Chương 444: B7—Chapter 25: Five Circles of Letdown

After baking Al five different cookies—chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin, shortbread, and double chocolate—that he "didn't eat" but that would tide him over for a while, I switched to other cooking. Mahya had given me a lot of meat from their foray into the zone, and I hadn't had a chance to experiment with it yet. I laid out cuts from each type and checked them one by one, poking at the flesh and giving each a cautious sniff.

Some carried a clean, earthy scent, while others had a sharp, almost metallic tang that made me wary. For the first test, I grilled a piece of each cut, letting the smoke curl up and fill the air with a mix of savory aromas. At the same time, I dropped smaller chunks into small pots to simmer low and slow, curious to see which would soften into stew meat and which would hold their shape as steaks.

The kitchen grew heavy with the mingling scents of roasting fat and bubbling broth, some inviting and mouthwatering, others sharp enough to wrinkle my nose. Most of them turned out okay, tender enough to chew and carrying flavors that promised good meals ahead. I gave them my approval with a satisfied nod and moved them to the "approved" side of my storage. Two did not. The first was so bitter that the moment I bit into it, I gagged and spat it into the sink.

"Nope." Grimacing, I scraped the whole pot and fed it to my house, as well as the whole meat supply. It was awful. The second problem child fooled me for a moment. The flavor was edible, even interesting, but the texture was another story. It was gamy and rubbery like chewing gum. I chewed for three whole minutes after cooking it for five hours and still couldn't break it down with my teeth. My jaw ached. I was about to dump the pot too when I got an idea.

"Rue, come here a minute." Rue uncurled from his beanbag and strolled over with a casual swish of his tail. His ears perked.

"John call Rue?"

"Yeah. Try this, buddy. See if you like meat-flavored chewing gum." He took the piece, chewed on it, and continued to chew. After five long minutes of determined jaw work, he finally spat it out with a wet plop and gave it a kick across the floor with his paw.

"Bad meat."

"So, no chewing gum?"

"No!" he even emphasized it with a sharp paw stomp. I sighed and fed the pot and the rest of that stubborn meat to my house. At least the rest of the haul was decent. For the rest of the train ride, I read some magic books for education. My first educational foray was a slog through The Codex of Higher Arcana, and it felt less like reading and more like wading knee-deep through swamp muck made of words. Every sentence twisted itself into knots, as if the author had been allergic to plain speech.

I flipped a page and found a diagram so tangled it looked like someone had dropped spaghetti on parchment and called it "arcane geometry." Half the time, I had to reread the same line three times before realizing it didn't actually say anything useful. Wizards seemed to believe that the more convoluted their language, the more profound it sounded, and this book was the poster child for that kind of nonsense.

To make things worse, the footnotes weren't even at the bottom of the page but scattered like landmines in the margins, each one pointing me to another chapter or, worse, another book entirely that I didn't have. By the time I reached the end of the book, I was convinced that whoever wrote this masterpiece of misery had never once thought about their poor readers. Still, I pushed on.

On the Sublime Geometry of Mana was next, and it somehow managed to be worse, because the author thought drawing endless triangles with cryptic symbols in the corners counted as "explaining." Treatise of the Fifth Circle was little better, written like the pompous notes of a professor who hated students and only tolerated very long words. The Principles of Thaumaturgic Convergence pretended to be practical, but every "principle" turned into a riddle with no answer.

Secrets of Deep Resonance drowned me in metaphors about rivers and echoes until I wanted to throw it out the window. And The Art of Aspect Weaving was essentially a cookbook, with every recipe written backward in mirror script, just to ensure no one enjoyed themselves. By the time I closed the last cover, I was ready to swear that if this was what passed for "advanced magical study," then the only real spell these wizards had mastered was making people miserable.

But even with all my complaining, I did learn a few things that might actually be useful. From The Codex of Higher Arcana, I learned that layering spells worked best if I staggered the mana flow like steps in a recipe. Dump everything in at once, and the whole thing curdled; but fold it in at the right time, and the flavor held. That little trick meant I could stack healing spells in layers instead of casting them in parallel, which would give me faster and much stronger results.

On the Sublime Geometry of Mana taught me that mana didn't like straight lines. It preferred spirals. I wasn't sure yet how to put that nugget of wisdom to use, but it seemed worth filing away for later. I still hadn't figured out the cryptic triangles, and suspected that if I ever did, I might get a few more nuggets from the book. Right now, though, that road was closed. They didn't make any sense at all and only made me swear every curse word I'd picked up from every world I'd visited.

Treatise of the Fifth Circle was mostly garbage, but one note stuck. Smaller, finer pulses of mana worked better than one big shove. Wide effects still needed power, but for anything precise, whether healing, spellcraft, or elemental practice, pulses gave me far more finesse. The Principles of Thaumaturgic Convergence finally gave me a way to fuse two minor effects together without wasting mana. I tested it with Heat and Clean, layering them the way the book suggested instead of casting them separately.

The result was a gentle warming effect that cooked meat evenly while also purifying it. No charred edges or lingering stink, just clean, tender food. Encouraged, I tried blending Purify and Neutralize Poison in pulses. That one surprised me. The combination worked faster than either spell on its own, pulling the toxins out of a cut of meat I infected in half the time. It was the kind of trick that could save lives in the field or make camp cooking safer.

It even neutralized the sleeping potion we usually packed into paintballs, which meant I now had a way to wake someone if we ever needed to question them. Excellent results all around. Secrets of Deep Resonance sounded like the worst kind of poetry, but it made me pay attention to how mana ran through my channels whenever I cast a spell or used my elemental affinities.

When I leaned into that rhythm, my lightning snapped sharper and was more direct instead of spreading all around in a chaotic mess, and my Mana Shield came up faster. And then there was The Art of Aspect Weaving. Once I slogged through the backward recipes, it boiled down to this: aspects were not just the flavors of mana, they were about intent.

Adding the right intent while casting, for example, thinking "sharp" or "fast" while shaping mana with my wind affinity, produced a blade that was sharper, longer, and faster than the regular Wind Blade spell. It gave me more control over the elements, rather than relying solely on my natural connection to them. That one discovery alone made the whole miserable slog worth it. After five days, we reached the first stop on our journey, the Demesne of House Pelmen.

I didn't think they deserved our money if we got off the train, so we skipped the city altogether. Instead, we spent the night in a transit hotel at the station and boarded the next train the following morning. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I was tired of reading wizards' books, and my poor brain was throwing a tantrum, so I switched to fiction for fun and played games with Rue instead.

We tried backgammon, Uno, Snakes and Ladders, Candy Land, and Go Fish. I won almost all of them, which made Rue keep insisting we switch games with little improvement. His lucky streak didn't seem to apply when playing against me, and every other hand or board ended with him growling and huffing in frustration. Al joined us eventually for Uno and Go Fish, and I still won. He wasn't happy about it, but he did get some vindictive satisfaction out of watching Rue lose.

At one point, I even tried to think of a way to disable both my and Rue's Luck during games, just so others could enjoy themselves too, but I hadn't figured out a solution yet. After three days, we reached our next stop, the capital. I was curious to see it, since the last city we visited hadn't impressed me much. Truth be told, it had been downright depressing. When we got off the train, we joined the stream of travelers shuffling toward the booths with guards.

The setup looked almost exactly like passport control at an airport, right down to the metal posts with fabric straps snaking the lines back and forth. When my turn came, the guard flipped open my "passport," gave it a quick glance, then fixed me with a condescending look.

"Commoners are not allowed into the capital."

"Who is allowed?" I asked. He dismissed me with a flick of his hand, like I was an annoying fly.

"It doesn't matter. You cannot enter. Next!" When I joined Mahya, she looked like she was ready to strangle the nearest person, so I guessed she got the same answer. Al appeared a moment later, his expression carefully measured.

"We must alter our glamour and present our old documents," he said, lowering his voice so only we could hear.

"If that fails, we shall be forced to conjure new ones."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because entry is restricted to nobles or those affiliated with a House." In the new-old look and with the new-old documents, the guard at passport control regarded me differently. It was a different guard, but I was sure that if I had met this one earlier, he would have given me the same condescending look. He had that air about him. This time, though, he examined the document, compared the picture to my face, then stood and looked down at Rue over the counter.

"Familiar?"

"Yes." He handed back the passport.

"As an affiliate, you may visit only the first two circles. You may pass into the third circle only in the company of a noble. The fourth and fifth are forbidden unless by invitation of the king." I thanked him, tucked the passport away, and waited as he lifted the guard plank to let me through. Al was already waiting, and Mahya joined us a minute later. The capital was built on a mountain, its five circles walled off one above the other. At least there could be no mistaking which circle we stood in.

The elevation let me see past the lower walls and take in the city as a whole. It was enormous, sprawling across the slopes with enough space to house millions. At the very top, the fifth circle rose like a crown, and within it the royal palace dominated everything. Even from this distance, the building was impossible to miss. The central dome caught the sunlight and threw it back in golden flares, so bright it looked as if the mountain itself wore a halo.

Slender towers clustered around it, their pale stone spearing upward, and every wall shimmered faintly with stained glass that flashed like jewels. With my Perception sharpened, I picked out carvings etched into the façade—warriors, kings, beasts I didn't recognize—so finely cut they seemed alive. The wide staircases leading to the entrance looked no bigger than scratches from here, but the scale was clear enough; they were meant for processions, not individuals.

What struck me most was the way the whole palace seemed to defy the mountain, as though the rock had grown upward only to serve as its pedestal. No matter where you stood in the city, you couldn't escape the sight of it. The palace looked down on everything, a reminder that power lived above, and the rest lived below. The other rings were more modest, each step down from the palace shedding a layer of grandeur.

The fourth ring, just below the royal circle, was lined with palatial mansions spread out across wide grounds. Even from where I stood, the gardens drew the eye. Vast terraces of green were dotted with fountains, statues, and small groves of carefully sculpted trees. The mansions themselves looked less like homes and more like ornate palaces, though still modest compared to the grand palace above.

Their tall facades and towers reached for attention, and their oversized windows seemed designed to flaunt wealth rather than keep out the weather. The third ring below it also held mansions, but they were scaled back. Large, yes, with wings and courtyards, but clustered closer together, as if space was more precious here. The buildings were elegant rather than overwhelming, with tall stone spires and neat rows of greenery marking the boundaries.

Decorative banners in muted colors fluttered from balconies, and some of the facades featured carved family crests or patterns. The lower two rings were far humbler. The first was the busiest, with streets crowded with shops, stalls, and warehouses. Even from a distance, I could see the press of people moving in and out of them, a tide of color and motion. Fabrics hung from poles, bright against the stone walls. Smoke curled from food vendors' braziers, and the clatter of buses drifted down the slope, reaching us.

The buildings were shoulder to shoulder, each fighting for space, their fronts painted with signs and emblems to stand out in the crowd. The second ring looked more lived in, the kind of place that felt like neighborhoods rather than markets. Rows of three-to five-story buildings lined the streets, most with the same boxy shape I had seen back in Jookmaris.

Here, though, the monotony was broken up with tree-lined avenues, small gardens tucked into corners, and even the stretch of a proper park I spotted near the wall. Laundry fluttered from balconies, and smoke drifted from chimneys, giving the place a warmer, homier air. Higher up, the greenery only multiplied. The third and fourth rings had parks and wide gardens so plentiful they looked like stripes of emerald cutting through the stone.

Scattered among them were restaurants and small establishments, but they were spaced far apart, tucked between mansions or along promenades, meant for leisurely visits rather than the packed chaos of the lower rings. From the foot of the mountain, it was like looking at a living diagram of status, each ring carrying its own character, each one feeding into the next, until everything culminated in the shining weight of the palace above. Buses were loading up with passengers and ferrying them toward the first ring.

We exchanged a glance, and without needing to say anything, chose to walk instead. It took us about half an hour to reach the first wall of the city. At the gate, guards checked our documents again, reminded us that we were permitted only in the first and second rings, and then waved us through. At least they didn't ask for an entry fee. We explored the first circle for the rest of the day.

The place was loud and overflowing with people, a constant churn of merchants shouting their wares, porters pushing carts, and customers weaving through narrow lanes that smelled of dust, spice, and sweat. Shops lined every street, their fronts painted in bright colors and hung with banners, each one trying to outshine the next. Rue drew plenty of attention as we moved along. Some children stared wide-eyed at him, whispering to one another before daring to creep closer.

When Rue swished his tail or bent down to sniff them, half of them squealed in delight while their parents pulled them back with worried looks. A few guards gave us long, hard stares, clearly unsettled. When hunger caught up with us, we ducked into a restaurant tucked between a cloth merchant and a jeweler. The air inside was heavy with smoke and grease, the floor tiled but worn smooth by countless feet. The food was passable, neither good nor bad.

We ate roasted bird legs rubbed with herbs that tasted more like salt than anything else, a really tasty bread, and a dish of cooked vegetables floating in a yellow sauce. It filled the stomach, which was all it really needed to do. Afterward, we wandered through the shops, more out of curiosity than anything else. Jewels glittered behind polished glass, the prices so high they made my eyes twitch. A plain-looking necklace was marked at thirty mithril, while a ring no bigger than a coin was listed at five mithril.

Fabrics were no cheaper—embroidered silks hung with little notes boasting prices of five to ten mithril a bolt. Even the tools Mahya lingered over were wildly overpriced. We left empty-handed and more than a little annoyed. By evening, when we started to look for a place to stay, innkeepers shook their heads and waved us toward the gates. One man finally explained, not unkindly, that "a hotel that fits your station" would be found only in the second circle. Which was a polite way of saying we didn't belong there.

We took the hint, climbed the slope through the next checkpoint, and found a quieter inn nestled on a tree-lined street. The rooms were plain but clean, with real beds, a working washroom, and even a little balcony that overlooked the street. It was good enough. We spent the night there, then set out early the next morning, retracing our steps back through the city. The walk felt shorter in daylight, with fewer crowds pressing in, though Rue still drew more than his share of stares.

Eventually, we reached the station, passed back through its tall gates, and stepped inside, the noise and bustle of the platforms swallowing us once again. There, we stopped by the bathrooms, switched our glamour and documents, and headed for our next train, the last leg of the journey. Honestly, this world hadn't shown me much worth remembering. Nothing here seemed to offer anything interesting.