The truck jolted to a halt. Albert's body slammed softly against the side of a barrel as the vehicle hissed to a stop, the scent of oil and metal thickening in the air. He steadied his breath, ears straining. No city noise. No market chatter. Just gravel crunching under boots and murmurs in a dialect he didn't recognize.
He parted the curtain a few inches.
Beyond the truck bed, a massive iron gate loomed open. A gravel road wound its way toward a looming estate—a mansion carved in ashstone and deep crimson wood, tall enough to cast long shadows even in the noonday sun. The windows were reflective, like polished obsidian. Strange flags fluttered at its edges, none bearing the familiar crest of Morhat.
Albert's heart clenched.
This place wasn't on any map he'd seen.
A voice barked nearby.
"Check the back!"
Albert cursed under his breath and dove behind the largest barrel, holding himself still. Seconds passed. Then—metal clanged. The truck's latch was thrown open.
"Hey! Someone's in there!"
Gunfire erupted. Loud, sharp cracks filled the cabin. Bullets pierced barrels. Gold clanged and sparked. Albert lunged out between the containers, grabbing the rim of the truck's entrance and hurling himself through the air. A shot grazed his coat as he landed hard on the gravel and rolled.
"He's running!"
Albert bolted. His boots pounded against the stone path, cutting across the lawn toward the mansion like a wild shadow. Guards shouted behind him. Bullets whizzed past, but he didn't look back.
A smaller service door appeared on the western side. He shouldered through it, slamming into darkness.
The interior was silent, cold, lit only by thin beams of sunlight slipping between velvet curtains. Dust drifted through the air, swirling like memory. Everything was too pristine—no signs of servants, no signs of daily use. Just silence and gold-rimmed furniture.
Albert moved slowly through the hall, ducking behind pillars, stepping softly over mosaic tiles. His pulse slowed. The mansion was vast, almost cathedral-like. Paintings loomed above him: battles of ancient kings, a phoenix devouring corpses, a woman with tearful eyes reaching toward something unseen.
He recognized her.
His breath caught.
That face painted in exquisite oil was the same noblewoman he'd helped upon arriving in Morhat. She had been cornered by thieves in the alleys, shaken and proud, dressed like royalty in exile. He had fended them off, not knowing her name, only that her hands trembled when she thanked him.
So this was her mansion.
This was where she had invited him, days ago.
Albert stared at the portrait. His mind raced. Why was her home the endpoint of illegal trucks carrying false gold? Why guards with military rifles? Was she involved—or imprisoned within her own estate?
He didn't know.
He only knew one thing.
This place was the center of something twisted and now, he was deep inside it.
Albert moved like a shadow through the mansion's hollow corridors, each step muffled by lush crimson carpets. The silence was deceptive—too elegant, too orchestrated. Gilded frames lined the walls, their portraits watching him with eerie familiarity. He climbed the spiraling staircase, hand grazing the ivory railing, until he reached a narrow hallway lit by shafts of golden sunlight piercing stained-glass windows.
A breeze whispered from above. A hatch to the rooftop lay open.
Albert slipped through.
The roof was a wide marble terrace overlooking the lush estate. From here, he saw it all—flower gardens coiled like serpents, fountains shaped like kneeling angels, the gate far in the distance where guards still paced. But up here, on this private perch above the world, was a different scene entirely.
The noblewoman was there.
She wore a flowing lavender gown, her silver hair pinned with pearl combs, laughter spilling like wine from her lips. She stood with four others—aristocrats in silk and velvet, each one beautiful, dangerous, carefree. They clinked glasses of glowing elixirs, whispered secrets into each other's ears, and lit strange, sizzling fireworks that shimmered not with color but with shapes—dragons, eyes, and flowers blooming in mid-air.
Albert crouched low behind a stone column, watching. The wind carried their laughter to him like a song from a dream, detached from the gritty world below.
This wasn't a place of captivity.
It was celebration. Power. Mystery.
Why would someone linked to gold smuggling spend the day in leisurely delight? What lay beneath this facade?
He crept along the edge, intending to get a better vantage point but as he turned a corner—
He froze.
Someone was there.
Another person, standing only a few feet away, hidden in the same shadows. A pale man with narrow, intelligent eyes and a long, thin scar running down his jawline. He wore a dark vest and held something in his hand—a silver monocle smeared with red dust.
The man hadn't expected anyone either.
Both of them froze, breath caught.
The sounds of laughter behind them continued, fireworks bursting into ghostly patterns above.
Albert's heart thundered in his chest.
The man broke the silence first, brushing dust off his silver monocle and placing it carefully in his pocket like it was made of glass.
"Well, well. Took you long enough," he said, his voice calm, tinged with a sarcastic flair. "You climb roofs like a startled raccoon, you know that?"
Albert narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man bowed dramatically, sweeping one arm behind him like a stage performer. "Rowland De Boyz. Current mayor of Morhat City. Future winner of three fake nobel prizes. And full-time criminal, part-time philosopher."
Albert blinked. "You're the mayor?"
"And a smuggler, yes. Please don't look so surprised. The economy needs visionaries." He grinned. "Also, capitalism is a curse. Might as well enjoy it."
Albert stepped back, cautious. "Why are you telling me this?"
Rowland raised a brow and wagged his finger. "Because I knew you'd come, Henry Ford."
Albert froze. His breath caught. That name—his real name—was buried so deep even he forgot to answer to it sometimes.
"How… do you know that?"
Rowland leaned in close, voice suddenly low and knowing. "I am a Miracle Invoker. Strategist Path. Route-4: Dreamer." He tapped his temple. "I had a dream last night. A strange dream. I saw you. Not just here, but… everywhere. It's hazy, dream-logic stuff. You were covered in paint, talking to rats, and arguing with a streetlight."
Albert's jaw slackened. "That's… definitely not me."
"Oh, I know. But dreams are thematic, darling. Symbols. The rats probably represent politics. The paint? Identity. The streetlight? That one's just a grudge I hold. They keep blinking only when I walk past them. It's personal."
Albert couldn't help it. He chuckled.
Rowland smiled warmly. "See? Laughter! We need more of it in Morhat. That's why I smuggle. Not for profit. For punchlines. You ever try telling jokes when your city is starving? No audience. Just gloom and unpaid taxes."
Albert regained composure, eyes still sharp. "So you're admitting to everything? The trucks. The gold. The containers—"
"Oh yes, full confession. Would you like it notarized?" Rowland pulled a folded napkin from his breast pocket. "Also, this has mustard on it. No relation."
Albert ignored the joke. "Why am I here, Rowland?"
Rowland tilted his head, genuinely uncertain. "That's the bit I don't know. Dream ended before that part. Like a soap opera cutting off right before the stabbing. Frustrating."
"You're dangerous."
"I'm predictable," Rowland corrected. "I smuggle gold. I cheat taxes. I lie in interviews. But you…" He pointed a long, gloved finger at Albert. "You're the wild card, Mr. Watcher. You broke into my truck. Snuck into my mansion. And you climbed a roof in broad daylight. That's not just bold—it's dumb and poetic. A rare mix."
Albert said nothing. The wind rustled between them. Below, laughter still danced from the nobles, unaware of the tension above.
"I don't want to fight you," Rowland said suddenly. "I could've ordered the guards to shoot on sight. But here we are, two miracle-bearers staring awkwardly like we're about to share a first kiss."
Albert gave him a sharp look.
"Kidding," Rowland added quickly, backing off. "Unless you're into dramatic rooftop confrontations. I read a lot of romance thrillers."
There was a pause.
Then Albert asked, "What do you want from me?"
Rowland sighed and looked toward the horizon, where the waves shimmered like molten glass.
"To find out why the Dream showed me you. Maybe fate wants us to work together. Maybe it wants us to destroy each other. Or maybe…" He glanced sideways, smiling. "Maybe we're both just chess pieces who started moving on our own."
Albert stayed silent, processing.
Then Rowland clapped. "Well! That's enough existential weirdness. Want a tour of the basement? Or should I call the guards and make this spicy?"
Albert's eyes narrowed. "I'll decide that after you tell me everything."
Rowland raised his hands in surrender. "Fair deal, Henry. Let the games begin."
Albert took a slow step forward, the sunlight glinting off his eyes with an intensity that didn't quite match the smirk curling on his lips.
"You know what I think, Rowland?" he said, voice light, almost casual. "I think your dreams are just excuses wrapped in silk. You sit in your golden office, smuggle through your pretty little routes, and then slap 'fate' on it like it's a brand name."
Rowland blinked. "Excuse me—?"
Albert jabbed a finger toward his chest. "You dreamed of me? Congratulations. I dreamt of a talking squirrel last week who told me to punch the moon. What's your point?"
Rowland tilted his head. "...Are you mad?"
Albert laughed, a sharp, wild sound that echoed across the rooftop.
"Mad? How would a madman even know he's mad?" he shot back. "You're the real lunatic here. At least I admit I'm unstable. You dress yours in velvet and run a city."
Rowland raised both hands like he was calming a wild beast. "I'm just saying—"
Albert cut in again, voice rising with theatrical madness, "You know what I'd call someone who has a vision about me breaking into their house and still leaves the curtains open? Not a strategist. A hopeful idiot."
"I… what?"
"You could've stopped me. Called guards. Sealed the trucks. But no. You stood there like a psychic peacock and waited. For what? A dramatic rooftop reunion?" Albert leaned in, eyes wide. "Congratulations. You've got one. We just need dramatic rain and a betrayal monologue."
Rowland stared at him, stunned.
Albert gave a wide, innocent grin. "But don't worry, Rowland. I'm not crazy. I'm just a man with very sharp teeth and nothing left to chew on."
Rowland blinked slowly. "You are—without a doubt—the most unhinged intruder I've ever met."
Albert nodded. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
A sudden rumble shattered the air.
BOOM.
A plume of black smoke surged into the blue midday sky. From the rooftop, Albert and Rowland both turned instinctively—eyes locking on the distant fireball rising over the east district of Morhat. The blast rolled through the air like thunder biting the edge of sanity, birds scattered, and the echoes bounced off the elegant spires of the Island of Esteem.
Albert's grin slowly faded.
Rowland's face twitched with something between annoyance and dread. "Damn it. Not again."
Albert gave him a slow glance. "Did your dream predict that too? Or are the squirrels talking to me again?"
Rowland didn't answer immediately. He pulled a sleek device from his coat—part communication tool, part relic—and whispered something into it in a language that twisted like smoke.
Then he sighed, muttering, "Always when I'm trying to enjoy some fireworks."
"What happened?" Albert asked, eyes still fixed on the distant carnage.
"Could be another PCS unit acting out," Rowland muttered.
"PCS?" Albert asked, one brow arched.
"Post Cataclysm Sects. They are some supernatural beings that I don't have time to explain. "
Albert blinked. "So… zombies in suits?"
"More like bureaucratic nightmares," Rowland muttered, rubbing his temple. "Anyway, they're malfunctioning. Again."
Another smaller explosion pulsed through the city, glass shimmering somewhere in the distance.
Rowland turned toward Albert with a forced smile. "Clean them up for me, will you?"
Albert stared at him.
"I'll give you some cash," Rowland added nonchalantly, "maybe a golden biscuit too. You like biscuits, right?"
Albert opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, "You want me, a suspicious rooftop stranger with a madman's brain, to handle your unstable dream-zombies—for biscuits and cash?"
Rowland grinned. "Yes. Isn't life absurd?"
Albert stared at the rising smoke once more. Then smiled darkly. "Guess I'll be your temporary janitor of nightmares."
Rowland nodded, almost cheerfully. "You'll fit right in."