After knocking on the door, Abigail realized she might have arrived a bit too early.
It was still early morning, with few people in sight at the inn or on the streets. It was around the same time yesterday that the guest had checked in. If not for business, Abigail wouldn't normally be up this early. She arrived with a determined edge to her step, but after knocking, the memory of the fleeting glimpse she'd caught yesterday morning made her feel uneasy once more.
The sooner she started, the sooner it would be over. She kicked the floor lightly, clenching her fist to steady her nerves. Before she could knock again, the door swung open.
A dark-haired woman stood inside, her hair neatly pulled back without a single strand out of place, dressed immaculately in a coat. Not a trace of early-morning weariness graced her face; she seemed alert, as if she'd been waiting for this moment.
"Good morning, Ms. Natasha!" Abigail greeted her. "I'm here to take you to the capital. Have you had breakfast?"
"Your father informed me yesterday," the guest nodded. "Let us depart."
This was Abigail's task for the day—all thanks to her overzealous father. The old man was always like this, prone to sudden bouts of benevolence. "She's new here and doesn't know anyone. You've got nothing better to do at home anyway, so why not take her out for a bit!" Wood had declared, unceremoniously dumping the guide's duties on his daughter.
In truth, Abigail wasn't the only one assigned a task—Wood's younger brother, Uncle Edwin, was also roped in. Even a fool could see what the old man was up to. The girl rolled her eyes inwardly. Uncle Edwin had important matters to attend to; he certainly didn't have time to accompany some random stranger on a sightseeing trip! Thus, Abigail bravely sacrificed herself and took on the task alone. By taking the guest out so early, even if her father insisted Uncle Edwin accompany them later, he couldn't use the guest as an excuse.
They boarded a carriage nearby and soon reached the outskirts of the capital. Abigail guided the guest off the carriage and stepped onto the city streets before the crowds thickened. "Stay close to me. Don't wander off." she instructed. The guest nodded, surveying the surrounding streets.
Guiding was a tedious task.
"Entry carriages are restricted. Those transporting visitors must wait outside; freight carriages use that route. Still, we must walk the sidewalks. The carriages and carts permitted on the capital's streets can travel quite fast, and they all have licenses. It's troublesome if anything happens."
"Over there is Erian's central square, with a large clock. At noon, birds and little figures emerge to strike the hour—it's quite loud."
"There are many restaurants here. You can eat when you get hungry. Second Street has pricier options, but I hear the food is better."
"This street sells goods."
Abigail's descriptions grew increasingly brief. She had no talent for tour guiding—everything she said sounded dry and uninteresting. Truth be told, she genuinely found the place utterly dull. Erian's capital was simply called the Capital City (see? Even the name was boring). Many people boasted about how magnificent it was, but Abigail thought it was nothing special. Born and raised in the Capital, she'd explored every corner since childhood. Any place remotely interesting had long lost its charm. Perhaps she'd found it fascinating as a child—but children marvel at puddles. That sense of wonder had faded long ago. To the Abigail of today, the Capital was just a vast, bustling, and tedious city.
"Why don't you like it here?"
The hollow introduction, better than nothing, was interrupted. Abigail turned her head and met the dark eyes of the female guest. Those eyes, which never stopped moving, were now fixed on the girl, looking just as keenly interested as when observing their surroundings.
If someone asked Abigail whether she liked the capital city, she would definitely say she did, just to avoid an argument. But Natasha cut straight to the chase, asking why she disliked it, as if already certain of the premise: "Abigail dislikes the capital."
"Not exactly," Abigail pouted. "It's just that I don't like it that much... Any place gets boring after you've been there too long, and I've never been anywhere else in my life."
She hadn't been anywhere else, yet she'd heard endless lectures about "not appreciating what you have." Annoying as it was, Abigail let it go in one ear and out the other. Those who came to the capital with pilgrim-like devotion would surely respond to her words with a barrage of platitudes—from the love for one's hometown ("How could you tire of the place that gave you birth?") to the capital's importance and historical significance—about Erian, about humanity, blah blah blah, the usual platitudes.
"That's true," the visitor nodded unexpectedly. "Sometimes we have to leave where we were born to realize what home truly looks like. Take where I come from, for instance—you don't see these horse-free carriages on the streets there."
She pointed toward a passing automobile. The driver, wearing a bowler hat, sounded the horn before turning to warn of oncoming traffic around the corner. Abigail vaguely recalled many travelers expressing astonishment at the existence of automobiles, some even joking they were witchcraft—how narrow-minded. Natasha, however, had remained remarkably composed since arriving in the city, making Abigail almost forget she too came from the distant countryside.
"Oh, that's a motorcar!" Abigail explained, pleased to be acknowledged. "It runs on steam and can drive itself. But it's very expensive—both to buy and to operate. Ordinary people can't afford them."
The shopkeeper's family, of course, belonged to the ordinary folk. Abigail knew little about these things—items either bought by the wealthy or used by the government—and had little interest in learning more. But the customer's words sparked something in her. "Where are you from?" she asked.
"The south," the woman replied. "Tasmalin State."
The name sounded familiar. Abigail paused, then instantly recalled where she'd heard it. "Tasmalin State!" She spun around, eyes wide. "Is that the place with all the alien creatures lately? Are there really so many of them? Are they everywhere? Have you encountered them? What do they look like? Is that why you left?"
The woman chuckled softly, and Abigail realized she'd fired off too many questions at once. She stuck out her tongue and glanced around. Thankfully, no one in the bustling market had noticed her outburst. The shopkeeper's daughter lowered her voice excitedly and asked again, "Are there really alien creatures over there?"
"Sort of," Natasha replied curtly, mimicking Abigail's earlier tone before falling silent.
That wouldn't do! Like a cat smelling fish, Abigail began circling the woman. After persistent coaxing, the customer finally spoke again: "Why do you want to know so badly?"
"Everyone wants to know about the aliens," Abigail said.
"Not as much as you," Natasha replied meaningfully.
Her expression seemed to demand a straight answer—a fair exchange, question for question. Fine, Abigail shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. "Just curious."
Natasha nodded, clearly waiting for more.
Don't go spouting your nonsense to others! Dad used to tell Abigail this, droning on about how similar things were, annoying both her and Uncle Edwin. From rambling about being haunted by evil spirits ("Dad! I'm not three anymore!" ") to warnings that saying the wrong thing would get you arrested by secret police, stripped of your business license, and left starving or behind bars. He'd repeated it so often and so dramatically that Abigail always dismissed it as empty threats meant to scare children. She'd nodded in agreement, but secretly paid it no mind—it was less effective than Uncle Edwin's warnings.
"You can't go around telling people, Abby," Uncle Edwin said sternly. "You'll spoil it for them. When they read my books later, you'll ruin their enjoyment."
This was a serious matter.
Abigail sifted through what she could say, choosing her words carefully. "Because I've heard things about the Others. They say that in the past... some of the Others were strange."
"How strange?" Natasha inquired.
"Well, all kinds of strange," Abigail gestured vaguely, trying to gloss over it. "Hmm, back when humans weren't the masters of the world yet, all sorts of interesting... I mean strange things lived on the earth."
The female guest didn't seem too concerned. She nodded and asked, "Did you hear that from your father?"
If Natasha had asked Wood, this lie would have been exposed instantly, and Abigail would surely have to endure another lecture. So she quickly shook her head and said, "I read it in a book."
"There are books like that?" Natasha pressed.
"Yes..."
"Could I borrow it? I'm quite interested in this too."
As if she'd lend it! Abigail felt a pang of irritation, baffled by how the questioning had shifted to her. Hadn't she been the one asking the questions at first? She stole a glance at the woman beside her. Natasha was picking up items from the stall to examine them, seemingly unconcerned about the questions. Abigail licked her lips and said, "Sorry, that book isn't mine."
Fearing the other might press further, she added, "It's from the Great Library. I can't even recall the title."
The capital of Erian housed the famed Library of Civilization's Light, renowned far and wide for its vast grounds and astonishing collection. Many visitors from afar praised it highly. Abigail tried to steer the guest's attention toward this, racking her brain to enthusiastically describe the library's features—the soaring dome reaching beyond sight, the finest wooden bookshelves, the sun-blocking yet light-permeable marble walls, the exquisite binding on every volume... Finally, she emphasized, " But the Great Library has strict screening. You need a stack of permits and have to go through a lengthy process just to get inside!"
"Really?" Natasha set down the trinket she was holding and turned to look at her. "It must have been incredibly difficult for you to get that permit, right?"
Abigail inwardly groaned, wishing she could slap her own overzealous mouth. Why bring this up? She should have stopped at the perfect moment. Did she really fear Natasha would comb through every book and expose her lie about inventing one? By emphasizing this, Abigail only made it easier to reveal the truth—she didn't have a library pass either. One lie needed ten more to cover it up.
"Actually, I saw it in a customer's hands," Abigail said, pointing to a bustling little shop and awkwardly changing the subject. "Look! That one looks really nice!"
She jogged ahead.
This was a bustling street in the capital city, lined with shops displaying dazzling array of goods. Only upon entering did Abigail see what this particular shop sold. An antique shop peddling half-genuine, half-fake curiosities. She'd once frequented the place obsessively, until her father had laughed and revealed how the shop's "antiques" were crafted from materials costing mere pennies.
"I also found the past fascinating," Natasha joined her, pausing beside Abigail. "All manner of races, all manner of professions, extraordinary creatures and extraordinary people."
Abigail whipped her head around, staring intently at the customer's face, which remained as relaxed as before. She was fiddling with an item supposedly "a flame-thrower component used by a legendary hero," completely oblivious to the words just spoken.
She might have been referring to ordinary professions, or perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. But after holding back for a moment, Abigail couldn't contain herself. She blurted out, "You know about the Professed too?"
"Yes," Natasha replied. "Isn't that common knowledge?"
It wasn't a secret, but it was an ancient concept. Modern books and pamphlets referred to the extraordinary figures of the past only as "heroes" or "great foes." The term 'professional' had long since vanished from public discourse, reserved solely for those deeply immersed in ancient texts and history. If not for her own fascination with the past, she would never have heard it mentioned. Besides her uncle, Abigail had never met another person who could discuss this! Suppressing her excitement, she asked, "So, what profession do you like?"
"Mage," Natasha murmured softly.
"I love mages best too!" Abigail mouthed silently—she couldn't speak aloud without shouting for all to hear—"Mages possess vast knowledge, they're incredibly clever, they hold the secrets of the world, and can accomplish anything with their astonishing power..."
The guest chuckled, and Abigail realized she'd gone overboard. It felt a bit inappropriate to gush so enthusiastically in front of someone who admired mages and knew a thing or two about them. "Almost anything," she added. "They're so cool! Some can control the elements, some can turn people into animals, and... and all sorts of other amazing things."
She slammed on the brakes, afraid she'd spoil the story her uncle was writing. Abigail felt stifled, pondering how to recommend Uncle Edwin's masterpiece to Natasha, but he'd also said she shouldn't tell anyone until he finished it.
"But the mages have vanished," Natasha said.
"That's all a misunderstanding," Abigail declared indignantly. "Mages aren't minions of the Abyss! Just because the Abyss used magic first doesn't mean we can't use it too! Why should we protect our enemies' copyrights? I want to become a mage someday too..."
She didn't finish her sentence. Something was tossed into her arms. Abigail fumbled to catch it midair, nearly dropping it. She picked up the object that had nearly hit the floor—an antique lock.
At least that's what the tag called it. This metal contraption with its many parts had a smooth surface, polished to a shine by countless hands. A jumble of irregular metal blocks and thin plates interlocked, some movable, some fixed.
"Give it a try," the woman said abruptly. "Can you take this apart?"
Abigail wasn't in the mood for lock-picking, but meeting the other woman's insistent gaze, she reluctantly began dismantling the chaotic contraption.
The antique lock looked complicated, and fiddling with it proved even more so. The rotating parts had different angles of movement. Sliders fit through some holes but not others. Most infuriatingly, there seemed to be springs inside. If her movements weren't quick and precise enough, the parts she'd painstakingly adjusted would snap back into place. What on earth possessed the maker to design it this way? she grumbled inwardly, struggling with it for a while until her hard-won progress was once again undone.
"This thing is impossible to open!" she muttered.
Natasha shook her head, watching her with regret. Abigail grew angry. Was this person not taking her words seriously at all? She was just teasing her, just like everyone else.
"Are you mocking me?" Abigail took a step back, folding her arms. "Do you also think I'm delusional, like some kind of fool? I'll tell you..."
"No." Natasha shook her head calmly. "What's your plan?"
"What?" Abigail asked blankly, as if punching air.
"Every step of your plan to become a mage," the visitor said. "No dream deserves ridicule, but success is your own responsibility. You need a plan."
"...Oh." Abigail said.
She deflated like a punctured balloon, her anger visibly shrinking. Abigail felt a flustered sense of having misjudged the other person, yet couldn't help but feel pleased. Her mother had left before she could understand, and though her father doted on her, he always dismissed everything she was passionate about as unrealistic. Her uncle was a cool guy, but sometimes even he wasn't cool enough. "Maybe you should think about more... more achievable, tangible goals, like opening a flower shop?" he'd tell Abigail. "You know, fiction is just fiction."
This was the first time anyone had taken her dreams seriously.
A wave of warmth flooded Abigail's heart. She touched her nose to hide her emotions, unsure what to say.
"There's nothing wrong with being a dreamer. Your teens are the perfect time for it," the other person said, easing the tension. "If you hold on tight enough, some of those dreams might just come true."
"Do you know any other teenagers?" Abigail asked.
Natasha was someone whose age was hard to guess. Her skin was smooth and soft, not a single strand of gray hair on her head. Yet those calm, deep black eyes seemed to have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, nothing able to stir even a ripple within them. Abigail couldn't guess her age. She could be in her twenties, thirties, forties—or two hundred, three hundred, four hundred years old. Who knew? The girl secretly thought that if elves or wizards truly existed in the world, they would look just like this.
The ageless woman smiled. "I was your age once too."
...
"Not her," Victor declared. "Even the most fallen mage wouldn't take on such a fool."
The lock reset once more. The girl before them grew increasingly agitated, her chances of success dwindling by the moment.
The antique lock—a replica of a mage apprentice's toy—resembled a hybrid of nine-ring puzzles and Rubik's cubes. It tested both the player's composure and intellect, but perhaps dexterity held greater weight. An exceptional mage must possess unwavering patience and a sharp mind, while even the most inept apprentice required nimble fingers for basic spellcasting gestures.
This girl would never become a mage's apprentice. The magic array outside that inn couldn't possibly be connected to her.
Tasha journeyed above the clouds, dragon power coiling around the iron track in Lake Rebe. The track stretched across the wilderness, serpent-like trains passing her by, heading in opposite directions. She traveled upstream, eventually reaching the capital city of Erian.
This place neared the origin of the sensing, yet Tasha couldn't fly to the source. The tracks' starting point lay at a heavily guarded military base near Erian's capital. If the various energy fluctuations she sensed—dragons, spirit-binding runes, the dungeon core, or magic—had colors, it would likely form a rainbow island capable of instantly triggering seizures in epileptics.
Yet Tasha was not entirely helpless.
Dragon power intertwined with the tracks, but near the source, it did not bind them tightly. The scale of that entity was immense, far exceeding the scope of the surface military base.
It lay beneath the earth.
That vast space, possibly imprisoning the dragon, extended in part beneath Erian's capital city.
Tasha descended from the clouds, folded her wings, and walked on two legs toward the heart of this human empire. Unexpectedly, Victor cried out as they passed an inn, pointing out traces of a protective array.
"It's still active!" Victor declared, pointing to subtle markings on various landmarks surrounding the inn. "This thing is stealthy, but it requires maintenance. Ten years of neglect would render it useless."
This meant that, at least within the last decade, a spellcaster had been here.
Tasha checked into the inn, determined to find that potential mage. A spellcaster daring enough to set up a magic array near the capital of Erian must either be desperate or exceptionally skilled. Judging by Victor's praise for the array—he was unusually free of his usual nitpicking and sarcasm—it was likely the latter. Tasha herself had detected nothing unusual here. Had it not been for Victor, a native of the Abyss with innate sensitivity to magic, she would have missed it entirely.
Magic, indeed, originated as a specialty of the Abyss. Its creatures possessed innate magical abilities, which demons later imparted to creatures of the Main Material Plane willing to pledge allegiance to the Abyss. Yet the origins of mages remain shrouded in debate. Some claim the progenitor was an ambitious traitor who betrayed the Abyss after embracing it, stealing spells to wield independently. Others posit that the Forerunners were explorers driven by insatiable curiosity, who studied the Abyss's creatures and familiars until they mimicked powerful magic—fundamentally different, yet outwardly similar. By the time of the Erian Declaration, the term "mage" had become nearly neutral, distinct from the cultists of the Abyss.
In any case, if mages still existed in this world, there might be room for cooperation between these persecuted practitioners and the dungeons. If Tasha could find a spellcaster living near the capital, her search would be twice as effective with half the effort.
Alas, matters did not unfold so smoothly.
On her second day here, Tasha traversed the famed human capital with purpose. She gathered scattered clues, verified and proposed new hypotheses, and found herself increasingly astonished by the city.
The capital of the Erian Empire was simply called "The Capital"—a name concealing an unspeakable arrogance. Humans transformed the term "Erian" from a general designation for the continent into the name of their empire. Since then, whenever anyone mentioned Erian, they thought only of the empire—even non-humans. Now, not a single beastman would utter the slogan "For Erian," viewing it as kneeling before humans. Few recall that centuries ago, it had been the battle cry of all creatures on earth as they waged war against the Celestial Realm and the Abyss. Now, only one empire exists upon the earth, and thus only one "Capital City"—needing no additional name.
The civilization level of the Capital City might well surpass that of Lake Rebe by a century.
Carriages traversed the streets, accompanied by "cars." These were not automobiles in the modern sense, but civilian vehicles bearing whistles and smokestacks, with drivers manipulating instrument panels—bearing considerable resemblance to the armored vehicles of this world.
Skyscrapers pierced the sky, chain-driven and hand-cranked elevators operated by half-human power, and pedestrians in crisp, nineteenth-century-style attire moved with composed ease.
The boss's prosthetic hand was flat, its knuckles exquisitely crafted. This exposed steel limb was as delicate and intricate as an insect's appendage.
At twelve o'clock, the massive clock face opened. Amidst the clatter of gears, a metallic cuckoo chimed the hour, and a small metal soldier marched out clutching what resembled a musket.
The wealthy wore peculiar watches, more like refined pocket watches: the chain connected to the wrist and a finger. With a flick of the finger, the watch cover sprang open.
...
This was a peculiar city, like stumbling into an entirely new world. Erian's inefficient industries sustained the military and the heart of the empire. Here, machinery was both colossal and intricate, radiating a peculiar blend of archaic and technological charm—a seemingly contradictory union of gifts. Standing amidst it all, Tashan felt like the opening scene of a bizarre film: a dragon-winged woman traversing a mechanical city, searching for traces of mages and entrances to subterranean realms.