The silence of the grand hall was broken only by the rhythmic percussion of plate armor on marble. Clink-clank. Clink-clung. Each step was a declaration of presence, an announcement she couldn't mute. It irritated her—this constant fanfare of her own movement—but for a knight, such discomforts were meant to be buried.
Then she saw him, and discipline warred with awe.An ancestor!? The brown familiar head, black hair. No way. An actual ancestor. She was hallucinating. A dream? No, she was at the Council Hall. Dreams never occurred in Eryndor.
Right there, before her, standing at the Council Hall's entrance, was an ancestor. A sight only seen in dreams. Was he the guest? Impossible. Ancestors were ghosts in glass, memories trapped in spectral loops. They did not visit. They did not stand bathed in the mundane light of evening filtering through high windows.
The flames of curiosity guttered and died, rationality returning with the cool weight of discipline. As a Rank 3, she couldn't let childish wonder reign. Duty came first.
Clink-clank. Clink-clung.
Her feet moved with the familiar rhythm of metal hitting stone, the soles protesting under her weight. She suppressed the urge to remove the damned boots and walked toward the ancestor. 'Holy ancestors—an actual ancestor. Unbelievable. So close. Is he real? A phantom, like the rest?'
"Lady Sylvia, Rank 3 Knight of Eryndor, reporting to your service."
She offered her hand. Confirmation if he was real. Ancestors liked shaking hands.
But he just stayed there, staring blankly, frozen in place like a statue caught mid-breath. A recollection stirred unbidden in her mind—walking on a street, people staring, admiring her beauty. She snuffed the memory before it could take root. Not hers. Why did his stare bring back dreams? It had been years since dreams haunted her. Did Rank 3s even get recollections anymore?
"Rank 3 Knight, Lady Sylvia, reporting to your service."
Still nothing. Just a blank stare. 'Ancestor's quite weird.' More strange than the ones in dreams. They didn't stare—they just ignored, oblivious, enacting their cryptic vignettes, doing random things in their ephemeral worlds. But this one just stared, a living statue whose only motion was the rhythmic rise and fall of breath.
Blue eyes. Quite rare for an ancestor. He was also quite handsome. His hair… She suppressed the urge to touch those silky black strands, restraining her hands with effort.Improper. Deeply improper.
Instead, she placed her gauntleted hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle, metallic nudge.
His eyes flashed, snapping back from wherever they'd been. His gaze immediately fell to the floor, his cheeks flushing a deep red. Embarrassment? Yes, red cheeks always meant embarrassed. But why was he even embarrassed?
"Rank 3 Knight, Lady Sylvia. Reporting to your service as per the Council's order," she repeated, her voice flat, carving through the awkwardness.
"S-so… sorry for that. I didn't mean to…"
His voice trailed off, still addressing the floor.
"Are you the guide offered to me by the Council?"
---
It got him again. So embarrassing. 'Why did he always freeze before girls?' He didn't know why, but whenever he came face-to-face with a girl, he just froze in place, gawking like some mindless statue. It was a mixture of fear and awe, especially if they were beautiful. Turns out, it didn't only apply to humans. But who wouldn't freeze? Her ultramarine pupils paired with her exquisitely beautiful deep blue face—so smooth, like polished glass. Then came her hair, flowing filaments of frosted moonstone cascading from her head in a way that made him want to reach out and… No. Stop.
And she also wore armor. Full plate that somehow made her look more elegant rather than bulky, the metal fitted to her form with the precision of art rather than war. He'd stared at that too long, hadn't he? That's why his cheeks were burning.
"You are correct. The Council has ordered me to guide you around Eryndor during your stay in the city. I will now escort you to your place of residence. Follow me."
With that, she turned, the armor singing its metallic song with each movement. She headed toward the street that flanked the right side of the Council Chamber. Zane followed close behind, his eyes carefully fixed on the back of her head rather than… anywhere else.
'Guide? Spy fits better.' They didn't seem to have much trust in him—not even the tiniest bit. They'd even sent a Rank 3 Knight to shadow him. Still, with the Bazaar, he'd earn their trust soon enough. He had to.
The question was how long "soon enough" would take, and whether this beautiful, armored warden would report his every breath back to the Council.
---
The residence was not a room. It was a celestial pronouncement in stone and polished wood—a neoclassical mansion that felt less like a dwelling and more like a temple to aesthetics. It was absurdly vast for one person.
Lady Sylvia pushed open the sylvan doors, revealing an even grander sight. An extensive corridor stretched before them, its smooth marmoreal floor inlaid with onyx cameos. The ceiling hung low overhead, and coral-plastered walls extended toward what appeared to be red-carpeted stairs in the distance.
Clink-clank. Clink-clung.
The sound of metal hitting polished marble reverberated through the hall as Lady Sylvia walked, a rhythm accompanying every footstep. Zane closed the door behind them and followed.
As they walked, Zane noticed paintings on the walls, each one sparking new memories in his mind—a walk down memory lane of some unknown life. There were also ornate wooden doors along the walls at intervals, probably leading to various halls or rooms.
Finally, they arrived at the foot of a double stairwell carpeted in deep red. The staircase rose for ten steps before splitting into two opposite helical paths leading to the upper floors.
Lady Sylvia ascended the right branch. Zane followed closely behind. Soon enough, they arrived at a narrow hall—also with doors along the sides, red-carpeted floors, and coral-plastered walls beneath a low-hung ceiling. Lamps hung at intervals, bathing the space in a soft orange glow.
She opened the first door on the right.
"This will be your compartment of residence."
She then proceeded to opened the opposite door on the left.
"I will be staying here. If you need anything, knock once."
The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
'Why is she so cold?' Not appropriate for a guide. Still, it was better this way. He didn't want to freeze every time he saw her beautiful face, or that hair. The valiant knight persona only made it worse. If he didn't have a crush on Mia, his blue alien nightmare could be coming into fruition. 'Focus.' Girls were not objects to admire. Shameful behavior like that didn't sit well with him.
Also, had he just admitted he had a crush on Mia? Last he checked, he hated her. She'd made his school life pathetically bad. She was also the root of his problems with girls—made him fear them.
He entered his room. Room was a pathetic word for it. It was a gallery, a vaulted space of such divine workmanship it felt blasphemous to simply exist within it. Where was the bed? Did Gentlets not sleep?
He moved toward the chair, then stopped. No. Exploration first. He still had to figure out if the room had bathing facilities. He felt dirty. He also needed to wash his dusty clothes. Strange that the dust clung to his clothes and hands but not his feet as he walked.
The first door he opened revealed a bathing chamber. And in the corner, steaming gently, was a tub filled to the brim with hot water. Prepared for him. The hospitality, at least, was impeccable.
---
Now that he'd finished showering, he could try the crazy idea he'd been concocting in the bathtub.
He imagined all his clothes, save for the shoes, fresh and clean. He then requested an exchange with his dirty batch of clothes.
『The Equilibrium Shifts. A Barter Is Garnered』
『Boons』
◇Arenose Cowl Of Anonymous Withdrawal
◇Arenose Elementary Dermic Lamina
◇Arenose Itinerant Dual Sanctums
◇Arenose Pelvic Bastion
◇Arenose Striding Sheathes
『Sacrifice』
◆Cowl Of Anonymous Withdrawal
◆Elementary Dermic Lamina
◆Itinerant Dual Sanctums
◆Pelvic Bastion
◆Striding Sheathes
◆5 Exchange Fragments
Pretty weird names for clothing. Also, why were the clean clothes more expensive? They had dust—they should have higher value.
Understanding slowly dawned on him. The exchange value wasn't based on the Bazaar's judgment. It all relied on his judgment.
His dreams of selling random rocks back on Earth shattered. He'd thought he could get some Exchange Fragments from the extra dust on his clothes.
He accepted the deal. Immediately, his dirty clothes disappeared from the bed, replaced by clean, neatly folded clothes exactly the same as the previous ones.
---
Zane now sat on the chair, feeling refreshed after the warm shower. Finally, he could interrogate Nyx about the system. Hopefully, he could satisfy his curiosity.
«You lied, Nyx. You claimed you couldn't read my mind.»
He felt the familiar weight materialize on his shoulder. He willed the silkworm-form to float before him. It looked like Nyx, his lifelong imaginary companion, save for the profound, unsettling fact of its existence and its voice in his head.
«Eternal Patron, forgive any failure in my clarity. I have not lied. Please, inquire directly so I may illuminate what confuses you.»
«How are we communicating if you aren't in my mind?» The thought was sharp, pointed directly at the creature.
«I cannot read the landscape of your mind. I can only receive transmissions you consciously direct to me. Thoughts not aimed at me are silent. I am a receiver, not a surveyor.»
Zane paused. It was technically correct. He had been directing his thoughts toward Nyx the whole time, just like he always did before getting the Bazaar. He wouldn't get any reply then—his mind forced to think by itself. But now Nyx was real. Cautiously, he directed his thoughts toward it, and it always replied. Thus, it was receiving his thoughts but not reading his mind wholesale.
Nyx was right. It hadn't lied… Or it could be putting up a grander show. He couldn't trust it. It wasn't him, and he didn't control its thoughts. He couldn't trust a separate sentient entity from himself. It was true that sometimes he felt like separate people jumbled together in a single body, but it wasn't to the point of feeling genuinely separate from himself.
«Why do you regard yourself as my servant? What even is a mirror of the soul—is it a portion? Or another soul meant to be a reflection of mine?»
It just confused him. Nyx should have been more elaborate.
«My existence is a fragment of your own, cleansed of your specific memories and experiences, yet sharing your foundational source. The Bazaar's imprint upon this fragment created me—a solitary aide, a living binding between you and the Grand Exchange. I am a token of the fusion. The Bazaar belongs to you. I, bound to the Bazaar, belong to you. I am a servant by nature of my genesis.»
So that was it. Nyx was a portion of his soul—or rather, it had been his soul. It also bound him to the Bazaar. That explained why it knew so much about the Bazaar—it had been imprinted on it. Though he didn't like it referring to itself as his servant. It had a soul, thus it was a separate entity born from him, no longer him. The thought of owning another consciousness, even a derivative one, sickened him.
"Stop," Zane said aloud, his voice firm in the silent, lavish room. "Stop referring to yourself as a servant. From now on, you are Nyx. My eternal companion. My one and only assistant."
He took a steadying breath, the true, heavy questions now rising to the surface.
"Now, the real questions. What is the Bazaar of Equivalent Exchange? Is it a natural law, a crafted tool, or a living entity? What is its ultimate purpose?" He met the silkworm's glowing blue eyes. "And why, of all beings in all realities, did it choose me?"