The City of Adventurers resembled a living creature that never ceased growing—yet in a distorted manner. Its alleys were arteries pumping in strangers, and the mansions of its nobles were organs that devoured the fruits of others’ labor.

  At the heart of this noise, Karsu moved like a black thread slipping between colors without ever blending with them.

  Karsu used the earliest hours of dawn—those hours when the guards grew still and investigators allowed themselves rest—to conduct a different kind of exploration.

  He was not searching for weapon caches, nor for escape routes.

  He was searching for the city’s paper memory.

  In one of the back alleys of the “Lesser Merchants” district, Karsu found what he sought: an old shop layered with the dust of years, its owner an elderly man who seemed almost part of the warped shelves of worn books he sold.

  There, among cancelled tax ledgers and property maps long overtaken by time, lay his objective.

  ---

  The old man slowly raised his head when Karsu entered. There was no surprise in his eyes—only that silent evaluation practiced by one who had spent a lifetime selling knowledge to those who did not understand its value.

  “If you’re looking for tales of heroism,” the old man rasped as he returned a book to its place, “the tavern is closer.”

  “I seek knowledge,” Karsu replied calmly, letting his gaze pass over the faded titles, “not what they sing about.”

  The old man’s hand paused briefly in midair, then he gestured with his chin toward the rear shelves.

  “Books, articles, records—you’ll find them as their owners left them… neglected.”

  Karsu approached the wooden table, lifted a thick ledger, and turned its pages with the care of one accustomed to handling fragile paper.

  “May I?”

  The old man shrugged indifferently.

  “Reading breaks nothing. Lying does.”

  Karsu placed an old silver coin upon the table. It was not much, but it was clean. The old man glanced at it, then at Karsu’s face, and made no comment.

  “First floor for reading,” he said, pointing with his cane toward a narrow wooden staircase. “Second for heavy manuscripts no one asks about. And the third…”

  He paused.

  “For things that prefer not to be seen often. The ceiling is low. Mind your head.”

  A faint smile touched Karsu’s lips.

  “I’ll start from the top, if you don’t mind.”

  This time, the old man did not lift his head.

  “Those who begin at the top either know what they want… or are ignorant.”

  Karsu ascended the stairs. The wood groaned beneath his feet—not in protest, but as a reminder of age. Each floor was quieter than the one below, until the silence at the top grew thick, as though the place itself breathed slowly.

  There, Karsu sat, opened the first ledger, and began to read.

  He was not searching for a single name…

  but for the pattern that connected them all.

  After some time, finding nothing where he expected it, Karsu did not hesitate. He descended swiftly to the second floor.

  There he sat, hour after hour, unaware of time’s passage, until shy dawn light replaced the night’s darkness, followed by warm rays that washed across the wooden floor.

  His fingers moved over names and debts with unsettling patience. He was not reading the present—he was searching for “nobles who had fallen from the carriage.”

  His finger stopped at a name that appeared repeatedly in overdue mortgage records:

  Baron Fashar of Or-Jul.

  “Fashar…” Karsu murmured inwardly as the candlelight traced the sharp lines of his face. “Owner of vast lands, yet little respect. The man who builds castles for others, yet finds no seat at the head of councils.”

  Karsu closed the ledger quietly, allowing paper dust to drift in the stale air.

  Karsu knew with certainty what Ained did not—and what the nobles had yet to grasp: that the city’s ruler was planning to unveil something that would shake the stagnation of these families. And once the invitation cards were placed upon the table, the city would become a forest of burning ambition.

  To enter that forest, Karsu did not need his sword.

  He needed a parasite to cling to his back and carry him through doors opened only by calm blood.

  Karsu left the shop as the first threads of sunlight appeared and inhaled the cold dawn air. He looked toward the city’s central tower and murmured coldly:

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  “We have three days before the calm ends… three days to make the pig believe he is a lion.”

  Karsu did not return directly to the inn.

  Instead, he veered from the main trade road and followed the path winding around the massive warehouses where the noble families’ wealth lay stacked behind thick walls and ornate emblems.

  He stopped upon a low hill overlooking the warehouses of Or-Jul.

  From there, he saw Fashar descending from his decorated carriage. His arrival was not dignified—it was loud. His voice rose as he shouted at a porter who had dropped a crate of iron filings onto the ground.

  His face reddened, veins swelling along his neck, while guards gathered around him with tired expressions—without concern.

  Karsu observed with pure detachment.

  He did not watch the anger.

  He watched what it revealed.

  The guards’ armor was simple—mercenaries without insignia.

  Fashar avoided meeting the eyes of passing merchants, as though his shouting were a desperate attempt to bury a deeper feeling.

  But the most important observation was invisible.

  When Fashar’s anger peaked, the surrounding Sadeem trembled and spilled outward uncontrollably. It was not powerful—only unstable, fractured, like poorly made glass.

  Karsu raised an eyebrow slightly.

  “Sadeem that escapes with emotion… that is a fracture of the Jowf.”

  A faint smile crossed his lips.

  “No talent. A future clearly marked by failure. That explains why the records described him as an outcast.”

  Fashar retreated into one of the warehouses, shouting fragmented words about envy and injustice. The guards divided automatically—two remaining outside, two following him within.

  Karsu noted it instantly.

  Personal guards protecting warehouses?

  Either fear… or distress.

  He tightened his coat slightly and withdrew from his inner pocket a black-rimmed watch with silver hands. He glanced at it.

  Nearly seven.

  Breakfast time.

  He did not smile, but he decided.

  He returned with steady steps to the inn, entering his room through the open window minutes before eight. Sitting behind his desk, motionless, he reviewed the plan in his mind.

  A light knock sounded at the door.

  Knock… knock.

  “Sir, it’s Silva. Breakfast is ready. Are you awake?”

  Karsu lifted his gaze slowly.

  “Enter.”

  Silva stepped inside with measured steps, carrying a simple wooden tray. She was not one of the maids who struck the floor loudly with their feet; she moved as though she feared being heard more than necessary.

  She set the tray near the window: fresh bread, a boiled egg, a piece of cheese, and a cup of hot herbal drink.

  “The kitchen did not receive luxurious supplies this morning,” she said quietly. “But the food is clean.”

  “Cleanliness is sufficient,” Karsu replied without interest. “Excess burdens the mind.”

  She sat at the edge of the chair opposite him, as was customary with permanent guests. She was not comfortable, but she did not show it. Karsu observed her—not as a man looks at a woman, but as one measures distance.

  Slight tension in the shoulders… but no fear.

  Curiosity, not anxiety.

  He broke the bread slowly.

  “Silva… how many permanent guests reside here currently?”

  “Thirteen, sir. Most are second-rank adventurers… and two peripheral traders.”

  He nodded faintly.

  “Which of them pays on time… and which delays?”

  “The traders… pay, but bargain. The adventurers delay… but they do not lie.”

  “And nobles?”

  She lifted her brows slightly.

  “They do not stay here, sir. This inn does not suit them.”

  “But they pass through.”

  Silence. Longer this time.

  “Yes… sometimes. To boast, or to seek someone they do not wish to see in their mansions.”

  He tapped the egg lightly against the table.

  “And the last noble who passed?”

  She lowered her voice instinctively.

  “Baron Or-Jul… Fashar. He came days ago. He did not enter, but sent one of his men to ask for the names of the guests.”

  Karsu showed no reaction.

  “Did he ask about me?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  “No… but he paused at the inn’s door. He looked inside for a long while. As if… confirming something.”

  Karsu finally looked at her—briefly, intently.

  “Silva, how long have you worked here?”

  “Four years.”

  “Do you enjoy this work?”

  A simple question… but not innocent.

  “It is… work.”

  Karsu set aside the bread and wiped his hands calmly.

  “In the coming days, unusual visitors will increase. People who dislike being noticed, yet hate being ignored.”

  He rose slowly.

  “If anyone asks about me, say I am an adventurer.”

  Then he added, taking his coat:

  “And if he returns—or one of his kind… inform me immediately. It does not matter if breakfast is late one day.”

  She did not understand everything, but she understood one thing clearly:

  This man does not request… he arranges.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  He opened the door, then paused.

  “Silva…”

  She turned.

  “Those who watch the inn believe themselves unseen. Do not correct that illusion.”

  He left quietly.

  Silva remained seated for a long moment, staring at the simple tray. Then, without knowing why, she felt as though the entire inn had grown… lighter, as if something had shifted from its proper place.

  “This was not what I expected to happen… well, this is certainly better,” she murmured softly while gazing at Karsu’s bed.

  Her eyes drifted to where he had taken his coat and found a shining coin waiting. She picked it up, then left as well.

  ---

  Meanwhile, a pair of calm eyes observed the city from a vast balcony overlooking a wide section of the City of Adventurers. The man watched merchants setting their stalls and observed the task boards being replaced before the guild as crowds of adventurers gathered.

  He clasped his hands behind his back with dignified composure. A faint smile revealed the lines of age upon his face. Behind him stood a round table surrounded by seven wooden chairs, each marked with a name and number.

  He turned, still smiling, and walked to the solitary seat at the head. Sitting calmly, he placed his elbows upon the wood and interlocked his fingers, his sharp eyes surveying the others.

  “Let us discuss the matter of the (Elements of the Qaz) found in the book (The Five Roots of the Qaz).”

  At that moment, the other six seats were occupied by faces bearing expressions ranging from stern seriousness to enthusiasm and restrained tension.

  ---

  [Hours Later]

  The meeting concluded. The objective, the reason, and most importantly—the method—were determined.

  After debate not lacking in sharpness, the Supreme Council settled upon a single mechanism for distributing invitations: an ancient method in appearance… yet exceedingly complex in essence.

  The Val Method.

  Not sealed parchment.

  Not engraved sigil.

  Not wax-stamped decree.

  But an invitation summoned through blood… and activated by emotion.

  Each noble family in the city would receive only one invitation. No more.

  And it would activate only under two strict conditions:

  First:

  The claimant’s blood must be purely noble.

  Second:

  His heart must be calm.

  No fear.

  No hesitation.

  No anger.

  No turmoil.

  The invitation responds only to a stable soul and a conscious will.

  As for the sole law, it stood as the Council’s safeguard against greed and trade:

  Any family that sells its invitation, relinquishes it, or manipulates it in any manner… will automatically be barred from attending the next conference, regardless of its importance.

  Thus, the invitation became more than entry.

  It became a familial privilege.

  A symbol of status.

  An opportunity that might not come again.

  The Council knew well that prohibition alone was insufficient.

  But temptation… and scarcity…

  were enough to make nobles cling to their right rather than squander it.

  And so, they believed the seal complete.

  ---

  [Western Warehouse of Fashar Or-Jul]

  Karsu returned to the warehouse immediately after speaking with Silva.

  Situated upon a relatively elevated hill, the warehouse stretched across a vast expanse reaching the horizon.

  This warehouse—once inherited by Fashar from his father years ago—had not always been as it was now.

  In the past, more than three caravans arrived and departed each year. Now, it barely exceeded one. His trade had once dealt in both metal and Qaz, but later narrowed entirely to metal, abandoning Qaz altogether.

  The warehouse that once supplied the entire City of Adventurers had dwindled into a limited outlet.

  The decline had not stopped at commerce.

  Once employing nearly one hundred and ten workers, it now retained only twenty—and a single adventurer in place of nine.

  Regular guards had been replaced with cheaper mercenaries.

  The deterioration was ongoing.

  And still continues.

  —From The Origin of Trade Among the Easterners in the Free City and Its Condition, by Shaghfari Dantrol

  Year 1476 G.L.

  Karsu’s gaze stretched across rows of hollow warehouses, stopping at the stone tower whose northern edge had begun to erode.

  The words passed through his mind as though reread.

  “He was correct… at least in the portion concerning decline.”

  For a single moment—only one—the rigidity upon Karsu’s face fractured into a bitter, inhuman smile, revealing the faint gleam of his teeth, while a flicker of alien light ignited within his eyes.

  “The performance… has begun.”

  ---

  Behind the walls of Or-Jul’s warehouses, dawn crept slowly, pale gray threads crawling across rusted metal roofs. The place was not asleep… it was silent in a suspicious way, silence saturated with the scent of old iron and anticipation.

  Then the stillness split.

  A muffled boom—not a powder explosion, but a sudden collapse of pressure. The ground trembled as though the air itself had compressed and rebounded violently, a heavy wave passing through walls before sound followed.

  Then came a long hiss.

  The stones did not crack… they disintegrated, turning to gray dust that drifted slowly in the pale light. The iron gate fell with a deep impact that made every piece of metal within the warehouses hum—a layered resonance, as though the entire place played a suffocated symphony of pain.

  Amid the fading noise, Karsu moved.

  Soundless… save for the steady tapping of his shoes upon iron filings.

  Tak.

  Tak.

  Tak.

  A precise, measured sound—like a countdown to something that will not be undone.