Xaltal helped Aymara to her feet, his strong hands steadying her as she swayed slightly, still dizzy from their rapid journey.
As they made their way toward the main concourse, One approached Xaltal and Aymara, its optical sensors focusing on them with a soft whir.
"Welcome to the Mall of Finite Distance," it greeted in a melodious voice. "May I assist you in finding your destination?"
Xaltal waved it off. "We're fine, thanks," he said, his tone brusque but not unkind.
Amidst the bustle and spectacle, a solitary figure stood out from the crowd.
Cloaked entirely in white, their form was hidden beneath voluminous robes. Only their hands were visible—old and frail, marked by the passage of countless years. The figure was surrounded by a small gathering of people, their attention rapt as if drawn by an unseen force.
"So what is it?" the white-hooded figure asked, their voice carrying a weight that seemed to still the surrounding commotion.
A high school girl, her uniform crisp and new, stammered in response. "I like, uh—" she began, but her words faltered under the figure's unseen gaze.
"I don't like fiction. I like history," a male voice cut in, sharp and clear.
A young man with vibrant blue hair pushed through the crowd, his loose brown blazer and untucked white shirt a stark contrast to the orderly appearance of those around him. Wired earpods trailed from his ears to his belt buckle.
The hooded figure turned slightly, addressing the newcomer.
"Ah, the hero who killed the Prophet of Agony? The war that nearly consumed the city?" they asked, curiosity threading through their voice like smoke.
The blue-haired boy's expression twisted in frustration.
"I'm not here to talk about some half-assed hero title," he snapped, his voice sharp with rising anger. "Even if the war in Bastion during the last cycle was cataclysmic..." He paused, biting back the heat in his chest.
"I'm talking about the first madman."
"Oh, you are talking about...?" the hooded figure prompted, their frail hand disappearing into the folds of their robe.
"Valen," the boy declared, his blue hair catching the light as he moved closer to the center of the gathering. "The first madman."
It was at this moment that Xaltal's interest was piqued. He began to approach the group, his imposing stature drawing eyes as he cut through the ebb and flow of shoppers.
"The first madman," the blue-haired boy continued, his voice rising with enthusiasm.
Before he could elaborate further, Xaltal and Aymara arrived at the edge of the crowd. "I'll take it from here, kid," Xaltal interjected, his eyes scanning the boy's uniform. "And you're from..." He paused, noting the badge that marked the youth as a freshman from the Stem Academy—the very institution that had seen all heirs pass through its halls.
Aymara chimed in. "He's from my school," she said, a note of surprise in her voice.
"Yeah, forget it," Xaltal said dismissively, turning his attention to the hooded figure.
Behind them, the blue-haired boy's indignant cry of "Don't interrupt me again—" was lost in the ambient noise of the mall.
Xaltal addressed the hooded figure directly, his tone carrying a hint of challenge. "Ask me."
The hooded figure seemed to consider for a moment before posing their question once more. "What is your favorite era?"
Xaltal's response came without hesitation. "Mine? Charles and the Seven Swords, or whatever. I forgot the term." Though his face was obscured by the chainmail veil, the intensity of his gaze was palpable, causing the hooded figure to stagger slightly.
"You mean this?" the figure asked, producing a hologram from within their robes. As the image flickered to life, they continued, "A person's favorite era says a lot about them, you know. And I mean a lot..."
The hologram displayed a vibrant scene:
Charles and the Seven God Swords
Viewers: 1.6 Billion.
Plot: You are nothing. You are Charles. Go on a journey to find a new system, a new power source to defeat the Earth Welders who abuse theirs.
The cover image showed Charles, clad in a tattered greenish-yellow leather jacket, a backpack slung over his shoulder. He stood before a field of broken, unused swords embedded in the ground, while two elf-like figures watched from afar, their attention fixed on something beyond the frame. A misty fog crept across the scene, lending an air of mystery to the grainy image.
"Hey! I watched that!" a bystander exclaimed, their eyes lighting up with recognition. "My favorite character is the wielder of the gravity sword," they continued, only to be cut off by Xaltal's kind words: "Charles is the best character if we are being objective."
Is he nerding out? Aymara gasped, thinking.
The hooded figure's next words carried a note of surprise. "A somewhat acceptable number of viewers..."
"Yeah, most arts are hidden nowadays," Xaltal replied, his tone thoughtful. "But is it me, or are you from the church?" As he spoke, the cross on his chest began to spin ominously, as if reacting to an unseen force.
"Yes... we are deacons, ordained ministers," the figure explained, their words careful and measured.
Xaltal's suspicions deepened. "And you're here for the election."
"Yes," came the swift reply, almost too quick to be casual.
As the tension in the group grew, Xaltal's attention was momentarily drawn to a nearby conversation. A man with scales instead of skin was examining a sleek, palm-sized device that shimmered with an otherworldly glow.
"Is this the latest model?" the scaly customer asked the vendor, his reptilian eyes wide with excitement.
The vendor, a being with four arms and bioluminescent patterns swirling across their skin, deftly manipulated the device. "Absolutely," the vendor assured him. "It's been tested from the lowest depths to the highest available floors. Would you like a demonstration?"
Xaltal turned back to the hooded figure. "Rolls-Worth," Xaltal muttered slowly.
At this point, Aymara tugged gently at Xaltal's sleeve. "Uh, can we go now?" she asked, her discomfort with the growing crowd evident in her voice.
"I suppose so, yes," Xaltal agreed. He gulped before asking, "Are the chapters still in effect? Specifically St. Joan?"
"All three chapters of the church are still under review, but they're receiving support from a specific archbishop."
"All right. Thank you, Ricardo."
Aymara stared at Xaltal as he shook the man's hand and left, but she didn't press further.
As they made their way toward the anti-gravity lifts, Aymara voiced a question that had been nagging at her. "Why are they here exactly? I thought the Stem was exempt from things like that..."
Xaltal's response was measured, his words chosen carefully as they entered the lift. "They are, but it's a new sage, so things change. Your father also mentioned them reaching out to him—both Rolls-Worth and the church."
The anti-gravity lift hummed to life, carrying them upward through the vast expanse of the mall. "They want to have his intelligence," he said finally, his gaze fixed on the slight gap between the floor and walls of the lift.
As they reached their designated level, the floor seamlessly transitioned, rotating to align with the new space.
Aymara's face scrunched in thought as she recalled her time. "Cloudspine didn't have this stupid politics running around," she admitted, a hint of nostalgia coloring her words.
"The president doesn't allow it," Xaltal replied, his attention drawn to the storefronts that lined their path as they exited the lift.
"It's a dictatorship," he then muttered, but was unheard by Aymara.
As they approached one of the main entrances, a familiar figure emerged from a small intersection. "The mall," Altan announced, his tone suggesting both awe and resignation at the grandeur surrounding them.
"I need food. It should be around here..." Altan said, watching the surrounding people going up and down the anti-gravity lifts, others on top of the six more sections of the floors.
"Unnecessarily huge," Altan finally said.