December 18th, 1753
Inside the stifling maze of the underground market, at the heart of Milverton's new headquarters which was ironically lavish, I sat across from his black clown mask. The air was filled with the scent of expensive leather and wine, a sharp contrast to the smell of mold and despair outside its doors.
"So, we cannot?" I asked, continuing our interrupted conversation.
"Yes," Milverton replied, his voice muffled behind the mask. "Going to the Frostfang Mountains now is too dangerous. Since the incident at Augustine's estate and the rumors about 'W', security at the northern border has tightened. They are not just identifying intruders anymore, they are insanely hunting for a 'ghost'. You would be detected before you even saw the first snow. There are too many worms hiding behind it waiting for careless prey."
I had expected this. Plan A, direct observation of Barthalzan, the artifact thief mage, was now closed. Time for Plan B. "Alright. In that case I need materials. Prepare fifty grams of Soil of Paans and twenty grams of Ice Worm. Can you get it now? I am sure your market has access. I see this place getting busier."
A moment of silence. I could feel his surprise behind the mask. "Don't tell me… you are going to attempt that ritual? Is that not impossible?"
"I am flexible, Milv," I said flatly. "Impossible is just a word for those who lack imagination or will."
He let out a dry laugh. "Alright James. You are the boss. Come back after five days. Your supplies will be ready."
I stood to leave. My mind drifted back to the Throne of Nothing book. Long ago, I chose the Oneiromancer Channel as my cover. It was a calculated choice. The Bizarre Dao of the Outers inside me was not a Channel. I could call it a fundamental operating system that can run any Channel program. It can adapt, mimic, and absorb. In return, if someone tries to copy my power, they will find only emptiness. Perhaps Forre will be shocked to find nothing at all.
It took eight years in the academy to raise my Order Archetype to Level Seven. An average of two and a half years per tier. A painfully slow and frustrating process. Each level requires a "contribution" to the Channel I chose. I had to interpret the dreams of neurotic nobles, enter the subconscious of prisoners for Fravikveidimadr, master the symbolism of dreams and fragments of thought. The most patience-draining part was the inconsistent number of sub-levels in each Order. Some Channels, like Hunter of the Lost, required only three levels. Others, like Arbiter, required fifteen. I am convinced this system is designed to create despair. But that is how this world works: ten steps, ten Orders, until you are mad enough to approach 'The Origin' or perish halfway.
"Because this world is so filled with death and horror," I murmured softly as I stepped out of Milverton's office, "I will keep trying to comfort my heart and pick the flowers that grow amidst the flames of this madness."
I walked back through the underground market. The place really was getting busier. More cloaked nobles and wealthy merchants mingled among the thugs and informants. Milverton's expansion was going well. That was good for business.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
I climbed the iron spiral stairs, slowly opened the manhole cover, and returned to the surface. The stench of the back alley hit me immediately. Milverton was smart. He used sewer maintenance work as a perfect cover. No one would suspect an entrance to a private palace in the filthiest place in the city.
I left the Jewelry District. I did not want to go straight back to the skyloft. I needed a pause, a moment to be an ordinary man before returning to being 'W' or 'Welt Rothes'. I checked my pocket watch. It was only eight in the morning. I wandered aimlessly, letting my feet carry me.
I found myself standing in front of a small eatery I had never seen before. Its sign was made of wood, with the words: "Bread and Spicy Food of the Zarovgard Republic." I was intrigued. All this time, my world had been confined to Clockthon and Fravikveidimadr's surveillance. Tasting food from another country felt like a small act of rebellion.
I stepped inside. The interior was warm, decorated with oriental wooden ornaments and a few strange protective talismans. There were six tables with four chairs each, and almost all were occupied. I chose the table in the center because it was the only one available.
A male waiter with a scar on his face approached me. "Good morning, Sir. May I take your order?"
"Today's recommendation?" I asked.
"We have long noodles in a spicy broth, our chef's special. Very delicious."
"Alright. One of that. And green tea from the Cheshire Mountains."
He served three pieces of warm bread with garlic butter. I ate them slowly. Seven minutes later, my meal arrived. A large bowl of broad noodles in a thick red broth, garnished with slices of beef and crunchy pickles. Its aroma was spicy and rich with spices.
I sipped the broth.
An explosion of flavor. Spicy, savory, with a strange hint of sweetness. Unlike anything I had ever tasted in both my lives. I devoured the noodles. For eight years, my tongue had been numbed by the bland academy food. This morning, my taste buds were miraculously awakened again.
After finishing everything, I paid at the counter. Two grior. Very cheap. I handed over a ten grior banknote with King Balfor I's portrait. The female cashier gave me eight grior in change, but in the form of different silver coins. Coins from the Zarovgard Republic, bearing the faces of their heroes. A different monetary system, of course.
I stepped out of the restaurant. The simple feeling of being full and satisfied felt strange, almost unsettling. It was a human feeling I had long suppressed. I walked toward the Financial District. I found my regular coachman, Elbert, a cheerful old man and the only coachman in this city who never tried to cheat me.
"To Doyle Acquisition, as usual."
"Of course, Mister Rothes."
Half an hour later, I arrived in front of my company building. It had been completely renovated, its facade clean and professional.
"One grior, as always," said Elbert.
"Of course. Here." I handed him one grior and ten slein. A tip for his loyalty.
I stepped down and entered the office. In the administrative room, Finch was hunched over a pile of documents.
"Good morning, Finch. I brought you something," I said as I placed a package on his desk.
He looked up. "What is it, Mister Rothes? I am working on…"
"Later. Where is Percy?"
"Oh, he is in the bathroom."
"Then share this with Percy later." The package contained the same spicy noodles I had eaten. Coworkers, even those who are spies, must be fed. It is efficient.
I went into my private office. Percy entered moments later without knocking, as usual, carrying a stack of reports.
"Mister Rothes. The secondary asset audit is done. I found a seven percent revenue leak at one of the restaurants we run because the head chef has been stealing ingredients!" he said cheerfully.
This kid is competent, I have to admit that. "Good work, Percy. Fire that head chef. Promote his deputy. Give him a ten percent raise and tell him that loyalty will be rewarded."
"Yes, Sir." He paused for a moment. "Do you need help analyzing these reports? I am very fast with numbers."
I looked at him. Behind that foolish grin was a sharp mind. I knew he was Dales's spy, and I had to stay alert. "No need. I want you to do a comparative analysis of all our raw material suppliers now. Find every tiny inefficiency, even if it is just a one pere coin difference. I want a complete report by tomorrow morning."
I gave him an impossible task, designed to keep him busy for days. He only smiled wider. "Understood, Mister Rothes." He grabbed a new stack of documents and left with a spring in his step. Putting him here was the right decision. I could watch him, use him, and keep him away from my more sensitive operations.
After he left, I locked my office door. I sat down and closed my eyes, processing everything that had happened today. The conversation with Milverton. The upcoming ritual. Food from Zarovgard. Percy, the competent spy. And Irene, who was likely investigating Heretic Channels as well, since she was a Count's daughter, and William certainly was too, as the son of a Duke.
This chessboard was becoming more crowded, far too crowded.
My thoughts drifted back to my past. Cheon Donghwan. A terrorist driven by hatred. A man who believed that the only way to fix a broken world was to burn it to the ground. I could not be like that anymore, at least not for now. I refused to be naive, but being a devil was too bland.
I took a small notebook from my desk drawer. On the first page, I wrote a name: Barthalzan. Beneath it, I began writing down everything I knew and everything I did not know.
Known:
1. Barthalzan stole The Ghoul Affection, an Archetype 1 artifact, Level Ten.
2. He is the last Hierophant of the Fallen Star Order.
3. The order's goal: to awaken the God of Dragon Usurper.
4. Last trace: Frostfang Mountains.
Unknown:
1. Who or what is the God of Dragon Usurper?
2. What is the connection between the Sepulcher Channel and the Bizarre Dao of the Outers? Do they come from the same source?
3. How did Barthalzan steal an artifact that should be untouchable? Did he have help?
4. Why is The Consortium, through The Puppeteer, so interested in this?
Those questions spun in my head. I did not have the answers. Not yet.
My plan to create a decoy was the first step. It would buy time and divert attention. While they were all busy chasing a ghost in the north, I would have space to move in the south, strengthen my power base, and search for the answers to my own questions.
Five days. In five days, Milverton would deliver the materials. And the ritual would begin.
I leaned back in my chair, gazing out the window at the Clockthon sky that was beginning to darken. Rain started to fall, splattering my window. In this world, I had no true friends. No Shin Taegun. Irene was a rival. Roshtov was an odd child. William was a detective, or at least close to it. Finnian was a pawn. Milverton was a business partner. Dales was a handler.
I was alone.
And somehow, that thought did not scare me. It brought me clarity. Without emotional ties, every decision I made could be purely rational. Purely efficient.
I picked up my pen and began writing in my notebook, outlining every detail of the ritual I would perform in the coming days. I had to get every symbol right, every step of the ritual, every component perfect. Even the smallest mistake could be fatal.
This game was exhausting. But I would not stop. I could not stop.