Cobblestones rang hollow beneath their feet.

Rotheart spread before them like a fever dream of European history—Victorian grandeur melting into Belle Époque excess, as if some cosmic architect had reached into Joseph's memories of Earth and built a city from stolen blueprints.

Steam hissed from grates, brass pipes climbed building faces in coils, in such a way that wouldn't have looked out of place in 1800s London or Paris.

Carriages clattered down the main road, wheels grinding against bumpy stone, while pedestrians pressed to the walkways flanking each side. It wasn't exactly the cleanest; Joseph even noticed several cigarette buds and horse manure littering.

Victorian facades rose three and four stories high with a French Belle Époque flourish darkened by soot and age. Golden lions purched from cornices and doorframes, the same lion flew on flags from narrow balconies, golden with a blue background no doubt the city symbol.

The crowds wore their status like a second skin. Some in fine wool and silver canes, others barely in rags, walking side by side.

Joseph watched children push and run past him. He watched a beggar extending his hand at the intersection of two alleys. Pedestrians flowed around him like water around stone, both acknowledging and ignoring.

Nearby, a street performer juggled flaming pins, his donation bucket empty save for a few pennies and a loose button.

Guards patrolled in pairs, in areas Joseph noticed were particularly loud and crowded.

Snap. Snap.

Joseph's eyes wandered, looking in at specifics.

A merchant closing his shop. A woman hurrying past, clutch pressed to her chest. Dejected faces, amongst lively ones, amongst unreadable ones going about their days.

Dejected faces. Lively ones. Unreadable masks going about their day's routine. Joseph searched for something beneath the surface, some hidden current, but found only the ordinary despair of urban life.

Joseph focused trying to see if there was anything hidden under the surface, but nothing immediately jumped out to him.

Except for the stares.

Two children, alone, hair bright as moonlight. They were impossible to miss and bound to grab attention.

But of course, they were not alone.

The guards no longer flanked them directly, but Joseph felt their presence like pressure between his shoulder blades. They said they'd watch from afar, and he could feel it.

Rayah seemed unbothered. She pulled the folded map from her pocket, pointing to a circled region.

"Let's go to the market."

Joseph nodded.

__

The district changed at an intersection.

The carriage road ended abruptly, narrowing to a pedestrian-only walkway.

To their left, a makeshift stable held tethered horses, their owners presumably somewhere in the market ahead.

They weaved their way through.

Wooden stands lined the street, canvas sheets stretched overhead to block the sun. Vendors called out prices, haggled, laughed. The scent of fresh bread mixed with horse dung, spices, and unwashed bodies.

Some merchants operated from permanent storefronts, their goods displayed behind glass casings. Others worked from tents with inventory piled in baskets and crates.

Vegetables Joseph recognized: carrots, potatoes, cabbage. Cuts of meat hanging from hooks. several spices... Too familiar, he thought. Like Earth copied from a template. Hano Village's cuisine had been exotic by comparison—this was practically a European marketplace with few notable exceptions.

Not a coincidence. Can't be.

"FUCCCKKKKKK MY LIFEEE!!!! JUST KILL ME NOW OH PLEASE!!"

A burst of noise drew his attention—

Cheers and groans from a crowd gathered around a particular stall.

Joseph moved closer and looked.

hmm?

Only rocks on display. Dozens of them, each about fist-sized and at first glance unremarkable.

He watched as a man stepped forward, trembling hands selecting a stone. The crowd went silent, watching.

The man channelled arcane energy around the rock, and it began to resonate, vibrating until!

Pop.

An orb burst free, crackling with sparks, glowing like a captured star.

"Act 2 Energizer spirit! Finally! Holy shit!" The man collapsed to his knees, nearly weeping.

His companion grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Idiot. Its Arcana isn't even compatible with yours."

"I don't care! I'll sell this for a fortune!"

Encouraged by the scene, another man grabbed a stone. His hands shook less—confidence or desperation, Joseph knew it was both.

The crowd looked as he added his arcane energy to the rock and!

Poof.

Dust. Nothing but dust, trickling between his fingers.

The man's face went blank. Joseph recognized that expression—the moment before complete collapse, when the mind refuses to process total loss.

A gambling den. Of course.

When spirits died, their essence congealed into these stones, dormant until reawakened. The gamble was to see if the spirit survived in its weakened state, or had if it dissolved back into the world's aether?

Cheaper than buying spirits outright, sure, but you didn't know what you'd get—if you got anything at all. No guarantee of synergy with your current skills, arcana compatibility, or even basic usefulness.

On the other hand, you'd be able to find spirits not on the market, whether too rare or too expensive. It was truly high-risk high high-reward in every regard, but the risk far outweighed the gain.

Even if you did gain something like a rare act 4 spirit, opening it in such a public space would be a risk, and without proper power or backing, you'd just paint the biggest arrow on your head. The spirit being stolen would be one of the better outcomes.

Joseph was not dumb enough to try now, but he kept it in mind.

If I found a way to figure out if a stone contained a spirit before I even opened it, I would be able to exploit it greatly. He mentally noted.

Even in this tight crowd, their white hair drew eyes that followed but never approached them.

"Let's get new clothes," Joseph muttered.

Rayah nodded.

They found a quiet stall near the market's edge. An old woman sat behind racks of clothing, her eyes immediately wary. Two strange children, Joseph read in her expression. If they run, I'm too old to catch them.

Guards patrolled nearby, but thieves still succeeded more often than merchants preferred.

Joseph selected two black hooded cloaks, bringing them to the counter. "How much for these?"

"Two pounds each." Her voice cracked, caught off-guard by the possibility of legitimate payment.

"Fair price." Joseph counted out coins from the pouch the guards had given them and placed them on the table. "The city seems... tense."

The woman's weathered hands accepted the money, testing its weight from long habit, "You're not from here."

"Is it that easy to tell? We are from another island indeed," An answer vague enough to be useless.

"Another island? What the hell are two whipper-snappers like you doin' alone here?" She folded the cloaks with practiced efficiency. "Parliament's been in session for weeks. Nobles arguing about Ascendant licensing reforms, merchants pushing for lower tariffs on spirit commerce. Common folk just want bread prices to drop."

"And the Emperor's council?"

"Silent as always. They'll speak when they're ready, and not before." She handed over the bundle. "City's always like this before major legislation. People get nervous when the powerful start negotiating."

"Smart people," Joseph said.

"Smart people stay out of politics entirely." A thin smile. "Safe travels, children."

Rayah just watched quietly from behind him, but her gaze wasn't aimless; it was intent.

They left, heads now cloaked in black hiding most of their faces.

Grumble.

Then Rayah's stomach announced itself...

Joseph smiled despite himself. "Let's get some food."

The Golden Hearth occupied a corner building with large windows and heavy wooden doors. Not fancy, but clean—the kind of establishment that catered to travelling merchants and local professionals.

A server guided them to a corner booth, away from the main floor. Joseph was certain Rayah was used to better, but she didn't complain.

"We'll take the chicken breast, the vegetable plate, a bowl of the beef stew, cheese, milk—" Joseph scanned the menu, mentally calculating nutrients. IGF-1 signaling for growth, calcium for bone density, protein for muscle development.

I NEED TO GET TALLER!! Proper food for proper growth while I'm young and have the chance!!

Before finishing his order, he scanned the menu once more. His eyes bulged, looking at something familiar... "—and a plate of your authentic spaghetti!"

The server, a middle-aged woman with ink-stained fingers, raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of food for two children."

"We're very hungry and growing,"

She shrugged and retreated to the kitchen.

Rayah watched him across the table. "Why the pasta?"

"Because it's on the menu!" He smiled.

The food came twenty minutes later. They could smell it before it even arrived.

Rayah picked up a knife and fork, and began quietly, eating. While Joseph...

He looked like a ghost...

The spaghetti... The spaghetti looked... wrong.

Overcooked to mush, swimming in watery sauce that separated into oil and tomato chunks. No herbs he could identify. No garlic. No soul!

His Italian blood—two generations removed, but apparently immortal—ignited with righteous fury.

This is an insult. They dare call this authentic!?

Joseph stood.

"Where are you going?" Rayah whispered.

"To fix a crime against humanity."

The kitchen smelled like oil and wet dreams.

Three cooks, or in Joseph's eyes, crooks, worked in this chaos—one on the stove, another prepping vegetables, the third managing multiple boiling pots. They turned as Joseph entered, confusion giving way to annoyance.

"Kid, you can't be back here—"

"That." Joseph pointed at a pot of boiling water where the cook was about to snap a handful of spaghetti in half. "Stop. Right NOWWW!!"

The cook, a burly man with flour-dusted forearms, blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're about to commit a sin! Never—and I mean never—snap spaghetti in half! It compromises the structural integrity and ruins the eating experience!"

"It doesn't fit in the pot—"

"Then get a bigger pot. Or tilt it at an angle as it softens. This isn't optional!"

The head cook, an older woman with sharp eyes, crossed her arms. "And who are you to tell us how to cook? GET THE HELL OUT OF!!"

Insantily, Joseph dropped some arcane crystals on a table. The worker's eyes bulged, and their mouths shut.

"Someone who actually knows what spaghetti should taste like." Joseph met her gaze. "That disaster you served me? Overcooked by three minutes minimum, sauce has no depth, no balance. You're using too much water in the damn tomato base, not enough fat to carry flavor, and I'm guessing you've never heard of basil."

Silence.

The head cook's expression shifted from annoyance to something else. "You're that white-haired kid from the dining room."

"I am. And I'm offering you a deal: give me thirty minutes, and I'll show you how it's actually done. Free of charge. You don't like the result, I'll pay for my meal, and you'll get these crystals, and I'll leave, never to return. You do like it? You add it to the menu properly, and we could consider doing future business together!"

She studied him for a long moment. Then: "You have twenty minutes. Impress me."

Joseph cracked his knuckles. "Bring me fresh garlic, olive oil, and whatever herbs you have that aren't dead yet."

Forty-five minutes later, Joseph and Rayah left The Golden Hearth with the head cook's business card and a standing invitation to return.

"They even said they'd consider giving me part of the profits from every spaghetti dish from now on!" Joseph laughed.

"That was unnecessary," Rayah said.

"That was justice." Joseph adjusted his new cloak. "Now. The library!"

"Yes, yes," She sighed. "I guess it turned out pretty well..."

Near the center of the middle ring, away from most dust and factories, the Rotheart Grand Library rose six stories.

They entered through brass-fitted doors into a cavernous entrance hall. Shelves stretched into shadow, galleries climbing toward a domed ceiling painted with constellations Joseph didn't recognize. The scent of old paper and lamp gas, leather and dust.

They gave their identification to a young man at the counter, and paid the usual 30 pence entrance fee for the day.

Further behind the counter, an old man watched them. Not the casual observation of a librarian tracking patrons—something more intentional. His eyes lingered a moment too long before returning to his ledger.

Noted, Joseph thought.

"I need to learn Sepherian," he told Rayah. "Properly. Not just conversational."

"I'm looking into the Emperor's Island. Historical records." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "If you ever need specific help, let me know."

Joseph smiled at her, then they split up.

Hours passed, and Joseph had amassed a large collection of grammar books and storybooks alike.

He managed to connect certain words he'd come across and assign them letters, mapping out the entire sepherian alphabet phonetically in his head without guidance.

Before he sat down to do some proper studying, Joseph wanted to explore more.

He climbed to the sixth floor—the archives level, according to the brass plaques he could now somewhat read. It was vast just as he expected; the light from the glass windows above shone on the level in a deep golden hue.

He looked around, until something drew his attention...

At the back, behind a reading desk. Joseph found a grand glass casing mounted on the wall.

Papers lay inside. Old, yellowed at the edges, but preserved with care.

He approached, squinting carefully.

The script soon became clear...

There was this odd feeling in this dusty air...

Joseph's breath caught. His heart nearly sank.

This!! This language...

Not Sepherian. Not any language of this world.

This was...

Human writing!

No!

Earth writing!!

In a place like this!?

His hands pressed against the glass, mind racing.

What the hell...? WHAT THE HELL!! WHAT THE HELL!!

A MESSAGE FROM ANOTHER TRANSMIGRATOR!? I KNEW I WASN'T ALONE!!

...

BUT...

WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE IN CHINESE!?!!?

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