The dark alleyways of Conant City clung to the humid air. With each step, Jack's boots sent soft thuds. He walked unhurriedly, without his trusted cane
It is a shame. Then again, a Scholar of Yore never truly lost anything. Besides… Should buy him some distance from "Her," he lampooned to himself, eyes scanning the orderly street. Let the Great Mother suffer a small delay, for now.
With that small errand handled, his thoughts returned to the more pressing matter at hand, Nivlek's witty attempt at a heist of Vermonda Sauron's Characteristic.
He clicked his tongue.
It's too risky. Too many Angels involved at once, with one of them being an Archangel and the other totally countering one of our cards. Not to forget the "possible" alliance we're to have with the other hot-headed dunces.
And of course, the one burdening the contingency plans and the escape… That responsibility wouldn't fall on Nivlek.
Naturally it falls on me. Not that it is a burden, I already expected as such. Leave the details to the expert. Jack chuckled between his lips.
The haze of Conant's lower docks parted as he stepped into the brighter street leading toward the row of pale hotels near the bayfront. The scent of salt turned sharper, mingling with roasted peanuts and citrus oil from the nearby fruit stalls. Tourists loitered under lamps, wearing loose coats over linen. Locals didn't look twice.
He slipped through the lobby of a modest white building , The Rainhaven Lodge.
The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a clipped local accent, greeted him with a slow indifference.
"Room for one?" she asked, adjusting the guestbook.
"Just for the night," Jack said warmly, offering a smile that barely reached his eyes. "Passing through on business. Something mundane."
She handed him a brass key, room 302. "Up the stairs, right at the end."
"Thank you," he replied, letting the caring tone fade as he turned.
The stairwell was narrow. He ascended slowly, already returning to his earlier thoughts.
He unlocked the door to 302, stepped inside, and let it close behind him with a soft click.
The apartment was simple. A curtained window, a small desk, a worn bed with a crooked frame and a small bathroom. It would do.
He leaned back against the closed door for a breath before shrugging off his coat.
I'll have to recall the marionettes I left scattered throughout Intis and Loen to maintain my identity as "Ethan Carter."
The Eternal Blazing Sun Church's search had been persistent, but fruitless. He hadn't left behind any obvious trails. Still, a stunt like the one they will be pulling meant he couldn't afford to keep his marionettes lying around. Not when sharp-eyed Beyonders could sniff out irregularities.
He stepped into the bathroom and ran cold water over his hands. The mirror reflected his usual figure. He stared at it for a moment before splashing his face.
At least I've already laid the groundwork for my sudden absences. A few weeks of low public visibility, big business deals overseas. The Bursary Foundation will find no fault with that.
He wiped his face with a towel and leaned against the counter.
My mental state's better than it was. The worst of it has passed. Audrey's sessions, the Fool's mark, the new anchors I've made, they're doing their job.
It'll hold. As long as nothing worse happens.
Jack stood still for a few seconds more, letting the calm linger.
Then he turned and walked back into the room.
A subtle ripple appeared. Just a few feet from where Jack stood, a figure emerged in silence. It was Erynos.
His marionette.
He wore the same tailored attire as always, but his left hand bore a familiar accessory: a glove of pale human skin. Jack gave it a glance, before the glove dissolved on its own.
Without a word, Jack reached toward his own side. His hand flexed, then twisted with a snap and eight worms tore free.
Pain flashed across his features. He inhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his palm open to see the dead worms.
Erynos stepped forward, taking the worms from Jack, while, in his other hand, a set of materials appeared. Long white candles marked with inscriptions, coiled strings of silver, and slim metallic plates etched with faint, familiar grooves. The same tools used to make the Abyss Charms.
He laid everything in place with practiced ease, lighting each candle in turn and letting their soft, smoky glow fill the dim hotel room with shadowy flickers.
The process began.
Erynos carved the symbols representing history into the materials before him.
The worms were laid along the outer circle, forming an asymmetrical yet flowing boundary.
And then he spoke with a layered voice, in a prayer.
"The Undying Miracle of Ancient Times,
The Sorcerer of Endless Reflections,
The Bizarre Invoker of Hidden Acts,
The Faceless Jack Layne."
At once, Jack heard some faint murmurs. In response, raised his right hand. His expression remained unreadable as his spirituality surged outward towards the altar
Candles flared, the shadows deepened. A subtle ripple through the room, pressing against it for just a moment before returning to stillness.
The worms twitched once, then lay inert. The symbols ignited and the silver glowed faintly beneath a transparent sheen.
The charms took form.
Four of them were Yesterday Once More Charms. They had the appearance of a rectangular diamond-like shape, with layers of complicated symbols that extend into the void from the constantly refracting light.
The remaining four were new, but with very similar features to them. Jack had made these new ones himself.
Jack moved to grab them as his marionette gathered the ritual materials back into his form.
"Wonderful, these charms will be very useful'.
These were charms related to a Scholar of Yore's authority of Historical Void Summoning. It can summon a projection from the Historical Void, according to the user's knowledge and history. Its limitations were the same, with the duration of 15 minutes to maintain the projection, being capable of summoning even Angel-level projections.
"I'll call it the 'Memorilia Charm'. This will be quite useful to bargain and sell for, it's demand would go over the skies." Jack remarked as he placed the charms into his Traveler's Bag, alongside the Glove of Profaned Truth within it.
After clearing the ritual materials, Erynos remained in place, motionless.
Jack glanced back.
Within a moment, his body changed to that of Victor Hale.
Jack adjusted the collar of his coat.
"I'll take a walk."
There wasn't much left to tie him down in Conant City. No errands, no meetings, no traps to spring. But before he took to the sea, before going to look for whatever interesting news, it wouldn't hurt to take a stroll.
Sometimes that was all it took.
But before that, he raised his hand to his chest, in a prayer.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
He kept his eyes half-lowered. "Bestow upon this faithful believer the unfounded knowledge and symbols to the domain of concealment!"
The room remained still, no sudden revelation. The air didn't even tremble.
Jack stood there for another few seconds, then gave the faintest nod.
Nothing for now. "No problem. I just need to try some more."
He turned and stepped out into the hall. Behind him, Victor Hale followed. The lock clicked softly shut.
"Time to have an enthusiastic walk."
Jack walked the dusky hall with unhurried steps, his figure already changing. By the time he reached the stairwell, his features had dulled into the weary face of a middle-aged dockworker. His clothes changed to a coarse linen shirt, loosely tucked into faded brown trousers, boots scuffed from imagined labor.
He hunched his shoulders slightly, kept his gaze to the ground. Just another tired man in a city full of them.
Victor Hale followed a few paces behind, his expression unreadable. He had short, tousled brown curls that framed a face just sharp enough to suggest trouble. A dark trench coat hung loosely over a buttoned black vest, the collar slightly raised, as if by habit rather than style.
Together, they slipped into Conant's streets.
The streets bustled with the sharp scent of seawater and dried saltfish. Vendors shouted across each other near the bay, peddling bundles of rubber and fruit. Furthermore, the streets turned quieter, dotted with diners, pawnshops, and second-rate brothels disguised as boarding houses.
Jack kept close to the peeling brick walls, casting glances beneath his brows at those who passed. He watched how a man touched the inside of his coat before entering an alley. Noted the way a young woman crossed the street to avoid two drunken sailors. Counted three watchers on rooftops before ducking into the next block.
Eventually, he turned into a street lined with smoky signs and found what he was looking for.
A bar. Cheap, but not filthy. Enough traffic to mask a stranger. Just rough enough to let secrets go through the crowd.
Jack stepped inside.
The air was thick with pipe smoke and spilled spirits. A broken piano played somewhere near the back, off-key and unattended. Around the room, dockhands and merchant guards drank and muttered in low voices. One or two men raised their eyes when he entered, but no one said anything.
He shuffled up to the counter with a hesitant step, made sure his boots dragged a little. Then he leaned on the wood, shoulders hunched, as if they carried too many burdens.
"B-beer," he muttered, voice low and hoarse. "Just a beer."
The bartender, a square-jawed woman with tired eyes, gave him a long look before nodding. She poured the drink without a word.
Jack took the cup with both hands, letting it shake slightly as he lifted it. He didn't sip, not yet.
Instead, he scanned the room again. Quiet. Watchful.
Jack hunched slightly at the bar, shoulders sloped inward, eyes darting with an anxious gleam that never quite met anyone else's. He looked like a man used to being ignored.
He sipped from the chipped cup in his hands, waited until the air settled, and then, voice just a notch too shaky to be confident, asked the man next to him,
"Say… have you ever heard of the Mystery Man?"
The man turned, already irritated. "What?"
Jack blinked. "The Mystery Man. Real quiet sort. Dangerous, real dangerous! I saw him once… Only once."
A second voice joined, more annoyed. "You drunk already, old man?"
Jack flinched, shrinking further into his coat. "No, no, just… I didn't see his face. Nobody has. He clears out problems. Wipes things away. Leaves behind gold. Or so I heard…"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know," Jack murmured, voice trailing like smoke. "Only got away by luck, really. Maybe he lets the unimportant ones go."
More voices chimed in, cursing, mocking, some telling him to shut it. One called him mad, another asked for a card game instead.
Jack didn't push. He just kept murmuring it here and there. "Dangerous sort… real dangerous… clears out trouble… claims the prize... always alone…"
By the time the barkeep grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out, the mood in the room had shifted, not alarmed, not afraid, but touched with just enough confusion to let the name root.
He stumbled out into the humid streetlight, dust on his coat and laughter in his ears. The door slammed shut behind him.
A few paces ahead, Victor Hale leaned against a wall in the shadows, lighting a cigarette he would never smoke. Jack caught up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve without a word.
They kept walking, Jack leading, Hale hanging back just enough. One bar done. Three more before the night ran cold.
The next was dimmer, louder. Jack changed his face again, just a little. Less frail. A bit more twitchy. Enough to make someone lean away instead of closer. And then the same question returned, softly, stubbornly:
"Say… have you ever heard of the Mystery Man?"
The second tavern was more cramped than the first , walls closer, lighting dimmer, the smell of sweat and burnt gin hanging heavy in the air. Jack adjusted accordingly.
His back hunched. His posture twitched. He coughed when no one spoke to him, muttered half-thoughts under his breath. And then, when conversation resumed, he slipped the same question in, quiet and ragged:
"Say… has anyone here ever heard of the Mystery Man?"
This time, someone heard.
Two stools down, a lean fellow in a patched red coat paused mid-sip.
"What did you say?"
Jack didn't meet his eyes. "The Mystery Man. Just something I heard. Said he's been 'round these parts. Clearing things. Leaving bodies. Or nothin' at all. Riches sometimes."
"Where'd you hear that?"
Jack offered a half-shake of the head, half-shiver of his shoulders. "Don't remember. Maybe in Valet Town. Or was it near Desi Bay…? But I saw him. Once, with a glimpse. Didn't see the face. Never does anyone."
That was all it took.
The red-coated man turned to the others at his table. A few leaned in, skeptical but listening. One scoffed but asked questions anyway.
Jack kept his answers thin. Uncertain and vague. "Big trouble goes missing," he whispered, "and this man's behind it."
By the time he was tossed out of the bar for "being a drunk and wasting space," the words had already begun to spread again , some with mockery, others with curiosity. But curiosity had longer legs.
Jack dusted off his coat with exaggerated slowness and nodded faintly to no one in particular. He turned the corner.
Victor Hale entered the tavern in silence.
The heavy door creaked, drawing the briefest glances. He wore a dull gray coat, collar turned up to obscure most of his face. Shadows clung to his features, the low brim of his hat hiding his eyes. His boots made no sound as he crossed the uneven floor.
A few whispers followed him as he stepped inside.
"That's Hale, right?"
"The merc from Vevey… took down a whole gang east of Pritz."
"No, he died. Or vanished."
"Heard he works alone. Doesn't even sleep under the same roof twice."
Victor said nothing. Just moved forward, boots echoing against the warped floorboards. He passed tables quietly, glancing once at a group near the back, four men hunched over cards and coins, their eyes sharp beneath half-drunk lids.
He reached the bar and tapped once.
The bartender stared.
Victor pulled out a silver coin.
"Beer," he said, his voice even.
Someone snorted. One of the men at the card table , tall, greasy hair, scarred knuckles , pushed back his chair.
"You're a long way from the Rose Harbour fights, Hale," he said. "Or did you wander in thinking we'd hand you our wallets?"
Victor didn't turn. He simply raised his glass once it was served and took a calm sip.
The man's chair scraped back harder.
"You deaf?" he barked.
Now Victor had turned around.
He didn't smile nor speak.
In a blur, he crossed the room, ducked the man's punch, and drove a fist into his stomach hard enough to lift him from the floor. The table overturned , cards and coin flying , as the second man lunged forward.
Victor twisted, caught the man's wrist, and slammed him into a support beam.
The third man hesitated. That was all it took.
A sharp jab to the knee sent him crumpling. The fourth didn't move at all. He just raised both hands and muttered, "Shit."
Victor straightened his vest.
Behind him, silence stretched.
He walked back to the bar, dropped another silver coin onto the counter, and gave the bartender a nod.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he left, no dramatics, no glances back. Only a door creaking shut and whispers beginning anew.
"Did you see, ?"
"Didn't even draw a weapon…"
"No face, just like they said. Coins too."
"Must be him. The Mystery Man."
From outside, Victor continued down the alley, coat brushing against the stone wall.
Just as planned.