The air conditioning hummed softly, a sterile contrast to the humid, oil-stained air of the industrial park outside. The only light came from a flickering sodium-vapor lamp, casting a sickly orange glow on puddles of stagnant water.
His fingers, his own dark-skinned fingers, traced the seams of the black leather gloves he wore. A matching mask, a featureless void, lay on the passenger seat next to a folded photograph. He didn't need to look at it. He'd memorized the face. Michael "The Jackal" Okoro. A man who traded in human misery, specializing in the abduction and sale of young women. The police file, which a contact had slipped him, was a litany of horrors, but one detail had sealed the man's fate: the Polaroid of his last victim, a girl of seventeen, her eyes wide with a terror that had screamed at Joshey from the paper.
This wasn't recruitment. This was disposal.
Headlights cut through the gloom. A beat-up Toyota Corolla, right on time. Michael Okoro was a creature of habit, leaving his illicit warehouse at the same time every Tuesday night, believing his intimidation kept him safe. The car pulled into a spot thirty yards away. The engine died.
Joshey's breathing slowed, his world narrowing to the space between his car and Okoro's. This was the moment. The calm before the storm he himself would unleash. He felt no rage, no heated fury. Only a cold, crystalline certainty. This was a necessary correction. An act of justice the world was too corrupt, too slow, to administer itself.
He watched Okoro step out, a bulky man lighting a cigarette, his face illuminated for a second by the flame. He was laughing into his phone, a coarse, grating sound that carried through the still night.
Click.
The sound of the car door was unnaturally loud. Joshey was already moving, his body a fluid shadow detached from the sedan. He didn't run; he advanced, a predator closing the distance with an economy of motion that was both practiced and instinctual.
Okoro heard the footsteps. He turned, his laughter dying in his throat. "Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded, puffing his chest out, dropping the phone. The bravado was a thin veneer. Joshey could smell the fear on him, acrid and sharp.
Joshey didn't answer. Words were for the living, for negotiation. There was nothing to negotiate.
He saw Okoro's hand dart towards his waistband. Too slow. So agonizingly slow. To Joshey's heightened perception, it was like watching a man move through syrup. In the dream, his mind superimposed his new reality onto the old memory—he saw the trajectory of the move, the micro-expressions of panic on Okoro's face, the exact moment the man's muscles tensed to draw a cheap, knock-off pistol.
Joshey's own arm came up, the gun an extension of his will. There was no hesitation. No dramatic pause.
Crack.
The gunshot cracked the night like bone under a hammer. Not the cinematic thunder of movies, but a flat, ugly thwack that disappeared into the rusted corrugated walls.
Okoro spun as the slug tore into his shoulder, flesh and fabric bursting in a wet spray. His garish shirt was already slick, the wound flowering red. He screamed, staggering against his car, fingers clawing at the handle of his holster he never drew.
"Please!" he wheezed, his voice cracking, eyes bulging with terror as they met the cold void of Joshey's mask. "I have money! A lot of money!"
Joshey didn't answer. He moved. One gloved hand clamped down on Okoro's arm, the other bracing his shoulder, and then—like ripping a chicken wing off the bone—he wrenched. There was a snap, a tearing sound, and Okoro's scream climbed into something inhuman as his arm came away in a grisly spray of blood and sinew.
Okoro collapsed, writhing, shrieking, staring in disbelief at the gushing stump where his arm had been. Joshey stood over him, holding the severed limb like a club.
Then the beating began.
The first strike crushed Okoro's jaw with a wet crunch, teeth flying like loose gravel. The second smashed his face sideways into the hood of his car, leaving a smear of red and enamel. The third drove him to the ground, and Joshey kept swinging, each blow duller, wetter, until the thrashing body beneath him was no longer recognizable as a man but a broken, leaking carcass.
When it was over, Joshey dropped the arm with a sloppy thud. The night was silent again, except for the faint metallic drip of blood onto the dirt.
Okoro was a ruin on the ground, his chest heaving in shallow, panicked gasps. His good hand pawed at the dirt, reaching for something—escape, mercy, a miracle. The stump of his arm pumped out blood in weak, pitiful spurts.
Joshey crouched beside him, the severed limb still dripping in his fist. The blank mask tilted, studying the mangled wreck he had made. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, almost conversational—like a man commenting on the weather.
"You think this is suffering?" Joshey said. "The ones you sold, the ones you shipped like cargo… their fate was far worse. They begged until their throats were raw. Some died wishing for death long before it came. Compared to them…"
He raised the machete that hung at his side, steel glinting faintly in the dim light.
"…you're getting mercy."
Okoro tried to scream, but it came out a wet gargle. Joshey's arm cut clean and fast, the blade biting deep. A spray of blood painted the iron walls as Okoro's head rolled, eyes frozen wide in terror.
Joshey let the body twitch, then stilled. The night swallowed the scene whole, leaving only the quiet drip of blood and the echo of justice served without hesitation.
Joshey's eyes snapped open.
The pre-dawn grey of Caligurn leaked through the patched roof, soft and thin, a light too gentle for the violence clawing at his chest. He lay stiff on the rough straw mattress, heart jackhammering, sweat cooling on Elias's borrowed skin.
The ghost of the gunshot was still in him—the flat, brutal crack that had split the Lagos night. The smell of blood and iron clung to his nose, the memory of torn flesh and bone pounding against his skull. Okoro's screams, the wet sound of the beating, his head rolling into the dirt—none of it had faded.
Joshey lifted his hand—Elias's pale hand—into the half-light. He stared at it, his breath catching, half-expecting it to drip with gore, to be painted red as it had been in the dream. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw it—the shine of blood across his fingers. He blinked hard. It was gone.
Still, his hand shook. He turned it over, over again, searching. Empty. Clean. Yet it didn't matter. The blood was there, whether he could see it or not.
The killer of Lagos had crossed into this world with him. The mask, the violence, the brutal certainty of his hands—they hadn't been left behind.
Now they throbbed with a different rhythm, Elias's pulse beating in unison with his own, the echo of two lives forced into one body.
The dream hadn't just been memory. It was a warning. The blood he feared wasn't behind him. It was waiting ahead.
The memory clung to him like sweat that wouldn't dry, the phantom slick of blood making his skin itch. He clenched Elias's pale fingers into a fist, then opened them again, half-expecting to see red stains on his palm. Nothing. Clean. But it still felt dirty. It always did.
A knock—sharp, measured—broke the silence.
Joshey flinched. His heart lurched like he'd been caught. For a split second he expected flashing blue lights through the cracks of the hut, Lagos cops barking orders, his mask ripped away.
Instead the door creaked open. Sylvaine stepped inside, framed by the dim dawn. Her posture was blade-straight, her black hair tied back, silver eyes cutting straight to him like she already knew what he'd dreamed. She always looked like that—like nothing slipped past her.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said. Not worried, not kind. Just a cold observation.
Joshey dragged a hand down his face. "Something like that." His voice was rough, rawer than he meant it to be.
She let the door swing shut and just stood there, staring in that way that made him feel like she could read every twitch in his jaw.
"The sun is up, Elias," she said finally. Her tone shifted, brisk, all business. "Or did you forget our arrangement? Training waits for no one. Unless…" Her eyes flicked to the patched roof. "…you think shooting holes in huts counts as mastery of pyro-mana."
The name—Elias—hit him like cold water. It pulled him out of Lagos, out of the blood, back into this body, this broken world. Elias was the name that owed three million florins. Elias was the boy who couldn't even keep his mana from blowing up in his face.
Joshey pushed himself upright on the straw mattress. His body ached—not from fighting, but from carrying the weight of two lives. "No," he muttered. "I didn't forget."
When he stood, the dream still clung to him, adrenaline fading into an ugly hollow. For one blink-long instant, Okoro's shattered face flickered over Sylvaine's sharp features. He could almost hear his own voice in that alley: You think this is suffering?
He swallowed hard. Not here. Not now. That man was supposed to be dead.
"Good," Sylvaine said. A hint of a smile crossed her lips, but her eyes stayed cold, still dissecting him. "The field behind the hut. Don't make me wait."
She turned and left without another word, her absence leaving the air oddly heavier than before.
Joshey stood there for a long moment, staring down at his hands. Pale. Clean. Too clean. Hands that could conjure fire, or crush bone, depending on which life he let guide them.
The blood was memory. The debt was real. And the training waiting outside…
He wasn't sure which terrified him more.
The field behind the hut was bathed in the soft, grey light of dawn. Sylvaine stood with her arms crossed, watching as Joshey effortlessly summoned a perfectly controlled sphere of flame above his palm, its surface swirling with hypnotic, stable patterns.
She let out a long, slow breath, the sound cutting through the morning quiet. "Stop."
Joshey closed his hand, and the fire winked out without a whisper of smoke.
"There is no point," Sylvaine stated, her silver eyes boring into him with a mix of frustration and awe. "There is no use teaching you the basics like I used to in the past. I could spend three years teaching a normal student to hold a flame that steady, and you do it upon waking." She shook her head, a wry smile touching her lips. "Trying to teach you conduction and convection is like teaching a fish to swim. It's a waste of both our time."
She strode forward, her demeanor shifting from instructor to combat mentor. "If you already speak the language, then let's skip the grammar and learn how to write poetry. Or, in our case, warfare."
She stopped a dozen paces from him and raised her own hand. "The main use of Pyro-Manipulation isn't lighting candles. It is controlled annihilation. Let's start with the obvious: the Firebolt."
A sphere of compact, white-hot flame roared to life above her palm, humming with contained energy. "This isn't just a ball of fire. It is a contained pressure vessel of superheated plasma. You understand the energy transfer instinctively—now, learn the delivery system."
She thrust her hand forward. The sphere didn't arc; it shot across the field in a straight line, a streak of incandescent light that struck the gnarled tree with a deafening CRACK. A melon-sized chunk of the trunk vaporized into splinters and steam, leaving a smoldering crater.
"Your turn," she said, turning back to him. "Not a spark. A projectile. Put a hole in the tree next to mine."
Joshey didn't hesitate. He understood the principle immediately—it was about potential and kinetic energy, about containing an explosion and directing its vector. He formed the mana in his palm, not as a loose collection of heat, but as a dense, spinning orb of fury. He felt the pressure building, the air around his hand distorting from the heat. He thrust his palm forward.
The firebolt screamed across the field, a searing lance of orange and blue. It struck the tree a hand's breadth from Sylvaine's mark, blasting a similar, slightly less clean crater into the wood. The sound was less a crack and more a deep, resonant THUMP.
Sylvaine raised an eyebrow. "Adequate. But predictable. Let's make it less predictable."
She spread her hands wide this time. "A fireball is just a large, dumb explosion. Useful for crowds, wasteful for single targets. But if you apply spin, if you control the convection currents with intent..." The air around her began to shimmer, and a helix of flame coiled around her arm. "You can create something with a mind of its own."
With a flick of her wrist, she unleashed the coiling fire. It didn't fly in a straight line; it spiraled through the air like a serpent, weaving an unpredictable path before striking the tree from an oblique angle, carving a deep, gouging wound in the bark.
"Now you," she commanded.
Joshey watched the lingering heat patterns in the air. He saw the pattern, the algorithm of its motion. He extended his own hand, and instead of a sphere, he formed a ribbon of fire. He willed it to spin, not around his arm, but along its own axis, creating a stable, rotating column. He released it. The fiery ribbon corkscrewed through the air, less graceful than Sylvaine's serpent but far more stable and intense, like a drill. It struck the tree and bored straight through a thick branch, which crashed to the ground in two flaming pieces.
Sylvaine was silent for a long moment. "You copied me, I'm impressed." she murmured, almost to herself.
Then her expression grew sharp, ambitious. "Alright. Let's see if you can truly engineer with fire. The ultimate test of control and convection: a Fire Tornado."
She brought her hands together, then swept them apart in a wide circle. The air in the center of the field began to churn. She fed mana into it, not as pure heat, but as directed kinetic energy, creating a massive thermal differential. The air spun faster, sucking up dust and dew. The spinning air ignited, and a miniature tornado of fire, ten feet tall, roared to life, tearing up the grass and soil beneath it.
"Control the vortex!" she shouted over the din. "Keep it contained! If it breaks its pattern, it will consume this entire field!"
Joshey's mind, now a seamless fusion of his strategic intellect and Elias's theoretical knowledge, didn't see a terrifying phenomenon. He saw a system. A rotating column of low pressure, fueled by intense heat rising and creating a self-sustaining cycle. He stepped forward, his focus absolute. He didn't try to fight Sylvaine's creation; he extended his will and harmonized with it.
He found the rhythm of the spinning flames and began to conduct it. With subtle gestures, he tightened the vortex, making it taller, thinner, and more intense. The random, licking tongues of fire smoothed into a coherent, terrifyingly beautiful spiral. He wasn't just containing it; he was perfecting it, increasing its rotational velocity, making it burn hotter and cleaner. The fire tornado responded to his will like a well-tuned instrument, its roar deepening into a harmonic hum.
He held it there for a full ten seconds, a masterpiece of destructive engineering, before slowly willing the energy to dissipate. The tornado sank back into the earth, the flames dying out to leave behind a perfect circle of scorched, glassy ground.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Sylvaine stared at the scorched circle, then at Joshey. The last vestiges of her composure were gone, replaced by pure, unvarnished shock.
The roar of the fire tornado vanished, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. The air smelled of ozone and scorched earth. In the center of the field, Joshey stood, his chest rising and falling steadily, Elias's pale hands still faintly glowing with residual heat.
Sylvaine didn't move. She just stared at him, her sharp, analytical mask completely shattered. The shock on her face was raw, human, and utterly unguarded.
"Who are you?"
The question wasn't a demand. It was a whisper, fragile and lost, hanging in the hazy air between them. She took a single, hesitant step forward, her silver eyes wide, searching his face for a trace of the man she'd known for years.
"The Elias I knew…" she continued, her voice gaining a little strength, laced with a pain that was entirely personal. "He struggled to light a candle without singing his eyebrows. He carried a sadness so heavy it sometimes felt like the only real thing about him." She shook her head, a faint, bewildered gesture. "That man is gone."
She gestured weakly at the perfect circle of glassed earth, the testament to a power that defied all her understanding. "What stands before me… is a master. It's like I just handed you a chisel for the first time and you looked at it, nodded, and then carved a masterpiece out of solid marble."
Her gaze locked with his, filled with a confusion that was bordering on hurt. "I didn't teach you anything today. I just… showed you the door. And you walked through it like you owned the house." She swallowed hard, the truth dawning on her with terrifying clarity. "You are a very fast learner.."
The accusation, soft as it was, laid everything bare. She felt she was looking at a new born prodigy.
The raw shock on Sylvaine's face slowly hardened into a look of grim determination. The mystery of who he was would have to wait. The reality of what he could do demanded immediate focus.
"Enough," she said, her voice regaining its edge. "Enough of unleashing power. Any brute can break things. True mastery isn't in the attack; it's in the control. And the first, most brutal lesson in control is learning to handle what comes back at you."
She took a fighting stance, her hands coming up, palms open. "I'm going to teach you about Mana Recoil."
Joshey just watched, his new, synchronized mind already intrigued by the conceptual framework.
"Most think defense is about blocking or dodging," Sylvaine continued. "Mana Recoil is different. It is the art of taking the energy your enemy hurls at you and returning it to sender. It is not a magical shield. It is a technique. A reversal of flow."
She began to pace slowly in front of him. "When a mana-based attack strikes, it doesn't just vanish. It leaves a residue—raw, unstable kinetic mana, lingering for a split second like the heat from a slap. Anyone can feel it. A trained user can catch it."
She stopped and pointed at his chest. "But to catch it, you first need a net. You need a Mana Field."
"A what?"
"Close your eyes," she commanded. "Stop thinking about projecting outward. Feel inward. Feel the mana circulating within you, the current that gives you life and power. Now… imagine that current isn't just inside your skin. Imagine it breathing. With every exhale, it expands just beyond the surface of your body. With every inhale, it contracts."
Joshey did as he was told. In the perfect clarity of his dual consciousness, it was startlingly easy. He could feel the thrum of Elias's—of their—mana core. He visualized it, not as a ball of fire, but as a pulsing heart, and with each pulse, a wave of energy radiated outwards, forming a faint, shimmering bubble around his body.
"Good," Sylvaine's voice cut through his concentration. "You're creating it. That bubble, that zone of influence… that is your Mana Field. It is the atmosphere of your soul. It is where your intent can directly warp the environment. Right now, it's weak. Unfocused. But it's there."
"I can feel it," Joshey murmured, fascinated. It was like having a new, invisible limb.
"Now, for the Recoil," Sylvaine said, her tone turning severe. "The process has three steps, and if you fail at any one, the energy you're trying to catch will rip right through your field and into your core. Pay attention."
She held up a finger. "First, Catch. When an attack hits your field, you don't resist it. You accept it. You let the foreign mana in, guiding it into your field before it can impact your physical body. Your field acts as a buffer."
A second finger. "Second, Stabilize. That foreign mana is chaotic, hostile. It wants to explode. You must instantly match its wavelength with your own mana, synchronizing with it. You calm the storm, making it yours, if only for a moment."
A third finger. "Third, Reverse. This is the brutal part. You take that now-stabilized energy, and you reverse its vector. You create a Recoil Loop—a feedback channel that sends the energy screaming back along the exact path it came. The harder they hit you, the harder they get hit in return."
She dropped her hand. "It is one of the most respected intermediate techniques. Not because it's forbidden, but because it is technically demanding and merciless. A mistimed reversal can shatter your own mana channels."
She took a deep breath and summoned a small, compact firebolt, about the size of an apple, above her own palm. It hummed with contained force.
"I am going to throw this at you. A gentle one. Do not dodge. Do not block. Extend your Mana Field. Feel it strike. Try to catch it. If you succeed, you'll feel a 'tug'—that's the energy wanting to be stabilized. If you fail…" She gave a thin smile. "Well, you're already good with fire. A little more won't hurt."
Before he could protest, she flicked her wrist. The firebolt shot toward his chest, not with killing intent, but with the firm, instructional force of a master's jab.
Joshey's eyes widened. Instinct screamed at him to swat it aside or summon a wall of flame. But he fought the instinct. He focused, pushing his awareness into the faint, shimmering field around him. He felt the firebolt plunge into it, a hot, invasive pressure.
Catch.
He willed his field to envelop it, to accept the violent energy instead of repelling it. For a terrifying moment, he felt it slipping, burning through. Then, a firm, conceptual grip. He had it.
Stabilize.
His own mana, so adept at creation, now had to perform a delicate act of mimicry. He felt the firebolt's chaotic frequency and forced his own energy to resonate in harmony, pacifying its destructive urge. The pressure in his field changed from a stabbing pain to a contained, vibrating hum.
Reverse.
He visualized the path the bolt had taken and, with a sharp, mental shove, he reversed the flow. The energy in his field didn't dissipate; it shot back out, a perfect, shimmering echo of Sylvaine's firebolt, flying straight back toward her.
Sylvaine's eyes flared with astonishment. She didn't move to block it; she simply let it splash harmlessly against her own, far more powerful Mana Field, dissipating into sparks.
She stood in silence for a long moment, the sparks dying in the air between them.
"Once," she finally said, her voice hushed. "An apprentice might achieve that on their first try, in a moment of pure, flailing luck." She looked at him with the proud eyes any master will have. "You executed that quite well I'll say."
Sylvaine watched the last sparks of the rebounded firebolt fade into the morning air. A profound, unnerving quiet settled over the scorched training field. The ease with which he'd performed Mana Recoil—a technique that broke the will of seasoned apprentices—wasn't just impressive. It was unnatural.
A part of her, the cautious master, screamed to stop. To investigate the 'how' and the 'why' of this impossible proficiency. But a deeper, more visceral part of her—the one that had spent years watching Elias fail, the one that had nursed his burned hands and soothed his shattered pride—was now gripped by a reckless, burning curiosity.
What are your limits? the thought whispered. If you can do this so easily… what else is locked inside that broken core of yours?
She took a steadying breath, the scent of ozone and burnt earth filling her lungs. "Alright, Elias," she said, her voice deliberately calm, belying the turmoil within. "You've handled a trickle. Let's see if you can handle the flood."
He looked at her, those pale yellow eyes—Elias's eyes—holding a focus that was entirely foreign. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to teach you 'Maximum'," she stated, the word itself feeling heavy and significant in the tranquil morning.
He just waited, silent. He didn't ask what it was. He simply waited for the data.
"It's not a special ability," she explained, pacing slowly before him. "It's a state. The pinnacle of control. It is the act of gathering every single drop of mana in your body and releasing it in one, perfect, concentrated action. No leaks. No waste. One hundred percent of your potential, focused into a single point."
She stopped and faced him, her expression deadly serious. "Normally, your mana field acts as a regulator. A governor. It restrains your output to keep you from burning out your own channels. It's a safety mechanism. 'Maximum' is the conscious decision to bypass that safety."
She held up her hands, as if cradling something invisible. "To do it, you must achieve a perfect, three-part synchronization. First, your internal flow—the rhythm of your heartbeat, your breath, the pulse of your core. Second, your external mana field—the 'atmosphere' you just learned to create. And third…" she tapped her temple, "...your mind. Absolute, unwavering focus. Any doubt, any flicker of fear, and the balance shatters."
She saw him processing this, his gaze turning inward. She knew she was throwing him into the deep end. This was a technique for adepts, for those who had spent a decade reinforcing their channels. But the Elias of old was gone, and this new one… this new one learned in minutes what took others years.
"Why is it so difficult?" he asked, his voice low.
"Because the universe fights back," she said bluntly. "At that level of output, the recoil isn't just a jolt. It's a tsunami. If your field isn't strong enough, it will rupture. You'll burn your mana channels from the inside out. I've seen mages left comatose, their cores shattered like glass from the feedback." She met his eyes, ensuring he understood the stakes. "And the world itself has a natural mana equilibrium. Push out too much, too violently, and the environment itself will reject it, shoving all that energy right back down your throat."
She gave him a long, measuring look. He stood there, calm, centered. There was no anxiety in his posture, only that unnerving, analytical readiness. The part of her that was his friend felt a spike of fear. The part of her that was a master of magic was consumed by a need to see.
"I want you to try it," she said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "Not to destroy anything. Just… to achieve the state. Gather everything you are, everything you have, and hold it at the brink of release. I just… I need to see your output."
It was a dangerous request. An irresponsible one. But the mystery of him was a lock she felt compelled to pick, no matter the cost.
"Focus on your core," she instructed, her voice dropping to a guiding murmur. "Feel the mana not as a tool, but as the essence of your life. Draw it in. All of it. Pull it from your extremities, from the very air in your lungs. Gather it. Don't let it leak. Your field must contain it, compress it. Make yourself a bomb with a perfect, single fuse."
She watched as he closed his eyes. The air around him began to shimmer, not with heat, but with pure, dense power. The grass at his feet flattened, pressed down by an invisible weight. She could feel it—the pressure building, the very light around him seeming to bend. It was working. He was doing it. Far, far too easily.
"Now," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Hold it. Synchronize. Internal, external, mental. Become one single purpose."
For a breathtaking second, he did. He stood at the center of a vortex of silent, terrifying power, a statue of potential annihilation. His form was haloed in a corona of warped light. This wasn't the clumsy, explosive power that had blown his roof off. This was refined, deliberate, and infinitely more dangerous.
And then, she saw it.
A flicker. Not in his mana, but in his face. A micro-expression of pain, a ghost of a memory—a memory that did not belong to Elias. It was the look of a man remembering the cold weight of a gun in his hand.
The synchronization broke.
A sharp, metallic taste filled Joshey's mouth as the energy backlashed. For a terrifying split-second, he felt the violent surge threatening to tear through his core, a feedback loop of pure power with nowhere to go.
«Reinforce the field! Now!» Elias's voice was a whip-crack in his mind, not panicked, but commanding. «Don't let it escape inward! Contain the collapse!»
There was no time to think. Joshey obeyed, throwing every ounce of his will into the shimmering bubble of his mana field, compressing it into a dense, flexible shell around his body. The escaping energy slammed against this internal barrier, and he felt a searing pain lance through his channels—like chugging molten lead—but the field held. It contained the worst of the blast, dissipating the force in a wave of heat that washed out from him, making the air shimmer.
He staggered, his hand flying to his chest. The coppery taste was blood from where he'd bitten his cheek.
«Good,» Elias's thought came, and it was laced with a fierce, undeniable pride. «You reinforced the field on instinct. A year ago, that would have put me in a coma for a week. You contained a catastrophic failure.»
Yeah, yeah, Joshey thought back, swallowing the blood and straightening up with a wince. Don't get too excited. It still feels like I swallowed a bomb.
Sylvaine was in front of him in an instant, her hands on his shoulders, her silver eyes wide with alarm. "Elias! By the spirits, are you alright? Your channels—can you feel them? Tell me the truth!"
"I'm fine," he rasped, waving her off. He took a deep, experimental breath. It hurt, a deep, bruised ache in his core, but it wasn't the shattered, empty feeling Elias had warned him about. "Just... skipped a few steps, I think. That 'Maximum' thing is a bit advanced."
The look on Sylvaine's face crumpled from panic into pure, unadulterated guilt. The cool, analytical master was gone, replaced by a woman who had just led a friend to the edge of a cliff.
"It was a mistake," she said, her voice thick with self-recrimination. "A grave mistake. I got carried away. I saw you perform Recoil and I... I thought maybe you could... Spirits, Elias, I'm so sorry. That was irresponsible of me. I could have burned out your core permanently."
She looked genuinely distraught, her usual composure shattered. She had been so consumed by the mystery of his transformation that she'd forgotten the fragile human body at the center of it all.
Joshey managed a weak but genuine smirk, wiping his mouth again. "Relax, Sylvaine. I'm alive. I'm standing. A little internal singeing never killed anyone." He tapped his chest. "Still in one piece. No harm, no foul."
He saw the doubt still etched on her face and his expression softened. "Really. It's fine. You were testing a theory. Now we know the theory needs more work. Let's just... stick to not blowing me up from the inside out for a while, yeah?"
Sylvaine let out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. The fear in her eyes receded, replaced by a weary, grateful acceptance. "No more 'Maximum'," she vowed, her tone firm. "Not for a long, long time." She offered a small, apologetic smile. "Let's get you some water. And for the love of god, don't tell Helga I almost turned you into a mana-cinder. She'd never let me hear the end of it."
Joshey offered a hand, not for support, but as a gesture to pull her from her spiral of guilt. After a slight hesitation, Sylvaine took it, her grip firm as she got to her feet, brushing stray grass from her trousers.
"Really, I'm fine," he repeated, the normalcy of the gesture seeming to anchor them both back in reality. "A little mana-burn isn't the worst thing that's happened to this body."
The comment was a little too revealing, and he quickly shifted the subject. "Besides, I've got more pressing things to manage than my singed mana channels. The business, for one."
Sylvaine seized the change of topic with visible relief, her professional curiosity overriding her concern. "Right, your grand venture. How is the great market revival of Oakhaven proceeding? Have you sold enough turnips to pay back a single florin of my loan yet?"
Joshey chuckled, falling into step beside her as they walked away from the scorched training ground. "We've moved a bit beyond turnips. It's actually running smoother than I expected. I've got a system."
He began counting off on his fingers, the corporate recruiter in him coming to the fore. "I hired four people. It's a small team, but everyone has a clear role."
"First, I have a Sales Rep. He's a talker, good with people. He handles the direct customer interaction, explains the goods, and most importantly, he's good at upselling. You'd be surprised how many people come for a simple tunic and leave with a reinforced gambeson because he convinced them it's a 'necessary investment for their safety.'"
Sylvaine raised an impressed eyebrow. "Go on."
"Second, an Inventory Manager. She's sharp, detail-oriented. She monitors the stock, records every sale, and tells me exactly when we're running low on what. No more guessing games. She's the one who makes sure we don't have a crowd for daggers when we only have three left."
"Third, the Cashier. She handles all the money. Keeps a weekly expense sheet—pays for your lunch, Helga's, anyone else's? She's got it written down. It's all there, transparent."
"And fourth," Joshey said, a hint of pride in his voice, "is my Marketing and Errands runner. She's young, energetic. She spends half his day walking around Oakhaven, talking to guards, merchants, travelers—anyone who'll listen—telling them about the 'new, reliable market in the East Quarter.' He's our living, breathing announcement board."
Sylvaine listened, her initial teasing demeanor replaced by genuine fascination. "You've... structured it. Like a guild chapter."
"Efficiency is efficiency, whether it's here or... anywhere else," Joshey said, catching himself. "We have a daily check-in, just a five-minute meeting at opening to align everyone. Then a weekly review every Seventh-day to go over what sold, what didn't, and the profit. And payday is right after that review. Consistent. It builds trust."
He glanced at her. "Even though it's small, everything is written down. Daily sales, expenses, stock on hand, who showed up for work. No guesswork. It's the only way to build something that lasts."
Sylvaine was quiet for a moment, taking it all in. The failed mage she had known could barely keep track of his own vegetable harvest. The man beside her was implementing administrative systems that some guild lords would envy.
"You truly are moving forward, Elias," she said softly, but this time the words held no suspicion, only a dawning, respectful awe. "It seems you're building an institution." Joshey just smiled, looking ahead toward the hut. "Let's just see if the institution can make enough to pay you back before your diner goes out of style."
Joshey glanced toward the sun, gauging its position. "Speaking of the business, I need to cut this short. It's almost time for the morning check-in before we open."
Sylvaine nodded, her demeanor back to its usual practical self. "Go on, then. Don't let me keep you from your empire of... what are you selling again, exactly?"
"Quality arms and durable garments," he said with a grin, already starting to back away. "The foundations of civilization. We'll continue this later?"
"Of course. Try not to acquire any more internal injuries before then," she called after him, a wry smile on her lips.
They waved a brief farewell, and Joshey turned, heading not down the winding path that led on foot toward the market, but toward a small, covered wagon hitched to a patient-looking draft horse near the edge of his property. It was a recent, necessary investment for hauling goods.
He climbed up into the wagon, sat at the very back, and with a soft click of his tongue urged the rider to move forward.
Joshey guided the wagon onto the main thoroughfare, a wider, packed-dirt road that cut a more direct route through the outskirts of Oakhaven. This was the "Wagonway," a path too rough and long for a comfortable walk but perfect for carts and draft animals.
«This is a needless expense,» Elias's voice grumbled in his mind. «The footpath is perfectly serviceable. You're wasting coppers on laziness.»
"Once in a while, you have to try new things," Joshey murmured under his breath, the clatter of the wheels covering his words. "I'm not from here. I need to grasp how things work, how people get around. It's all data." He left unsaid that the simple, rhythmic motion of the wagon was a small comfort, a tangible piece of a world he was still learning to navigate.
It was then that he felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible prickle on the back of his neck. A sensation of being observed that had nothing to do with the other passengers or the driver. It was subtle, like a single cold drop of water in a warm stream.
«Elias, do you feel that?» he thought. «Like... someone's peeking.»
«Hm? Oh, that. Yes, it's faint. A scrying spell, perhaps, or just someone with sharp eyes and too much time,» Elias replied, his tone dismissive. «It doesn't feel hostile. Just... curious. Pay it no mind. Getting involved in every faint whisper of mana is a good way to never have a moment's peace.»
Joshey agreed. The feeling was more an annoyance than a threat. He consciously pushed his awareness away from it, focusing instead on the sway of the wagon.
The wagon slowed to a stop at a designated post, picking up two other passengers—an older woman with a basket of herbs and a younger man with a tradesman's tool roll. They nodded a polite greeting to Joshey, which he returned, before finding their seats. As the wagon lurched back into motion, the communal, utilitarian feel of the ride struck a powerful chord of nostalgia in Joshey. It felt less like a noble's carriage and more like the shared "keke napep" or tricycle transports of Lagos—a practical, bumpy, and universally used mode of getting from point A to point B.
«You're comparing a draft horse wagon to a three-wheeled mechanical rickshaw?» Elias's thought came, laced with amused disbelief. «Your world is endlessly strange.»
«You have no idea,» Joshey thought back with a mental smile.
Soon enough, they reached the bustling plaza near the East Quarter. Joshey paid the driver a few copper bits, the transaction feeling satisfyingly normal, and hopped down. The feeling of being watched had vanished, lost in the crowd.
He found Finn already at the market stall, the young recorder's stylus flying across his mana-slate as he took stock of the newly arrived inventory.
"Proprietor," Finn said, looking up. "The morning tally is complete. We received a new shipment of reinforced leather bracers from the tanner. The quality is exceptional."
"Good. Brief me after the huddle," Joshey said, his gaze already sweeping over the space.
His four workers were already present, preparing for the day's opening. They gathered around as he approached.
"Alright, team. Five minutes," Joshey began, his voice taking on the efficient, focused tone of a modern manager. "Lyra," he nodded to the first woman, a charismatic brunette with a ready smile. "You crushed the upselling on those travel cloaks yesterday. Keep highlighting that they're waxed for rain. It's a unique selling point."
Lyra, his Sales Rep, beamed. "Will do, Proprietor Elias."
"Mira," he said, turning to a sharp-eyed woman with a ledger already in hand—his Inventory Manager. "You flagged the short swords as low stock. I've put the order in. Let me know the moment the new daggers sell below half."
Mira gave a firm, confident nod. "Understood. The ledger is ready for your review."
"Talia," he addressed the third, a woman with a calm, calculating demeanor who managed the lockbox. "The expense sheet from yesterday was perfectly clear. Keep tracking every copper. We'll review the weekly totals on Seventh-day, right after close."
Talia, the Cashier and Accountant, met his gaze steadily. "The numbers will be ready."
Finally, he looked at the youngest, a energetic woman named Anya, his Marketing and Errands runner. "Anya, I heard from the baker that you've been talking up our new shipment of gambesons to the city watch recruits. That's exactly the initiative we need. See if you can spread the word near the adventurer's guild hall today."
Anya grinned, practically vibrating with energy. "I'm on it!"
"Good. Then let's open up and have a profitable day," Joshey concluded.
As the women moved to their posts with purpose, Finn stepped closer, a look of quiet admiration on his face. "Your operational rhythm is... remarkably efficient, Proprietor."
Joshey watched his team work, a faint, nostalgic smile touching his lips. It wasn't the corporate world of Lagos, but the fundamentals were the same. And for a moment, it almost felt like home.
Joshey decided to go sit down and watch things unfold, though it was quite uncomfortable for his workers (and he pretty much understands that), he still stays there to observe since he has nothing better to do right now anyway.
The market stall was a pocket of controlled chaos, and Joshey stood at its center like a conductor who had taught his orchestra a new, more profitable symphony. Lyra was deftly convincing a hesitant guard that a new dagger wasn't just a tool but a "lifeline," Basically manipulating him into buying that cheap looking dagger that will rust in no time flat while Mira's eyes flicked between the customer and her ledger, mentally updating the stock. The clink of coins as Talia made change was a steady, pleasing rhythm. It was working. The system was working.
Yet, Joshey's mind, ever-analytical, was already probing the structures around him. His gaze fell on Finn, the guild's ever-present scribe, who was observing the transactions with a neutral, bureaucratic air.
"Finn," Joshey began, his tone casual, leaning against the counter. "The Guild. Any murmurs about a change in the system? New levies? Adjusted fee structures?"
Finn looked up, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "The system, Proprietor? It has been stable for decades. What sort of changes do you mean?"
Joshey offered a disarming smile, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing specific. Don't worry about it." But internally, his guard was up. A system that doesn't change is a system designed to never favor the little guy. He'd seen it before, in a country an entire world away. In Nigeria, this level of institutional inertia wasn't just bureaucracy; it was a feature, not a bug, allowing those in power to extract value silently. The Guild could tweak a percentage point here, add an administrative fee there, and slowly bleed him dry, all within the bounds of their own unchallengeable rules. Finn seemed like a good kid, but he was a cog. A well-meaning puppet who probably believed in the machine he served.
His eyes then drifted to the merchandise itself. He ran a finger over the display of a leather gambeson. The stitching was coarse, the leather stiff and poorly cured. A nearby shortsword had visible forging flaws along the blade. Who would bet their life on this? he wondered, a flicker of professional distaste. This wouldn't have passed the most basic quality control back in his world.
"Adventurers," came a voice beside him. It was Anya, his marketing runner, noticing his critical gaze. She was sharp, always watching, always learning.
"Adventurers," Joshey repeated, turning to her fully. He wasn't fully clueless—the word itself was self-explanatory, and Elias's silent presence in his mind offered a hazy, conceptual understanding. But he wanted the local context, the gritty details. "They are the ones who buy this? People who… seek their fortune?"
Anya blinked, a little surprised by the need for such a basic explanation. "Well, yes. They take on quests from the Guild. They handle everything from clearing rat nests in cellars to… well, hunting monsters in the Sunken Woods."
Joshey nodded, prompting her with his attentive silence. Elias's hyper-intellect was already cross-referencing her words, building a model.
"They're… sort of society's slaves, if you think about it," Anya continued, lowering her voice slightly. "If there's a problem no one else wants to handle, it goes to the Guild. An adventurer either picks it from the board, or if it's nasty, the Guild assigns it."
"I see," Joshey said, his mind already racing ahead. "And what happens if they fail? If the problem is too much for them?"
"Their points drop," Anya said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And they get no pay for the attempt."
A trap, Joshey's mind immediately classified it. A brilliantly designed, exploitative trap. He kept his expression neutral, curious. "Points? What are these points?"
"It's how the Guild measures your worth," she explained, warming to the topic. "It determines your rank. Everyone starts, but you only become a true Rank F if you fail too many times. The ranks go from F, all the way up to S, they say. The higher your party's rank, the better the pay and the more prestigious the jobs."
As she spoke, Joshey's internal analysis, fueled by a lifetime of corporate strategy and Elias's sharp logic, laid the entire system bare.
At first glance, it looks 'fair': Do jobs → earn points → earn money → rise in rank. But it's a classic control mechanism.
The Points System = A Cage of Dependence.The Guild alone controls the value of points. They can devalue them, making advancement a mirage. They can raise rank requirements, creating a permanent underclass. A single accusation of misconduct could wipe out a lifetime of work. The adventurer's entire livelihood depends not on their own skill, but on the Guild's arbitrary approval. It was just like the performance review systemshe'd used—and manipulated—to control employee mobility. Failure is Free Labor.When an adventurer fails, they get nothing. But the client has already paid the Guild an upfront commission. The Guild loses nothing. They just post the quest again for another desperate soul. Failed quests are pure profit, subsidized by the broken bodies and shattered pride of the failures. The Closed Economy of Control.He could see the other tentacles: registration fees, license renewals, a tax on quest rewards, mandatory purchases from Guild-approved smiths and apothecaries. The money flows in a circle: Adventurer works → gets paid →immediately pays most of it back to the Guild for the privilege of continuing to work. The Guild is the employer, the landlord, the banker, and the only store in town.
It was a masterclass in systemic exploitation. The Guild was the only true winner here.
"Wow," Joshey finally said, the single word laden with a depth of understanding Anya couldn't possibly grasp. "It's quite a system."
Anya, misinterpreting his quiet awe for interest, grinned. "Thinking of becoming one, Proprietor? Leaving all this for glory?"
Joshey looked at his thriving stall, at the flawed goods that people had to buy because they had no better choice, and then back at her. He gave a dry chuckle. "I don't think so."
"Good," Anya said with a firm nod. "Stay a merchant. It's safer. Smarter. Besides," she added with a wave toward the Guild hall in the distance, "if your roof ever leaks, you can just hire one to fix it. You don't have to be one."
Her words cemented it. In her world, adventurers were a commodity, a disposable service you "called in" for manual labor. They were at the bottom of the pyramid, celebrated in stories but crushed by the mechanics of reality. Joshey offered her a final, thoughtful smile before turning away, his mind already whirring with a new, dangerous thought.
Every flawed system creates an opportunity for the one who understands its flaws.
The thought settled in Joshey's mind — not as some wild fantasy, but as a clear, deliberate calculation.
Anya's words echoed faintly: "You can just hire one."
Chains. Debt. Ownership. It all connected in his head — one long chain of exploitation. From the debtor rotting in a cell to the so-called "free" adventurer buried under points, fees, and obligations. Different masks, same system. The corruption wasn't a person; it was a hydra. And he'd only been staring at one of its heads.
He glanced at Finn, who was carefully recording another sale for the Guild's ledger.
Actually, Joshey thought, joining them might not be a bad idea after all.
Elias stirred in the back of his mind, his voice calm but wary.
«To understand a beast, you must step into its jaws. I spent my life avoiding the Guild's notice, and now you want to walk right in. It's unsettling. But… you're not wrong. From the inside, you could see the gears turning.»
Exactly. Joshey's gaze swept across the market stalls, the merchants, the workers who smiled through exhaustion. I can't change this society from the outside. I can make money, sure, but I'll always be playing by their rules. To dismantle the trap, you first need to know how the trigger works.
That old feeling returned — cold, sharp, and steady. The same determination that guided him through the shadows of Lagos when he hunted predators in suits instead of monsters with claws. This was just another kind of hunt.
«It could work,» Elias said after a pause, curiosity creeping into his tone. «The Guild's ranking system, their private ledgers, the real source of their revenue, it's all hidden. You could finally see it from within. But be careful, Joshey. More than ever. You'd be putting Elias under their microscope. These aren't the corrupt men you could bribe or outsmart back home. Here, the law carries heat… and fireballs.»
Joshey smiled faintly, a predator's grin that belonged only to him.
I'm counting on that. A system this rigid hates variables it can't predict. And we, my friend, are the ultimate variable.
His eyes drifted from a cheap gambeson hanging on a rack to the Guild's towering hall at the end of the street. The path was clear now.
By day, he'd build his merchant empire — legitimate, profitable, untouchable.
By night, or in the cracks between, he'd become an adventurer. Not for glory. Not for points. For information. He would learn every rule, every loophole, every weakness.
To them, he'd just be another ambitious fool chasing rank and coin.
But behind that mask, the strategist and the ghost would be watching, dissecting, learning.
The game had changed.
It wasn't about survival anymore.
It was about audit.
He was going to audit the Guild.
Break scene
The long-distance transport wagon, a heavier, enclosed beast drawn by two sturdy draft horses, should have been a lumbering sanctuary. Instead, it had become a rolling tomb, trapped on a shortcut to Caligurn that had turned deadly. The air inside was thick with the metallic tang of fear and the sour smell of nausea. Outside, the forest had grown unnaturally dark, the gnarled trees seeming to clutch at the passing wagon with skeletal fingers. An eerie silence pressed in, broken only by the ragged breathing of the passengers and the frantic, whispered prayers of a mother clutching her child.
"I'm telling you, this path is cursed!" a man hissed, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Rider, you said this was a clear run! Turn back! Now!"
A chorus of frantic agreement rose from the others. The rider, a young man named Kael, gripped the reins, his knuckles white. "It... it was clear! I swear it! Just last season—"
"Last season doesn't matter!" another man, a burly merchant named Borin, snarled, lurching to his feet and grabbing Kael by the shoulder. "Turn this thing around before you get us all killed!"
Panic was a contagion, and it was about to claim its first victim. Kael, confused and terrified, yanked hard on the reins, preparing to force the horses into a dangerous, skidding turn on the narrow path.
"Stop."
The single word, spoken calmly from the darkest corner of the wagon, cut through the hysteria. All eyes turned to the figure who had spoken—a young woman shrouded in a simple, hooded cloak who had been silent the entire journey. She pushed back her hood, revealing a face of sharp, composed beauty, framed by strands of dark hair. Her eyes, a cool, assessing grey, held no panic, only a weary resolve.
"Turning back is the greater risk now," Lucia stated, her voice even. "We have committed to this path. The energy here is agitated. Reversing course will only disorient the horses further and leave us exposed for longer. Our only chance is to move forward, with purpose and silence."
"Shut your mouth, girl!" Borin barked, turning his fury on her. "What do you know? This is no place for your—"
A sudden, deafening CRUNCH from the roof silenced him. The entire wagon shuddered. Something massive had landed on it. Then came the sound of tearing canvas and splintering wood from the driver's perch, followed by Kael's scream—a short, wet sound that was cut off with horrifying finality. A moment later, a heavy, limp shape was dragged off the roof, and through the front opening, they saw Kael's body, impaled by monstrous talons, being hauled into the murky sky by a creature of nightmare.
It was a bat, but on a scale that defied nature. Its leathery wings blotted out the little light that remained, and its body was the size of a bear. A second later, three more of the colossal shapes descended, their high-pitched, chittering cries piercing the air, driving spikes of primal terror into the hearts of everyone inside. The horses, sensing the ultimate predator, screamed and reared, but the wagon's brake held them fast, trapping them—and everyone inside—in a perfect killing zone.
Pandemonium erupted. Screams filled the enclosed space. The mother wailed, clutching her child tighter. Borin fumbled for a knife, his bravado gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror.
"ENOUGH!" Lucia's voice cracked like a whip, her composure unshaken. She stood, her movements fluid and unnervingly calm. "Those are Greater Shrieker Bats. They track movement and pinpoint sound. We are fortunate this wagon is reinforced and relatively soundproof. Your screams are a beacon. If you cannot control yourselves, then stuff a piece of cloth in your mouth. Now."
Her authority was absolute, born not of rank, but of undeniable competence in the face of chaos. It was a lifeline, and the terrified passengers grabbed it. They tore strips from their clothing, gagging themselves, their wide, terrified eyes fixed on her.
Lucia's gaze swept over them, assessing. "Is there anyone here who can ride? Who can control the horses?"
A young man, barely more than a boy, trembling violently, raised a shaking hand. "I-I c-can... my f-family... we have a f-farm... b-but..." He gestured weakly at the monstrous shadows circling outside.
"Your name?" Lucia asked, her tone softening infinitesimally.
"T-Tobin," he stammered.
"Tobin. I need you to be ready. When I give the signal, you will get up there, release the brake, and drive these horses forward as if all the demons of the abyss are on your heels. Because they are." She placed a hand on his shoulder, and her touch was surprisingly steadying. "I will protect you."
He wanted to believe her, to grasp at that sliver of hope, but the sight of the bats made it impossible. "H-How?"
Lucia didn't answer with words. She moved to the wagon's rear door. People reached out, trying to stop her. "Don't! You'll be killed!"
"Do not worry," she said, and there was no boast in her voice, only a simple statement of fact. "Remain silent."
She slipped out, closing the door behind her without a sound.
Outside, the world was a cacophony of chitters and the beat of vast wings. The bats circled about thirty feet up, their grotesque heads swiveling, searching for the source of the noise that had now gone silent. Lucia stood on the path, a lone figure in the gloom. She reached to her left hip and drew her sword.
It was not a brutish broadsword. It was a blade of elegant, deadly efficiency—a long, slightly curved saber, about three and a half feet in length, with a razor edge that gleamed with a cold, hungry light. She held it low and loose at her side.
Then, she broke the silence she had demanded. She screamed, a short, sharp,挑衅 cry aimed at the sky.
It was the perfect lure. Two of the bats, their predator instincts triggered, folded their wings and dropped into a steep, screeching dive, their talons outstretched, their maws open to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. They fell upon her like twin bolts of black lightning.
Lucia did not brace. She exploded forward.
The power came from her legs, a coiled-spring release of force that sent her hurtling not away from the dive, but directly into its trajectory. As she moved, her entire body became a part of the weapon. Her hips and shoulders rotated with the precise, devastating torque of a ballista, channeling every ounce of momentum into the arc of her blade.
She leaped, not high, but with perfect timing, meeting the first bat at the apex of its dive. The saber, held in a conditioned, unshakable grip, did not hack. It sliced.
The cutting plane was a thing of geometric perfection. Imagine a single, flat plane of glass slicing through the air. Lucia's blade was the edge of that plane. It entered the first bat's neck at a slight, oblique angle, minimizing drag. The razor-keen edge met flesh and bone, and with a sound like tearing silk, it passed clean through. The beast's head was severed from its body in a spray of black blood.
But the arc did not stop.
The blade, propelled by her full-body rotation and its own lethal momentum, continued on its tangential path. It met the second bat, which was following mere feet behind the first. The curved geometry of the saber guided it, the edge finding purchase along the creature's wing joint and carving deep into its thorax. The second bat let out a choked gurgle, its dive turning into a chaotic, tumbling crash.
Lucia landed in a low crouch, her boots making no sound on the soft earth. The entire sequence—the scream, the explosive dash, the leaping, rotating slice—had taken less than three seconds. Two dismembered bat carcasses thudded to the ground on either side of her, their blood pooling in the dirt. The remaining two bats, confused by the sudden, silent annihilation of their kin, banked hard, their chittering now holding a note of wary alarm.
Inside the wagon, watched through cracks in the wood, the passengers were frozen, their cloth gags forgotten in their mouths. There was no cheer, no celebration. Only a profound, stunned silence. They had not seen a battle; they had witnessed an execution. A brutal, beautiful, and terrifyingly efficient piece of lethal art.
Lucia rose smoothly, her saber still held ready, its blade now stained black. She glanced back at the wagon, her grey eyes finding Tobin's through a gap in the wood. She gave a single, sharp nod.
The signal.
The spell was broken. Tobin, his fear now eclipsed by a surge of adrenaline and awe, scrambled forward. He was no longer a scared farm boy. He was the driver for a warrior goddess. He released the brake, grabbed the reins, and with a cry that was part terror and part triumph, he urged the terrified horses forward. The wagon lurched, then began to roll, picking up speed down the dark, deadly path, leaving the circling bats and their fallen comrades behind.
The wagon rattled out of the oppressive gloom and into the muted, overcast daylight of a safe road, the horses' frantic pace easing into a steady, mile-eating trot. As soon as they were clear, a shadow detached itself from the canopy above and landed silently on the roof. Lucia settled herself cross-legged atop the rolling transport, her posture erect and watchful. The simple, solid fact of her presence there, a silent sentinel against the receding darkness, seeped through the wooden planks and into the hearts of the passengers below. The tension that had held them rigid finally broke, replaced by a wave of trembling relief and hushed, tearful gratitude. One of the mothers began to sing a soft, old lullaby to her child, the sound a balm to their collective soul.
Lucia, her senses still stretched to their limits, unsheathed her sword. It was not a saber, but a masterwork of a different tradition: a Shinobigatana, a black, two-handed katana variant. Its blade was single-edged and moderately curved, its long, black-wrapped grip allowing for versatile control. The balance was perfect for the high-speed, flowing strikes she favored—a fusion of the katana's cutting potential and the saber's lethal fluidity. With a cloth produced from a hidden pocket, she began to meticulously clean the black ichor from the polished steel, her movements economical and reverent. This was not her first time on this route, nor her sixth. She knew its dangers intimately. It was the price she paid for the clandestine pilgrimage to Caligurn, to meet the brother banished from the Earivel, the Clan of Swords.
Within five minutes, the last vestiges of the deadly zone were behind them. The true key to survival, Lucia knew, had not been her blade, but the imposition of a calm mind. Panic was a poison far more potent than any bat's venom.
When they finally reached the outskirts of Caligurn, she directed Tobin to a designated transport park—a wide, cobblestoned yard where wagons lined up and passengers disembarked. As the six survivors stumbled out, breathing the mundane, blessedly safe air of the city, their first coherent thought was of their savior. They turned as one to point her out, to thank her, to file their report with the city watch and name her as their hero.
But the roof was empty.
She was simply gone. No one had seen or heard her leave. There was a collective moment of stunned silence, but surprisingly, no shock. It felt fitting, somehow. A being of such preternatural skill belonged to the realm of myth, not to the bureaucratic aftermath of a journey.
It was then that Tobin, patting his chest in a daze, found the small, heavy pouch tucked into the fold of his tunic. He hadn't felt her put it there. He remembered only the steadying pressure of her hand on his shoulder, her calm voice cutting through his terror. She had known. She had planned for this eventuality, ensuring the dead rider's fee would be paid and that no loose ends would lead back to her. She had used him not just as a driver, but as a piece on a board only she could see.
The truth was, Lucia had known the rider's intent from the moment she boarded. Her olfactory system, a biological marvel fused with her empathic mana perception, allowed her to taste the very chemistry of emotion. Beneath the man's sweat and the scent of cheap ale, she had caught the bitter, coppery tang of malice, sharp and unmistakable. He was no victim of a wrong turn; he was a predator leading his flock to a slaughter, likely to harvest and sell their organs to the black markets that thrived in the city's underbelly. He had grown complacent, used to passing that deadly stretch and knowing exactly what to do to survive while his passengers did not.
She had been the one to make him panic. When she stood and spoke, she had focused a fraction of her killing intent directly on him. It was not magic, but the pinnacle of physiological control. An elite swordsman's focused aggression creates tangible changes: a surging, rhythmic heartbeat, micro-tensed muscles signaling lethal readiness, a pressure field of controlled breath and kinetic tension. To the untrained subconscious, it screams "PREDATOR," activating the amygdala and triggering a fear response more primal than thought. The rider, already guilty and on edge, had been uniquely susceptible. He had felt his chest tighten, the air grow thick with a danger he couldn't see, and it had broken his nerve, causing him to make the fatal mistake that exposed them—and him—to the bats. She had to focus it with surgical precision; had she let it flood the wagon, everyone would have been paralyzed by a terror as potent as any monster's.
Now, hours later, Lucia moved through the bustling streets of Caligurn, her hood drawn back up, just another anonymous traveler. The adrenaline of the fight had long since faded, leaving behind the hollow, gnawing ache of hunger. She turned into a narrow alley, a shortcut known only to those who moved through cities as she did—unseen and with purpose. She emerged onto a brighter main street, and her eyes settled on a diner. It had a warm, inviting glow, and the sign above the door, written in a flowing script, read "The Toasty Tavern."
The aromas that wafted out were a symphony of mundane bliss: roasting meat, fresh-baked bread, and rich, savory stew. It was exactly what she needed. Pushing the door open, she was met with the comforting cacophony of a well-run establishment—the clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, the sizzle from the kitchen.
She found an empty booth in a back corner, sliding into the shadowed seat with her back to the wall, a habit so ingrained it was instinct. She kept her hood up, her grey eyes scanning the room with a single, comprehensive sweep, cataloging exits, assessing the patrons, noting the strong, efficient woman who seemed to be in charge.
When a server approached, Lucia didn't bother with a menu. Her voice, low and slightly husky from disuse, was clear and direct.
"Bring me a feast. Whatever your kitchen does best. Meat, bread, cheese, stew. And a pitcher of water." She placed a single, heavy gold coin on the table, enough to cover a meal for ten. "Keep it coming until I am done."
Then she fell silent, her hands resting on the table, the posture of a warrior finally, and temporarily, standing down. In the warm, noisy, ordinary diner, the woman who smelled deceit and wielded a black blade that moved like water allowed herself, for a moment, to just be hungry.
The order rippled through the kitchen of The Toasty Tavern, causing a minor stir. A platter normally reserved for catering large tables was being loaded with roasted fowl, a small haunch of glazed ham, two bowls of thick stew, a loaf of dark bread, and a wheel of cheese.
Sylvaine, overseeing the dinner rush with a conductor's precision, raised an eyebrow as a server rushed past with the heavy tray. "Helga, who ordered the siege provisions? A traveling company of miners?"
The cook, Helga, jerked a thumb towards the dining area. "Not miners. Some girl. Booth in the back."
Intrigued, Sylvaine wove through the crowded diner. She expected to see a grizzled mercenary or a burly laborer. Instead, her eyes found the booth, and the figure seated within. A girl, hooded, her posture impossibly still amidst the chaos. What struck Sylvaine immediately was not her youth, but her… absence. To Sylvaine's finely tuned senses, honed over centuries, most people were like candles in the dark—some flickering, some blazing. This girl was a snuffed wick. Sylvaine consciously expanded her mana field, pushing her awareness outward until it brushed against the girl's form. Only then did she get a 'whiff'—not of power, but of a profound, deliberate silence, like a vacuum that swallowed light and sound. In a city of thousands, in a diner that saw hundreds daily, this was a first.
She approached, her smile warm but her eyes sharp with analytic curiosity. "Well now, that's a meal fit for a celebrating family. Mind if I ask who I have the pleasure of hosting?"
The girl, Lucia, looked up. The moment Sylvaine's gaze met hers, the carefully constructed void around her shattered. A panicked, almost anime-like blush exploded across her cheeks—two perfect circles of crimson high on her cheekbones, betraying a fluster that was utterly at odds with the lethal warrior from the wagon. The cold, emotionless mask was a defense mechanism, and in the face of Sylvaine's direct, playful warmth, it had utterly failed.
"Secrecy is forbidden in my establishment, you know," Sylvaine said, her tone light but leaving no room for argument. "At least, hiding a face as cute as yours seems to be should be." She gestured for her to lower the hood. "So, what's the story? A growing girl? Or are you storing for hibernation?"
Lucia's blush deepened, horizontal red lines joining the circles. She slowly pushed her hood back, revealing a face of sharp, elegant beauty that seemed too young to carry the weight Sylvaine could now faintly sense clinging to her. "I... was hungry," she managed, her voice a soft contrast to its earlier commanding tone.
Sylvaine chuckled. "I can see that." She was about to press further when a booming voice cut through the din.
"Big Mama Sylvaine! My stomach's eating itself! Where's the usual?"
Sylvaine didn't even turn. "Shut your trap, Goran! Can't you see I'm conducting important customer relations?" She waved a hand, and another server immediately descended upon the complaining patron. She then turned back to Lucia, her expression softening. "Look, scooch over."
Lucia, too flustered to refuse, shifted along the bench. Sylvaine slid in opposite her, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"I'm not normally this nosy," Sylvaine began, her voice dropping. "But young people who walk around wrapped in a blanket of 'don't-look-at-me' tend to attract my attention. It reminds me of... someone else." Her mind flickered to Elias, to the new, unsettling confidence that had replaced his old shame. "So, I'll ask just once. What brings a girl like you to Caligurn?"
The question was gentle, but it carried the weight of Sylvaine's full attention. Lucia felt a strange calm settle over her. The woman's presence was like a ward against the world's chaos. "I'm... here to see my brother," Lucia admitted, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I'm from far away. That's all I can say."
Sylvaine studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. Family is family." She reached out and gently tapped Lucia's chin. "But keep the hood down, alright? A face like this deserves to be admired, not hidden in shadow."
The blush returned in full force, a full-face red this time. The frozen warrior was gone, replaced by a deeply flustered young woman who was utterly disarmed by the elf's maternal-forward charm.
For the next twenty-six minutes, Sylvaine watched in silent, awe-struck amusement as Lucia systematically demolished the mountain of food. It wasn't a messy gluttony, but a study in efficient, focused consumption. Every movement was economical, leaving no waste. When the last crumb of bread was used to wipe the final drop of stew from the bowl, Lucia sat back, looking… satisfied, and entirely normal.
As she stood to leave, she looked down at her worn, travel-stained cloak. Sylvaine's comment about hiding her face had struck a chord. In a moment of decision, she decided she needed a change. If she had a hood, she'd use it. It was better to remove the temptation.
Her destination became the East Quarter Market, which her heightened senses had noted on her way in as a place with a clean, organized aura. She found the stall with the displayed garments, its proprietor absent but its staff efficient. She quickly selected a new, hoodless cloak of sturdy, dark blue wool, paying one of the women—Talia—with a few silver coins from her pouch.
It was as she was leaving, the new cloak folded over her arm, that the collision happened. She turned a corner and walked directly into a man who was seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
«Watch it!» Elias's voice yelped in Joshey's mind. «My apologies, I was not looking—»
Joshey stumbled back, his recruiter's smile instantly appearing. "My deepest apologies! Entirely my fault, I was miles away." His eyes, however, were already professionally assessing the person he'd bumped into. A girl, young, strikingly pretty, and... he felt nothing. His own nascent mana field, which Elias was constantly refining, had detected no presence, no warning. It was as if she'd simply materialized.
Lucia, for her part, was equally surprised. She should have smelled his approach, sensed the shift in the air. But this man had been a complete blind spot. Stranger still, she felt no spike of alarm. The usual bitter tang of irritation or impatience she'd smell from most people in such a situation was absent. Instead, there was a clean, focused scent, like cool stone after rain. He was no threat.
"It is fine," she said, her voice quiet.
Joshey's gaze fell on the new cloak over her arm and the worn one she still wore. "Ah, shopping at my establishment! I hope you found the quality to your liking." His eyes then flicked to her old cloak, and his professional instincts kicked in. "That one, though... if you'll permit me?" He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric near the shoulder seam she hadn't even noticed was fraying. "The stitching here is about to go. A few more wears and the shoulder will tear. Let me fix that for you. No charge. A courtesy for a customer."
«What are you doing?» Elias hissed. «We are not a charity tailor service! We have ledgers to balance!»
She just bought a new cloak. She's a paying customer. This is called building brand loyalty, Joshey shot back.
Lucia looked down. "There is nothing wrong with it."
"Trust me," Joshey said, his smile genuine now. "It's what I do. I notice these things." Gently, he took hold of the worn cloak. As he did, his fingers brushed against the hidden, weighted fabric of the garment beneath. It wasn't just a dress; it was the reinforced, baggy gi-like dress worn under armor. His smile didn't falter, but his perception of the quiet girl sharpened. This was no ordinary traveler.
He gave the frayed thread a precise, sharp tug. It snapped, and a small, perfectly finished section of the seam came loose, proving his point. "See? A simple fix. I'll have it done in a moment."
Lucia was silent, watching him. He was… kind. And competent. And he carried no scent of deceit.
"Thank you," she said.
"Of course," Joshey replied, pulling a small, pre-threaded needle from a sewing kit he kept on his person—a habit from his Lagos days, always being prepared. As his hands worked with practiced speed, he kept the conversation light. "I'm Elias. Elias Vulcrest." The name came out smoothly, a fusion of the name he was given and a surname he plucked from the air, sounding appropriately local.
«Vulcrest? Where in the seven hells did you get that from?» Elias sputtered.
Sounds noble, doesn't it? Adds credibility.
"I am Lucia," she offered, her own walls lowering another fraction in the face of his disarming charm.
"Well, Lucia," Joshey said, finishing the stitch with a neat knot and handing the cloak back to her, good as new. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Please, feel free to come back anytime."
She took the cloak, their fingers brushing for a moment. She gave him a small, genuine smile—the first unguarded one since she'd entered the city—before nodding once, turning, and melting into the foot traffic, becoming once again the girl who was barely there.
Joshey watched her go, his smile fading into a look of thoughtful calculation.
«She was interesting,» Elias mused, his scholar's curiosity piqued. «No discernible mana signature, yet she moved with the balance of a trained combatant. And you felt nothing?»
Nothing, Joshey confirmed. It was like bumping into a ghost. He filed the encounter away, another piece of data in the complex puzzle of this new world. The city was full of secrets, and he had just met another one.