The sun was setting, but it had not yet begun to paint the sky with shades of orange and purple.

Blake and Mirac, leaving behind the Central Library of Raerno, were heading toward the Northeast District, the "Prosperous District."

The streets gradually changed: the uneven cobblestones gave way to smooth stone slabs that reflected the sunlight, while the noise of carts faded, replaced by the rustle of cypress leaves sculpted by the wind, arranged in neat rows along the avenues.

The air was fresh, infused with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers in hanging gardens suspended above the rooftops of the residences.

The Northeast District was a slice of Raerno steeped in classical, timeless elegance.

The buildings, constructed in white marble and light stone, were adorned with golden inlays and vibrant mosaics.

The facades were embellished with wrought iron balconies, while tall arched windows allowed sunlight to filter through.

Some palaces had turrets that soared toward the sky, while others were surrounded by low walls topped with perfectly trimmed hedges.

Here and there, hanging gardens spilled from rooftops, with vines cascading like green waterfalls, and gushing fountains decorated small squares hidden among the residences.

In the Prosperous District, noble residences dominated the landscape: three- or four-story palaces, majestic villas, and luxurious homes with intricately carved doors, true works of art.

Some had inner courtyards visible through wrought iron gates, where marble statues of warriors stood among blooming flowerbeds.

Among the buildings were private libraries, modestly sized theaters, and cultural salons, their golden signs promising evenings of music, poetry, and philosophical debates.

Even the simplest homes exuded an elegance absent in the more common districts.

Walking beside Blake, Mirac observed everything with curiosity but also with a slight sense of detachment: as elegant as these buildings were, they could not compare to the grandeur of the royal castle where he had grown up.

The passersby, dressed in silk and velvet, moved with a studied grace, as if every gesture were part of a choreography. Even their faces exuded an air of refinement.

The atmosphere was so different from the vibrant chaos of the Market Square that it felt like stepping into another world.

After a few minutes, the two emerged into a wider square, at the end of which stood an imposing building.

'Is that…?!'

Mirac had no doubts: it was one of the many churches dedicated to Kayro, God of Fire, Forge, and War.

The structure of the building was majestic, built in red stone flecked with black, which seemed to pulse with an invisible warmth.

The facade was dominated by a large central arch, above which loomed the emblem of Kayro: at its center, a massive hammer struck a sword resting on a sturdy anvil, as if attempting to repair it. The sword's blade was still stained with fresh blood, a sign of a recent battle; behind the scene, a vortex of flames enveloped the emblem.

On either side of the arch rose two cylindrical towers, their tops crowned with lit bronze braziers that cast an orange glow of dancing flames.

The tall, narrow stained-glass windows depicted scenes of battle and creation: swords forged in fire, triumphant warriors, and erupting volcanoes, with the vivid colors of the glass dancing under the sunlight.

A few black marble steps led to the slightly elevated building, where a massive bronze entrance door, decorated with bas-reliefs of intertwined flames, stood imposingly.

Mirac noticed a group of people silently entering the church.

Some wore simple clothes, typical of Ardorya's inhabitants, with linen shirts and sturdy trousers, while others displayed gear that betrayed their professions: warriors with swords strapped to their sides, Adventurers with tattered cloaks and backpacks laden with tools, and blacksmiths with leather aprons blackened by soot, their hands marked by forge work.

Thanks to Professor Warnock's Religion lessons, Mirac knew well that the devotees of every Deity in Harmony followed a well-defined prayer ritual, a set of gestures and words that embodied their faith.

In particular, the devotees of Kayro, God of Fire, Forge, and War, began their ritual with an act of purification.

At the temple's entrance, they washed their hands in a bowl of warm water, heated by glowing embers, symbolizing the fusion of purity and divine strength.

As the water flowed over their hands, they recited softly:

"Oh Kayro, Father of Strength, Spark of every War… Forge my soul, purify my blood, ignite my spirit…"

After completing the purification, they knelt before a central altar, where a so-called "Daughter of the First Flame" burned.

This was a sacred, immutable portion of the "First Flame," the primordial spark ignited by Kayro, God of Fire, Forge, and War, during the mysterious First Night.

At the pinnacle of the world's creation—when Gneiss shaped the Earth, Arya infused the Winds, Bluest poured the Seas, Sirio illuminated the Day, Mother Nature brought forth life, and Nyra enveloped all in darkness—Kayro gifted that eternal flame to the first humans, a bastion of light and warmth to face the shadows of the First Night.

According to the Seven Gospels, Kayro's first followers spread fragments of that flame across every corner of Harmony, sacred portions that never burned out, since the First Flame was eternal and inextinguishable, a reflection of divine power.

Even today, the First Flame shines in the Sacred Region, guarded as a supreme relic, while every Church of Kayro preserved a "Daughter" of that sacred flame, a fire used in prayer rituals as a tangible symbol of divine presence and primordial strength.

With the Daughter of the First Flame, devotees lit—one by one, during masses—a small candle by bringing it close to the sacred flame: a gesture expressing their deep yearning for the divine figure of Kayro.

The flame that was lit on the candle's wick—and, in general, any other flame that derived from the Daughter of the First Flame—was accordingly called the "Granddaughter of the First Flame."

All candles used in the ritual were engraved with precise symbols: a weapon, a forging tool, or a mark evoking a battle or a devotee's feat.

Placing the candle on a bronze tray at the foot of the altar, devotees made a vow:

"I offer my strength to you, Kayro, to temper it like steel in your forge…"

Then, with joined hands and bowed heads, they recited a collective prayer, led by a priest or chanted in unison:

"Oh God of Fire, Forge, and War, ignite in us the courage to face battles, the strength to forge our destiny, and the light to unite our hearts under your eternal flame…"

This was followed by a moment of silence, during which each person made a personal request—a wish—while touching a small flame-shaped amulet, a symbol of their bond with the Kingdom of Ardorya.

To honor Kayro as the God of Forge, devotees offered a small symbolic object: a hand-forged nail, a piece of burnished metal, an item bearing a fire rune, a slag from smelting, a piece of charcoal, or other tokens of his craft.

Whatever the offering, it was cast into the jaws of the First Flame—which consumed it without a trace—symbolizing sacrifice and spiritual transformation.

During the offering, devotees recited:

"As fire transforms metal, so you, Kayro, temper my soul…"

The sound of drums, evoking the rhythm of a hammer on the forge, accompanied this moment, instilling strength and solidarity.

And with this solemn gesture, the prayer reached its conclusion.

The prayer could be performed either in a church or at home. In the latter case, the person performed an ablution and lit a candle, relying on their Elemental Attunement or a Flame Stone.

After reciting the prayers, with joined hands and bowed head, they kissed an iron amulet and immediately extinguished the candle.

But in any case, whether praying in a church or at home, in one kingdom or another, throughout the entire ritual, people faced the center of the continent, toward the Sacred Region.

This orientation toward that legendary place was a practice common to all the kingdoms of Harmony, regardless of the Deity worshipped.

Whether it was Kayro, Sirio, Mother Nature, or any other God, the faithful turned toward the heart of the continent: a gesture that united the peoples, despite their differences in faith.

Reflecting on this detail, years ago when he first learned of it during a Religion lesson, Mirac had found it strangely familiar.

In his previous life, Muslims turned toward the Kaaba—in Mecca—during prayer, a focal point that united the faithful in a single spiritual purpose.

Thus, the Sacred Region seemed to him like their Kaaba: a spiritual center capable of holding together a continent diverse in its faiths.

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Who knows if that too was just a simple coincidence...

As they passed in front of the Church of the God of Fire, the Forge, and War, Blake slowed his pace, observing the devotees with a thoughtful expression.

Then, turning to Mirac, he asked with a curious tone:

"Hey, Isaac, are you a practicing believer? I mean, do you regularly pray to Kayro or some other Deity?"

Mirac stopped, caught off guard.

He hesitated for a moment, then replied calmly:

"No. Although there are no doubts about their existence, I'm not devoted to any of the Seven Deities. Personally, I'm not interested in being blessed or loved by Kayro, or any other God."

In truth, the reality was far more complex.

His lack of faith now stemmed not only from the fact that in his previous life Vector (Mirac) had been an atheist, but also because being one in this world could lead to serious consequences!

After all, his "soul" did not belong to this world, and an act like prayer could draw the attention of a Deity, potentially revealing his secret!

During the ritual, in fact, there was a risk that the Seven Deities, with their immense and mysterious powers, might sense something anomalous in him.

And Mirac certainly didn't want to attract their attention!

This caution, however, had never caused him problems when he lived at the Royal Palace.

The royal families of Harmony, in fact, were not required to offer daily prayers to the deities protecting their kingdom, except during official ceremonies like coronations, where such rituals were necessary to sanctify the bond between the sovereign and the divine.

This privilege had allowed him to avoid religious practices without arousing suspicion, keeping his true nature hidden.

There was, however, one matter that, even now, deeply troubled him…

Indeed, he had never forgotten the speculations that arose years ago, according to which Mother Nature had brought the young Prince of Ardorya back to life when his heart stopped shortly after birth.

An event that everyone, nobles and commoners alike, had celebrated as a Divine Miracle.

Since then, Mirac had always wondered if Mother Nature was truly connected to his reincarnation, or if the Prince's heart had simply started beating again when "the soul"—or whatever it was—of Vector (Mirac's former identity) had entered his lifeless body.

Whatever the answer—setting aside the multitude of implications and questions that would arise—being a Chaotic already made him a target for the Intercontinental Council and the entire world, but being a reincarnator was perhaps an even more dangerous truth!

In the eyes of the Seven Deities, he might appear as someone who did not belong to their world…

An intruder, an impostor…

A "Defiler of the Supreme Creation"!

Shaking his head to dispel those thoughts, Mirac turned the question back to Blake: "And you? Are you a practitioner?"

Blake hesitated, his smile fading for a moment.

"N-No…" he replied, his voice lower than usual.

He paused, as if searching for the right words, then continued:

"Not out of negligence, but because… even if I prayed, the Deities wouldn't help me. They didn't in the past when I needed them most, so…"

Mirac observed him for a moment, sensing the weight behind those words.

He knew Blake was referring to the difficult times in his life: the death of his mother and the mysterious disappearance of his father, events he had briefly mentioned the day before.

Behind the mask of cheerfulness and lightheartedness, Blake hid a depth that Mirac was beginning to glimpse, a complexity that made him far more than just a sunny boy.

Pondering the matter, however, Mirac realized that Blake hadn't provided any details about his father's disappearance in yesterday's story.

Curiosity pricked at his tongue, urging him to ask and learn more about that vague detail.

But in the end, genuine compassion prevailed.

It wasn't the time to reopen old wounds.

He shook his head to dismiss the thought and placed a hand on Blake's shoulder, a simple but heartfelt gesture.

"I understand," he said, his tone revealing a smile beneath the mask.

Blake returned the smile, an expression that blended gratitude and relief.

Without adding anything more, the two resumed walking.

* * *

The sun was beginning to paint the sky with golden and orange hues, a sign that the afternoon was slipping into evening.

Blake and Mirac continued their tour of the Northeast District, immersing themselves in the refined and orderly atmosphere of the "Prosperous District."

The streets, lined with wind-sculpted cypresses and wrought iron lampposts, were a delight to the eyes.

Blake, with his contagious enthusiasm, pointed out to Mirac details that only a Raerno native would notice: a bronze statue of a nameless knight, tucked away in the corner of a small square; a colorful mosaic decorating the wall of an old shop; a fountain with carved fish that seemed to swim in the crystal-clear water.

Around 6:33 PM, the two left the Northeast District.

From Loyalty Avenue, which ran straight toward the East Gate, numerous side streets branched off. Following them, the two headed toward the southeast area of Raerno.

As they approached the Southeast District, the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers gave way to a slightly sharper, more pungent odor.

The cobblestones, less maintained than in the Prosperous District, were marked by ruts left by heavy carts, and the sound of Blake and Mirac's footsteps mingled with the rhythmic clang of hammers striking anvils and the hiss of lit forges.

"Here we are," Blake announced, spreading his arms as if presenting a stage. "Welcome to the Iron District!"

Mirac stopped, letting his eyes take in the scene before him.

The Southeast District was a world apart, a web of frenetic activity and organized chaos that sharply contrasted with the orderly elegance of the Northeast District.

The streets, narrower and more intricate, formed a labyrinth of alleys and small squares, each teeming with life.

The buildings were lower, rarely exceeding two stories, and built of gray stone stained with soot, with sloped roofs of slate or oxidized copper reflecting the sunset light in greenish hues.

As they crossed the cart-marked streets, Mirac noticed a detail that stood out in the chaos of the Iron District: the manholes, numerous and sturdy, embedded in the cobblestones with a frequency that betrayed the need for constant drainage.

The iron grates, blackened by soot and wear, were placed at regular intervals along the alleys, especially near workshops where water used to cool blades or rinse metals flowed abundantly.

Some manholes, decorated with anvil or stylized flame motifs, paid homage to Kayro, God of the Forge, while others, simpler, blended into the stones, almost invisible under the passage of mules and artisans.

Compared to the Market Square, where manholes were numerous but ornamental, here they seemed more practical, essential for channeling the liquids from the forges into underground canals, a silent testament to the district's ceaseless work.

This observation about the city's practical details led Mirac to reflect on another aspect of Raerno: there were hardly any of the King's soldiers visible on its streets, their presence almost imperceptible, limited to occasional patrols near the Access Gates.

But this was natural, and Mirac himself had anticipated it before entering the city.

Raerno, teeming with Adventurers and Warriors, and hosting the Headquarters of the Intercontinental Association Against Dangers, didn't need the sovereign's military power to protect, monitor, or manage the city.

The strength of the Adventurers and the vigilance of the Association ensured an order that made a heavy military presence unnecessary.

And this played perfectly to the advantage of the fugitive Prince, as it reduced the risk of being recognized by some royal guard and forced to return to Ardorya's castle, where the royal family would lock him back in the underground prison.

The vitality of the Iron District, with its incessant comings and goings of Adventurers and artisans, was clear evidence of this autonomy.

Beyond that, numerous artisan workshops dominated the urban landscape.

Every few meters, an open door revealed the interior of a workshop: glowing red forges illuminated the sweaty faces of blacksmiths, while sparks flew like tiny falling stars.

Hammers of every size struck anvils, creating a metallic symphony that echoed throughout the district.

Next to the forges were armorer workshops, where freshly forged blades were sharpened with meticulous care, and armorer shops, with armor and shields hanging on the walls like trophies.

Further ahead, in a side alley, Mirac caught sight of an improvised stall where a merchant displayed small bronze amulets, each engraved with a symbol of the God of Fire.

Nearby, an elderly woman sold dried herbs, likely intended for potions or remedies for artisans injured while working.

The air was thick with contrasting odors.

The smoke from the forges mingled with the scent of tanned leather, coming from tanneries hidden in the narrower alleys.

There was also a hint of oil and grease, used to lubricate machinery and tools, and a faint aroma of burning wood that lingered everywhere.

Here and there, carts pulled by mules carried raw metal ingots or crates of tools, while apprentices ran from one workshop to another, delivering messages or transporting materials.

The passersby were a mix of artisans in dirty aprons, merchants looking for deals, and Adventurers and warriors inspecting weapons and armor with a critical eye.

The signs of the workshops hung above the doors—swaying slightly in the breeze—decorated with symbols indicating their specialty: an anvil for blacksmiths, a stylized suit of armor for armorers, and so on.

Mirac noticed that many workshops had small altars dedicated to Kayro, God of the Forge, with lit candles and offerings of metal shavings or forged nails, a tribute to the patron of their craft.

"This place never sleeps," Blake said, pointing to a workshop where a blacksmith, a burly man with a grizzled beard, was plunging a red-hot blade into a barrel of water, raising a cloud of steam. "They work day and night here. This is the district where the weapons and armor that keep most of the Association's Adventurers and Monster Hunters going are forged."

Mirac nodded, watching a group of apprentices carrying a massive steel slab toward a warehouse.

The duo then turned into a hidden square, surrounded by workshops and dominated by a simple but sturdy fountain, with a carved anvil at its center from which water flowed.

Around the fountain, some artisans rested on stone benches, while others argued animatedly, gesturing with calloused hands.

"This is Anvil Square," Blake explained, pointing to the fountain. "It's the heart of the Iron District. Artisans gather here to take a break, exchange gossip, or close deals."

Mirac smiled beneath his mask, taking in every detail.

The two continued walking, delving deeper into the Iron District.

The streets grew narrower, the alleys a tangle of shadows and orange glows from the workshops.

Blake, with his confident stride, seemed to know every corner of that labyrinth.

He turned right, leading Mirac toward a wide dead-end alley, then stopped.

At the end stood a blacksmith's workshop.

The building's facade was blackened by soot, as if the smoke from the forges had painted the stone with its breath.

Above the entrance hung a steel sign, polished despite the wear of time, bearing the inscription:

"The Dragon's Jaws"

But as soon as he saw it, something caught Mirac's attention.

His eyes fixed on the emblem engraved next to the name: a dragon's mouth wide open, sharp fangs framing a stylized hammer striking an anvil, enveloped in flickering flames that seemed almost alive.

A symbol that felt familiar…

After a couple of seconds of reflection, he realized he had seen it earlier that day, etched on the weapons loaned by the Association for the Physical Test!

'So this is the workshop of the blacksmith who forged all those weapons? Interesting…' Mirac thought.

But when his eyes shifted to Blake, he noticed a change.

A veil of melancholy seemed to have fallen over his companion.

The corners of his mouth, usually curved in a carefree smile, had drooped, and his gaze was fixed on the sign, as if staring at a painful memory.

He looked at the sign, then lowered his gaze, as if the weight of a memory was pulling him elsewhere.

"This is the workshop of Gorrim's brother, the head guard of the West Gate we met last night," he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "When I was little, I used to spend hours here watching old Derek work. Without a doubt, he was the best blacksmith in the city! I would've loved for you to meet him, you know? But, unfortunately, a few months ago he left to deliver a shipment of weapons to the capital, Magam… and on the way back, he disappeared completely, leaving no trace of himself…"

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