The rich, cloying scent of spices became a prison. Kaelen shouldered his way through the crowd, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The encounter with Decimus replayed in his mind, a perfect snapshot of his own stupidity.
Shit. Shit. SHIT!
The word was a drumbeat to his panic. The conversation had been a fragile bridge to the man he used to be, and he had taken a hammer to it. "Willing to challenge reality itself." The words hung in the air, a blatant, screaming heresy. Why had he said it? Was it some unconscious need to confess? To be seen for the monstrous thing he was becoming?
Could the people after me use Decimus for clues? The thought was an ice-cold dagger. The silent, unmaking assassins from the inn. The Lictors. If they questioned Decimus, his old friend's confusion would be as damning as a confession. Have I just killed Decimus? The weight of that possibility was a physical sickness in his gut. He was a poison, and everyone he touched was now in danger.
He forced the spiraling thoughts down, locking them away in a corner of his mind. Survival now was a matter of focus. He needed to get out of Sybaris, and for that, he needed knowledge.
He pushed through the crowd, leaving the sensory overload of the spice market for a quieter, more subdued street. The air here smelled of old paper, dust, and ink. The shops were smaller, their windows displaying rolled parchment, dusty tomes, and astrolabes. He found one with a sign depicting a stylized map of the world and stepped inside.
The shop was a cavern of knowledge, shelves groaning under the weight of scrolls and books. His military training had given him the basics of Sybaris's history: an Aethelian merchant's venture, fueled by rich fishing grounds, then strategically developed by the Qin'Lun to break Aethelia's trade monopoly. A precarious, prosperous city-state clinging to the coast, its only major land link a single, dangerous route to the city of Lancrima through the desert. But basics weren't enough. He needed details. Dangers. Water sources.
An elderly shopkeeper with spectacles perched on his nose looked up from a ledger as Kaelen approached.
"I need a detailed map of the desert route to Lancrima," Kaelen said, his voice deliberately calm. "And a book on the history of this southwestern part of the Corridor. The comprehensive kind." He paused, considering his next move. "And can you point me to a skilled weaponsmith? One who understands balance, not just brute force."
The shopkeeper, a man of slow, deliberate movements, jotted down the order on a scrap of paper. He pulled a rolled map from a cabinet and a thick, leather-bound volume from a high shelf. He then began mumbling calculations, his finger tracing numbers in the dust on his desk.
Before the man could speak, Kaelen's mind, sharpened by the Vorr'Ghaia, processed the costs instantly. "Fifty-eight Copper Tóng of the Qin'Lun," he stated, his tone flat. "Or forty-two Copper Aspera of the Aethelian Republic. Including tax."
The shopkeeper froze, his finger still hovering over his scribbled maths. He looked up, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he stared at Kaelen, recalculating silently. A moment later, he gave a slow, impressed nod. "You're quite good at maths." He pushed the items across the counter.
"Where will I find that smith?" Kaelen prompted.
"Round the back of the Church of the Titans," the shopkeeper said, pointing a bony finger westward. "Look for a house with a training ground out front. You'll likely see a man training there. He's a sword fanatic. Knows more about the smiths in this city than I do about its history."
Kaelen placed the payment on the counter—the exact amount in Aethelian Aspera, the rough bronze coins feeling insignificant in his hand. He added three extra coppers. "For your help," he said quietly.
The man gave another nod, this one with a hint of genuine gratitude, and pocketed the coins with a swift, practiced motion.
The walk to the church was unnerving. The grandiose architecture of the Temple District, with its soaring columns and marble facades, should have been inspiring. Instead, Kaelen felt a deep, primal unease, a sense of being profane in a sacred space. The feeling was a cold weight between his shoulder blades. It's just your guilt, he told himself, shaking it off. The Lictors aren't here. Not yet.
He found the side-street, a narrow lane crammed with tall, leaning houses. And there it was: a small, swept-dirt yard fronting a modest home, and in its center, a man practicing with a long, straight sword.
Kaelen stopped, transfixed.
He had seen master swordsmen in the legions—the few, revered instructors who were like forces of nature on the battlefield. But this was different. This wasn't the efficient, brutal art of the legionary gladius. This was a dance. The man's movements were fluid and serene, like water flowing around a stone, yet every cut held a terrifying, unyielding finality, as solid as the earth itself. Even with his enhanced cognition, which deconstructed the man's footwork and balance with cold precision, Kaelen felt a sense of awe. This was a purity of skill he had never witnessed.
Seconds bled into a minute. Knowing he would look like a fool or a threat if he lingered any longer, Kaelen cleared his throat. "Hey!"
The man finished his form with a final, precise sweep before lowering his blade. He was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he turned. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Kaelen from head to toe. "What is it you want?"
"I'm looking for a swordsmith," Kaelen said. "A man in the map shop said you'd give a good recommendation."
The fanatic wiped his brow with his arm, his gaze lingering on the gladius at Kaelen's hip. "I take things like this seriously," he said, his voice gravelly. "Before I tell you where to go, I need to see your blade. And I may need to fight you. To gauge your needs properly."
Kaelen hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He drew his gladius and offered it hilt-first.
The man took it with the reverence of a priest handling a relic. He tested the weight, ran a thumb along the edge, and then his focus shifted to the hilt. His brow furrowed. He traced the leather wrappings, his fingers pausing over the distinct, fresh wear patterns impressed into the grip.
"Has this always been your blade?" he asked, his eyes locking with Kaelen's. "The marks on the handle… they've changed. Drastically. The recent grip is that of someone far more skilled than the one who held it before. The pressure points are… perfect."
Kaelen's mind raced. The Defiance of Flesh. It had rewired his muscle memory, his very instinct. "No, it has always been mine," he said, keeping his voice even. "But recently, after a… particularly intense session of training a week or two ago, my sword skills improved. Suddenly."
The man grunted, a non-committal sound that held a world of skepticism. He mumbled something under his breath about "unlikely awakenings" before tossing the gladius back to Kaelen. "Spar with me. It will give me a better grasp of your abilities."
Kaelen caught the sword, the familiar weight now feeling like a part of his own arm. He agreed with a single nod and stepped into a wide circle worn into the dirt of the yard.
The wind picked up, stirring dust devils around them as they faced each other, blades held ready. The sword fanatic settled into his flowing, water-like stance. Kaelen fell into the solid, aggressive posture of the Aethelian legionary, but refined, every line of his body optimized by the power coursing through him. The air crackled with unspoken questions.