Hem and the twins traversed the plains toward "Quadrant W," the ancestral home of the first Mystward. The twins considered the plan a waste of time—except for the time spent at Jefferson's home and office.
For an Oracle, Jefferson led a rather simple life. He purchased only the essentials to run the household, and, not being blessed with any children, his savings should have made him rich long ago. Yet the household screamed of bankruptcy.
The twins followed Hem Lock in eerie silence, trying to absorb his process of deduction. They had read his publication claiming deduction to be a science like no other. And for once, they didn't feel completely lost, as they, much like the great minds of Wanderlust, didn't understand a single word.
Dwindling interest—or perhaps the sheer inability to teach such a science, according to some scholars—eventually led to the publications' removal.
Unlike those fools, the twins had the rare opportunity to follow Hem's every step and learn the mysterious science firsthand. Maybe even use it to get promoted to Sentinel... or Chief!
Hem strolled around the house, the twins shadowing his every move. If he sneezed, they tickled each other's noses until they sneezed too. Yet the twins disagreed when Hem concluded that Jefferson preferred renting a cheap shed over building a movable mansion.
Moving a household full of Ornyxes, which could clash in close proximity, is more expensive than moving the house itself. Even if an Oracle could predict the improbable movements of the "Wonders of Wanderlust," they would still prioritize ease, protection, and certainty over risk, no matter their skill.
Their obvious conclusion—shared by other Enforcers and Sentinels alike—turned out to be false. Hem's deduction was backed by a simple bank statement.
The twins told themselves they'd catch the next clue and followed Hem toward a live portrait held in a Veskan'trox—one of the most expensive items Jefferson owned.
Unlike its older counterpart, the Ornyx Veskan, the Veskan'trox could hold multiple live pictures in its frame. Also, unlike the Veskan, it required an entire carriage during transport. Otherwise, the Jouls poured into a single painting would vanish in an instant.
Hem stood in the dimly lit study, his fingers tracing the smooth, hollow frame of the Veskan'trox. It was unlike any other Ornyx he had encountered—a wide, rectangular slab of wood, its surface polished to an unnatural gleam, as if the paint had never dried. The edges curled slightly, giving it the look of a rolled parchment frozen in time. Faint ripples pulsed beneath the surface, moving like whispers trapped beneath a frozen lake.
A tap at the center made the Veskan'trox shudder, colors bleeding into motion. A dozen fragmented images flickered to life, layered atop one another like reflections in shattered glass.
Hem watched them rearrange—some slipping behind others, some stretching wide before snapping into shape.
The first image came into focus: a street bustling with people, captured mid-motion. A woman's shawl was forever caught in a gust of wind, its fabric rippling despite the stillness of the frame. In another, a child reached for a fallen fruit, his tiny fingers inches away, as though he might grasp it if Hem only waited long enough. These two were the standard images displayed on every Veskan'trox—meant to showcase its depth and beauty.
Hem's brow furrowed as he flipped his hand over the Ornyx, watching as the layers peeled apart like pages in a living book. Each scene was meticulously painted—not from memory, but through a Quenara's eyes, etched into the Ornyx via an ancient spell long forgotten by commoners.
"Did a Hystorian let a secret slip?" Hem wondered aloud.
His gaze caught something—a dark smear in the backdrop of a family portrait. He tilted the frame, and the shadow shifted, revealing an unnatural smudge, forced upon the paint. Unlike the others, it did not belong.
Hem's stomach tightened.
The Veskan'trox wasn't just an Ornyx that preserved a moment. It revealed things even the eye had missed. And this—whatever it was—was waiting to be seen.
Hem flipped through all the family and official portraits, his notes about the smudge over a hat confusing everyone present.
"Did Jefferson ever have children? Or adopt any from the orphanage?" Hem asked.
"None, sir," a lower-star Sentinel replied. "We went through every record and found nothing. The official files and a summary of them are in this folder." He handed Hem a folder full of whisper leaves.
Hem scanned through the documents, the twins reading over his shoulder, trying to keep up with his speed. Once finished, Hem frowned.
"There isn't any information about his fondness for hats."
"Maybe he didn't have any, sir?" the Sentinel offered, opening a closet to reveal two ragged hats in the corner.
"They're on a separate shelf," Hem noted. "Which means he allocated them a space within easy reach." He raised an eyebrow, yet no one followed his line of thought. "He uses them daily. And he's holding one or the other in every portrait." He pointed at the Veskan'trox. "He's very fond of them... one more than the rest." He flipped the paintings to find the one with the smudge.
"Find this one," Hem ordered, moving on.
"When do you reckon we'll be that good?" Jorik asked.
"At the speed we're going?" Jorek glanced at the parallel setting suns. "Never!"
Hem jumped from one strange deduction to the next, the rest eavesdropping on his inner thoughts thanks to his habit of speaking aloud.
Why wouldn't he? There wasn't anyone skilled enough to keep up or to help with any of his deductions. So, much like the twins, every other officer took silent notes, hoping that what they saw might help them later when they reread his scripts—The Mystic Science of Deduction.
"Sir!" the twins interrupted.
"If this concerns that…" Hem gestured toward the officers gossiping about something. "Then keep it to yourselves."
"Yes, sir!" they chimed, immediately joining in on the gossip.
Hem had been a fellow student, which compelled the twins to defend his deductive powers amid the chatter. They had hundreds of cases to prove Hem's brilliance. Each case was greater than the last. Each was a puzzle that left the officers in awe.
Hem solved every such case within days. The absurd requirement of solid proof was the only reason for the delay; otherwise, he often solved them within moments of arriving.
Yet whenever someone recalled the name Hem Lock, only the three blunders he had committed resurfaced. His otherworldly deductions—performed across hundreds of cases—were written off as lucky guesses. Once Hem explained the process, the magic behind the trick seemed ordinary. Even the twins sometimes thought they could have made the same leap.
As always, a case that seemed simple to others was, to Hem, a devious plan crafted by a mastermind. He went against the queen's orders, wasted resources beyond his limit, and was eventually removed from the case after failing the trial.
The trust and applause he had earned by solving a hundred cases were forgotten. But the only three cases he failed followed him like a shadow, dragging his reputation to depths few could recover from.
"If Sir Lock says there's a puzzle missing, then there's a puzzle missing," the twins argued with the officers.
"Oh really?" one of them laughed. "Tell him to solve the Impossible Position case then… oh wait! That's already been solved."
The officers burst into laughter, making the twins flush red and storm off.
While they wanted to break a few noses—or at least back up their fellow student, they couldn't do either. For the Impossible Position was a case stranger than all the rest.
Case: Impossible Position.
The witness's words held no hesitation, no cracks of uncertainty—he had seen it and had claimed his life upon it.
A man, unmistakable in face and form, committing two crimes at nearly the same moment.
One in the eastern district, where a merchant had been left bleeding in an alley. The other was in the western square, where a storehouse had been emptied in plain sight.
The times matched too closely; no amount of speed, no hidden passage, no trick of the eye could explain it.
The accused had to be in both places at the same moment—but that was impossible.
Every piece of evidence aligned, yet none of it made sense. The man had one body, one mind, one existence—so how had he defied reality itself?
Mystica, able to change one's appearance, had everlasting effects, which the perpetrator didn't have. While there weren't any 'Relics' strong enough to split a soul into two, none were recorded, and none in the poor perpetrator's position.
Both the mystica's ability to reveal the truth and the Ornyx's ability to deduce a lie confirmed the witness statement. Leaving Hem's theory of a grand mastermind without any basis.
"Mind solving this case too?" Hem said, instantly breaking everyone's spirit. "Or prove me wrong in any deduction I've made so far?" He looked around—everyone shied away, unable to meet his eyes. "Didn't think so."
With no alternate solutions—other than leaving everything to the Aurochs—the officers shut their traps, while the twins cheered in silence, complying with Hem's every instruction.
The Septor—Chief of the Oracle Departments—spoke with the Chief of Pyxen and concluded that Ouroboros would move sooner than expected, as this stop wasn't part of its original cycle.
They already had limited time to begin with—three weeks, according to the Septor—but factoring in travel to and from Quadrant W, they had only four days on Ouroboros to solve the case.
That is, if all went as planned—or as Hem put it: "If our bad luck cancels out our good luck."
The Chief granted Hem full authority and an unlimited budget for the Ouroboros case. Yet Hem knew only a successful resolution would justify the expense. If they failed, the so-called "unlimited budget" would be repaid, down to the last Quincil, from their allocations for other cases.
On a Gyroclaw, spiraling endlessly along the whirl-track, the twins asked Hem for the umpteenth time why they were wasting time and comfort here when they could travel faster on the Skyrun, or in a luxurious Glidane.
"Because if we fail, which has a ninety-nine percent chance of happening, we won't spend years recovering what we wasted on this case," Hem explained.
Before the twins could confuse themselves further, the other passengers sighed in collective exhaustion, joining forces to explain the simple concept.
"I'll never consider myself dumb again… boy, you changed me," said a burly man.
"Amen to that!" his wife agreed.
"Don't try," another muttered to his fellow passengers. "We've been stuck with them since that poor Sentinel explained it the first time."
"Yeah!" another woman added. "I was just a fellow passenger… never thought a ride could get longer. I was wrong. Very, very—very wrong!"
"But if they understand it now, we can ride in peace. Well… as peaceful as a Gyroclaw can get," one man mumbled, covering his mouth, not wanting to make puke circles.
A hefty monetary contribution to the village was encouraged, but some were made to clean their mess as punishment. The man feared the latter more than the former.
"Can I give it a try?" an old man across the rock-shell offered. "I'm an Acharya," he declared, and the passengers cheered as one.
"YES… Please!"
"Do you know the Quincil exchanges?" he asked.
"Yes!" the twins answered in unison.
"Then explain it—in that same sync."
"Niffle, Gleam, Shard, and Joul. In that order."
Most transactions revolve around a structured system of beautifully crafted coins, each representing a tier in value and aesthetics.
Niffle – The smallest denomination, these are tiny, light-blue coins made of polished glass infused with powdered Ornyx. They shimmer subtly and emit a soft hum when stacked together, with their denominations being 'four' Niffles for 'one' Gleam.
Gleam – Slightly larger, these are hexagonal silver coins with a faint glow that pulses gently in the darkness. They are often used for bulk purchases, with their denominations being 'seven' Gleams for 'one' Shard.
Shard – Named for their shard-like, jagged edges, these golden coins are embedded with a thread of mystic-touched metal that gives off warmth when held. Often carried in leather wraps by merchants and travelers, their denominations are 'fourteen' Shards for 'one' Joul.
Joul – The highest standard coin, these are weighty, disc-shaped pieces made of dark Ornyx alloy with shifting runes across their faces—symbols that flicker like embers when observed. They are considered a symbol of trust and trade among the kingdoms.
All coins are accepted across the four kingdoms, and while Quincil refers to money in general, its value lies not just in the metal but in the mystical essence within.
"Good." The Pandit stroked his long beard, chuckling. "Now... four Niffle make one Gleam."
"Yes!" everyone chimed in sync, as if in class, eager to get on the teacher's good side—distant stars a plausible reward.
"My, my!" the old man laughed. "What an enthusiastic crowd. Now picture this... I give you one Gleam to solve a case at my doorstep."
He tossed a Gleam coin into the air. Everyone's eyes followed it as the Pandit caught it on the second turn of the Gyroclaw.
"This means you have four Niffles to distribute and solve the mystery."
Four Niffle coins flicked into the air and disappeared into the Pandit's pocket. The clicking of Quincil became a visual clue for the twins to latch onto.
"Now... during the case, you use one Niffle to travel around and ask questions, another to stay active—by eating. Another for external help, be it a bribe or an incentive for another department to assist. Now, how many do you have left?"
"One!" the twins shouted alongside the passengers.
The old man basked in the passengers' involvement, yet his ears stayed attuned to the twins—his actual students, his true target.
"Excellent! These expenses have solved my case with a profit of one Niffle. Impressed, I give you one Gleam as a reward, which, in real-life scenarios, becomes your earnings, no matter your official position in Wanderlust."
"Ohhh...!" the passengers echoed with the twins, realization dawning on them.
"The extra Niffle can either be used as an added incentive or saved to cover future losses. This is why we have superiors. They're simply more experienced at building wealth for the department."
"Ohhh!" they echoed again, louder this time.
"Now..."
The old man paused. The silence made the passengers' heartbeats slow. The anticipation of a difficult question—and who might answer it for a star—created a sense of dread.
"...What happens if I use up the Gleam without catching the culprit?"
The silence deepened; passengers forgot to breathe in their efforts to think.
"We ask for more?" the twins said aloud, unsure.
"Very good."
The old man laughed, lightening the mood, breaking the silence, and forcing everyone to breathe again.
"Now… I try to understand the difficulty and offer you one more Gleam. And let's say you solve it with one Niffle left. Now what?"
Again, the silence returned.
Only Hem knew the answer, but he stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt the class in session.
"I doubt the difficulty at first, blaming myself for not assessing it correctly," said the old man. "This trait is too little, too rare, in anyone. And for good reason. So, instead... I throw the blame on you. My appreciation drops from one Gleam to one Niffle!"
He tossed one of each coin into the air.
"Your incentive drops from a Gleam... to half."
The old man sighed with a quiet longing—something lost, something that could never be found.
"Hurt," he said softly, "has a nasty sense of attracting its kind. It piles on... one sorrow feeding the next. And it's not just your worth being cut down, not just the money you worked so hard to earn. It's your chance to make a mistake. Your chance to fix what went wrong."
The ride came to a halt. The old man hopped off, watching the glum faces trailing behind him.
"Come on now!" he called out with a hearty laugh. "When the world says 'No,' you say, 'I'm gonna try, try, try anyways!' Hahaha…!"
The passengers groaned as one, making the old man grimace. "No wonder I've never reached the title of Guru," he muttered. "I can get the point across." He paused, glancing at the twins, waiting for their nod before continuing. "But I just can't seem to bring forth the light." He chuckled and pulled Hem closer. "You realize I left out the part meant for you, right?"
"About winning," Hem nodded.
"You've had a great Guru." The old man crossed Hem, patting him on the back. "Sacrifice is inevitable on the path to victory. Be it small… or grand. But does that mean we stop dreaming? Stop striving?"
Hem still felt the weight of the old man's hand on his back. But when he turned, he was gone. Vanished into the crowd, a commoner once more among strangers.
Yet he heard something.
Maybe the final words of the Acharya, still echoing long after he'd disappeared.
Or maybe it was a whisper from his subconscious:
"What's done has no future. What's about to happen… depends solely on the present."
Hem stood at the edge of realization, so close to cracking the puzzle. But something was missing. A single piece. A shard that could change everything. Like a question mark at the end of a statement—suddenly turning certainty into doubt.
"Let's go, boss," urged the twins.
"Did either of you get a good look at the Acharya?"
"Old," said Jorik.
"Scrawny," added Jorek.
"Long white beard," they said in unison.
"Describe any other male teacher."
The twins thought for a moment, then shrugged. "They all kinda look the same."
"No. That's just our minds assigning a generic look... When we don't pay attention, our imagination fills in the blanks."
"Boy... our imagination sucks!"
"Rudimentary. Agreed." Hem didn't answer any of their follow-up questions, already sinking into thought, the missing puzzle piece taunting him in silence.
Then, he felt it: a prickle of frozen swirls danced up his spine. Subtle, yet precise. The only distraction he couldn't ignore.
Hem turned his gaze toward the outskirts of the kingdom. Even though his eyes were trained to spot the misplaced in a world of chaos, he could have missed them, but not now.
Hidden figures moved at the edge of vision, preparing for an ambush.
"I am a Sentinel," Hem declared, his hands slipping behind his coat, ready to draw a weapon. "Be wise, and talk things out before you decide to attack."
The twins whipped their heads around, startled, assuming he was speaking to a rogue mystical 'Whimzle' that stood frozen between the field.
A puddle gurgled in response, making them jump.
"We aren't here for you," it said.
"Don't talk, you idiot!" hissed a nearby bush, sounding very much like a little girl scolding her little brother.
The puddle and the bush launched into an argument, much to the twins' growing horror.
"New Mystica?" they whispered in unison.
"No." Hem rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Children… And no, that's not the name of a Mystica." With an exaggerated sigh, he marched over to the bush and pulled the girl out by the collar.
"All of you. Out. Now!" Hem snapped. "That's an order from a Sentinel."
A dozen children popped out from all sorts of hiding places—behind rocks, beneath leaves, tucked inside barrels and bushes—erupting in laughter as the little girl got caught.
"Why didn't you pluck him out?" the girl snapped, pointing at the boy emerging from the puddle.
"New shoes," Hem muttered with a roll of his eyes.
"Why were you kids stalking us?" the twins asked.
"They weren't stalking us," Hem corrected. "They were watching the Whimzle."
"We were?"
"Yes, you were," Hem said with a tone that brooked no argument. "And I will be the only one asking questions from now on." He turned to the girl. "Start talking. Or I'll dip you in that." He nodded toward the puddle.
"What about your shoes?" the puddle boy asked, deadpan.
"We all got one!" the girl huffed, crossing her arms. "This is our job. We get a Joul if we see them move."
"Who told you that?" Hem asked.
"A kid. Who's really a very old man... Duh!"
"I hate to—"
"—We get paid," the girl cut Hem off. "Every adult says the same thing. I get it. What you don't get is—we're kids. Not dumb kids."
"Yeah!" the puddle boy echoed proudly.
"…Except that one," she added with a scowl. "We work for that old man in kids' form."
"Need more than that," Hem glares.
"Oh, uh… I guess he works at the farm ahead?" She shrugged, trying to sound casual. "He caught us—um…"
"Stealing," the puddle boy said, trying to help her recall.
"Is there a word stronger than 'dumb'?" the girl asked Hem, dead serious. "Anywho… then he turned us into his subjects or something... We do small stuff for him, and he pays us in Niffles." She beckoned Hem close to whisper. "Before I got here, the others were paid in… knowledge. Whatever that is." She shrugged. "This mystica was way more important for some reason. So he said he'd pay more if we got anything out of it. We tried a bunch. But we've been failing for a month straight."
She squinted up at Hem, then jabbed a finger at his chest.
"Senti… fool, you say? You're an adult!"
"Glad you noticed." Hem dropped her back to the ground without ceremony.
"Do you know anything about these mystica?" she asked. "I can trade you some other info… or a Niffle for it," she fished out a coin.
"I know it's a waste of time," Hem said, walking away. "No adult's ever figured them out. So don't bother. Now—is that farm 221B? I know you know there's no 'B' in our zones, but—"
"—The 'B' is more of a rebellious idea," the puddle boy interrupted. "Also… none of us know what 'rebellious' means. Orin tried to explain it... It still makes no sense."
"I'm shocked he remembers the word rebel-icious!" the bush girl exclaimed, mispronouncing it with pride.
"Now you got something from us, spit something back about that weirdo," she demanded, pointing at the mystica.
"I told the truth. No one knows," Hem replied. "So this Orin kid—he's teaching you all this?"
The kids nodded like bobbleheads.
"And he's that way," Hem confirmed the direction.
"Don't get fooled by his looks," the bush girl warned as they started walking. "He's old-old-old… and odd-odd-odd...!"
"How old-young is he, exactly?" the twins asked Hem.
"I'm guessing a year or two older than her... so, nine?"
"How smart can a nine-year-old be for them to consider him old?"
Before Hem could answer with one of his long lectures, the twins both suggested, "We should hug the mystica. For luck."
Hem looked at them like they'd just sprouted tails. "And why, exactly, is getting impaled a good idea?"
"For good luck, of course," they answered in perfect sync. "Aurochs knows we need some."
"A lot!" added the bush girl trailing behind them. "That rumor's made up by Orin. Unless he's, like, Almighty, it's just a rumor."
"Oooh-kay..." Hem muttered, mentally filing Orin under Wanderer-turned-local-myth.
"Also—why are you still following us?"
"I get paid if you steal stuff."
"…That's odd."
"Yeah, and stalking a statue isn't?" She rolled her eyes and skipped ahead to lead them toward the farm.
At a ridge, Hem Lock went still, arms crossed, the dirt beneath his boots humming faintly with the aftershocks of energy drifting through the field. For once, the 'Mystic Farm' below lived up to its name—not just a painted sign or a well-placed illusion, but a rare alignment of function and spirit.
Here, Mystgrove didn't farm for Ore, lure Mystica close for the 'Creation Plants' to absorb their essence. No. Here, there were no Mystgrove, no external lure, no caverns, or traps... just mystica longing about and devouring massive amounts of energy.
By Hem's estimate, a couple of hundred 'Joules' every day!
In any normal 'mystic farm,' rows of 'Lavitory Grass' swayed in organized stillness, each blade reaching down through carefully loosened earth to the caverns beneath, where glowing veins of ore would soon be harvested.
Hem knew the design well. Everyone did. This was the model taught across every quadrant: lure the Mystica in, feed them just enough wonder to make them linger, and let the plants, crafted by Specialists, trademarked and owned, drink their essence dry. Based on the mystgrove's lure and expertise, they could create the most commonly used ore, 'Fluxmarrow,' or the strongest, most difficult ore to produce—Pyronyx. All depending upon which kind of mystica linger around the farm, shedding essence, while not claiming energy.
Mystics never complained. Beasts, after all, didn't know when they were being used.
Hem remembered his school's trip to the local farms. His gaze shifted to the distant treeline where workers moved like ghosts, barely visible against the shimmering backdrop, separating the mystics based on which they wanted to stay. They guided the creatures gently but falsely, tapping metallic canes into the soil to mimic ancient patterns, drawing the Mystica in circles until the grass bulged with power. It was efficient. Cold. Profitable.
And it had nothing to do with farming, not really, now that he'd seen real farming. Orin's farm.
This place was chaos and harmony braided into one—a patchwork of imperfect rows, fruit-bearing plants left to overgrow, Mystics wandering freely between groves and barns, not lured but living. The difference wasn't in the results—both yielded ore. Although Orin's farm could never turn a profit. The difference was in the relationship. Orin didn't trap his Mystics. He welcomed them. Let them choose. Let them stay and leave on their whims. There weren't any wanderers in sight—who could be in such an unpredictable land?
Hem's breath caught in his throat as he saw one of the shimmering creatures—maybe a Glissheep or Vibloom—pause near a shaft of bluegrass and bow its head, as if praying. No leash. No guide. Just presence. And realises that was the truth most refused to admit. Mystica didn't take. We did.
The 'creation plants,' as 'Specialists' called them, were a lie wrapped in patent law and prestige. Mystica might absorb essence, yes—but never more than they gave. The real theft happened when wanderers called discovery their own, then punished anyone who dared to share it.
Hem stepped back from the ridge, his boots scuffing the dirt. Somewhere far off, he smelled stew—the familiar, earthy steam of something cooking atop a Fervorox's back. It stirred a memory. A better one.
Hem whispered to himself, "Mystic Farm, huh? Looks right... true to its name for once." He chuckles. "What is this unease I feel, though!" He clutches his chest, calming his heart.
Was there anyone who would understand, or even try, Orin's way—where farming meant coexistence, not control.
Was his first impression of the kid wrong?
When had Lock ever been wrong?
While Hem's questions required much more time to dissolve, the twin's previous question was soon answered, as they entered the administrative office of the farm.
The room was a mess of letters, most of them written in twenty different languages. Hem couldn't help but wonder—what on earth had Orin been thinking? The letters weren't just scattered haphazardly. They seemed to hide something—furniture, walls, even the very floor. Each one was a puzzle, a message, or perhaps a warning.
Orin had turned the entire office into a board, sticking his letters on every surface. Paper was a rare and costly commodity in Wanderlust. The only way to get it was to wait for a mystica to abandon a tree, collecting the discarded bark. Only scholars had the intellect to either use or afford one.
"The farm must be doing really well?" Hem said, his mind trying to piece together the riddle.
"You thought otherwise, based on the number of Whimzle?" the little girl giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Welcome to being the second-smartest person in the room." She patted Hem on the back and left, leaving him to ponder her cryptic remark.
"Why is that?" the twins asked, confused.
"Because it takes a lot of Quincil to keep a mystica contained." Orin's voice broke through as he entered the room. "Let alone having mystics wander about without supervision. If you're here for a job, I require resumes and a year for a trial run. Without pay."
"A year?" the twins echoed in disbelief.
"If you don't know how long that is, or what a resume is, then that'll be two years." Orin flashed a playful smile as he tiptoed around a pile of letters.
He pushed the clutter aside to reveal a desk beneath it. "Don't touch anything," he warned, his tone becoming more serious. "Everything is exactly where I want it. If you don't like the conditions, get out."
Hem had been through many job profiles during his academic years. He knew that farm folk were some of the hardest workers, but made the least amount of profit compared to the improbable odds they faced.
'This kid's going to run his family business dry if he keeps treating people this way,' Hem thought. For all he knows, we could be potential investors...
He glanced at the twins, who were still huddled together, afraid to step on a letter. 'Okay, maybe Orin's more perceptive than he lets on… but how can he be, when he hasn't even looked up from his letters?'
"We're Enforcers," Hem lied, taking the lead as usual. But Orin's nose never rose from the paper. "Where are your parents?"
"Go around," Orin said dismissively, his eyes scanning another letter.
"That's how we came in," the twins protested in unison.
"If they're not around, they aren't here."
"You don't know where they are?" Hem pressed, trying to read Orin's detached demeanor.
"Should I?" Orin replied, a hint of sarcasm creeping in.
"Well… they're your parents."
"Do I look bothered?"
"…No."
"Then you shouldn't be either." Orin sighed, as if he were bored by the conversation. "Now go bother someone else. In case you can't see… I'm keeping myself busy until my date arrives."
Hem's brow furrowed, but he pressed on. "What are your parents' names?"
"Don't know. Don't care."
Hem wanted to drill the kid—maybe even shove his badge into that smug little face—but gave up. There was no point. No time.
Leaving the kid alone was wrong. If Orin were just a normal kid, Hem might've felt some social obligation. What if... "What if we're here to rob you?" he tried, letting the edge of authority slice through his words.
Orin didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't care. He had to deal with people at school, so he did. But here, at home? He was free to focus on what actually mattered.
"Oh, what, oh what shall I do…" Orin said with dramatic flair. "…Too bad the only thing to rob is my massive debt. Want it? It's all yours!"
"This is a farm," one of the twins muttered. "There could be other stuff."
"Read the name again, doofus. This is a mystic farm—"
"Don't tell me—" Hem groaned, already dreading the answer.
"Yes!" Orin cut in, grinning. "It's full of mystica."
"…Because people kept coming here looking for vegetables and meat?" the twins guessed.
"Exactly!" Orin clapped once. "All the best, stealing mystics. Truly. Hope your pockets are bottomless."
People worked their whole lives just to afford the lure—the bare minimum requirement to attract mystica. Even those living fully by ornyx needed to hustle for the Ore.
Mystgrovers knew: one mistake, one slip, and a whole season's savings could be devoured by wandering mystics. If they found the lure before harvest, well… The farm wouldn't be yours anymore. It'd be theirs.
"Did you…" Hem trailed off, the realization clicking into place.
"By choice," Orin said, preempting the question.
"Mystward." The twins whispered in sync, eyes wide.
"You know your titles." Orin raised an eyebrow. "Good for you. Now get out before I call the enforcers."
"We - Are - the enforcers," the twins said, grinning. "At your service."
"Shouldn't one wait outside until invited in?" Orin clicked his tongue. "Do you not know the custom, or just not care? Either way—GET. OUT!"
"We were short on time." Hem gave a low bow. "Please convey our message to Mr. Mystiq."
Orin's hand fluttered lazily. "Listening."
"…Orin Mystiq?" Hem blinked.
"The one and only," said Orin with a smug smile.
Hem launched into a volley of questions. Each one was returned with either a flat "don't know" or a colder "don't care."
"What kind of kid are you?"
Orin finally looked up. His face was tired. Furious. "The kind who can't catch a break, apparently."
He wanted to feed them to the basement mystics. Wanted to flip the table, rip the air with his worst words, unleash something that would send them sprinting—but then he saw it.
Just one glance at the 'Arachnivis' sitting on Hem's shoulder, calm, still, and ancient. And Orin's entire being… shifted.
Letters were discarded, replaced by exotic drinks—odd colors, bubbling edges, faint steam rising. Two more chairs emerged from the paper pile, dusted and wiped down like they'd always been there, waiting for a guest worthy of them.
A smile crept onto Orin's face. It didn't belong there. Not because he shouldn't smile—he just hadn't practiced enough. It sat strangely, like a borrowed gesture.
"Where are my manners?" Orin said with a bow, mock-formal.
"Yeah… where did those come from?" Hem muttered, eyeing the Arachnivis. Even the mystica looked unsure. "This… is one of the reasons we came."
Without waiting, Orin plucked the little creature off Hem's shoulder—hospitality vanishing like it was never there to begin with. "Help yourself," he said, already turning his back.
He held the Arachnivis delicately, but with the focus of a scientist dissecting a legend. "Seems similar," he muttered, stretching her legs wide and testing the joints. "Female."
Next, he pulled her mouth open, counted fangs, and checked length.
"Young," he confirmed, dodging a snap of teeth just in time.
Hem swore she blushed. At least… something in her shimmered, and it felt like a blush when Orin casually announced her gender and flipped her over like a specimen.
"Mystwards are weird," Hem muttered. The twins nodded in agreement.
"Can you check the footage?" Hem asked, trying to ground the conversation again, only to get ignored.
It took Hem a while to realize Orin's muse, and once he mentioned a "problem" with the footage, Orin chanted the spell without further delay, "Vetrax Unveil!" and waited.
Nothing.
"She's not weaving," he said, matter-of-fact. "Won't be anytime soon."
Hem pulled out his badge. Maybe that would do the trick.
The Arachnivis responded by sticking out her tongue.
"How…?" Hem blinked. Her tongue was a hue of black over black—barely visible—but there it was.
Orin burst into laughter. "Hah! She's got attitude. That's rare—for an Arachnivis, anyway."
"Expressive?" The twins leaned in, squinting. The mystica looked away like she had better things to do. They turned to Hem. Same baffled expression. "For the first time, it isn't just us." They high-five each other.
"Let's go." Orin swept the Arachnivis onto his head like a crown and headed for the door.
"Where to?" Hem asked, still processing.
"Back to where you found her. She'll open up more in familiar surroundings." Orin walked and talked, questions already spilling out. "By the way, how'd you get her to leave? They don't travel. Did you use a mirror? Fire? A soul-binding? Wait, don't answer. Probably something dumb. I have a better theory anyway—"
"Enough!" Hem grabbed Orin by the shoulder and turned him around. "I don't have the time to play, kid."
Orin blinked. The weight of Hem's voice pressed down like real stone, finally cracking through the smug shell. For a second, just one, the room held its breath.
An unseen bout of dominance clashed in the air, until Orin's eyes took on a sinister glow, slapping away Hem's hand.
"Suit yourself," he said, his voice a low, beastial growl. "I don't remember the last time I saw my father, let alone have any clue when he might return. I'm the best shot you've got. Trust me, you won't regret it..." He turned and whispered the rest to the Arachnivis. "...all that much."
The group had a long way back, and Hem didn't like his chances with the case—or with keeping his hands off Orin's neck.
He's a kid, Hem kept reminding himself. The worst one you might ever meet... but still a kid.
"We're going the wrong way," the twins reminded Hem, who, for the very first tim, —had lost focus.
"Mine's faster." Orin waved them along.
"You don't even know where we have to be," said Hem.
"From the looks of it, neither did you—since birth!" Orin retorted.
He led the group on a long walk—longer than their ride to the nearest Halloway station—only to reveal, at the end of it, one of the slowest mystics alive.
The Colossibell: a titanic, undulating behemoth, its body segmented like an endless chain of arching hills. Each segment was large enough to swallow a dwelling whole. It pulsed with a soft, bioluminescent sheen, shifting in hues of green. The surface wasn't smooth but textured with fine, hair-like bristles that swayed gently, exuding a faint, sweet aroma that lingered in the air.
"Don't spook it," Orin warned. "You won't like what you smell later!" He chuckled, hopping onto the mystica.
"You've got to be kidding me," the trio groaned in unison.
"Those words will flip in a minute." Orin patted the mystica, gesturing for them to hop on.
Reluctantly, the trio climbed aboard. Orin pressed his palm deep into the mystica's back while chanting, "Nuvem Consuir!"
The mystica's rough back transformed into soft clouds, swallowing the group into its marshmallow-like texture.
Its movement was hypnotic—a slow, deliberate wave rolling through the land, reshaping the terrain beneath. Despite its imposing size, Colossibell moved with eerie grace, soundless except for the faint rustling of its bristles.
"Okay, I might've lied," Orin admitted, raising his hands, though no one saw it as they sank lower. "This might take more than a minute."
"Love the comfort," said Jorek.
"Not the back-and-forth motion," gagged Jorik.
"Ever heard of Silkon?" asked Orin.
"Measure of distance," said the twins. "Yes, why?"
"Now you'll know why we don't measure in 'Centi' distance. We only use them for long-haul transport."
"But you don't even know where we're going!" complained Hem.
Orin felt a tug. "Hold on for dear life..." he screamed before their ride erased sound.
Others didn't have to listen—or rather, they couldn't. They felt the pull, and their bodies latched onto the mystica on instinct. From a deliberate crawl to a lightning bolt at top speed, the mystica shifted gears the moment its bulky legs caught hold of the silk threads laid along the ground.
A journey of days was done in hours, the relentless speed nearly shifting their organs from their original positions. At the end of the track, Colossibell crashed forward, its velocity burying it deep into the earth.
Orin was flung into a dense bush, walking away with only a few bruises. Hem landed in a puddle, the tiny rocks within slicing into his skin. The twins, however, got the worst of it, skipping across a stone-filled riverbed like flat pebbles hurled by an angry god.
Thanks to their clumsy nature—and their former guru—their uniforms were laced with protective Ornyx, absorbing the worst of the impact. With every skip, their shields flared to life, broke, and sent reverberating echoes across the landscape. The Ornyx ran out of charge, but not before saving their lives, leaving not a single scratch on their pristine uniforms.
Though they'd all been on the same segment of Colossibell, the crash flung them far apart.
Orin was the first to stand, squinting and trying to calculate the deviation.
"Either they moved, or my mythic math is wrong," he muttered, blaming the others. "It's dumb to shift around on a ride going that fast."
"I'm going to kill you," Hem grunted. "As soon as my legs start listening to me." He gripped them tightly, trying to stop the shaking.
"Woo!" the twins cheered. "Let's do that again... once we charge up."
After a brief recovery, Hem felt a new kind of pain—an ache in his rear that didn't feel quite earned. He assumed it was just a dream gone wrong... until memory caught up. Orin had kicked him out of the bushes and into the puddle. At high speed, that slight deviation had turned into a massive launch.
"What is this stuff?" one of the twins asked, pulling a silvery strand from the silk road.
"His poop," Orin said, pointing at Colossibell. "They make it stringy and love sliding through it. Gross to lay out, a nightmare to clean, but the fastest travel you can get... once we figure out how to stop, that is." He stretched, smiling up at the sky.
The trio followed his gaze toward a vast, shifting tide above them. A churning mass of moving shadows undulated through the heavens. A kettle of mystic. They blotted out the sky when they flew in unison, casting an eerie dusk across the land below.
Their sleek, featherless forms ripple like liquid midnight, catching glints of light that make them seem like a rolling storm cloud. Bound by an innate pull, they follow unseen currents through the air, relaying messages across vast distances.
Drifthawks are the couriers of Wanderlust. People record messages onto whisper leaves, fastening them to the mystica's leg-like appendages in hopes their words reach the right hands. Yet not all stay true to their path. Some stray—tempted by flickering lights, drifting scents, or a fleeting thought too enticing to ignore. These wayward souls spiral off-course, their messages lost to the unknown.
As Orin often laments, "This is how we lose our words to the wind."
Despite their occasional unreliability, they remain the fastest means of long-distance communication, their massive flocks a breathtaking sight—both awe-inspiring and, at times, deeply frustrating to those awaiting news.
"Where are we?" Hem stuttered.
"Outside the pond... in the real world of Wanderlust." Orin spread his arms, revealing a land devoid of Wanderers and full of mystics.
"We still have a way to go. C'mon." Orin strode forward.
"Are you mad?" Hem dove to the ground, gesturing for the others to follow. "Do you even know where we're going?"
"The North Quadrant." Orin raised his eyebrows, as if the answer were obvious.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because she is clearly from there." He pointed to his head, where Arachnivis crawled from his tangled hair. "No, Arachnivis has these shades. Based on the sunlight she gets, and from which direction, anyone can nail the location."
"That's..." Hem was at a loss for words.
"...freaking amazing," the twins chimed in, helpfully finishing his thought.
"Not possible," Hem growled.
"Of course not!" Orin chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Different or not, everyone misses home eventually. I just followed her vision due north. From here… you lead."
"Where did that Silk Road come from?" Hem asked, shifting the topic, unable to decide what in Aurochs' name was happening.
"I have my minions make them in their free time."
Hem remembered the kids and his fury flared. "Those poor little brats?"
"Relax!" Orin frowned. "I said minions—not subjects." A devious smile crept across his face. "They're cheaper and way more efficient. Also..." He pointed ahead. "We're far enough to do what we want, and close enough to run back—if luck's on our side."
Ever since they left the kingdom to find the mystic farm, Hem hadn't realized just how close to the outskirts they'd been traveling. Once he allowed himself to relax, the kingdom's walls shimmered into existence—their aura-dampening enchantments fading now that they were beyond range, no longer cloaking the land from hostile energies.
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