The last bell had rung nearly an hour ago.
Millet stepped through the tall black iron gates of Aerith University and felt the pressure in his chest finally ease. The cobbled streets beyond the campus spread out like veins, each path leading to the different corners of Aerith City. Steam carts hissed past now and then, their engines clicking with slow rhythm, and the clatter of hooves echoed faintly from deeper roads where horse-drawn carriages passed beneath rising smoke stacks.
He didn't stop. Just kept walking.
His steps were light.
Today, he had attended three lectures — all of them under the commerce faculty, and all about the same thing: money. Money and businesses. Systems of trade. The theories behind circulation, currency, imperial grants, and the new rising structure of noble-backed industries. Complex, jargon-filled, yet strangely familiar.
It had gone well.
No one had noticed anything strange.
No strange glances. No furrowed brows. No quiet questions.
He had nodded when he was supposed to nod. Scribbled notes with the same neat, tight strokes Millet was apparently known for. He had even spoken once — answering a minor question from a lecturer — and not a single person had looked at him sideways.
That alone lifted his mood.
He had even managed a brief goodbye to Kael, who had been rushing off toward the eastern dormitories, mumbling something about a family letter.
And so Millet walked — alone.
The sky was warm with late afternoon hues, brushed with streaks of pale orange and fading gold. Aerith City always seemed caught between the breath of old and new: tall, chimney-laced buildings shared roads with rising towers, cobbled streets lined with glowing steamlights, and carriages parked beside iron carts.
He passed a few more intersections and took the narrow uphill path toward the apartments at the edge of the city.
Millet didn't have the luxury of using a cart — not even the cheap ones. Even the horse-drawn carriages cost 1 copper, and the engine carts doubled that during the evening rush. The walk was free… and familiar.
Forty-five minutes later, he reached the apartment.
A four-story building nestled between workshops and storage yards. The red brick walls were cracked in some places, patched with dull gray cement. A rusted metal sign hung at the side of the door, swinging gently in the wind.
Millet climbed up the stairs.
He didn't stop until he reached the third floor. The door labeled 304 stood before him.
He unlocked it, stepped inside, and closed it quietly.
The room welcomed him with silence. Still neat. Still familiar.
He placed his bag on the floor near the table, undid the top buttons of his shirt, and pulled open the drawer. The towel lay there, folded tightly. He grabbed it and stepped back out, ascending to the fourth floor where the shared baths were.
The water wasn't warm. But it was clean.
By the time he came back down, the sun was bleeding into the edge of the horizon. That golden glow had given way to colder colors — bluish, violet, slowly graying. He dried himself quickly and put on the same set of clothes: white shirt with a collar, fine linen trousers, the brown overcoat that made him look slightly more official than he felt.
He brushed his black hair with the comb behind the mirror, then ran his hand over his pale cheeks.
Not bad.
Millet moved to the door and stepped outside.
The street below was quieter now. The rush of carts had lessened. Lights had begun flickering on inside windows, little orange glows from lamps built into the walls. The pipes that ran between buildings hissed occasionally, releasing steam into the air like breathing machines.
Down the block, a small wooden stand sat near the corner. Behind it stood a man — older, with a gray beard and a crooked smile.
The fruit vendor.
Millet remembered this part well.
He had bought from this man many times before.
He walked up to the stand, hands tucked in his coat pockets.
The vendor spotted him and grinned.
"Yoh, Mill! Same thing?"
Millet nodded. "Yeah. Same thing."
The man moved with practiced hands — reaching for a knife, slicing through pieces of banana, melon, mango, and orange. He arranged them in a small metal tray, stuck a wooden fork in the side, and handed it over.
Millet pulled out five bronze coins — three from earlier and two more he had taken from the small stash in his drawer before leaving.
Coins clinked. The vendor nodded, satisfied.
Millet turned and walked back the way he came, fruit in hand.
By the time he stepped into his apartment, the sky had turned dark. Night had crept in quietly, painting the world in softer shadows and flickering lamp-light.
He sat down at the table, placed the tray in front of him, and began to eat.
Sweetness filled his mouth.
The fruit was fresh, despite the evening.
He ate slowly, chewing each bite, staring out the window between mouthfuls. The light of the moons had started to rise again, one climbing from the east and the other from the south. Their glow layered the sky in overlapping silver.
Millet leaned back in the chair and exhaled.
I don't know if the time here works the same way as where I was from.
His mind paused.
Actually… I don't even remember what the time was like where I came from.
Everything before waking up here felt like water slipping through his fingers. He knew — in some deeper part of himself — that he wasn't from this place. That these thoughts, this city, these moons, this world… weren't truly his.
But the past?
The before?
It was just fog.
Still, this world had structure.
Twelve months. 365 days. 24 hours in a day. 60 minutes in an hour. 60 seconds in a minute.
Four continents. One sun. Two moons.
And he was in the west.
The Western Continent — domain of the United Sovereign Empire, or USE. It was the only empire here, according to everything he remembered. Ruled by the Emperor and his family, a line of rulers who had survived through iron, politics, and war.
A world divided into titles.
At the top: the Emperor.
Below him: Dukes, Marquises, and Earls — each governing massive regions, entire cities passed down through noble bloodlines.
And beneath them… everyone else.
The commonborn.
Like Millet.
He wiped the juice from his hands, set the tray aside, and reached for the notebook resting on the edge of the table. The yellow one.
He opened it, flipped to the back page, and began writing.
Not lessons. Not figures or graphs.
Just fragments of what he remembered about this world.
Empire: United Sovereign Empire Continent: Western Structure: Emperor → Dukes → Marquises → Earls → Commonborn Currency: Bronze → Copper → Silver → Gold
He stared at the list.
There was something hollow in the act — like writing down someone else's memory.
But it helped. Helped him feel a little more real.
The night deepened. The soft hiss of the pipes outside the window was the only sound now.
Millet stood, closed the notebook, and moved to the bed.
He sat at the edge for a moment, watching the shadows stretch across the wooden floor.
Tomorrow…
He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and let his head rest against the pillow.
Tomorrow is another day to act…
...and not be suspicious.
He closed his eyes.
And sleep — slow, quiet, and heavy — took him.