POV: First Person
I stepped out of the heavy oak doors of the Ramdulus Sanctuary and into the light.
The transition was violent. One moment I was in the dim, herbal-scented quiet of Gilly's care; the next, I was assaulted by a world that felt too bright, too loud, and terrifyingly vast.
But the first thing that actually hit me wasn't the smell. It was the lack of it.
Back home—back in the "Frankenstein" surrounded by the scrapyard—the air had a texture. It tasted of sulfur, ozone, recycled exhaust, and the metallic tang of desperation. You chewed the air as much as you breathed it. But here? The air was frighteningly neutral. It was crisp, carrying faint notes of sweetgrass and distant charcoal, but beneath that, it was sterile.
I looked down at the cobblestones beneath my boots. They were scrubbed to a pristine, impossible white. The gutters were clear of sludge. The buildings, a mix of timber and stone, looked like they had been painted yesterday. There was no graffiti. No grime. No trash.
It was unrealistically clean. It felt less like a functional city where humans lived and defecated, and more like a surgical theater waiting for a patient. Or a dollhouse waiting for a child to come smash it.
Observation: This cleanliness is artificial. Maintenance algorithms must be aggressive, or the culture here is obsessive.
I leaned on my cane-sword, letting the weight of the ironwood scabbard ground me. I took a moment to just breathe and let in the horizon.
This place, First and Lasting, was massive. From my vantage point on the sanctuary steps, I could see the city wasn't just a sprawl; it was a segregated beast, carved into distinct organs, each pulsating with its own rhythm.
I was currently standing in the Main Area, the marketing hub of the Human Capitol. The key districts fanned out around me:
To the immediate East was the Magic Area. The laws of physics were being openly mocked here. Massive crystals, some as large as houses, drifted lazily above the streets, tethered by chains of glowing light. I could distinguish two massive campuses dominating the skyline. One was a chaotic jumble of towers, mismatched architecture, and colorful explosions of smoke—First & Lasting Academy or FAL Academy. It looked like a school where "teach the next generation" was the motto. Further back stood Magical University, austere and terrifying, its towers glowing with a cold, uniform blue light. The Tepes Clan ran this district.
North East was the Industrial Area. A thick blanket of black smoke choked the sky, blotting out the pristine sun. Even from here, I could hear the rhythmic clang-clang-hiss of massive steam hammers. It looked like a photograph from a history book—a 19th-century American factory zone dropped into a fantasy world. I saw smokestacks belching soot, gears the size of houses turning slowly, and the faint, comforting smell of burning coal drifting on the wind. The Chambers Clan operates here.
Physics Check: No hover-ports. No magnetic lifts. Everything over there is ground-based, rolling on wheels or tracks. It seems this world's physics engine forbids the anti-grav tech I grew up with. If it flies here, it's magic, wings, or rockets. Technology stays in the dirt.
To the South was the Main City Gate, a massive stone wall that marked the only way in or out of this human bastion, beyond the dangerous plains.
Directly North was the Town Square, where the crowd seemed thickest.
North West from the Town Square rose the Counsel's Area. It was literally walled off from the rest of us peasants by white stone ramparts. It looked like a royal district, guarded by checkpoints that would make a prison warden blush.
North East from the Counsel Area, via a bridge, was the Town Guard Area. This looked like a separate island fortress of gray stone blockhouses, rigid walls, and patrol lines moving with insect-like precision. The Caliber Clan ran that district.
Hypothesis: Five distinct power centers. Five potential enemies. The social stratification here is worse than Earth. At least on Earth, the rich hide in orbit. Here, they look down on you from up the street.
"Okay, Lee," I whispered to myself, adjusting the collar of my rough linen robe. "Goal one: Register. Goal two: Don't get arrested. Goal three: Get paid."
I began to walk toward the Town Square, my cane tapped a deliberate rhythm on the spotless stones—tap, step, tap, step. I fell into the Bartitsu gait naturally. It wasn't just a walk; it was a defensive posture. The cane was always forward, creating a perimeter that no one could cross without my permission. Since the world was massive, and the other nine testers were likely scattered across their own racial capitals, I was effectively alone in First and Lasting.
I passed rows of high-end merchants. And then, I stopped.
Nestled between a bustling bakery smelling of yeast and a noisy tavern was a shop that simply did not fit.
The sign above the door was modest, painted in peeling gold leaf: Timeless Trinkets. But the aura of the place was wrong. While the rest of the street buzzed with movement, the air around this shop was stagnant. Heavy. It felt like standing next to a predator that was pretending to be asleep.
I looked into the display window.
Sitting there, on a velvet cushion, was a girl.
She looked no older than eight. She was dressed in an intricate Victorian ball gown of deep, blood-red velvet, complete with lace cuffs and a matching bonnet that cast a shadow over her face. She was pale. Not the "I stay inside too much" pale of a gamer, but a translucent, milky white that made her look like she was made of bone china.
I squinted. Through the glass, I could see the blue roadmap of her veins branching beneath the skin of her small hands. They were stark, terrifyingly visible against the white flesh.
She didn't blink. She didn't breathe. She sat with the absolute stillness of a corpse.
Assessment: Biological functions suppressed. Threat level: Critical.
Movement in the background caught my eye.
Behind the girl, deep in the shadows of the shop, a man was working. He was tall, lanky, and dressed in... I blinked to make sure I was seeing it right.
He was wearing an industrial-grade straightjacket. The heavy canvas was stained with oil and old rust, the leather straps pulled tight enough to creak. His arms were bound across his chest, completely immobilized.
By all logic, he should have been helpless. Yet, he was organizing a shelf of heavy grimoires.
He stood on one leg, raising his other foot to the shelf. His bare toes moved with the dexterity of a pianist's fingers. He plucked a book from a stack, flipped it to check the spine, and slotted it onto the shelf with a precision that made my own hands feel clumsy.
As if sensing my gaze, the man froze. He slowly lowered his leg.
He turned toward the window.
He looked... bored. Laid back. His hair was a messy mop of grease and dust. But the moment his eyes locked onto mine through the glass, the boredom evaporated.
A smile split his face. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a wide, wet tear of a grin that stretched so wide I thought the skin at the corners of his mouth would rip. It was the smile of a shark that had just smelled blood in the water. His eyes, previously dull, swirled with a manic, psychotic glee that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
Deduction: The girl is the master. The man is the dog. The straightjacket isn't a costume; it's a cage to keep the world safe from him. These aren't shopkeepers. They are killers.
I tipped my hat—a reflex of polite society—and forced myself to keep walking at the same pace.
Heart rate: 110 BPM. Adrenaline: Spiking. Note to self: Do not shop there. Ever.
I put two blocks between myself and the nightmare shop before I let myself relax.
Suddenly, the idyllic silence of the "clean" city was shattered.
"No! Please!"
The scream echoed off the white stone walls. It was followed by the sound of tearing fabric and the cruel, raucous laughter of men who knew they were untouchable.
I stopped.
Analysis: Not my problem. I am on parole. I have zero political capital. I have a cane and a robe. Walking away is the strategic move.
I gripped the handle of my cane. The brass felt cold against my palm.
Counter-Analysis: I hate bullies.
I sighed, a long exhale that carried the last of my patience. "Impulse control: Failing."
I pushed through the gathering crowd.
In the center of the street, a circle had formed.
Standing there was a man—a human, but clearly not an ordinary one. He wore the sleeveless, open-chested gi of the Ramdulus Clan. His arms were wrapped in thick, dirty bandages, and his skin was flushed a deep, angry red, likely from the jug of cheap rice wine that sat spilled on the cobblestones nearby. He was built like a mountain, muscles twitching with uncontrolled energy.
He was holding a small, elderly Gnome upside down by one ankle. The gnome, wearing a baker's apron dusted with flour, was flailing helplessly.
"Call it 'rent', little man!" the Ramdulus disciple roared. His voice was slurred but powerful, vibrating in my chest. "Or I'll use your head to practice my Iron Palm technique!"
"Please!" the gnome squealed, his face turning purple. "I am just a baker! I have only flour! The dough is burning!"
The disciple laughed and shook the gnome like a ragdoll. "Then I'll take the flour and bake bread on your corpse!"
The crowd watched, terrified. The Ramdulus were the martial elite of this city. They cultivated Chi. They punched through stone. Regular citizens didn't touch them.
I stepped into the circle.
"Put him down," I said. My voice wasn't loud. It was conversational.
The Ramdulus disciple froze. He turned his head slowly, his neck cracking. He looked at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes.
"Get lost, cripple," he sneered, eyeing my cane. "Unless you want to donate your legs to the clan."
I took a step closer. "It's a bakery. You're disturbing the peace. And you're burning the merchandise."
He dropped the gnome, who scrambled away. The disciple turned fully toward me. He cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshots.
"You got a death wish, boy?" he growled. "I'm a Second Stage Disciple. My skin is iron. My fist is thunder. I can snap you in half like a dry twig."
"Stone doesn't move," I said calmly, shifting my weight to my back foot. "I do."
The insult registered. His face went from red to purple.
"DIE!" he roared.
He charged.
Time seemed to slow down. This was the analytic brain at work, my brain processing the data faster than reality could unfold.
Analysis of Opponent: Velocity: Fast. Enhanced by Chi. Momentum: Linear. He is committing 100% of his weight forward. Technique: Sloppy. Drukcen form, but without the discipline. He is over-extending. Flaw: Arrogance. He expects me to be a static object.
He swung a massive right fist aimed directly at my skull.
I waited until the fist was inches from my face. Then, I moved.
I stepped inside his guard. I moved into the danger zone, pressing my shoulder against his chest, robbing his punch of its optimal range. The fist sailed harmlessly over my shoulder.
I hooked the crook of my cane around his charging ankle—his leading foot.
Simultaneously, I drove my open palm into his hip joint, adding my own vector force to his massive forward momentum.
Physics applied: Leverage + Momentum = Trajectory Shift.
The disciple's eyes went wide. For a split second, he was weightless. His Chi couldn't save him from gravity. His iron skin couldn't stop the laws of motion.
He flew forward, his legs swept out from under him. He rotated in the air before his face met the pristine white cobblestones with a sickening, wet crunch.
He slid three feet, leaving a smear of blood on the perfect white street, before stopping right at the toes of my boots.
I looked down at him. He was groaning, clutching his nose.
I tapped the brass tip of my cane against his shoulder. Gently. Tap.
"Bartitsu," I whispered, loud enough only for him to hear. "Physics beats Chi. Every time."
I straightened my robe and looked up. Across the street, a Cygnax—a rare sight, clearly a Draconian with tech grafts—was pointing a metallic finger North toward the large, prominent building near the Counsel Area.
"Thank you," I said.
I turned and walked away. Tap. Step. Tap. Step.
I didn't look back. I didn't run. I walked with the measured pace of a gentleman who had just cleared a piece of trash from the sidewalk.
Status Report: Heart rate: Elevated. Satisfaction: Extremely High. Deduction: I have been in this city for less than an hour, and I have already assaulted a member of a ruling clan.
I grinned.
Conclusion: This is going to be a hell of a game.