Kieran reverted his gaze back to the chaos below in the yard once the coach left.
He caught sight of Naia Tingale, the star singer of the banquet. She was being escorted away by two attendants. The way she held her arms and walked in a slight limp made Kieran believe she'd sustained some injuries.
However, she didn't seem fazed like the other noble ladies who ran around, tripped, and sobbed in a frenzy. Naia's expression was resolute, as though nothing much had happened.
'She must have seen worse. A strong female lead she is...' Kieran theorized as she watched Naia climb into what Kieran could only assume was a rented coach. It was less ornate than the other coaches, standing awkwardly in the flood of symbolized noble carriages.
Kieran almost pitied her. The former noble daughter was trying as hard as she could to maintain her family's status quo, willfully subjecting herself to ridicule.
But then, he realized it wasn't his place as a background character to pity such a strong lady. It should be the other way around.
'Besides, it won't be that easy to break someone of her caliber.' Kieran shifted his gaze to the one person who stood out amidst the dissonance.
Sorthon Von Donahue.
He barked orders at his men, his voice sharp and laced with fury as he directed his footmen, calling for water and shouting about damage control.
A perfect leadership performance, except for the twitch at the corner of his eye.
He was rattled.
After all, the fire had ruined his plans to suck up to the Count as intended with the banquet.
A banquet he claimed to be throwing in honor of his son!
Kieran smirked seeing this, elated that he'd at least gotten some sort of revenge for Metis.
' This should count as an appreciation for letting me take over his body...' Kieran took off his hat, and gracefully bowed.
Just then, the familiar metallic chime rang in his ears followed by a female robotic announcement.
[Ding!]
[ Mission Complete: Ruin the Betrothal Banquet]
[Rewards: +5 Stat Points | +1 Karma Points | New Skill acquired]
[New Skill: Voyeur]
[ Skill Description: Become unseen by the world, for mischief works best in shadows.]
[Duration: 30 minutes. Can only be casted twice every 6 hours]
Kieran smiled wryly, watching the translucent text fade into smoke." Voyeur? Am I being teased by the system?"
He grinned. "But in any case, it aligns perfectly with the role of a background character." Kieran muttered, crossing a finger over his lips as he thought.
'First is devil's flint, and now Voyeur. Is it just a coincidence that all the skills I've gained so far are those that gives me the ability to manipulate and stir trouble from hiding?' Kieran pondered with a deep frown. He had a feeling that they weren't mere coincidences, and quite suspiciously, it perturbed him as to what exactly the goal was.
' Really, what is this system? And what does it aim to achieve?' Kieran exhaled in a small sigh, his only clue at the moment being to follow along with the system. But then, his fingers twitched with restless excitement. 'Well, isn't that the thrill? The thought of playing puppet.'
Kieran pushed away from the chimney and crouched, the moonlight glinting off his grin. "Regardless, it seems I'm an actor again. But this time, I have to be careful...'
The fire's reflection danced in his eyes as the chaos below began to settle into sobs and smoke.
But to him, it wasn't tragedy. It was theatre. And like every good actor, Kieran knew when to leave the stage.
He rose, stretching, the wind tugging at his hair.
The grin on his lips had thinned now, almost wistful. "You ruined me once, life. Let's see how you handle this encore."
The effects of devil's flint lapsed, and as the embers died under the constant splash of buckets of water, Kieran turned and jumped.
Voyeur!
The world darkened around him, his form fading into nothingness.
"Let's find out what this world is all about."
...
The night air was thick with woodsmoke and the faint copper tang of burning when Kieran finally slipped out of the manor grounds.
He didn't rush at all. Even as some coaches rushed past him. His pace was lazy, unbothered, as if he hadn't just burned down half the banquet hall.
Above, the amber moon hung swollen and low- the kind that painted everything in a melancholic rusty gold. The wind of the night resembled that of autumn, sweeping across the open fields. It carried the sound of panicked shouts from behind, leaving Kieran still in the wake of the scenery behind.
Somewhere back there, Sorthon was probably still barking orders, and the guests were probably still panicking, scattering away from the scene.
Kieran didn't bother looking back.
Instead, he gazed at the faint cluster of lights ahead that seemed to emanate from the town of Brimholt; the capital of the county of Pouttiferr.
Metis's memories painted the place as an economic pit dressed in noble propaganda- a capital in name, but really just a leash which the common were deceived with, promising wealth and fame, only to be used and kept tame.
Kieran's plan was to gather as much Intel as he could tonight before the fire incident died down. It was his only chance to leave the manor without him being suspected.
And so, down into town he went.
The descent into town from where the manor grounds stood was uneven. Gravel roads cut through slopes of moss and damp earth, leading into a town that smelled of smoke, sweat mixed with manure, and unwashed ambition. The gates weren't guarded; at this hour, the sentries were probably dozing in their towers, spears or swords resting on their knees.
He stepped into Brimholt proper, voyeur still in effect.
At once, his world narrowed into claustrophobic streets and wooden awnings that leaned over one another like tired drunks. Rainwater from earlier in the day still lingered in puddles, catching the orange flicker of torches.
The town was still alive at night, though there weren't as much the number of people around as there would be during the day.
Still, the rhythm of clattering hooves, the hollow laughter of men already too drunk to stand, and the groan of wooden wheels pulling overloaded carts set the night 'agay'. A pair of beggars crouched beside the gutter, palms extended to passing boots and wheels that didn't slow. Their skin was pale in the moonlight, and their eyes hollowed from hunger.
"Charming," Kieran murmured. "Medieval poverty never goes out of style."
Brimholt was divided into three layers, literally.
The Lower terrace, where he walked now, was the home of workers, blacksmiths, and vagrants. The Middle terrace, built around the central plaza, hosted merchants, taverns, and bureaucrats- they constitute the real engines of the town. And above all, at the far north, was the High terrace, where the manor nobles built their estates, lording over the rest of the town like gods watching ants.
' It's quite funny that the Middle terrace of town is the farthest away from the High terrace. Nobles do love to keep the poor close to stroke their ego, while the commoners loved to keep their jobs close. A perfect setup isn't it?' Kieran lampooned. Just then, he saw a man walk by one of the beggars, chipping him a bronze coin that was square in shape with a round hole punched in the middle. The coin had etchings as if to form an engraving of symbolization on it. Its surface had a dark shade, sign of it having been passed from one hand to the next.
Kieran recollected that the whole Kingdom operated on a currency system called 'Marks'. It constituted bronze coins and silver tokens which were usually stamped with the Duke's crest- a serpent coiled around a crown.
Ironically, after the heroic tale of the first King of the Kingdom of Gethraldar having fallen a huge serpent that prevented the proper expansion of the kingdom, the serpent had become a symbol of power. It became the common icon of glory, power, and status within the kingdom.
As Kieran passed a small vendor stall, Kieran overheard two vendors arguing about tax increases. He paused to listen and continued once he'd heard enough.
Apparently, the Duke of Westfordmire had apparently imposed another levy on trade, and rumor had it that even water now required a license to sell.
"Water license," Kieran muttered under his breath. "Even medieval capitalism finds new ways to be depressing." But he suspected it was probably a joke made by some noble towards the change in policies and had now spread into a rumor amongst the commoners.
Kieran continued towards his destination, passing by a baker's shop that seemed to also be his home. It was still open, and the smell of fresh bread wafted into the street.
Kieran smiled, eyes glinting with amusement. "Save for the modern inventions, this world's just as rotten as Earth is." He quipped.
[Voyeur has lapsed!]
Kieran felt the subtle darkness in his surrounding dwindle just then, as though freeing him from the cloak of shadows that covered him before.
All this while, Voyeur had been activated, and quite surprisingly, Kieran couldn't really tell if the skill was of effect. He didn't know whether he'd truly been invisible to the eye of others, or perhaps, everyone in town just ignored him as usual and went on about their business.
' We'll find out some other time then, I guess.' Kieran shrugged and continued, taking a turn into the narrow road of the street that led to his destination.
But just as he did, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in front of him before he could react.
Thump!
Someone bumped into him right as he turned the corner. It was such a high-risk collision that Kieran had stumbled back, while the other person slumped and fell unconscious.
Kieran had distributed +4 stat points to his strength and the remaining +1 point to his luck, making him stronger than the average person.
' It seems my ultimate move, Grovel and shovel, would now prove more effective than it used to.' He analyzed as he rubbed his forehead, quipping to observe the person he'd bumped into.
The man seemed a tall, skinny figure, cloaked under a dark hood that left his hollow face obscured in the night.
Kieran raised a brow and bent. "Well, good evening to you too, creepy Gandalf."
He checked his pockets out of habit, wondering if this was a sham. But then, he smiled wryly when he realized he wasn't even wearing his own clothes.
'A wise man once said, It's not wrong for a thief to be cautious of being stolen from.' Kieran shrugged, turning toward the tavern just ahead. There was nothing he could do about the 'little' accident with the hooded figure so he decided to proceed to his intended destination. He even guessed the man might be drunk, he probably wouldn't remember what happened.
The sign of the tavern swung lazily in the wind, illustrated by a single flickering hanging lantern. It read: "The Crooked Lantern" in Alohish- the most common language in the whole of Gethraldria, native to the people in the Westfordmire and the Southshire regions.
" Haha, genius!" Kieran chuckled at the sign and took a step forward to approach. But just as he made it around the hooded figure lying unconscious on the floor, Kieran paused when his eyes caught something on the floor.
It was a flicker of white near his boot, rectangular in shape.
It lay face-up in the dirt, faintly glowing in the dim light of the amber moon. The edges were unnaturally crisp, and on its surface, in dark ink, was a symbol he recognized all too well.
The 8 of clubs!