Lucian stayed low in the carriage, keeping his hood over his head.
He could feel the motion of the horses beneath him, the soft creak of the wooden wheels and the faint rustle of goods packed around him.
As the carriage moved toward the capital, he noticed how the city walls grew taller and thicker.
At night, guards patrolled the streets more frequently, and checkpoints had extra lanterns lit.
The city had clearly increased security to prevent any trouble from reaching the heart of Gravenheim.
The carriage was heading toward the Market District.
From what Lucian had learned, most goods brought into the city would first be checked there. Merchants sold supplies, food, and crafts to both nobles and commoners.
It was busy during the day but quieter now, lit only by lamps and torches along the streets.
Lucian recalled the layout of Gravenheim in his mind.
Beyond the walls where he lived was the Farming District, where people raised crops and livestock.
The Market District was the next section, full of shops and stalls.
The Lower District held houses of craftsmen and workers, while the Higher District was for the wealthy nobles and their estates.
At the very center stood the Citadel, where the ruling family and government managed the kingdom.
He studied the path carefully, noticing where guards gathered and which roads led deeper into the city.
Time passed slowly, but the carriage kept moving closer to the city's heart.
The carriage stopped with a soft creak.
Lucian slipped out, keeping his hood low over his face. He walked calmly, as if he belonged here.
His destination was the Black Market. It wasn't hidden, but it wasn't a place for the weak either.
Gangs, mercenaries, and criminals all moved through it like it was their home. One wrong step, and it could be the end.
He approached the gates. The clatter of metal and shouted deals reached his ears. He inhaled slowly and walked in. His steps were steady, his gaze calm.
A man leaning against a stall noticed him. He frowned. "Hey, kid. What are you doing here? You shouldn't be—"
Lucian didn't flinch. He tilted his head slightly. "I'm nineteen."
The man raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but Lucian's confident tone left no room for argument. He carried himself like he belonged.
The man gave a small nod and turned away, leaving him to move deeper into the market.
Lucian's eyes scanned the crowd. Faces rough with scars, hands gripping knives, eyes darting for trouble.
He kept walking, unshaken.
In this place, appearances mattered more than age. And Lucian knew how to use that. He acted like any other visitor here.
Lucian moved deeper into the market.
The place smelled of smoke, leather, and something sour he couldn't place.
He had a purpose here.
He needed information about Louis' father. His goal wasn't to cause trouble, but just to see if the man's name would appear, if he could hear it mentioned, or spot him in the crowd.
He approached a massive shop, the kind that sold heavy armor and weapons. Behind the counter stood a giant of a man, towering at least eight feet six. His arms were thick as tree trunks.
Lucian stepped up. "Excuse me. Do you know someone named… Quentin Rupert?"
The giant blinked down at him. "Quentin Rupert? Can't say I do, kid. Who is he?"
Lucian's tone was calm, measured. "I'm… just checking. I need information. Maybe you've heard the name before?"
The shopkeeper shook his massive head slowly. "I sell things, not gossip. But I do try to help customers. What do you need? Weapons? Armor? Something rare?"
Lucian's eyes flicked across the shelves, pretending casual interest. "Maybe."
The man grunted. "You're small, but you talk big. Take a look. These are good, top-grade steel. They won't break if someone really tries to hurt you."
Lucian picked up a sword, rolling the hilt in his hands. "Do you often see people here from… noble families? Or mercenaries?"
The giant shrugged. "Sometimes. Lots of merchants, guards, and a few soldiers passing through. I don't track names unless they buy something expensive."
Lucian nodded slowly. "I see. And… Quentin Rupert? You're sure?"
The man's face remained stern, massive arms crossing. "Kid, I don't know anyone by that name. But if he comes through here, I'll remember. Now… do you want to buy something or just waste my time?"
Lucian smiled faintly, putting the sword back. "Just gathering information for now. Thank you."
The shopkeeper grunted again, returning to his work. Lucian moved on.
Somewhere in this chaos, he would find a clue about Quentin Rupert, even if it was only a whisper of the name.
Lucian moved from stall to stall, asking carefully and watching the reactions of each merchant.
"Quentin Rupert… do you know him?"
"Never heard the name," came the same answer again and again.
He tried subtle variations. "Rupert… Quentin? Maybe someone who deals with mercenaries?"
"Nope. I don't know anyone like that," said a stocky seller polishing a dagger.
He asked another, a woman selling exotic herbs. "Quentin Rupert?"
She shook her head. "No, child. You're mistaken."
Lucian's pace didn't falter. He spoke politely, smiled lightly, even joked sometimes, but nothing changed. Each answer was a dead end.
Hours passed. He noticed the way people's eyes followed him now. A few whispered to each other, but no one mentioned Quentin Rupert.
He tried the same questions in different ways, half expecting someone to slip, to give even the smallest hint.
But nothing happened.
Lucian paused in the center of the crowded alley, hands in his pockets. He let his gaze sweep across the people.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "If he's here, he's hiding well."
Even in frustration, his mind was calculating patterns, possibilities, movements of people who might be connected, times when Quentin might appear, or where he could be observed indirectly.
Still, every question led to the same empty answer.
Lucian clenched his fists lightly.
And yet, he didn't give up.
He knew persistence mattered more than luck.
He adjusted his hood and slipped further into the Dark Market, moving like a shadow.
He had a plan. One he'd seen countless times in FBI dramas back on Earth.
I really miss Earth… and Clementine, he thought, a pang tightening his chest.
He walked back to the gigantic man, muscles rippling even beneath his clothes, the eight-foot-plus merchant who'd towered over everyone in the market.
Lucian leaned in close.
"If you see a man named Quentin Rupert," he said quietly, "tell me. That guy has a treasure regarding the First Heir. We're trying to catch it ourselves. Help us, and you get fifty percent."
The man's eyes widened. "Fifty percent?" he barked, a laugh rumbling from deep in his chest. "If I'm rich, I'll swim in gold, boy! I'll swim in it!"
Lucian smirked, letting the man's excitement play into the plan. He knew all he had to do was seed the rumor, make it known enough that someone who knew Quentin Rupert would slip, or—if Quentin himself cared too much about his reputation—he might expose himself.
Patience, Lucian reminded himself. Wait for them to bite.
Satisfied, he slipped out of the market, moving like a shadow along the dim streets.
He ensured no one followed him, checking every corner, every alley.
Step by step, he returned to his house in the Farming District.
Inside, safe at last, he leaned against the wall and exhaled. His plan was in motion, and for now, he was unharmed.
Quentin Rupert… what a name, Lucian muttered to himself, grinning. Sounds like some wannabe Quentin Tarantino. At least Tarantino makes movies. This guy just makes dumb*ss plans.
He shook his head and chuckled, already thinking of the next step.
Lucian lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He had pulled off the entire plan without using a shred of the so-called intelligence Death had gifted him. All he needed were fragments, references from Earth, and memories he carried like tools.
I miss Earth, he thought, the nostalgia tightening his chest. Clementine, the streets, the small absurdities of life he once knew, felt distant.
A soft sigh escaped him as exhaustion finally claimed him. Darkness crept in, and sleep wrapped around him.