Chương 3: The Taste of the Shore & the Rut of Blood — Part I

Galan continued walking, swallowing a bite of his next bun. Ahead, two cervitaur women—half human, half deer—stood before a stall cluttered with clay figurines and antiques. All these outsiders are taking a gander at figurines while the locals are terrified for their lives, he thought. He doesn't know if he should be impressed at the cover-up or feel pity for their hopelessness.

"Look at this cute little gal!" the younger one squealed in Greek, picking up a deer-shaped figurine.

"She looks just like us!"

"Looks like you, maybe," her friend teased. Galan's mindcast brushed against their guide, catching a surface-level translation of their haggling. The women were asking about a tea ceremony set. The stall owner, eager for a sale, retrieved an oversized paulownia wood box from his portable divine vault. He flipped it around to show them the back. It was a stunning piece of artistry, depicting the Japanese gods gathered for a tea ceremony under the full moons.

The gold inlay caught the afternoon light, drawing hushed, awed whispers from the surrounding crowd.

"Wow," Galan muttered.

"That's impressive." The older cervitaur hesitated at the price—a staggering ten thousand kogan.

"Come on!" her friend urged.

"The Greek Council gave us plenty of budget. We can afford this." With a sigh and a smile, the older woman produced a wooden Council membership card. The transaction was processed instantly, the exorbitant sum transferred without a second thought. Huh, these girls are rich, Galan mused to himself. And here I thought I made good money cleaning the streets of filth. He watched the owner signal an assistant to ship the heavy box as the girls trot away toward a salad bar, their laughter mingling with the market noise.

"Interested in anything, sir?" the stall owner asked, turning to Galan with a hopeful smile.

"Nah, just looking," Galan said.

"Actually… have people been talking about the forest lately?" The owner's smile vanished. The blood drained from his face.

"What?! No, I—I do not. Are you an investigator?"

"I am."

"T—then you should be talking to the magistrates, not a simple merchant. Please, sir—I have a family. I don't know anything about the woods," he stammered, pointing nervously toward the administrative district.

"They should be in one of those big fancy buildings right now. Just, please… don't tell them I sent you." Galan squinted at the imposing buildings in the distance. Yeah, right, he thought. I'd have better luck reading tea leaves than getting a straight answer out of those bureaucrats.

"Thanks," he muttered, the word thin and already drifting away as he merged back into the slow current of the crowd. His mindcast brushed them once more. But the same sabbatical fragments slipped through—none pertaining to his task. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. He eventually stopped in front of a large restaurant called "Sea Roar," its entrance draped with an intricately designed fabric divider.

With a flick of his wrist, his empty food wrappers vanished into a nearby bin, and he stepped inside. The air was thick with the scents of sizzling pork, rich broths, and the sharp tang of the ocean. He scanned the display case of life-sized ceramic food replicas.

"Wow, they really did a number on these," he grinned.

"The locals on the mainland would consider this divine food. And they'd be right." He approached the counter, the sounds of enthusiastic slurping and chewing echoing around him. The owner, dressed in a sea-themed kimono, greeted him in slightly accented Godlang.

"Next."

"Seafood rice bowl and soybean paste broth noodles with a side of octopus dumplings," Galan ordered.

"And to drink?" Galan smirked.

"Prime blood cocktail." The owner paused, the fountain pen hovering over his pad.

"Coming right up." Galan raised an eyebrow.

"Wait, you guys actually have those?" The owner chuckled.

"You're not the first vampire to come here, you know?"

"Fair enough," Galan said.

"How much is it?"

"Six hundred kogan. Plus ten percent tax." Galan groaned.

"Yeah, of course…" He held out his palm. A handful of heavy gold and silver coins materialized, embossed with the faces of various gods and mythical creatures.

"Impressive collection, sir," the owner noted, spreading the coins and swiftly storing them in his own divine vault, the gem providing the magical power dangling lazily around his wrist.

"Got them back in Endastila," Galan said, leaning against the counter.

"The Kingdom of the Divine? Must be nice, talking to angels and gods on the regular."

"They're overrated," Galan shrugged.

"They're honestly just like you and me, minus the struggle to survive."

"Still, it doesn't sound easy, dealing with all the magical creatures there."

"It's alright, they got helpers," Galan replied smoothly, slipping into his cover story.

"I handle the small tasks and get paid by the Council's agents. It pays the bills."

"I see…" The owner ripped out the receipt.

"Thank you for the patronage," he said, handing it to Galan.

"Seat fourteen." Galan took it and headed to his table. He sank into the cushion, closing his eyes to let the oceanic scent of fresh seafood wash over him. From a nearby table, he overheard a group of wealthy travelers gossiping from seats at the corner. They were draped in fine silks, their voices loud and self-important.

"Heard the word out of the Roman Empire?" a man asked, leaning in toward his companion.

"They say the emperor hasn't been seen in a couple of years. Just walked off on some 'pilgrimage' to check the borders and vanished. Not a whisper since." The remark was a jagged shard cutting through the mental barriers Galan had spent weeks reinforcing. He had lied to his son. He had lied to the Senate. He had traded the stability of millions for the selfish silence of his own mind, forcing his heirs to hold a crown forged in blood while he sought a peace he didn't deserve.

"The guy who ran the whole continent?" the woman asked, her voice muffled by a mouthful of grilled fish.

"I heard he was a freak—a butcher who spent his youth gutting anyone who stood in the way of his 'reforms.' My sister says the West is only rich now because he ruled with an iron hand, demanding absolute submission from every city and treating his word as the only law allowed to exist. It's sickening. We shouldn't even be invoking his name." Galan tried to let the words pass, but they pressed against a truth he refused to face. The screams and pleas for mercy of his victims returned as jagged echoes.

They raked across the inside of his skull. His knuckles turned white against the wooden table as he gritted his teeth. The restaurant scents died away. The metallic tang of phantom blood filled his mouth. Dust from his childhood streets crept in beneath it. A sun that had long since set warmed his skin. A phantom weight settled into his hands. It was a heavy, ruby-encrusted box given as his family's reward for a career of violence. He flipped the lid. The gleam of gold coins struck his eyes.

He stared into the gold until his mind fully surrendered to the memory. The restaurant floor hardened into the cold dirt of forty years ago. The heat leached away. The pillars thinned and twisted into skeletal trees. The bustling port of Tsushima vanished. Galan was back in the wilderness between the cities of Augusta Vindelicorum and Aquae Sulis, building his ledger beneath the indifferent gaze of the twin moons.