It took us three days and four nights to finally glimpse the capital.
No bandits. No beasts. Not even a cursed squirrel.
All thanks to the merchant's uncanny sense of direction—more like instinctual cheat code, honestly. He took twisted goat paths, backroad forest clearings, and even once cut through a hollowed-out ravine that smelled like someone buried rotten wine barrels there a century ago.
But it worked.
We made it without a scratch.
"Now, do you see that wall?" the merchant said, pointing ahead.
I squinted.
And there it was.
A wall.
Massive. Towering. A grey monolith that stretched like a second horizon, its surface carved with faint glowing lines that pulsed gently beneath the sunlight.
Maybe ten—no, fifteen times taller than anything I'd ever seen.
Bigger than any fortress from the history books. Bigger than the cities in games or anime I used to watch.
"Shit…"
"Do you think giants could break that down?" I asked, half joking, half curious.
The merchant didn't even flinch.
"Even the largest beast or being you've heard of wouldn't so much as crack it. That wall's been enchanted for centuries," he said, adjusting the strap on his cart.
"By who?"
"By the Grand Spirit that watches over the king's castle itself. One of the oldest living contracts still active. First Circle—never left its host."
I blinked. "Wait, first Circle?"
He nodded.
"Only a handful of those exist—and even fewer are bound to humans. The king's bloodline is one of the exceptions."
My stomach twisted.
"So the king walks around with a god-level spirit stuck to his soul?"
"In nicer words, yeah. But you'd be surprised how often those kinds of spirits use their hosts instead."
I didn't like the sound of that.
As the cart creaked forward and the trees finally gave way to open roads, the full majesty of the capital came into view—walls, gates, towers, spires. All gleaming faintly in daylight magic, half ancient and half maintained by things I couldn't even name.
I found myself walking a little slower.
"I'm really here…"
And somehow, this place was going to decide whether I stayed lost—or learned how to survive.
The closer we got to the gate, the more I felt the pressure sink into my shoulders.
The capital wasn't just big—it was crowded.
Merchants, refugees, nobles in traveling cloaks, guards in lined armor bearing crests I couldn't even begin to identify. There were carriages, beasts of burden, crates of magical artifacts getting inspected, even children getting their hair checked for spirit residue by a cleric.
"Stay close," the merchant muttered, gripping the cart's handle tighter. "Don't talk unless they ask you. Don't act nervous. You're my assistant, alright?"
"Right…"
"Refugee background. Pale March survivor. You're with me. Your name is Ezekiel, you've got no papers, and you're under my merchantry."
"Wait—what's a merchantry?"
He gave me a side-eye. "Don't ask that. You work for one now."
We reached the checkpoint.
One guard stepped forward, chainmail layered with dark-blue cloth, and held out a gloved hand.
"State your name and license," he said without looking up.
"Tharus," the merchant replied quickly, holding out a stamped wooden token. "Licensed under the Eighth East Guild, out of Fallmere. Route: Pale March. Trade: Roots, spiritsap, reclaimed scrap. This one's my assistant. Refugee class."
The guard finally looked at me. I stood straight. Kept my mouth shut.
He scanned me like I was a suspicious basket of apples.
"No mark of spirit influence?"
"He's clean," Tharus said casually. "Just got that lost look on his face. Don't we all at that age?"
The guard didn't laugh. He held his hand briefly over a crystal inlaid at the checkpoint post. It pulsed a faint blue, scanned something unseen between us, then dimmed.
"You'll need to register the boy at the Inner Quarter refugee roster. Seven-day temp permit. No access to High Council Square or Academy district without sponsorship."
"Understood."
The guard stepped aside. The gates groaned open.
I swallowed and walked through.
"And just like that," I muttered, "I'm in."
As the capital unfolded before me—towers, rune-lit bridges, magical street orbs floating overhead—I felt her presence again.
Serenya.
Her voice was quiet. Almost nostalgic.
"So much has changed…" she said. "The world was never this large when I was alive. Before I was bound to my post, there were no cities with floating lights or guards infused with artifact magic. Only towns built with prayer and fear."
I looked around at the streaming crowds, the voices in a dozen dialects, and the towering spires that touched the clouds.
"Guess you've got a lot to catch up on too," I whispered.
"And so do you."
"Yeah," I sighed. "Let's hope I don't screw it up."
After a moment of silence, something itched at the back of my mind.
Wait… when were you alive? I thought.
Serenya, as if listening in as always, answered gently.
"Ah, right… I forget sometimes. Yes, some spirits—like myself—were once human."
Her voice felt distant, softened by the hum of memory.
"Those of us who accomplished something… significant. The Gods, or perhaps something older, saw fit to anoint us—to raise us as guardians, keepers, or echoes."
I frowned. "Then… what about the others? The lower circle ones?"
"Most of them were never human. They're born from the world itself. Manifestations of rivers, storms, fears, or forgotten prayers. Some are harmless. Some are dangerous. All of them serve a purpose, even if no one remembers what that is."
I looked around at the vibrant capital—the magic, the people, the sheer scale of everything—and somehow the thought that invisible spirits were all around, just watching, made my skin itch.
"I see," I muttered.
She didn't answer.
And in that quiet, something about it settled deep in my chest.
That's… somewhat unsettling.
"Wait… you're a merchant, right?" I asked. "So how did you even get yourself signed into a guild?"
Tharus grinned, not even trying to hide it.
"Ah, those? Made-up. Fake."
I blinked. "What?"
"I mean, the guild name exists," he said, adjusting the cart's balance. "The token I have is real too—but it's not mine. Bought it off a desperate drunk in the outerlands. Sprinkled a touch of truth over it, spun a few details, and boom."
He held up his hand and mimicked an explosion.
"Astonishing, right?"
I stared at him.
"That's not astonishing. That's fraud!"
He shrugged. "It's creative economics."
"...So we're just banking on the guards being lazy?"
"Exactly!"
"Are you serious right now?"
"Look around, boy." He gestured to the soldiers, most of whom were slouched in shaded booths or idly poking their spears at crates. "These poor bastards haven't had a real inspection day in months. You think they care about one scrappy merchant and his half-starved assistant?"
I frowned. "...I'm not that starved."
"Keep it that way. You'll look more convincing as a refugee if you're slightly pitiful."
"That's comforting."
"You'll get used to it. In the capital, survival's just a matter of confidence and paperwork. Preferably stolen."
I sighed.
This world just keeps getting more honest by the minute.
"Come on, we've got things to sell and coins to chase," Tharus said, snapping his fingers toward me as we passed through the last checkpoint.
The stone road beneath our boots was cleaner than anything I'd seen so far—lined with faint glowing threads that pulsed softly, lighting the way as the sky began to dim.
The market area stretched out ahead like a chaotic festival: colorful cloth banners flapping in the wind, the air thick with spices, steam, and the iron scent of enchanted steel. People of every size, species, and status haggled or barked over stalls.
"Welcome to the Lower Ring Market," Tharus said, chest puffed like he owned the place. "Also known as the Belly of the Capital. Ugly. Loud. Smells like wet wood. But she'll feed you if you feed her."
"I'll pretend that made sense."
"Listen closely," he said, slipping into the crowd and motioning for me to follow. "Economy here works on three levels, like I said: brass, silver, verdan. But it's not just coin."
We passed by a stall where a vendor was exchanging glowing fruit for manastones—cracked blue gems.
"That's spiritual currency. Manastones, memory leaves, even binding contracts—stuff that holds value not because of gold, but because of what it can do. Mages, alchemists, artificers—they care more about function than shinies."
"So it's like a barter economy… with extra steps?"
"Exactly. Brass for bread. Silver for security. Verdan for power. And spiritual trades for things you can't just carry in your pocket."
He stopped at a stall and threw down a small cloth bundle. "Two jugs of spiritsap, five ironroot stalks, and one chunk of forged duskstone. Don't lowball me, Leff."
The half-lizard, half-human merchant across the counter grunted, examined the goods, and tossed him a pouch of coins and a faded voucher.
"Trade vouchers," Tharus said to me. "Good in most of the Lower Ring. Acts like promissory notes—valid if the seal's unbroken."
"And that lizard guy?" I asked, still eyeing the strange tooth-lined grin the vendor gave me.
"Name's Leff. Will rob you blind if you blink too long. But fair enough if you don't act like a tourist."
I tried not to act like a tourist.
"This market teaches one thing, Ezekiel," Tharus added, moving along. "It's not about how rich you are. It's about how well you negotiate. The best traders? They don't always carry the most coin—but they walk away with the most power."
I looked at the crowds again. Loud. Messy. Alive.
It didn't feel like home.
But for once, it didn't feel like I was trespassing either.