I shall embrace this new identity—Edward Cain.
Ken Fujishima is but a passing gust in the annals of time, a fading echo in the corridors of history.
That life is over. This is who I am now.
I glance at the ornate clock on the wall. The slender hands indicate the time—precisely one o'clock in the afternoon.
I savor the final sip of my tea, letting the lingering warmth and faint floral notes dance on my tongue.
Rising from my chair with deliberate grace, I slip into a tailored coat of fine black wool, and place a wide-brimmed hat atop my head. In one gloved hand, I grasp my walking cane—an elegant instrument of defense as well as style. Concealed within it is a slender blade, shaped like a rapier, forged not only for elegance but for precision and lethality.
Turning to my waiting attendants, I issue a simple command. "Ready the carriage."
Within minutes, the servants, ever efficient, present the polished carriage at the grand entrance. I step aboard, settling into its plush interior as the footman closes the door with a soft click.
"Take me to the capital," I instruct calmly.
Through the carriage window, I cast a lingering gaze at my estate—my sanctuary. The mansion stands proud, a marvel of architecture that echoes the grandeur of the Victorian era. It had been a generous gift from Count Jonathan, the man I now call Father. In addition to the lavish property, he ensures a steady stream of coin to maintain the wages of the household staff and my personal allowance.
The carriage lurches into motion, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone harmonizing with the quiet thoughts in my mind.
Our destination lies ahead—Highmarch, the glittering capital of the Westermoor Kingdom. Though only an hour's journey by carriage, it feels a world apart from the tranquil countryside that surrounds my estate.
An hour slips by like a breeze. At last, the towering silhouette of the city greets us, rising above the horizon with its spires and domes. Highmarch—a city of opulence and secrets.
The carriage comes to a halt at the bustling city square, alive with merchants, nobles, and wandering bards. I step down gracefully onto the paved street, the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts and perfume.
"Return for me in the evening," I tell the coachman, who nods dutifully.
I begin to walk, unhurried, guided by the inherited memories of Edward Cain—memories etched into this body like a second soul. I weave through the streets, the buildings rising around me in stately elegance, their façades adorned with wrought-iron balconies and stained-glass windows.
At last, I arrive.
Before me stands an unassuming two-storey bookshop—its weathered sign swaying gently in the breeze. But I know better. Behind this literary façade lies the true heart of the Alabastar Mages—a cabal of Chaos mages who operate under the guise of a merchant company. They own this entire building, controlling it through carefully constructed legal shells and shadowy intermediaries.
I enter the shop. A pleasant chime announces my arrival. The shopkeeper, an older man with wise eyes, greets me with a cordial smile.
Wordlessly, I raise my hand to reveal the bronze ring encircling my pinky finger. His smile deepens in understanding, and he gestures discreetly toward a hidden passage near the back.
Behind a cleverly concealed door, a staircase spirals downward, leading to an underground domain carved into the earth itself. I descend the steps, the air cooling and thickening as I go, until I reach a sprawling cavern lit by ever-burning lanterns.
The underground meeting hall resembles a rustic tavern. Long wooden tables stretch across the space, occupied by robed figures. These are Chaos mages—members of the Alabastar faction—laughing, drinking, and conversing with a strange camaraderie born of danger and magic.
I choose a vacant table and sit. Soon after, a server approaches, and I order a cup of coffee.
Moments later, a young man slides into the seat across from me. He appears to be in his early twenties, with tousled brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He wears a smart blazer over a dark shirt, and on his pinky finger glints the familiar bronze ring—etched with the black crescent sigil of our order.
"I didn't see you these past seven days," he remarks, his voice deep and composed. "What happened?"
"Apologies, Osric. I was... preoccupied with work," I reply with a faint smile.
"I see..." he says, trailing off.
According to my inherited memories, this man is Osric Vale, an Elementalist. A Chaos mage who has devoted himself to the manipulation of elemental forces—fire, ice, wind, and earth.
The coffee arrives, its aroma rich and intoxicating. I take a careful sip. Surprisingly, it surpasses even the finest coffees of Earth in taste and depth.
"I came to ask about your friend in the police force," I say, lowering my voice.
"You mean the coroner?" Osric responds.
I nod. "Yes."
Osric studies me for a moment. "I know what you're doing. You're looking into those murder cases—suspecting a link to Chaos magic, aren't you?"
I offer a sheepish grin. "It's for my research. A new book I'm writing."
Osric leans back, exhaling slowly. "Let me remind you, Edward. We Alabastar mages do not condone the killing of innocents. If anyone's behind such crimes, it's more likely the Zanthion faction."
"I'm aware," I reply.
Zanthion Mages—the dark counterpart to our order. Mercenaries of magic who trade lives for power, known for their ruthless disregard for human decency.
"I'll take you to meet her tomorrow," Osric says finally.
"Thank you, Osric."
He leans forward slightly. "You should consider performing the Spell Pact Ritual soon. You never know when you'll need to defend yourself."
"Perhaps," I muse. "But first, I need to know everything."
I rise from the table, nodding respectfully. "I'll take my leave. See you tomorrow."
As I make my way out, I feel their eyes on me—not with suspicion, but with anticipation. They are eager for me to truly join them, to embrace the mantle of Chaos mage. But what they do not know is this: I already possess the gift of All Power, bestowed upon me by the One Beyond.
Even without it, neither I—nor the former Edward—would submit to the Spell Pact Ritual.
The ritual itself is ancient, grim. To perform it is to summon one of the offspring of Lady Chaos, the fallen goddess of destruction. Each spell requires communion with a specific offspring, whose essence resonates with that magic. In exchange, the mage must offer a vial of their own blood—willingly given.
Once the pact is sealed, the mage can channel the spell, drawing power from the divine chaos. But it comes at a steep cost. To retain the spell's power, the mage must deliver a vial of human blood each month to the offspring with whom the pact was made.
And that is just for a single spell.
The Alabastar faction, to their credit, imposes ethical limitations: no more than three spells per mage, and all blood is collected from paid, consenting donors. It is a compromise—a shadow of morality in a world steeped in grey.
Before exiting the shop, I pause by the front counter and purchase two tomes: History of the World and Geography of the World—knowledge is as much a weapon as any spell.
I step back into the city streets, the golden afternoon casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The grandeur of the Victorian-style architecture envelops me in a strange nostalgia, like walking through a dream crafted by the past.
At the city square, my carriage awaits faithfully. I climb aboard, and with a subtle lurch, we begin the return journey to my estate—into the deepening twilight, where secrets wait and destiny stirs.