The Wanderer sprinted through the lower district, until he threw open the doors of The Hand of Justice. He dashed straight to the counter, slamming his palm on the wood.
"Where is Roger?" he rasped.
The barkeep paused his wiping, looking him up and down. "He didn't come in today."
The Wanderer cast a glance back toward the entrance, then leaned over the bar whispering. "I'm being chased by the city guards. I need Roger to get me out of the sector. Now."
Before the barkeep could respond, a cold shadow gleamed over the Wanderer's back. He turned around to find Timothy.
Timothy smiled. "Are you looking for Roger?"
The Wanderer eyed him before saying. "You know him?"
"Yes," Timothy said. "We spent some time watching the city skyline at night... preferably at nine pm."
The Wanderer stared at him for a second. He lowered his head, stepping closer to the noble. "I need a place to hide. Fast."
Right on cue, the muffled shouts of soldiers echoed from the street outside, arguing loudly with the muscular guard at the tavern door.
"Quickly," Timothy whispered. "Hide behind the bar!"
The Wanderer vaulted smoothly over the high counter, sliding into the cramped space below and crouching right at the barkeep's feet.
Above him, the tavern doors banged open.
"What is going on here?" Timothy shouted.
The metallic boots marched across the floorboards. A sharp voice cut through the room. "We are looking for a fugitive. There are witnesses who saw him fleeing close to this tavern."
"As you can see," Timothy replied smoothly, "this is an establishment for the elites only. No filthy fugitive would ever manage to enter here."
"Nevertheless," the officer countered, "we have to search the premises."
The heavy footsteps began to move deeper into the room.
"You useless excuse for a soldier!" Timothy suddenly roared. "You dare disturb my break? Me? Timothy Morning Star?!"
The room went silent. When the soldier spoke again, his authoritative tone had completely vanished, replaced by a trembling stutter. "M-my apologies, Lord Morning Star. We are just doing our job..."
"Of course," Timothy said. "And I will be sure to let my father - the Hand of the King - know exactly how well you perform it."
For a long moment, the silence stretched. "Apologies, my lord," the trembling voice finally rasped. "Please forgive our intrusion. We will trouble you no longer."
The footsteps moved closer to the bar, followed by the creaking sound of a barstool turning.
"Go before I change my mind," Timothy said coldly.
The metallic boots sprinted out of the tavern, slamming the door shut behind them.
"You can come out now," Timothy said.
The Wanderer peeked from beneath the counter, scanning the room. Timothy sat on the stool, casually sipping from a glass of wine. The barkeep had already resumed cleaning, acting as if nothing had happened.
The Wanderer stood up, dusting off his uniform. "Thank you-"
"Coming here in your state was a mistake," Timothy cut him off, before sliding a folded paper towel across the bar. "Ask for Roger at this blacksmith address."
The Wanderer snatched the paper, nodding tightly. He turned and began moving toward the exit.
"Wanderer!" Timothy shouted sharply, still facing the shelved bottles.
The Wanderer paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Our common friends have zero tolerance for mistakes," Timothy whispered in a dangerous tone. "Make sure you do not act without orders again."
The Wanderer gazed at the back of the noble. "Of course, my lord. It won't happen again." He turned and slipped out into the alleyway, the paper gripped tightly in his hand.
Arriving at the blacksmith's location, the Wanderer was immediately hit by the exact same oily stench from the tunnels the night before.
As he stepped into the massive shop, a woman standing behind a counter offered him a smile. "My apologies, sir. We currently don't accept any new smithing requests. However, I can recommend a few other reputable shops in the district if you'd like."
The Wanderer leaned against the counter. "I’m looking for Roger."
A flicker of hesitation crossed her eyes before reverting back to the same smile. "I'm sorry, sir. We don't have anyone here by that name."
"Timothy Morning Star sent me," the Wanderer said flatly.
Without breaking her cold smile, the woman gestured toward a wooden bench against the wall. "Please, take a seat. Someone will attend to your request shortly."
An hour passed by. The Wanderer sat in the dim light, watching the woman. She stood behind the counter like a statue, barely even blinking, her gaze locked forward. Just as the eerie stillness of the shop was beginning to grate on his nerves, a familiar voice cut through the sounds of the forge.
"Come on," Roger said, stepping out from a heavy leather curtain at the back of the shop.
The Wanderer stood up, following him into the rear workshop. As they passed the counter, the statue-like woman bowed her head slightly, her eyes never leaving the floor.
"Where the hell have you been?" the Wanderer demanded in a low hiss.
Roger, ignoring the question. "Are you always this stupid? Why on earth did you go back to the tavern?"
The Wanderer countered, "Where else was I supposed to go? The Duke locked me in a room, the Captain staged my execution, and the entire city guard was hunting me down."
Roger rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a sigh. "It’s always the new recruits. Absolute loose cannons." He shook his head, throwing a hand up. "Just follow me."
They walked deeper into the heart of the facility, and the Wanderer's eyes darted across the workstations. The workers were meticulously assembling complex, multi-tiered brass and iron devices he couldn't even begin to recognize.
"I thought this was a blacksmith," the Wanderer muttered, his gaze tracking the intricate gear-work.
Roger looked over his shoulder and chuckled. "This is where the magic happens, my friend. Well, not actual magic - okay, maybe a little bit of magic - anyway, keep your hand to yourself and don't touch anything."
The Wanderer continued to scan the room as they navigated the crowded floor. On one table, he spotted several frames of the boots he had used to escape the mob, sitting alongside other mechanical masterpieces of weaponry and familiar blue armors.
Then, on a small counter near the back, row after row of thick glass jars sat gleaming in the dim light, filled with Moon Dew in its purest, liquid form.
The Wanderer stood in front of the counter, staring at his reflection in the jars, his mind racing with the terrifying implications of how much of this resource the Owls truly possessed.
"Hey! Keep moving," Roger’s voice barked, snapping him out of his trance.
They stopped at the dead end of the workshop, facing a solid stone wall that looked identical to every other structural pillar in the shop. Roger stepped forward, looking at the roses drawn, covering the wall. He pressed his thumb against the center of one of them.
A mechanical sound hissed.
A rectangular frame within the bricks began to glow with a faint light. A second later, the heavy stone wall retracted smoothly into the ceiling, completely disappearing from sight to reveal a dark passage.
The Wanderer stared at the seamless transition. "Magic?"
Roger let out a laugh, stepping into the darkness and gesturing for him to follow. "Worse. Engineering."
He turned and began descending the stairs, leading the Wanderer down into the hidden chamber of the New World Order.
The stairs led into the same chamber he first met the Owls.. Zero was already there, standing perfectly still as he gazed up at a massive painting dominating the wall. The artwork depicted a regal man with a glowing halo, raising his hand to emit a brilliant light from his palm over a crowd of kneeling, adoring citizens.
Without turning around, Zero spoke. “You risked sabotaging our entire operation by escaping.”
The Wanderer replied, checking out the painting. “I didn't receive any new orders, and the Duke was ready to execute me. I had to act quickly.”
Zero slowly turned around, staring at the Wanderer from behind the mask. “Do you know where the name Nine Owls came from? Besides the number of the core members, of course.”
The Wanderer shrugged, his single hand resting at his side. “Because you work in the shadows?”
“True,” Zero said. “We are the wise men working in the shadows to push Valoria into the light. Into its true destiny.”
He walked over to his heavy leather chair and sat down, leaning back. “As a wise man, I can understand human fear. I can understand the instinct to run when a cage closes in. But understanding does not equal tolerance.” He crossed his fingers over his chest, his voice shifting into an intimidating tone. “Risk stepping into the light again... and it will be the last step you ever take in this world.”
The Wanderer froze for a moment. A strange sensation prickled the back of his mind. Zero’s voice sounded familiar. Yet, he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. It sounded slightly distorted, as if something embedded within his mask itself was subtly warping the words of his speech to keep his identity hidden.
“Are you listening to me?!” Zero shouted, shattering the Wanderer’s train of thought.
The Wanderer nodded quickly, forcing his posture into one of military obedience. “Understood, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” Zero said, the volatile edge vanishing instantly as his voice returned to its calm tone. “Now, to your reward. We are an organization that rewards loyalty.”
Zero gestured towards a hanging object covered in cloth, a smile in his tone. “Tell me, veteran... how do you feel about getting a new arm?”