The city didn't sleep.
It just changed shifts.
By the time the midnight bells finished ringing, the main streets had emptied of respectable folk and filled with the night crowd: merchants closing up late, drunkards staggering home, hooded figures slipping between alleys like smoke.
Lanterns swayed from iron hooks, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across cobblestones worn smooth by centuries.
I kept my hood up, shoulders hunched, walking like I belonged. Like I wasn't a level-4 otherworlder with stolen mana humming under my skin and a sword that wasn't mine at my hip.
The commercial district smelled of roasted meat, spilled ale, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, from the butcher stalls that stayed open late. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since… well, since Earth. The body I was in now didn't seem to care about hunger the way my old one did, but the emptiness was starting to gnaw anyway.
I followed my nose to a narrow stall wedged between a weaponsmith and a fortune-teller's tent. An old woman with a face like cracked leather was turning skewers over coals. The meat sizzled, dripping fat that made the flames leap.
"Two skewers," I said, keeping my voice low. "And whatever bread you've got."
She eyed me without much interest. "Three coppers."
I had no idea what coppers were worth, but I reached into the small pouch I'd lifted from one of the unconscious guards earlier. Inside: a handful of dull bronze coins stamped with a roaring bear—the same crest as the knights. I dropped three on the wooden counter.
She snatched them up, handed me the skewers wrapped in greasy paper and a hunk of hard bread. No questions. No small talk. Perfect.
I ate standing up, leaning against the wall of the alley beside her stall. The meat was gamey—venison, maybe—but hot and salty and better than anything I'd tasted in years. I tore into the bread next. It was stale, but I didn't care.
While I chewed, I watched the street.
A group of adventurers—four of them, armored in mismatched plates and leather—passed by laughing. One carried a massive two-handed axe slung across his back. Another had a staff topped with a glowing blue crystal. They looked comfortable. Confident. Like they belonged in this world.
I felt a pang—not jealousy, exactly. More like recognition.
They had something I never did back home: purpose. A place.
And talents they probably took for granted.
My fingers twitched toward the sword hilt.
I could take those talents.
Right here. Right now.
The thought came so naturally it scared me.
I forced it down. Not yet. Too public. Too many witnesses. I needed to understand the rules first—how strong people really were, how the system worked, what "levels" actually meant in practice.
I finished eating, wiped my hands on the borrowed cloak, and kept moving.
The streets grew narrower, darker. Signs swung above doorways: The Gilded Tankard. Iron Fang Armory. Moonlit Apothecary. One place had no sign—just a red lantern and a curtain of beads.
A woman with painted lips leaned in the doorway, smiling at passersby. I kept my eyes forward.
Eventually the buildings thinned out and gave way to an open square. A fountain stood in the center, carved with winged lions spouting water from their mouths. Around the edges were benches, a few food carts closing up, and—most importantly—a notice board the size of a barn door.
I drifted closer.
It was covered in parchments, nailed or glued or just tacked up with daggers. Bounties. Job postings. Guild recruitment flyers. Warnings.
One parchment caught my eye immediately.
It was fresh—ink still glossy in places. A rough charcoal sketch of a face.
My face.
The artist had made me look older, meaner. Hood up, eyes shadowed, mouth twisted in a snarl. Below the drawing, bold letters:
WANTED
TAKAHASHI REN
Otherworlder. Rogue Summon. Assault on Royal Knights. Theft of Sacred Mana.
Reward: 5,000 Gold Crowns (Dead or Alive)
Last seen fleeing the Royal Palace grounds. Extremely dangerous. Approach with extreme caution. Report sightings to any City Guard post.
Underneath, smaller print:
Note: Subject possesses abnormal mana manipulation abilities. Do not engage alone.
I stared at the poster for a long time.
Five thousand gold crowns.
I had no idea how much that was, but the number of exclamation points and the "Dead or Alive" made it clear enough.
They weren't playing.
And they already knew about the mana thing.
Aria must have talked. Or maybe the knights who escaped had seen enough.
I stepped back slowly, blending into the crowd of late-night wanderers. My heart wasn't racing anymore. It was steady. Cold.
They were hunting me.
Good.
That meant I was worth hunting.
I tore the poster off the board—carefully, so no one noticed—and folded it into my pocket. A souvenir. A reminder.
Then I kept walking.
The square led to a district that smelled of leather, oil, and hot metal. Blacksmiths. Armorers. Enchanters. The kind of place where people bought things to kill other people.
A sign caught my eye: Raven's Edge – Adventurer Supplies & Pawn.
The door was open, spilling warm orange light onto the street.
I went in.
The shop was bigger than it looked from outside. Shelves lined every wall, packed with weapons, potions in glass vials, rolled-up scrolls, armor pieces hanging like trophies. A counter ran along the back, manned by a man in his forties—scarred face, one eye milky white, the other sharp as a hawk's.
He looked up when the bell rang.
"Late customer," he grunted. "What do you need, kid?"
I scanned the room. No other patrons. Good.
"Information," I said.
He snorted. "Information costs more than swords in this city."
I pulled the folded wanted poster from my pocket and slid it across the counter.
He unfolded it. Read it. Looked up at me. Then back at the poster.
A slow smile spread across his scarred face.
"Well, damn," he said softly. "You've got balls walking in here."
"I need a place to lay low," I said. "And I need to know how this world works. Fast."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he leaned forward.
"Name's Garrick. I don't care who you are or what you did to the royals. But I do care about coin. And I care about people who can pay in… unusual ways."
I raised an eyebrow.
He tapped the counter.
"You've got something special, boy. I can smell it. Mana like a bonfire in a library. If you're willing to demonstrate—just a little—I can give you a room upstairs for a week, no questions. Plus some starting gear. And maybe a few names of people who might buy what you're selling."
I considered it.
Showing off Mana Manipulation in front of a stranger was risky.
But I was tired. Hungry again already. And alone in a city that wanted me dead.
I extended my hand over the counter.
A tiny sphere of compressed air formed above my palm—perfectly round, perfectly still. Then I let it expand until it was the size of a melon, then collapse back to a pinprick, then explode outward in a silent gust that ruffled every paper on the shelves without knocking anything over.
Garrick's good eye widened.
Then he laughed—low, rough, delighted.
"Gods below," he muttered. "You're the real deal."
He reached under the counter, pulled out a key, and tossed it to me.
"Upstairs, third door on the left. Food in the morning. No one asks questions here. But if guards come knocking…"
"I'll handle it," I said.
He nodded once.
"Welcome to the underbelly, Takahashi Ren."
I caught the key.
Turned toward the stairs.
And for the first time since waking up in that stone chamber—
I felt something close to safe.
Not because the city wasn't hunting me.
But because I finally had a place to sharpen my claws.
Tomorrow, I'd start hunting back.