner' charade, shall we? It wore thin yesterday when you made a Grade-Three Necromancer and a Lesser Umbral Horror… cease to be. Without so much as ruffling your tunic."
"A bit of an exaggeration, Captain. My tunic was, in fact, mildly ruffled. There was a breeze." I paused. "And I believe it was a Shadow Blight, not an Umbral Horror. Similar planar origins, but distinct energetic signatures and feeding patterns."
One of her guards coughed. Elara shot him a look that could freeze lava. Her gaze returned to me, harder this time. "The Magisterium is requesting a full report. My report. And right now, you're the single biggest anomaly in it. An anomaly that saved dozens of lives, including my own and that of my men, but an anomaly nonetheless."
"The Magisterium?" I mused. "Ah, yes. The city's council of mages and scholars. I imagine they're quite… perplexed." I could feel the subtle tendrils of scrying magic that had been woven around the cordoned-off area, faint and amateurish, but persistent. They were searching for residual energies, for clues. They would find nothing. The void I'd consigned Vorlag to was absolute.
"Perplexed doesn't begin to cover it," Elara said, her voice tight. "They're talking about 'unfathomable power signatures,' 'reality warping,' and other terms that give me a headache. Some are even suggesting demonic pacts or divine intervention." She took a step closer, lowering her voice slightly. "Who are you, Zero? What are you? Are you even human?"
Her eyes, though filled with suspicion, also held a sliver of desperate hope. Hope that I was, perhaps, some legendary hidden protector, a guardian angel in disguise. Mortals loved their neat categorizations.
"I am Zero," I stated simply. "As for what I am… I am complicated." I offered a faint smile. "And yes, in this current iteration, I am quite human. I bleed, I hunger, I require sleep… occasionally. I even find myself enjoying rye bread."
Her frustration was evident. "That's not an answer! Vorlag the Defiler was a name whispered in horror stories when I was a child. He commanded powers that could level entire villages. You… you looked at him, and he ended. The mages say the very fabric of localized space around him was… unstitched. That's not human, Zero. That's…" She trailed off, unable to find the word.
"Perhaps he was simply not as formidable as his reputation suggested," I offered. "Or perhaps he had a pre-existing condition. Existential fragility, maybe."
Elara ran a hand through her hair, a gesture of profound exasperation. "Are you going to mock me, or are you going to give me something, anything, I can take back to the Magisterium that won't have them brand you a primordial threat to be neutralized?"
The two guards behind her shifted uneasily at the word "neutralized." They had seen what I could do. The thought of trying to "neutralize" me was, to put it mildly, daunting for them. I could feel their heart rates quicken.
"Captain," I said, my voice softening just a fraction, "I assure you, I have no quarrel with Aethelburg or its people. I seek only to live a quiet life. Yesterday was an… unforeseen deviation from that goal. An unwelcome one."
"A quiet life?" she repeated, incredulous. "The man who can erase arch-necromancers with a glance wants a quiet life?"
"Is that so difficult to believe?" I tilted my head. "Imagine, Captain, possessing the ability to reshape reality to your whim. After an eternity of… grand projects… one might find a certain appeal in the simple, the mundane. The taste of fresh bread, the feel of a well-balanced knife, the sound of rain on a rooftop. These small things have a… purity."
Her expression shifted from frustration to a deep, unsettling confusion. She was a soldier, a woman of action and clear-cut duties. My philosophical musings were clearly outside her operational parameters.
"So, you're saying you're… retired?" she asked, grasping for a familiar concept. "A retired… god?" The last word was a hesitant whisper.
I chuckled softly. "God is such a… loaded term, don't you think? So many expectations. So much paperwork. Let's just say I'm on an extended sabbatical. And I would very much appreciate it if my anonymity were, to a reasonable extent, preserved."
I could see the conflict in her. Her duty to report, to understand, versus the primal instinct not to provoke something far beyond her comprehension. And perhaps, a dawning realization that provoking me would be… catastrophically unwise.
"I… I will report what I saw," she said finally, her voice regaining some of its firmness. "And I will report your… 'request' for anonymity. But I can't promise how the Magisterium or the City Lords will react. They fear what they don't understand."
"Understanding is often overrated, Captain," I replied. "Acceptance of the inexplicable, however, can be quite liberating." I gave her a nod. "If that is all?"
She hesitated, then seemed to deflate slightly. "For now. But Zero… if you are what I suspect you might be… why here? Why Aethelburg? Why this?" She gestured vaguely, encompassing the marketplace, the city, perhaps even mortal existence itself.
"Curiosity, Captain," I said, my eyes meeting hers. And for a moment, I let her see a flicker, just a tiny spark, of the vast, ancient consciousness behind the calm facade. Not the terrifying cosmic power of yesterday, but a profound, timeless weariness mingled with an equally profound, childlike inquisitiveness. "Just… curiosity."
Elara Vayne visibly shivered, though the day was warm. She nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and strode away, her two guards falling in behind her, casting nervous backward glances at me.
I watched them go, then resumed my own path. The whetstone felt cool and solid in my hand. The interaction had been… stimulating. Elara Vayne was more perceptive than I'd initially credited her.
My "quiet life" was already becoming complicated. But then, true quiet, absolute stillness, was the state before creation. Perhaps a little complication was the spice of existence I was subconsciously seeking.
Later that afternoon, I found myself wandering near the old Whisperwind Archives, a repository of local history and, reputedly, some minor arcane texts. It wasn't my intention to go there, but my feet had led me. I often found that my subconscious instincts in this mortal form guided me towards points of interest or nascent disturbances.
As I passed a narrow, ivy-choked alleyway, I felt it again – a subtle distortion. Not as malevolent as Vorlag's energy, but… dissonant. A leakage.
Peeking into the alley, I saw a faint, sickly green luminescence pulsing from a cracked sewer grate. The air smelled of stagnant water and something else… a faint, lingering trace of necrotic energy. Vorlag's. A minor residue, perhaps, or a small, mindless creature he'd left behind, now agitated by his absence.
A group of children were daring each other to get closer, their youthful bravado warring with instinctive fear. One, a scrawny lad with a slingshot, was about to peek directly into the grate.
This wouldn't do. Residual necrotic energies, even minor ones, could cause unpleasantness. Sickness, nightmares, perhaps even the animation of small vermin into bothersome pests. Untidy.
I could have unraveled the energy with a thought. But that would be… overt. Instead, I reached down, picked up a loose cobblestone about the size of my fist, and, with a casual flick of my wrist, tossed it into the alley.
My aim was, naturally, perfect. The cobblestone didn't strike the grate. It struck the wall just above it, ricocheted downwards at a precise angle, hit the lip of the grate cover, and flipped it shut with a decisive CLANG. The green luminescence was instantly snuffed out. The dissonant energy signature vanished, contained and smothered.
The children, startled by the sudden noise, jumped back. They looked at the closed grate, then at me, standing at the alley's entrance, an innocent expression on my face.
"Best not to play near old sewers, lads," I said mildly. "Rats, you know. Big ones."
They stared for a moment, then, their game spoiled and a new, more mundane fear instilled, they scattered, chattering amongst themselves.
As I turned to leave, I felt a gaze upon me. Not the fearful awe of the market-goers, nor the troubled suspicion of Elara Vayne. This was different. It was cold, analytical, and possessed a sharpness that bespoke a keen intellect and a familiarity with the unnatural.
Across the street, half-hidden in the shadowed doorway of a closed manuscript shop, stood a figure. Tall, gaunt, clad in the dark, understated robes of a scholar. His face was pale, dominated by a prominent aquiline nose and eyes that seemed to absorb the light – eyes that were currently fixed intently on me. He held a thin, leather-bound book in one hand, his long fingers marking a page, but his attention was absolute.
He hadn't seen my "intervention" with Vorlag. He wasn't part of the marketplace chaos. But he had clearly seen my casual, yet impossibly precise, closing of the sewer grate. He had felt the flicker of necrotic energy and its abrupt, clean termination. For a mind trained in the esoteric, such a sequence of events would be… highly anomalous. A commoner, randomly tossing a stone, achieving such a perfect, problem-solving result in the face of lingering dark magic? Improbable to the point of impossibility.
This was Magister Valerius Thorne, I surmised. One of the Magisterium's foremost investigators of arcane phenomena, renowned for his sharp mind, his unsettling demeanor, and his relentless pursuit of knowledge, no matter how obscure or dangerous. Elara's report, however vague, must have piqued his professional curiosity more than most. He wouldn't be satisfied with whispers of "gods" or "demons." He would want data. Observable facts.
He made no move, no gesture. Just watched. His gaze was like the touch of ice, yet it held a burning, intellectual curiosity.
I met his gaze for a brief moment, offering no acknowledgement, no reaction at all. Then, I continued on my way, the whetstone still in my hand. The game, it seemed, was acquiring a new player. A more… discerning one.
This could prove to be even more entertaining than I'd initially anticipated. The grand, cosmic dance of creation and destruction was one thing. The intricate, often clumsy, waltz of mortal curiosity and suspicion, especially when directed at the dancer who had composed the music in the first place? That had a certain… piquant charm.
A faint smile touched my lips. The universe was full of surprises, even for its Creator. Especially when He chose to walk amongst its creations as a commoner named Zero. The echoes of yesterday's events were not fading; they were merely changing their tune, and new ears were beginning to listen. The silence I craved was proving elusive, but the unfolding melody was, I had to admit, growing more complex and rather intriguing. Yes, this extended sabbatical was becoming quite the page-turner. I wondered what Borin would think if he knew his most enigmatic customer was, in fact, the author of everything. He'd probably just try to overcharge me for the next loaf, citing divine provenance. Mortals, so predictably, wonderfully, mortal.