20 Martius 1754.
That morning I woke up with a rare clarity of mind. The decision to confront House Droct indirectly and investigate the Mirror of Ulthar had given me a clear sense of direction. The chessboard in my head felt more orderly. But before I could craft a strategy for the shadow war ahead, there was a more fundamental need I had to satisfy. My stomach was empty, and the food supplies in my lavish skyloft felt sterile and soulless. I needed fresh ingredients. I needed to go to the market.
This was not just about satisfying a biological need. Going to the market was a ritual of gathering data. The market is the heart of any city, a place where all layers of society intersect, where the giant of the economy feels most real. By observing what is sold, for how much, and how people interact, I could understand the true state of this kingdom far better than through any intelligence report.
I put on simple clothes, a cotton shirt, trousers, and a light wool coat. Enough to keep me from standing out in the crowd but not so shabby that I would draw the wrong kind of attention. I left my skyloft and walked toward Clockthon's Central Market, which sat between the Trade District and the Craftsmen's District.
The morning air was still cold, carrying with it the distinct smell of Clockthon, a mix of steam from the heating pipes, coal smoke from the workshops, and the aroma of freshly baked bread from the bakeries. The cobbled streets, damp with night's dew, reflected the pale light of the awakening sky.
The Central Market was a place of organized chaos, more accurately a labyrinth of wooden stalls and canvas tents stretching over several blocks. The shouts of merchants advertising their goods, the fierce haggling between buyers and sellers, and the squeak of cart wheels filled the air with a kind of vibrant life.
I stepped into the throng and let myself be carried by its current. My eyes scanned everything. I saw a farmer from the countryside, his sunburned face tense as he tried to sell his harvest to a cunning middleman. I saw a servant from a noble household carefully selecting the best vegetables, her basket guarded by a private bodyguard. I saw street children darting through the crowd, eyes sharp for the perfect purse to snatch.
I began shopping. I approached a stall selling vegetables. Piles of bright orange carrots, plump red tomatoes, and an assortment of root crops were arranged neatly.
"How much for these carrots?" I asked the vendor, a middle-aged woman with calloused hands.
"Two slein per kilogram, young master," she answered, her eyes quickly assessing me.
Two bronze slein for a kilo of carrots. I did the conversion in my head. One silver grior was worth eleven slein. So this price was fair by the capital's standards. I bought a kilo of carrots, a kilo of tomatoes, and some onions.
Next, I searched for chili peppers. At a smaller stall run by an old man from the southern provinces, I found a mound of fiery red chilies.
"Three slein per kilogram," he said. A bit more expensive but understandable. Chilies were an imported commodity.
As I paid, I overheard a conversation at the butcher's stall next door.
"…did you hear about the murder at the Velvet Mask?" said a customer, a woman dressed like a cook for a wealthy family.
"Of course," the butcher replied, slicing a thick piece of beef. "Terrible. They say the killer slipped in and out like a ghost, left no trace."
"They say it was over business rivalry. Lord Paul was about to sign a big contract with the blacksmith guild from the west."
"I heard something different," another customer chimed in. "I heard it was over a woman, his wife if I'm not mistaken…"
Rumors. The least reliable form of information yet the fastest to spread. I noted it in my mind. This case had become the talk of the entire city, and that was good. The more noise there was, the easier it would be for me to hide the real signal.
I continued shopping, buying a cut of beef, some spices, and a loaf of fresh dark rye bread. As I passed through a narrow alley connecting the vegetable market to the fish market, I saw something.
A small crowd had gathered. Unlike the usual bustle of the market, this crowd was silent and tense. They were staring at a single point on the ground. I moved closer, slipping between people.
In the center of that circle lay the body of a man dressed like a wealthy merchant. His belly was covered in blood but strangely, the blood barely spread onto the cobblestones. A thin dagger was buried straight into his heart.
A few City Guards had arrived, trying to disperse the onlookers and secure the scene.
"Step back. Give us space," a sergeant shouted.
I did not step back. Instead, I used the crowd as my cover, observing from a few meters away. This was the second murder in less than a week. The method was different from the Grivana case, but something felt similar. The killer's precision.
This murder was clean, almost too clean. The stab to the heart had been done with the skill of a surgeon, killing the victim instantly before he could react or lose much blood. No signs of struggle, so the killer likely knew human anatomy well.
Then my eyes fell on the hilt of the dagger still buried in the man's chest. It was made of dark wood, and at its end was a tiny silver symbol.
A crane in flight.
I had never seen that emblem before. It was not the crest of any of the Five Great Noble Houses or any major trade guild.
"Who's the victim?" a young guard asked his sergeant.
"Name's Gregor. A gem trader. He owned a shop in the Jewelry District," the sergeant said, his face grim. "This is the third murder this month. Same pattern. Wealthy merchants, killed with a single precise stab. Nothing stolen."
The third murder. This was no random crime anymore. This was the work of a serial killer, one who was highly skilled.
As the guards began lifting the body, I noticed something else. On the victim's wrist was a faint tattoo. The same symbol as on the dagger's hilt. A crane.
Now I had context. This was not simply murder. This was an execution. The killer had struck and left a message in plain sight. The victim and the weapon bore the same mark.
My mind shifted gears again. Who or what was this Crane? A secret organization? A cult? Or the name of one individual?
I slipped away from the crowd before the guards started asking questions. I needed to return to my base. I needed to tell Milverton because this was critical new information, and he needed to know that there was another player in this city, a predator moving in silence and killing with terrifying precision.
I returned to my skyloft. The calm feeling from shopping was gone, replaced by a tension I could not rationalize away. I put my groceries in the kitchen, but I had no appetite to cook.
I went into my study and opened my board of notes. I added a new section: The Crane Killer. Under it, I wrote everything I had observed.
Three victims in one month. All wealthy merchants.
Modus operandi: single precise stab to the heart.
No sign of robbery.
Killer leaves a crane symbol on the weapon.
Victims also bear a crane tattoo.
This was an internal cleansing. A faction was eliminating its own. But why?
I spent the rest of the day analyzing. I asked Milverton to deploy his entire network to find any information about the crane symbol. The result was nothing. It was an unknown mark in Clockthon's underworld.
That meant this faction was very secretive and highly disciplined. Far more organized than common thug syndicates or even some of the minor noble houses.
By nightfall, I felt frustrated. I was facing a puzzle without enough pieces to solve it. I decided to distract myself. I would cook.
I went back to the kitchen and began preparing the ingredients I had bought. I chopped vegetables, sautéed the meat, mixed the spices. The methodical, controlled process helped calm my restless mind.
While I was cooking, I thought of Viviane, the Wild Dog of the Lower City. She was an efficient killer too, but her style was brutal, driven by rage. The Crane Killer was different. Too cold, impersonal, like an artist perfecting his craft.
Two very different predators living in the same city. Clockthon was a concrete jungle more dangerous than any wilderness.
After dinner, I returned to my board of notes. I stared at the crane symbol I had sketched. A graceful bird, a symbol of elegance and longevity in some cultures of my old world. Here, perhaps it had become a symbol of efficient death.
I could not draw any real conclusions yet. I lacked too much data. But one thing was certain. The Crane Killer's presence changed the balance of power in Clockthon because it was a new force unknown to everyone. It could become a threat or, if I played it right, a useful tool.
I needed to know more.
My thoughts returned to the Sovereign's Gambit. That gathering would bring together every major power. If this Crane faction was as strong as I suspected, they would almost certainly have a representative there, hidden among the guests.
The Gambit was no longer just about stopping House Droct. It had become my prime opportunity to observe and identify every hidden player in this city. Including the Crane Killer.
I stood in front of the window, staring at the city lights. Somewhere out there, a serial killer was moving through the shadows. Somewhere else, House Droct was plotting their coup. Fravikveidimadr and the Consortium were still watching me. And I stood in the middle of all of it, trying to navigate the coming storm.
I felt an exhaustion deeper than the physical. Now I felt a weariness of the soul. I remembered who I used to be, Cheon Donghwan, who believed he could change the world with bombs and violence. How naive I had been.
This world could not be changed by explosions alone. It could only be changed by the power you hold and how wisely you wield that power to reach the realm where you shape the world itself.
I looked at my reflection in the window glass. The face of a young man carrying the burden of every piece of knowledge, every plan, every murder he had witnessed.
This game demanded an unbearably high price. And I still did not know whether I was willing, or even capable, of paying it.