Another Unwanted partner

As my lifelong dream of learning magic was just moments away from being realized, I decided to put a pause on it and grab some food. It was still high noon, and I hadn't eaten since arriving in this strange world.

Turning to Syillia, I said, "Let's hold off on any lessons for now—I need something in my stomach first."

"Oh! I'm actually a good cook," she said, perking up with enthusiasm. "My father even honored me as a brilliant and creative chef for our household." She spoke with pride, which I found a little ironic—demons and cooking didn't exactly go hand in hand in my mind.

But hey, who was I to judge?

"Is there anything I should pick up for us? Bread? Meat?" I asked. I was pretty sure that with the ten silver I had, we could afford a decent lunch—unless, of course, there was a third mouth to feed.

Please, oh please, let that not be the case.

"Oh, how thoughtful of you," she said with a faint smirk, smoothing a lock of hair behind her horn. "Since you're offering, do be a dear and fetch some coarse-ground maize flour — the unrefined kind, mind you, not that airy nonsense the upper kitchens favor. A bit of oil and salt should accompany it; hardly extravagant, I know. For the stew, bring lamb on the bone — flavor matters — along with tomatoes, an onion, garlic, and if fate is kind, a sprig of fresh coriander. And do try to find some spice — it gives the broth a soul. You'll manage, won't you?"

Why the hell did she just switch her tone? She suddenly sounded more mature than most women I've ever met—like I've even met that many, to be honest.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Nope. Just make sure to get the right amount of what I told you," she replied coolly.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Just don't open the door to anybody—or I'll have to pretend we don't even know each other."

To be fair, it's not like anyone actually comes to see me. But on the off chance someone does, how the hell would I explain a demon living with me?

"Oh, no worries," she said casually. "An oath was made between us—I can take on the appearance of the one I swore it to. If they're human, I can look human, too."

Wow. Convenient.

As I blinked, she shifted. Her horns vanished, and her tail disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"Great. Now how am I supposed to explain a random woman no one's ever seen suddenly living in my house?"

"Just say we are..." She paused, thinking longer than necessary, before saying with a strangely satisfied smile, "Partners. Deeply connected partners."

I've never seen anyone smile like that. What the hell did that other Victor even want from this demon?

"Sigh. Just don't open the door. I have the keys, so don't try anything like last time."

"Oh, you have my word. Just be quick."

Leaving the cramped compartment behind, I stepped outside and—despite everything—found myself once again mesmerized by the city's architecture. The infrastructure had that annoyingly timeless charm, like someone had actually poured heart and soul into its design. You know—back when buildings weren't made to crumble in a decade and cost a soul and a kidney to repair. Modern-day standards, eat your heart out.

The streets were busy in that loud, slightly annoying way that made you wonder how anything ever got done. Kids were running around, yelling like their lives depended on it. Merchants lined the road with floating carts—those weird, horseless carriages that hovered just enough to make you nervous they'd fall. Fancy, but honestly? They looked like someone tried too hard to impress a date. Shopkeepers shouted over one another, each claiming they had the best deals in town, even though three of them were selling the exact same fruit. I couldn't help but wonder if anyone here actually lowered prices, or if everything was just "limited" forever. Still, the smell of roasted something drifted in the air, and despite myself, I felt my stomach growl, but I remembered Ryan for a moment. Maybe I'd circle back to that stall with the drop spells. Hopefully he lowers the price for a friend.

As I made my way toward the main market, I tried not to get too caught up in the elbow-to-ribcage symphony going on around me.

While walking—blissfully ignoring the constant shoving, loud haggling, and the occasional half-hearted attempt to pull me into some "one-time deal"—something caught my eye. Down a narrow, shadowy alleyway, there was a faint, glowing light. Could've been magical, could've been a very dramatic lantern. Hard to tell from this angle.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I nudged my way out of the packed crowd like a guilty man slipping out of a sermon. With a bit of breathing room, I got a clearer look—but nope, still couldn't make it out. The glow just sat there, pulsing faintly at the far end of the alley like it was daring me to step into the cliché.

And I'll be honest—I hesitated. This was exactly the kind of place where people "mysteriously disappeared" or "never returned," and I was in no mood to be the next vague legend told by drunk old men at the tavern.

But me being Steven Clark—now officially stuck with the name Viktor Eisenberg—I couldn't help but let my curiosity take the wheel. It's a trait that's gotten me into (and out of) a lot back on Earth, so why stop now?

I stepped into the alleyway slow and steady, muttering a silent prayer that, for once, absolutely nothing would happen. Naturally, I was wrong.

As I crept closer, the glow didn't change. It looked like a pulse of light rising out of the ground, throbbing gently like some ancient warning signal. I got just close enough to make a half-witted confirmation—because of course I didn't have the guts to actually finish the investigation—when bam, out of nowhere, a man dropped from the rooftop like a sack of bricks.

"Move, Bloodsac," he barked in a harsh, static-laced voice.

Before I could even process that charming little nickname, he hit the ground running—right at me—followed by three masked men and a woman in white robes with a shining cross stitched proudly to her chest.

Ah. Great. One look and I already knew what this was: the kind of situation where people either get arrested, exorcised, or end up as magical collateral damage. And guess who was caught right in the middle?

But I did what any sane person would do in a world of magic, masked lunatics, and rooftop acrobats—I turned right around and bolted, officially leading the chase I never signed up for.

We dove into the crowd like two rats escaping a flame, slipping between shawls, skirts, and confused vendors shouting about discounts on dried figs. Just as I was starting to think we'd melted into the sea of people unnoticed, the man yanked at my arm, eyes wide and pleading.

"Please—just help me this once, and I'll repay you with anything you want," he begged, voice cracking like glass under pressure.

"Sure," I replied, because clearly I had lost my mind. "Do you know magic?" Desperate times call for desperate deals, and honestly, anyone being hunted by masked creeps and an ecclesiastical war maiden had to be harboring at least one illegal spell or two.

And then it happened—the alley behind us spat out the pursuers like a cursed cough.

The crowd gasped. The chaos froze. The four stepped into full view.

"Wait, is that the Inquisition?"

"No way… that's the Saint Candidate. What's she doing here in Luminece? Isn't that a breach of international law?"

"Shhh! Shut your mouth! Don't let them hear you!"

What the hell did I get myself into? This definitely wasn't worth a couple of illegal spells. What was I thinking, agreeing to his plea without a second thought? No use whining about it now.

The tension in the street thickened like fog over a graveyard.

And then, with all the theatrical flair of someone who clearly rehearses their entrances, the woman stepped forward. She was fairly tall, her golden hair flowing neatly beneath a pristine hood, and her red eyes sharp enough to flay lies from a politician's mouth. Her white robe shimmered like chainmail woven from silk, trimmed with faint silver threading. At the center of her chest gleamed a golden crest—proud, sanctified, and utterly self-righteous. She moved like someone fully convinced the world turned because she allowed it.

When she spoke, her voice didn't shout. It didn't need to. It was precise, clipped, and just cold enough to make a winter morning feel like summer.

"By order of the International Council and under full sanction of intercontinental law," she began, pulling out a scroll from her sleeve with the dramatic timing of someone unveiling a noose. "I am here under international notice. This warrant has been issued, confirmed, and sealed."

The scroll unrolled itself mid-air, glowing with official magic—one of those pretentious floating signatures that screamed 'Yes, we're above you.'

"I am Saint Candidate Elyssa of the Luminence Church, operating within my right to eradicate a known unholy entity—an ancient vampire, now loose within the city."

The crowd gasped.

"A vampire? Here?"

"She has an I.C. stamped writ… she's not bluffing."

"Quiet, they'll hear you—"

She raised a finger, and like puppets on invisible strings, the inquisitors fanned out behind her, silent and unblinking.

Next to me, my dear possibly-undead companion looked like he was reconsidering every decision that led to this exact moment—including speaking to me.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. A vampire on the run, a Saint with diplomatic immunity, and me stuck in the middle like some half-baked protagonist in a story that clearly forgot to add a 'Do Not Disturb' sign.

"I promise, if we get out of this safely, I will swear loyalty to you—my savior."

Yeah. A demon earlier, now a vampire. What's next, a dark elf bounty hunter with a tragic backstory? All I wanted was some bread and meat.

"I'll teach you anything—anything. I'm actually from a renowned bloodline. We practice blood magic. I'll willingly pass it on—just get me out of this alive. But we need to move fast—they can sense me if I stay in one place too long."

Without hesitation—because clearly, thinking things through isn't my strong suit—we inched backward from the crowd, slipping into the direction of my street. I was very aware this had all the markings of a terrible decision, but come on—couldn't just leave the guy hanging.

We steadily slipped away from the packed bazaar, weaving through the last choke points—only for our tiny sliver of hope to be crushed when she raised her voice again.

"Anyone who assists in the capture of this fugitive will be rewarded directly by the Kingdom of Luminece!"

The crowd fell into stunned silence before the whispers began buzzing like flies.

"A direct reward from the neighboring continent's government? This could change everything."

"I hope it's enough for a quiet life—I'm tired of breaking my back for scraps."

"Forget that—I'm going to ask for a recommendation to one of the magic institutes. If I catch him, my future's set."

As the crowd hummed with rising excitement, all I could think was that—possibly—I now had an entire city and a government after me, all because I made a split-second decision to be a "hero."

Great. Just great. We're even now, Victor—two idiots making excellent life choices.

We slowly slipped away from the chaos and made our way back home—empty-handed, mind you. Fortunately, between my house and the market sat a modest little bread shop, so I made a quick detour to grab some food... for the now three of us.

"Greetings, sir. How much for three loaves of bread?"

Despite the constant inner commentary, I'm actually quite formal on the outside. One has to keep up appearances.

"That'll be 30 bronze coins."

"Thirty!?"

"Yeah, don't look so shocked. You know how the economy's been lately—ever since those new tariffs rolled in."

Ah, yes. Tariffs. Nothing screams economic collapse quite like charging a day's wage for carbs. Kinda reminded me of a certain orange-headed politician back on Earth who was disturbingly fond of those. Never mind that—if three loaves of bread are that much, we're going to need a stable income, and fast.

Now that I've got three mouths to feed, including my own... sigh.

I handed over a single silver coin, and the shopkeeper returned 70 bronze coins to me—bundled in a small cloth pouch, which he practically slammed into my palm like he was handing over bad news.

We left the store and headed straight home. Standing in front of my place, as usual, did wonders for my depression. The cracked wooden door, dangling on rusted hinges like a death threat to my sanity, boiled my blood. What kind of landlord lets this place rot like that?

We entered the complex, trudged up to my unit, and I braced myself for the headache that awaited behind that door.

Sure enough, as soon as I opened it, Syillia's voice came chirping out like a morning bird on caffeine.

"Welcome back, Victor! You weren't gone that long—guess nothing happened? Also, are the stores that close by?"

If only. I wish her version of reality was the one we lived in.

"Good news," I said, holding up the bag. "We have food."

"Okay..."

"Bad news: it's only bread."

"Wait—what? Didn't I tell you exactly what we needed? Do you have memory loss or something?" she snapped, clearly irritated. If only she knew the half of it.

"There's... more."

"Oh, what could it possibly be this time?" she sighed, already regretting asking.

"We have a third mouth to feed. Come on in and introduce yourself... uh..."

I looked over my shoulder at the guy trailing behind me.

"...I don't even know your name yet."

He took off the hood he was wearing, revealing his face beneath the dim light of the entryway.

"My gratitude cannot be expressed in mere words," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You've granted me a kindness I did not deserve… and in doing so, you may have risked more than you know."

Then, as if remembering himself, he placed a hand over his chest and bowed his head with solemn grace.

"Forgive me. I am Asren Takar al'Dairos of House Dairos. I extend my gratitude not only as a man, but as one who carries the weight of his name. You have my debt, Sir Victor."

And there you have it. A cramped house, three grown people, and no personal space. Now all we need is a fourth, and we can officially start a circus.