Our Journey

Aprilis 3rd, early morning.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"James, are you awake yet?"

Vashtun's raspy, impatient voice cut through the mahogany door of my loft, dragging me out of a shallow sleep. I opened my eyes slowly. The morning air was freezing and the knocking grew louder. I got up, splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom, then headed for the front door.

Click.

"What is it?" I asked. Vashtun was standing there, already dressed in his practical leather travel gear. He wasn't wearing his mask and his red hair looked a bit disheveled.

"Of course we're leaving for The Sovereign's Gambit this morning," he said, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Does it really have to be this early? It's only seven. Even the nobles don't start their day until eight," I said, my tone flat as I tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.

"Do we look like nobles to you?" he shot back with a crooked grin. "Even if we earn two thousand gryn a month, that doesn't make us aristocrats. We're workers, James. Our work just happens to be a bit more interesting than most wealthy merchants."

"All right, give me a moment to pack." I paused. "And don't forget, call me Welt in times like this. James is only for the underground."

"Fine, I keep forgetting."

Vashtun stepped inside and dropped onto a chair in the living room, closing the door behind him with a lazy push. I went into my bedroom.

I didn't need much. I grabbed a sturdy leather bag and packed efficiently. A few changes of clothes, white linen shirts, charcoal trousers, brocade vests. My black cloak and porcelain mask went into a hidden compartment. Several small bottles of basic alchemical tonics. And of course, the Chronos Salvation and the books I'd taken from the de Montfort residence.

When I came out, Vashtun was smoking, one leg thrown over my obsidian-glass coffee table. The thick smoke filled the room with an odd, heavy scent.

"Can I have one?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, looking slightly surprised. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large cigar box, about nine centimeters wide and fourteen tall, with the word 'Aubergine' embossed in gold lettering. "Here, take one."

I picked a cigar. Its texture was rough. I lit it with a small Essence lighter and took a drag.

Pthoey.

Damn it. It tasted like charred dirt. The dense smoke carried an old wood aroma, with a strange bitter spice that bit at my throat. I coughed. In my old world, modern cigarettes were far smoother than this. This felt like sucking on burning coal.

Vashtun burst out laughing. "What's wrong, not used to it yet?"

"No, I've never smoked before," I admitted, trying not to gag.

"Well then, shall we go?" he asked, still looking amused.

"Sure."

The two of us left my place. A luxurious horse-drawn carriage waited out front. This was no ordinary rental, of course — not in my line of work. The carriage was pitch black, with no family crest, but the horses were Thoroughbreds from the northern plains and the coachman wore a plain grey uniform. Transport provided by The Consortium. We sat side by side, though there was plenty of space on the other side as well.

"So, how have you been lately?" Vashtun asked, breaking the silence as the carriage began to roll.

"Same as usual. I cooked a few dishes for them and shared some recipes. You remember the noodles we ate that time and the fried rice?" I asked.

"Of course. I never expected someone as rational as you to be so interested in cooking!" Vashtun clapped my shoulder. Or at least he tried to, but I shifted slightly so his hand hit empty air. He just laughed awkwardly.

"Cooking is the most calming thing for me," I said, staring straight ahead as we passed through the slowly waking Financial District. "It's like taking unordered things and turning them into something ordered, edible, and satisfying. It's calming."

"That's a strange philosophy for food…" Vashtun muttered. "For me, food is just food. Tastes good or doesn't, that's it."

Our carriage kept moving, leaving the pristine heart of the city behind and entering districts that felt more alive. I'd asked the coachman to take a longer route. I wanted to see this city one more time before we left for the long journey ahead.

We passed through the Entertainment District. Even in the morning, the place never truly slept. Workers were cleaning up the debris of last night's parties, sweeping away empty bottles and confetti, maybe rousing a few beggars from the doorways. The air still carried stale beer and cheap perfume. I caught sight of the circus tent where I had performed as Motley, its colorful main canopy now being dismantled. The workers moved with sluggish reluctance. Soon they would take the show to the next city. My Motley persona would rest for a while.

"Will you miss being a clown?" Vashtun asked, reading my mind.

"I'll miss the information I got as a clown," I corrected him. "People always underestimate a jester. They talk more freely, never realizing that behind the forced smile, there's a pair of ears that hears everything and actually cares."

We continued on, entering the Artisan District. The air there was filled with sounds so distinct, the ringing of hammers striking metal, the hiss of steam from the workshops, the smell of leather being treated in small factories. This was the true backbone of Clockthon's economy, not the nobles with their intrigues or the merchants with their financial speculations. It was these people, who turned raw materials into real things with their hands. There was dignity in their work, and that made them special.

At one intersection, a military convoy from House Droct passed by.

They looked tense, their eyes scanning the crowd constantly for threats or worse. They wouldn't find any. The real threat was sitting comfortably inside a lavish carriage.

As the convoy passed, Vashtun said, "They've gotten so paranoid lately. It's good for our business. Fear makes people sloppy."

"And we'll be there to take advantage of their mistakes," I added.

Our journey finally brought us to the main road heading south.

The dense stone buildings slowly gave way to wide countryside villas with manicured gardens and tall iron fences. This was where the nobles ran to escape the chokehold of their intrigues. A holiday retreat, you could say.

We passed the Epanchin estate. The Swiss-style villa looked quiet from the outside. I wondered what Irene was doing at that moment. Maybe she was in her lab, wrestling with some new problem about her Essence detectors. Or maybe she was preparing for The Sovereign's Gambit, just like me. Thoughts of her brought complicated feelings, not exactly rational but deeply human, and in that realm, I was always at a disadvantage.

"A gryn for your thoughts," Vashtun said suddenly.

"I was just evaluating potential rivals for the Gambit," I answered, a half-truth.

"Irene Cheva, I assume?" he guessed, spot on. "She's smart, maybe too smart. But she's bound by scientific ethics and rules. She'll never realize that a chess game can be won by flipping the board."

"And you, Vashtun? What's your philosophy?"

He laughed. "My philosophy is dead simple, Welt, simpler than bathing, really. Never bet on a game you can't win. And if you have to bet, make sure you're the one running the house."

We kept going. The road climbed into hills cloaked in pine forests. The air turned cooler and cleaner, untouched by Clockthon's grime, and I could feel the World Essence more clearly, flowing like water through a river.

We stopped for lunch at a small roadside inn. We ate outside under the shade of an old oak tree. Simple food like bread, cheese, and smoked meat tasted extraordinary out in the open air.

During the meal, I asked Vashtun more about The Sovereign's Gambit.

"To put it simply, you already know this isn't your average tournament," he said. "Think of it like a political meat market where young heirs flaunt their talents, form alliances, and size each other up. Victory doesn't come from solving the simulations perfectly. The winner is whoever has the greatest influence when it's over."

"So it's a political game disguised as strategy, like chess?"

"You're right again," he said. "And this year, the stakes are higher. With the Ghoul Affection theft and the Moon God incident, the realm is tense. All the major factions will use this Gambit to test loyalties and hunt for weaknesses. Don't be surprised if you feel like you're being roasted alive there."

"What about security?"

"Absolute. The island belongs to a very old neutral family, House Wenren. They use Guardian Golems from the First Era and expensive defensive spell matrices. No one goes in or out without permission. Which means everyone will be stripped of any powerful artifacts when they arrive. Only your wits and your basic skills are allowed in that arena."

"It's too clean and controlled. I'd be a fool not to treat it like a trap," I said.

"The Consortium thinks so too," Vashtun replied.

We carried on. By nightfall we reached a small town called Heaven Inn to rest. I didn't spend the night sleeping. Instead, I took time to study "The Tale of a Dwarf and the Primeval Forger" again. I'd already memorized some of the vocabulary but found new things in it, things that might prove useful one day. For example, the Primeval Forger claimed this world holds a single crack that leads to 'God'. I had no idea what that meant.

The next morning, we moved on. The landscape changed again. The gentle hills rose into steep mountains and thicker forests. After days on the road with a carriage reinforced by artifacts, we were crossing the kingdom's southern border.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a settlement on a mountaintop that looked like a half-abandoned fortress.

"Falling Star Observatory," Vashtun said, following my gaze. "The last home of the Order of the Falling Star before they were declared heretical and hunted down by the Church a hundred years ago."

It was obvious that was Barthalzan's stronghold and his gang's hideout.

"Are we going to…"

"No," I said firmly. "That's not our mission. Not yet."