Round 26: Talk Too Much, Lose Everything

Three hours before the off-peak period.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it began. It washed away the dirt floating in the air, leaving brown puddles in some places. A cool breeze brought a rare sense of freshness—though this pleasant situation would soon be ruined again by the toxic fumes spewed from hundreds of chimneys.

Morrill bent down to wash her face and neck with water from a wooden basin. She stood up carefully, making sure not to hit her head on the low beam. She didn’t use a towel to dry herself because she hadn’t purified that rag with magic like she had the water. Although she had ordered the servants to replace all the items when she moved into this attic, the harsh reality of “freshness” was simply: dirty.

It was unclear whether Jacob had done a half-hearted job because he no longer needed to deal with her, or if his idea of “a little better” was vastly different from what a female mage considered acceptable. The walls were uneven, covered in an unattractive layer of plaster, and together with the wooden shelves, they supported the roof. There was a table by the bed, opposite the spot where she had washed her face, with the basin placed on a dead stove. The only somewhat presentable thing was the chest in the corner of the bed, covered in iron sheets and secured with thick nails; its lock seemed sturdy too. But only a fool would leave valuables there and walk away carefree. The floor creaked loudly underfoot. Though it seemed spacious at first glance, one wall was completely sloped inward—so there was actually a little over half the space available for walking. Two windows were installed on the sloped wall, but due to poor sealing, water seeped in along the wall, ruining the floor beneath them. Yet the dusty, gray window panes were much clearer thanks to the rain, and through them, Morrill could see the stars twinkling in the sky outside.

She knew those weren’t stars. The other half of Seal City hung there as well—same streets, buildings, inhabitants, and passersby. If she wished, she could use simple flying magic, hire a vulture carriage for a few gold coins, or even walk there step by step—provided one knew the way or followed someone who did.

The female mage didn’t want to spit on her finger to extinguish the oil lamp, so she simply isolated the air around it. The room quickly fell into darkness. For those on the other side of the Great Circle, they probably wouldn’t notice such a minor reduction in the light in the sky.

The stairs were narrow, dark, and creaky as well.

A suddenly appearing “drunkard” met Morrill at the corner of the stairs. Seeing the silver flames suddenly ignite in the mage’s eyes, he backed away with a smirk, giving up his attempt to pretend to be drunk and squeeze past her for an advantage. After all, this was Seal City, and he wasn’t a fool. A real drunkard would soon end up in the Great Mortuary.

Watching the guy slip away down the corridor, Moriel stopped to orient herself, as she simply couldn’t recall the path the innkeeper had taken her up. To her, the structure of this so-called inn was unbelievably chaotic—blocked ends, stairs that led nowhere, uneven and crisscrossing floors. Not to mention that opening the window of Room A revealed the street, Room B’s window showed the kitchen, and Room C’s window led back to Room A…

It was for this reason that she had chosen that leaky, dilapidated attic. Once she found the correct route, the female mage quickened her pace. Along the way, at least a dozen pairs of suspicious eyes peered at her from various cracks, but none of them deserved attention. Such people were mostly petty scoundrels who became cruel and ruthless when in power, but they were better at carefully selecting their prey. If they realized their opponent had strength beyond what could even cause them trouble, they would be too scared to act rashly.

“This place may be chaotic and full of dangers, but it’s indeed a good spot for the black market and gathering information. And I believe that with your strength, you won’t encounter any real danger in Marked City, except for one…”

That’s what Jacob had told her.

Danger? Moriel shook her head and sighed as she pushed open the corner door. Danger wasn’t just something tangible or visible; the thrill brought by “a blind man on a blind horse, approaching a deep pool at midnight” wasn’t just excitement either.

The door opened. Images, sounds, smells—all combined to create an atmosphere unique to such places, rushing at her like a tide.

The oval room was much larger and taller than Moriel had imagined, filled with people everywhere. Just as untidy and poorly planned, with randomly placed tables and chairs, casually set up bars, haphazardly hung chandeliers, makeshift upper levels, and thick or thin pillars used as supports, along with creatures dressed casually and looking rather disheveled, wandering around the room… The female mage could now see the windows on the walls without using magic, though she wondered if the residents on the other side were satisfied with this free view.

Finding Forty-Seven wasn’t too difficult. He was sitting boldly near the main entrance at the lowest point, surrounded by a crowd. Moriel hurried through the crowd, squeezing past a fat man with bare upper body, his chest and back covered in fish-scale-like rashes. Despite a incense burner on a nearby table emitting a strong, strange scent, the fat man’s body odor nearly made Moriel faint.

The people gathered around Forty-Seven weren’t caused by his troubles. They were pale and emaciated, dressed in rags. Whether women or children, their eyes were fixed on one thing: something shiny, beautiful, pure, noble, and mesmerizing—money.

Kairo placed a silver coin in the hand stretched toward the girl. The inhabitants of Marked City usually called silver coins “poison stings,” as it was discovered that silver could strangely cause pain in demonic creatures that came into contact with it. But the wrinkled, dirty, cracked hand—thin as bone and resembling a mix of a monkey’s and a chicken’s claw—certainly wouldn’t care about such things. As soon as the coin landed, the palm closed tightly like a trap, and the barefoot child, dressed only in a large, tattered shirt, immediately dashed into the dark streets without even saying “thank you.”

The empty space was quickly taken by another pair of innocent yet greedy eyes. The dim streetlights shone from behind, while the candlelight inside the shop illuminated their faces. These two lights should have blended together, creating a space of civilization in the night that fell with the precision of time in Marked City. But separated by the people in between, they instead became a ridiculous backdrop, highlighting a group of ghosts wandering in this dark, alien world. They paid no attention to the light of the world; their eyes were fixed only on the reflection of coins, for only they could slightly loosen the heavy stone of pain, misery, and suffering that had long pressed down on them, casting a glimmer of hope into their hopeless lives.

Kairo couldn’t find the silver coin anymore. Her purse contained only some gold coins, along with a few more expensive white gold coins. All the silver and copper coins had been given to the beggars out of her excessive kindness.

“If you want to give these people gold, it’s better to just give them bullets—it would be more painful for them,” said Forty-Seven, downing the drink in his cup in one gulp. The pungent smell seemed to prove it was alcohol, though its intensity was rather unusual.

“What are bullets? Luke doesn’t know, but it’s definitely nothing good!” A shrill voice suddenly came from above the table, and the speaker appeared. It was a small winged creature with delicate limbs, disproportionately large eyes, and a twitching sharp nose. Its long ears and translucent wings made it resemble an insect. “Your companion is right, silly girl! Inside or outside, there are plenty of folks who’ll stab you for a gold coin!”

It flapped its arms and flew around the table, scaring children and adults alike. “Within fifty steps, their intestines will be pulled out and wrapped around their necks! Hey, over-compassionate newbie! This is Marked City, this is a den! Survival depends on skill, not charity! Give your money to Luke, and he’ll give you good things! Entertainment, fun—everything you want! Big Iron Guy, want some more?”

“I think he’s had enough,” Morriel said sarcastically as she stepped forward. “And have you ever seen a construct that can drink? Let me tell you, he’s gone mad. And a mad construct will swallow you whole, chew you up, and spit you out on a plate so you can be served as an appetizer at the Knorgan demons’ table. Do you understand?”

The creature was startled, flew a little higher, and turned to look at the female mage. “Ah! A mage! Luke doesn’t like mages, but he respects them.” It blinked quickly and sniffled. “Sigh, nothing in Marked City is surprising. Please don’t be angry. What can Luke do for you?”
“Wine without water,” Moriel said as she sat down at the table and tossed it a gold coin. “Perhaps you can also help me get some change to send these people away.”
“No problem, no problem!” Luke caught the money skillfully and held it close to his chest. “I’ll be right back. At your service. Those pitiful wretches who want money, follow me—just as long as you can keep up! Stop bothering my guests, or I’ll have the guards kick you!”
It waved the gold coin in show for a moment, then disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared—no one could keep up with it.
“But… they’re so pitiful,” Kayro whispered as the faces of those of different ages and appearances, yet equally worn and numb, faded away.
“Kayro, you can’t really help them. Just like in Rain City before…”
“Poverty ruins men, hunger corrupts women, and darkness weakens children,” Forty-Seven interrupted Moriel, tapping the table gently with his finger. “Civilization thrives, yet the world gradually turns into hell; humans are born fortunate, but disasters inevitably strike. Look.”
He nodded toward a young woman across the bar, flirting with several creatures. She had a messy ponytail, leaned against the bar, her frail body seemingly less covered in cheap makeup than her face. She kept pouring cheap liquor into her mouth, as if only by drowning her heart in alcohol could she numb the pain of degradation. Though she occasionally joined in the others’ hoarse laughter, there was no trace of joy in her lifeless eyes.
“Guess how old she is? At fifteen, she seems only twelve; just turned sixteen, yet it seems she’s already over twenty. Today she’s a little girl, tomorrow she’ll be a woman, eager to outrun time so as to end her life sooner. Fragile and terrifying in every way—inspiring pity or dread. No name, no age, no gender. No longer able to distinguish good from evil. Once out of childhood, she loses everything in the world—no freedom, no chastity, no responsibility. Souls that bloom yesterday and wither today, like flowers in the streets, covered in mud, waiting for a wheel to crush them.”
These words scared Kayro.
Moriel also flinched as if faced with a sharp blade—words were indeed much sharper than swords in some ways.
“I never realized you could say such… such striking things,” she said, lowering her gaze to her hands before looking up at Forty-Seven’s angular profile.
Forty-Seven gave her a dismissive glance. “Read more books, madam. I didn’t say that.”

“Read more books?” Moriel raised her eyebrows, suddenly annoyed by the suggestion. “Come on, I’m a mage after all! Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to become one? I spent most of the first twenty years of my life in study rooms and laboratories—the scrolls I copied stack higher than you! Do you even understand the efforts I’ve made to reach where I am now? After all this time, why do you still live like a lower creature, relying on instinct? I’m not some prostitute trying to flatter you—what right do you have to belittle me like this?”
“…Sister Moriel?” Kayro was truly frightened now.
“I’m not belittling you,” said the Tin Man, turning to face her. “Look at you—if my precision devices were still working, I could check your blood pressure…”
“Enough! I’m sick of your absurd clichés,” Moriel snapped. “Shut up about your so-called ‘precision devices.’ Wands and scrolls can never replace real spells. I’ve given up expecting you to meet normal standards, but could you at least use your brain once in a while? We’re sitting in a tavern in the most incredible city in the multiverse, completely clueless, with our only guide gone—no idea where to go or what to do, while you spout nonsense! If you expect me to tolerate this, fine. But can you use your ‘precision instruments’ to guide us, to tell us something useful, to show us what to do next?”
Forty-Seven fell into a rare silence for a moment. Finally, he rolled his eyes, seemingly searching for an excuse. “Alright, let me think. My job used to be to solve problems—finding problems isn’t part of my responsibilities. As the saying goes, ‘There’s always a way when you get to the mountain, and the path will clear when you reach the bridge.’ By my intuition, things will improve soon…”
“What?” Moriel was furious. “By your intuition? I tell you, just wait there until you rust away—”
Things improved much faster than Forty-Seven had expected—admittedly, major external events often served as a miracle cure for resolving or temporarily easing internal conflicts.