Tresin, East Balam
Southern Continent
The air carried the sharp brine of the sea. Tresin had once been proud. Now it was a place of repurposed ruins, colonial facades wilting under jungle heat. The city didn't wear its scars with shame, only silence.
Deep below a former customs hall now overtaken by the Republic's military operations, a dim room sat tucked between reinforced corridors and watchposts. A faint hum filled the space.
Nivlek stood near a shuttered window with a cup in hand, the faintest scent of whiskey curling with the stale breeze. His uniform coat hung open, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Even relaxed, he carried the air of a man who weighed his silences like iron.
Suddenly, a figure outlined its presence..
Jack appeared, just beside the long table.
He was upright and calm, with a bluish-black cane in hand.
"You've redecorated," he said lightly, casting a glance around the spare room. "Very… prison chic."
Nivlek didn't look up at first. "You took your time."
"I was halfway through something important," Jack said as he stepped in, his voice casual, but pointed. "Then I get your little letter — folded too neatly to be considered normal."
Nivlek shot him a sidelong glance. "It got the job done."
Jack gave a half-smile. "Barely. For someone who commands armies, your handwriting's a tactical disadvantage."
Nivlek's gaze sharpened. "Keep running that mouth and I'll show you how commanders handle messengers."
Jack smirked, tapping his cane once against the floor. "You'd have to catch me first."
Jack inclined his head, coat shifting faintly as he sat on the couch, casually. "So, update me on your adventures."
Nivlek took a final sip and set the cup down. "Progress has been steady. My unit's dismantled five sites in the last month — Rose School caches. Front-facing compounds and Two ritual chambers."
"Any high-value targets?"
"Some Saints and one demigod, nothing critical. The real leaders are still buried deeper — if they're even here."
Jack nodded, quiet. "Anything else from them?"
"We've secured the artifacts that we could, but we don't touch them until someone higher decides what's to keep."
Jack tapped a knuckle lightly against the armrest. "Efficient, as always. The Church must be thrilled to let you handle the dirty work."
Nivlek's tone didn't shift. "Better us than them."
Jack then spoke again. "So why call me?"
Nivlek's eyes didn't move from his drink. "We need to prepare to take Vermonda's Beyonder Characteristic."
There was a pause. Jack blinked once, slowly widening of his eyes.
"From Medici?" he asked.
Nivlek nodded, expression flat. "Beneath Trier."
Jack exhaled through his nose. "You're audacious," he muttered. "Truly."
Nivlek looked at him. "You don't think we can pull it off?"
Jack's gaze dropped to the floor, then returned. "No," he said after a moment. "I think we can try, but it won't be easy.
Nivlek set his glass down, slow and deliberate. "We both know what's coming, what's buried beneath Trier, the timing and we even know who will be there."
Jack's thumb paused on the cane's silver edge. "Knowing doesn't make it easier," he said plainly. "It doesn't change what we'll have to do, or what it might cost."
He met Nivlek's eyes.
"This isn't just about whether we can pull it off. It's about whether we should."
Nivlek didn't flinch. "If we claim it now, we'll have leverage when the position of Calamity of Destruction comes into play."
Jack turned slightly, eyes narrowing. "Is that really why? Or are you eyeing it for yourself?"
The general clicked his tongue. "Hardly. Advancing to Conqueror would be more trouble than it's worth. I'm not interested in dragging around the madness that comes with it."
He set his cup down with a quiet clink. "This is the best chance we'll get. If we wait, it'll fall into Medici's hands. Then we'll face a King of Angels or Cheek herself to get it."
Jack didn't respond immediately. He studied Nivlek with an even gaze, letting the idea settle. Eventually, he gave a slow nod. "Some of that makes sense. But we're not walking into this blind. We lay the groundwork first. No impulsive heroics."
Nivlek leaned forward. "Then let's start there. The entrance to Fourth Epoch Trier runs through the Red Swan Mansion. When Snarner and Poufer go in, we follow behind, stay low and wait for the moment to strike."
Jack gave a short breath through his nose. "You say that like they're the only obstacles. There'll be two other Weather Warlocks present—and Medici himself."
He paused, voice cooling further.
"Viève will be there too. She'll defend him, and she's a bad matchup for my marionette."
Nivlek raised his brows slightly. "The other Weather Warlocks won't be an issue—not immediately. They stood with each other against Vermonda and even Medici. As long as the goal's shared, they'll stay in line."
He folded his arms, his tone certain. "Five Angels versus Medici and Viève. And even if your Bloody Archduke marionette draws the short stick, it's not the only variable on the board."
Jack's cane gave a quiet tap. "Four," he corrected. "I'll be in, but I won't be there for Vermonda's corpse."
Nivlek's gaze narrowed slightly. "Explain."
Jack's tone stayed light, but the chill underneath it didn't waver. "There's something else in Fourth Epoch Trier—something Amon lost. Depends on who you ask. Either way, I want it. And if there is an opportunity during the raid, I'll deal with her too."
That made Nivlek pause. "Are you planning to play savior now?"
Jack offered the faintest smile. "Hardly. But we need resources. And I have my eye on a new addition. Another transmigrator."
Something sharpened in Nivlek's expression. "Mentor of Deceit?"
Jack didn't confirm—but didn't deny it either. "We'll see what he becomes."
The room fell into silence.
Then Nivlek exhaled slowly. "Fine. Handle your side. But when it comes to Vermonda's corpse… the only guarantee I want is that we make it out."
Jack gave a slight nod. "That, I can give."
At once, the surroundings seemed to dampen and flicker between light and darkness, subtly. Strange, furry legs slipped from the void, quickly lining the image of a massive spider — its form layered with overlapping faces and far too many blinking eyes.
All of them moved at once, scanning the room, before focusing in unison on Jack.
The spider extended one limb, a folded envelope clutched delicately between its clawed tips.
"Punctual as ever," Jack murmured, taking the envelope with a gloved hand.
The spider lingered a moment longer, then dissolved back into the air — vanishing like a bad thought.
Nivlek snorted faintly. "You and your messengers. One day that thing's going to deliver a heart instead of a letter."
Jack smirked faintly, slipping a silver knife from his sleeve to break the seal. "Only if someone gets in the way of its delivery route."
Jack broke the wax seal, unfolding the letter.
His eyes scanned it once. Then again—slower this time.
Selene's clean, compressed script stretched across the page:
Lumian Lee is a Provoker. He's exhibiting traits consistent with another Pathway, perhaps an incomplete secondary sequence. Not enough data to confirm. He's recently clashed with the Poison Spur Mob. Situation appears contained but escalating.
A thin sigh passed through Jack's lips. He flicked his fingers, and the parchment curled into ash midair, vanishing before it could reach the floor.
Across from him, Nivlek raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
Jack didn't look up. "Update on little Lumian's misadventures. He's making friends with the Poison Spur Mob now."
Nivlek leaned back with a faint scoff. "And you're treating this like it matters?"
Jack rose from the couch in one smooth movement, lifting his cane. The head shimmered faintly—bluish-black steel catching the dim light.
"It does," he said. "The brat's on a fast track to trouble. And if I don't interfere, he will advance and make the contract with the Abscessed Hand."
"You're giving him a relic to keep him from that?" Nivlek asked flatly.
Jack gave a sly smile. "Who said it was for free?"
Nivlek scoffed. "Of course."
Jack turned, already halfway to the door. "Prepare your stuff. If we're stealing from Medici, I want every variable accounted for. Keep me updated."
Nivlek watched him go. "And you?"
"I'll do the same," Jack replied, not turning back. The tip of his cane shimmered once—like a star behind glass—and then he vanished from the room.
Left alone again, Nivlek downed the last of his drink.
He muttered, low under his breath, "Damned Seer."
…
Quartier du Jardin Botanique, Trier
Villa Espérance
The suite was refined but unpretentious, one of the smaller villas nestled within the quiet elegance of the Jardin Botanique quarter. Villa Espérance — named for some bygone romantic ideal — served well enough as one of Selene's personal households.
Jack appeared in the upper suite, where the soft scent of lavender and steam still lingered in the air. Across the room, Selene emerged from the adjoining bathroom — her wet amber hair clinging to her shoulders, a towel wrapped around her with just enough care to avoid impropriety.
Her brown eyes widened almost imperceptibly as they landed on him. "You could at least pretend to knock, Jack," she said, voice cool and wry, her tone brushing past the surprise.
Jack stood, unmoved. His expression remained impassive, though the corners of his mouth almost threatened to lift.
She really did know how to make an entrance — towel or not.
"It's your fault for not dressing like someone with responsibilities," he said dryly.
Selene rolled her eyes with a breath of amusement and disappeared behind a privacy screen. A few minutes passed.
She returned, now dressed in a flowing slate-gray sleeping gown, simple yet tailored to her curves. Her hair was towel-dried but uncombed, falling loosely across her shoulders.
"Apologies for the… ambiance," she said smoothly, folding her arms. "I wasn't expecting you to appear in my bedroom uninvited. At least not tonight."
Jack's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then be more prepared next time."
She gave a graceful nod, half bow, half shrug. "Message received."
He moved further into the room, his voice curt. "Where is he now?"
Selene's amusement cooled, replaced by professional focus. "As I stated in the letter — he's been stirring trouble with the Poison Spur Mob. Most likely targeting one of their mid-tier bruisers, Hammer Ait."
Jack gave a small nod. "Your vigilance is commendable. Keep it up."
She raised a brow, stepping to the sideboard and pouring herself a measure of cooled pear liquor. "Is there something you're expecting from him? Beyond the usual chaos?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. He watched the way she tilted the glass, the small rotation of her wrist.
"There's more to him than meets the eye," he said at last. "You've likely noticed it too by now."
Selene's lips curled faintly as she took a sip. "He's a walking contradiction. Bold and aimless. Chaotic but oddly directed. And oddly... lucky."
Jack said nothing.
Selene set the glass down with a soft clink. "He's interesting. I'll give you that. A little reckless, a little rough, but there's something underneath."
Jack met her gaze. "Let me know the moment he turns his attention to the Samaritan Women's Spring. No delay."
Selene gave him a long, assessing look. "Of course."
With a twist of shadow and glint of glimmering distortion, Jack vanished from the room.
Selene stood in the stillness, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.
"Interesting indeed," she murmured, reaching again for her glass. Her gaze lingered on the spot where he'd stood, thoughtfully.
…
Auberge du Coq Doré — the Golden Rooster Inn. Cheap, narrow, and tucked like an afterthought along Rue Anarchie, in the less polished edge of Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.
The street outside buzzed with the subdued chaos of late evening foot traffic — hawkers, drunkards, and shadowed silhouettes in thick coats. A soft drizzle clung to the cobbles, diffusing the glow of crooked street lamps into pale halos.
Through it all, Jack passed unseen.
The illusion wrapped around him was clean and quiet — just another middle-aged man in a clerk's coat, forgettable and mild.
He reached the second floor with barely a sound, boots creaking just enough to remain mundane, arriving at the doorstep of Room 207.
Jack extended his hand.
His fingers curled into the air beside him, as if plucking something from the void. As he pulled Creeping Hunger, he wore it immediately. The human-skinned surface turned black.
Jack pressed his palm against the door.
He phased right through it as a rippling door appeared briefly.
Inside, the room was as expected and Jack moved quickly.
From inside his suit, he grabbed a piece of paper. He flicked his fingers, with the paper burning to a crisp.
He turned to the bed.
With a smooth motion, he laid his bluish-black cane across the pillow. Beside it, he placed a sealed letter.
Jack exhaled faintly, then vanished from the room like a breath exhaled too quietly to notice.
…
The lock clicked open.
The hallway was quiet as Lumian stepped through the door, coat still damp from the night air. He paused mid-step, gaze narrowing.
He stopped.
There, on the bed.
A bluish-black cane, neatly placed. Next to it — a folded letter.
His posture didn't shift, but his eyes moved quickly, scanning the room.
No signs of forced entry. Someone had come in quietly, and left clean. That was more alarming than a mess.
He closed the door softly behind him and stepped forward — slowly. He checked the windows and the floor. Nothing.
Only then did he turn to the bed.
First, the cane. His gaze lingered on it. Ornate and carefully crafted. New, or at least polished recently. Most likely a Beyonder Artifact. A trap or a gift?
He didn't touch it.
Next, the letter.
He knelt beside the bed and examined it — the paper stock, the fold, the edges.
With precise hands, he picked it up, unfolded it and read:
"The Newcomer bites harder than his bark. Fit him with a crown that doesn't shine. Keep your hands clean, but don't lose your head. —Mr. E"
Lumian read it twice. Then a third time.
He frowned.
"Mr. E."
He clicked his tongue.
Mr. E. Like Mr. K — the Oracle of the Aurora Order?
Could he be one of them? Another "Oracle"?
"Great," Lumian muttered under his breath. "Another masked benefactor with flair."
He folded the letter once more, tucking it carefully away into a lead-lined pouch. Then, he grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and began to write a letter.
He folded it, sealed it, and held it between two fingers.
Then, he exclaimed:
"The spirit that wanders about the unfounded,
An upper world creature that is friendly to humans,
A messenger that belongs solely to Magician."
No fanfare. No flash.
A doll-sized figure floated into the room — delicate, with pale-gold curls, a tiny elegant dress, and eerie porcelain skin.
Lumian offered the letter.
The doll blinked once, took the letter, and vanished through a shimmerless slip in the air.
He didn't move.
Ten minutes passed before the soft hum of starlight filled the room. A luminous door appeared, with Miss Magician stepping through.
She glanced at him, then to the cane.
"Did you touch it?"
Lumian shook his head. "Figured you'd enjoy the honors."
She approached the bed, eyes scanning the artifact. Then she lifted the letter he'd left beside it. Reading the signature, her brows furrowed.
"Mr. E," she murmured.
"Yeah." Lumian leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Who is he? An Oracle of the Aurora Order as well?"
Miss Magician didn't answer right away. Instead, she raised her hand and began a divination upon a crystal ball that materialized in front of her.
"…Failed," she said quietly.
Miss Magician finally reached for the cane, with it vanishing from sight. "I'll take it. We'll examine it in depth. If it's safe… and useful, it may be returned."
"And if it's not?"
"You'll be glad you didn't use it."
Fair enough.
He gave a short nod. "Any guesses on Mr. E?"
"We're still investigating," she replied. "But… he's helped before. Indirectly. Whatever he is, his methods are cautious. So far… not hostile."
Lumian hummed. "Mysterious figures gifting ominous weapons. I'm living a serialized novel."
"Be on guard, Lumian," Miss Magician said seriously. "Help isn't always free."
"I'm always on guard."
He gave her a faint grin.
She lingered a second longer.
"Let me know if he contacts you again," she said.
"I'll send a postcard."
And then she was gone — the door of starlight closing behind her, leaving Room 207 quiet once more.
Lumian exhaled through his nose and stared at the now-empty bed.
Mr. E.
"…Don't lose your head," he muttered.