I left the cramped little room brimming with the kind of naïve hope that only someone on the verge of disaster could muster. Quietly, I closed the door behind me—no need to wake the two freeloaders who'd made themselves at home, quite literally living here rent-free. One of them was in a coma, so he had a decent excuse. The other? Eh.
I wandered over to where Asren was still out cold, checked to see if maybe—just maybe—he'd stopped pretending to be unconscious. Nope. Still as comatose as a politician's promises. It hadn't even been an hour. Useless to wait around. Might as well do something productive and fetch the ingredients Sylla mentioned. You know, errands—the glamorous life of a would-be world-changer.
I threw on my robe and hat like some discount wizard-lord, grabbed my cane because flair matters, and headed out. I felt oddly like a gentleman—if said gentleman had been kidnapped from his world, thrown into a medieval fever dream, and forced to cosplay as someone with taste. Mental note: I need better clothes.
Exiting the complex, I stepped into the open air and—for once—allowed myself the tiniest wish that maybe, just maybe, nothing weird would happen.
Which, of course, guaranteed that something absolutely would.
I headed toward the market, which was still buzzing with life like it had caffeine running through its veins. Late noon—maybe 2 to 4 p.m.—prime siesta hours in any sane world. But apparently, this world missed the memo about rest and basic human decency.
The street was its usual chaotic mess. I got jostled left and right, bumping into men, women, and a suspicious number of children carrying things too sharp for their age. Shop vendors lunged at me like starving seagulls, shouting about discounts on what was clearly low-quality trash. I ignored them with the kind of bitter grace that only a man running low on patience and magical goodwill could manage. Don't mind me—I'm just chronically unimpressed.
The further I walked—away from where I'd first met Asren and deeper into the less-polished parts of the city—the more… congested it got. Not traffic-wise. People. Standing in clusters. Talking. Whispering. Scheming. The usual cocktail of gossip and low-grade panic.
As I got closer, the mumbling turned into actual words.
"We have to catch that damn vampire. I heard the city's in lockdown thanks to that sun-dodging abomination."
"How? We don't even have a way to capture him—unless Lady Luck decides to reincarnate as a net."
"Oh, don't worry. Some mage with a redacted license is going to help us. We just have to split the reward fifty-fifty."
"Of course we do," someone muttered, with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be stabbed by a teammate.
"But you do know that if we get caught with a mage whose license was redacted, it could spell trouble for us, right?"
"Eh. Worth it if it means that fang-bastard ends up ash instead of a headline."
As I listened in, one thing became painfully clear: no one's getting in or out of this city anytime soon. Not that I had a grand escape plan, but still—options are nice. I turned to leave and headed toward the butcher shop visible just down the road, minding my business for once.
Then I saw it.
A building that looked like it had been dropped here by mistake—or on purpose, by someone with taste and a vendetta against local architecture. It stood out like a noble at a tavern brawl. Sleek, old-world lines, subtle enchantments humming beneath its wood-and-metal frame... and absolutely no one gave it a second glance. As if their eyes refused to notice it.
Above the door, carved in dark iron: Jacob's Bar.
Fantastic. That's, what, the third time today I've seen the name "Jacob"? I should've just gone straight to get the ingredients like a responsible errand boy, but of course not. Curiosity is a disease, and I'm terminal.
Naturally, I stepped inside.
As I stepped inside, a gust of cold air hit me—crisp, refreshing, like the room itself had good taste. It was soothing in that "maybe I won't get stabbed today" kind of way.
I took a glance around, and let me be honest: this place was not a bar. If anything, it looked like a bookshop run by someone with a hoarding problem and too much class. The books weren't normal either. Each one looked like it had devoured ten smaller books and evolved into some kind of literary behemoth. They were massive—so massive, only four could fit on a single shelf. (well, some of them)
And speaking of shelves, they lined every wall, towering to the ceiling like wooden sentinels. The center of the room was left open, giving it a spacious, almost reverent feel—like I'd just walked into a temple of oversized knowledge. The floor was made of polished wood, expensive and well-textured, the kind nobles pay someone else to appreciate. Even the ceiling was a masterpiece, carved from rich timber and adorned with exotic chandeliers that sparkled just enough to remind you that you didn't belong here.
And then there was the man behind the counter.
Tall—taller than average, maybe even unnaturally so. He had long white hair, though his receding hairline suggested it had recently surrendered in a losing battle. A short, meticulously trimmed beard clung to his chin like it had better things to do. He wore a crisp white vest and trousers—less "friendly neighborhood shopkeeper" and more "retired noble who opened a hidden bookstore just to feel something." To top it off? A monocle. Of course he wore a monocle. Because why not lean fully into the Bond villain aesthetic.
What the hell did I just walk into?
I stepped toward the counter, every bone in my body quietly voting for "retreat."
He looked at me with a grin—or maybe it was a grimace. Hard to tell. Either way, it crawled under my skin like my instincts were tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, "Let's not die here today."
Then he spoke.
"Ah, if it isn't our esteemed guest, Viktor Eisenberg. What, pray tell, brings you here so early? As you can see… the place is quite empty."
He knew Viktor. Great. That meant I was expected to know him too. But surprise—brain fog and stolen memories don't come with a guidebook. I swallowed hard and decided to play it safe. Very safe.
"Uh, yeah. Thought I'd check out the books. Studying a new spell, you know? Figured this place might have what I need."
His face twisted—mild confusion mixed with the suspicion of a man who just found a fork in his soup. Then his eyes locked onto mine like he was measuring my soul for tailoring.
"You do recall, I trust, that the tome you rented nearly two months ago will require renewal at the beginning of the next month. As always, we operate on an advance payment basis—no exceptions, I'm afraid—so I do hope your coin is ready."
Wow. So Viktor wasn't just a dark mage summoning demons—he was also financially illiterate. Lovely. I sighed inwardly, eyeing the towering tomes around me. Judging by their size and smug aura, they probably cost more to rent than a apartment. Which, come to think of it, would explain why the landlord nearly bit my head off earlier.
Now, how to ask about the price without sounding like I hit my head on a summoning circle…
I leaned on the counter casually and said,"Just for reference—did the rates change at all since last time? Would hate to be caught short if the prices went up."
There. Not asking the price—just checking for "updates." Smooth. Nobel-worthy performance.
"Oh, don't worry, sir. No price changes at all—still 50 silver a month, same as always."
...
What in the actual fuck was Victor thinking?Fifty silver. A month. For books.What a goddamn idiot.
I slowly backed away from the counter like it had personally offended me. Then I stood there—frozen, statue-esque—reevaluating every life choice that led me to inhabiting the body of a broke dark mage with a debt problem.
I can't believe I have to live in this guy's body. Why? Just why?
No use whining about it. Time to pretend I'm functioning.
I sighed, walked off, and aimlessly browsed the shelves—not that I could afford anything. Hell, I'd be lucky if they didn't start charging me for breathing in here.
Weirdly, two books caught my eye. One was a normal-ish size. The other? Tiny. Comically small, especially compared to the bookshelf beasts surrounding it.
The first one was an alchemy book—Advanced Theories of Magical Transmutation: A Modern Alchemist's Guide. Real subtle title. You could practically smell the arrogance in the gold-embossed letters. The kind of book that judged you as you reached for it.
The second one? Spells Simplified. No fancy subtitle. No dramatic flair. Just two words, like it was written by someone who ran out of energy halfway through naming it. Probably made for dropouts, desperate mages, or someone like me—pretending they knew what the hell they were doing.
Before I could properly inspect the second book, the man behind the counter hissed at me—like I was a cat about to knock over his favorite vase.
"That one right there, sir, is something of a... restricted addition to our collection. And its price isn't like the ones you're accustomed to."
I raised a brow. "Oh? And why's that?"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice like we were conspiring. "That book is a comprehensive guide to Drop Spells—everything from theory to application. The mage who authored it was executed last month by the International Court. His works are now under global seizure orders. So if you plan to take it, I'd advise... caution."
Of course. Of course the only thing I find remotely interesting is borderline treasonous. Fantastic. Just my luck.
"Oh? And who exactly was this mage? If the government's going out of its way to bury his work, I imagine he wasn't just some street conjurer. And while we're at it, what's the damage? Price-wise, I mean."
The man adjusted his monocle, his tone slipping into something reverent.
"He was one of Sir Jacob's senior pupils—among the most esteemed minds to pass through the institution. His name isn't public knowledge, and even the government remains in the dark. The only reason this book is here, in our hands, is because the owner and Sir Jacob were... close, shall we say. Old friends with old debts."
He paused, letting the gravity settle before casually adding:
"As for the price? Triple the usual rental fee. But for you, dear guest, I can be... generous. Let's say fifty percent off."
He punctuated the offer with a knowing wink, like he'd just handed me a loaded gun and told me it was decorative.
I was actually grateful for the discount—this book might hold valuable insight for my growth.
"Sir—" I began, but he gently cut me off.
"Oh, just call me Odin. Sir Odin. You've been addressing me so formally all this time, and for a guest like you, we are very grateful."
"Alright, um... Sir Odin," I said, clearing my throat. "The Jacob you mentioned—would he happen to be the same Jacob who authored Introduction to Elements and The Grimoire?"
I was genuinely curious. This "Jacob" seemed to command a lot of respect.
He let out a dry, amused laugh—harsh and sudden. "Oh, lord," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
"Yes, he's the one who authored those books. Though those were merely the ones he published publicly. Even after the government revoked his license, they still afford him a certain... privilege. Or perhaps it's simply that they can't do much to him. Either way, the more advanced texts he's truly known for—those are kept here. Available for rental, though currently all checked out."
"Oh, I wasn't planning to rent anything like that just yet," I replied quickly. "I wouldn't consider myself at that level."
To be honest, if there's a man even the government can't lay a hand on, his work is probably far above me. I should be grateful for the basic wisdom and enlightenment he's already shared with us—the feeble ones.
I set both of the books down and made my way toward the door.
"I'll come back sometime soon. Could you reserve those books for me?" I asked.
"Oh, certainly," he replied. "But we can only reserve them for one month."
"That's more than enough. I truly appreciate your service, Sir Odin." I gave a small nod and turned to leave.
It was finally time to chase down the ingredients — because apparently, I scream "personal shopper" now.
By the time I stepped out of Jacob's Bar, the day had simmered into that unforgiving stretch between noon and regret — around 2:50 PM. The cobblestones reflected a tired glare, the kind that made your eyes squint and your soul want a refund.
The butcher's stall sat further down the avenue — not just a skip away, but visible if you craned your neck past a leaning apothecary and a dead fountain that'd been dry longer than my patience. Still within shouting distance if you had lungs and no shame.
I made the walk.
"One kilo of goat." I said, planting my hand on the counter like I was asking for something exotic instead of something vaguely hooved.
The butcher, elbow-deep in ribs and resignation, didn't miss a beat."Forty bronze."
I tossed him a silver coin and got back sixty bronze. Not bad. Just down one silver, now with pockets jingling louder than my conscience.
From there, I cut toward a vegetable stall shaded by a moth-eaten tarp. The vendor looked like someone had carved her from vinegar and disappointment. I grabbed four onions and five potatoes — I'd seen worse proportions in actual marriages.
"Fourteen bronze."I counted it from the butcher's change and slid it over. No eye contact. She liked it that way. So did I.
The last stop was a bakery wedged between a pawnshop and a prayer hall. Both offered salvation, one charged more. I picked up a brown loaf (9 bronze) and a white one (10 bronze) — best to balance carbs and class.
That brought me to a total of...73 bronze spent — 40 on meat, 14 on vegetables, and 19 on bread.I had started with 70 bronze and 9 silver.Now? 8 silver and 97 bronze.
A good day's damage.
With everything in hand and the city wheezing its way into late afternoon, I turned toward home. The stew might actually taste like something. Maybe even good. And if it didn't? Well, I still had bread.
And for a second — a rare, traitorous second — I felt hopeful.
Which meant something was probably about to go horribly wrong.