I navigated through the dense, bustling rows of the marketplace until a familiar wooden stall caught my eye. Standing behind a counter stacked with rolled parchments, leather logbooks, and geographical tools was Brick… a reliable, everyday merchant whose face I knew well. I had been a loyal regular of his for quite some time, even purchasing my detailed map of Lulu City from his inventory during a previous contract.
The moment my new, blood-themed crimson trench coat and shadowed mask stepped into the light of his stall, Brick looked up. He didn't recognize my face beneath the magical veil of the Leech's Hollow Mask, but he instantly recognized my silent, one-armed posture and the unmistakable aura of an S-rank hunter.
"You're back again, traveler, we have several high-quality maps in my stall today if you're planning a trip past the peaks. What can I get for you?" Brick said with a welcoming, familiar grin, gesturing broadly to the display cases behind him.
Since my stubby pencil was snapped in half and I couldn't write a single syllable on my notepad, I didn't waste time trying to gesture wildly. Instead, I extended my remaining right hand and pointed a single, gloved finger directly at a bundle of sturdy, graphite writing pencils resting in a wooden cup on his counter.
Brick followed my gaze and nodded instantly, pulling one of the fresh pencils from the bundle.
"Ah, just a fresh writing tool today, traveler? That will be exactly 2 copper coins." Brick asked, sliding the pencil across the smooth wood toward me.
It was a flawless transaction. I reached into the depths of my purse, pulled out my last 2 remaining bronze copper pieces, and let them clatter neatly into his hand, leaving my funds at exactly 1 gold and 50 silver pieces.
I took the fresh, unbroken pencil and tucked it securely into the pocket of my fire-resistant trench coat. Now, my tactical ledger was complete. I had the raw materials for my tear gas, my masterwork armor, the mental shield to completely shut down Victor's fear manipulation, and the literal means to speak my mind to Father Columbia.
Without a moment's delay, I adjusted the heavy alchemical crate in my right arm, ensuring my triple-threat arsenal remained completely hidden beneath my compressed crimson panels, and marched proudly out of the market quarter. I picked up my pace, setting a direct, unshakeable course toward the heavily guarded archways leading straight into the 7th District.
The transition from the commercial chaos of the 6th District to the threshold of the 7th District was marked by a sudden explosion of vibrant neon lights that pulsed even beneath the daytime sky. Standing directly beneath the grand, colorful archway was a figure who defied the grim, serious atmosphere of Caria City: Paper.
The eccentric gatekeeper was dressed in his signature black-and-white striped mime outfit, his face painted a stark, theatrical white. Right across his forehead, written in bold, calligraphic ink, was his utterly goofy name: "Paper."
As I walked up to the checkpoint, balancing the heavy alchemical crate in my right arm and keeping my triple-threat arsenal hidden beneath my new blood-themed trench coat, Paper locked his eyes onto the swirling, unnatural shadow of my Leech's Hollow Mask. He tilted his head, immediately realizing that he was dealing with a fellow practitioner of absolute silence. Mimes are bound by their craft never to speak a word; I was bound by the agonizing reality of my missing tongue.
For a long, unbroken moment, the two of us simply stared at each other in a shared, profound silence. There was no classist sneering, no derogatory shouting like I had faced from Betch at the lower gates. Just two quiet souls recognizing a kindred spirit in the middle of a noisy metropolis.
Breaking the silence, I reached into my purse, pulled out a single silver coin along with my S-rank status card, and offered them forward.
The moment Paper touched the enchanted card, his eyes went wide behind his white paint. He did a dramatic, silent double-take, dropping the silver coin on purpose only to catch it mid-air with a flawless, sweeping flourish. A massive, joyful grin broke across his face, and he tapped the card against the gate's verification stone. But instead of handing it right back, he decided it was time for a show.
He stepped close, waving his gloved hands through the air. With a sudden, fluid grace, he blew a puff of thick, shimmering smoke directly toward my masked face. As the smoke swirled around my crimson hood, Paper executed a series of rapid, dazzling magic tricks. He reached behind my ear, seamlessly pulling out a small red ball without me even feeling his fingers touch my skin, then tossed it into the air where it burst into a flurry of actual paper butterflies that fluttered around my head before dissolving into sparkling mana dust.
The sheer, lighthearted absurdity of the performance bypassed the cold, hardened layers of my bounty hunter instincts. Beneath the dark veil of my mask, my gruesome Glasgow scars twitched upward into a genuine smile. A tiny, breathless, entirely soundless laugh huffed from my chest… a rare, precious moment of pure amusement that I hadn't experienced in months.
Seeing that he had successfully cracked my stoic exterior, Paper gave me an enthusiastic, exaggerated thumbs-up. He finished with a deep, theatrical bow, offering my S-rank card back between two fingers like a rose.
I took the card, offering him a small, respectful nod of my masked head as a silent thank-you. The heavy iron-reinforced gates groaned open, revealing the grand thoroughfare of the 7th District… a riot of color, theaters, and high-end lounges that smelled of expensive perfume and sweet popcorn. With my fresh writing pencil resting safely in my pocket and my mind entirely shielded, I stepped across the threshold, ready to navigate the neon-lit streets and track down the truth from Father Columbia.
I navigated through the vibrant, sensory overload of the 7th District, my boots clicking rhythmically against the pristine pavement. The sector was a sprawling wonderland of entertainment… gleaming amusement parks with massive Ferris wheels casting long shadows, beautifully manicured recreational grounds, and towering commercial structures pulsing with magical neon. But I wasn't here to lose myself in the games or chase easy gold. My single green eye, safely hidden behind the dark, protective veil of the Leech's Hollow Mask remained entirely focused on my target.
As I circled deeper into the commercial quarter, one building instantly stood out from the rest. Perched directly atop its central facade was a massive, stark geometric shape that sent a sharp jolt of profound shock straight through my chest: a Christian Cross.
Ever since I had woken up in this brutal fantasy world of magic, demons, and hunters, I had seen nothing but altars to unknown deities, holy mana bureaus, and strange fantasy churches. To see *that* specific symbol here was completely surreal. Beneath it, a large, neatly painted sign read:
FOLLOWERS OF GOD
This was undeniably the place.
I approached the heavy wooden double doors, balancing the massive alchemical crate containing my titration gear and Bunsen burner securely in my right arm. Pushing the door open with a gentle nudge of my shoulder, I slipped into the back of the sanctuary, ensuring the Death Chant Shotgun and dual Tommy guns remained perfectly concealed beneath the sleek back panels of my blood-themed crimson trench coat.
The moment the doors closed behind me, a breathtaking melody washed over my senses. It was classical orchestral music… a rich, complex arrangement of violins and piano that I hadn't heard a single echo of since my previous life on Earth. In a world dominated by tavern sea-shanties and rowdy bard tunes, the elegant, solemn composition felt like a literal voice from the past.
I scanned the rows of polished wooden pews. Sitting scattered throughout the sanctuary were only about ten people. I couldn't help but feel a cynical, quiet trace of disbelief. Ten followers. In a massive, crowded metropolis like Caria, the number of people who actually believed in this Earth-born faith was shockingly, tragically small.
At the front of the altar stood Father Columbia. He was dressed in traditional, flowing ecclesiastical robes, his hands raised slightly as he delivered his sermon with a calm, deeply resonant voice that echoed perfectly over the classical background music.
I didn't move. I didn't step forward to interrupt, nor did I reach into my pocket for my newly purchased pencil and notepad just yet. Despite the heavy deadlines pressing against my schedule and my urgent need for intelligence on the Katt siblings, the sheer, nostalgic solemnity of the room demanded respect. I quietly leaned my weight against a stone pillar near the back entrance, keeping my masked face lowered, and simply listened to the priest's words, letting the sermon unfold in the quiet sanctuary.
I quietly slipped into the very last row of the polished wooden pews, setting the heavy alchemical crate down onto the floorboards with a muted, careful thud. Sitting among the scattered handful of worshipers, I blended into the small congregation as best I could, a silent observer shrouded in a blood-tinted crimson trench coat and a pitch-black visor. In this world of hyper-industrialized magic and brutal class disparity, today was Sunday… the designated Sabbath, a concept completely alien to the native citizens of Caria, but sacred to the few who gathered beneath the shadow of the cross.
At the front of the altar, Father Columbia smoothed the front of his vestments. The classical orchestrations fading into a soft, ambient hum in the background as he cleared his throat, his warm voice carrying an innate, comforting authority that seemed to shrink the cavernous room.
"Today, my brothers and sisters, we reflect on the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 14, Verses 13 through 21, the scripture recounts the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. When Jesus withdrew to a solitary place, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. As evening approached, the disciples came to him and said, 'This is a remote place, and it's already getting late. Send the crowds away, so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food.' But Jesus replied, 'They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.'"
The priest looked out over the meager crowd of ten followers, his gaze lingering with deep empathy on each face.
"They told him they had only five loaves of bread and two fish, yet, through faith, through grace, and through divine intervention, Jesus took the five loaves and the two fish, looked up to heaven, gave thanks, and broke the loaves. Not only did he feed five thousand men, besides women and children, but the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over. This miracle reminds us that no matter how scarce our resources may seem in a harsh, unforgiving world, and no matter how isolated our faith feels in a city that values only mana and violence, the Lord provides abundance to those who hold steadfast."
As Father Columbia transitioned into the deeper theological meaning of his sermon, discussing the spiritual nourishment required to survive the dark trials of life, I reached into my pocket. Moving with absolute discretion, I pulled out my fresh, unbroken pencil and my notepad. While the priest's resonant voice filled the sanctuary, my single right hand moved rhythmically across the paper, the graphite scratching out a confession that no ordinary resident of this world could ever comprehend.
When the final blessing was spoken, the classical music swelled one last time, signaling the end of the service. The ten devoted followers stood up, murmuring quiet words of peace to one another, and slowly filtered out of the heavy double doors into the neon-soaked reality of the 7th District. Soon, the sanctuary was dead silent, save for the faint crackle of altar candles.
I stood up from the pew, left my alchemical supplies resting on the floor, and walked down the center aisle. My three firearms shifted slightly beneath the compressed back panels of my coat, completely hidden from view.
Father Columbia was busy organizing the communion vessels on the altar when the shadow of my tall, imposing crimson silhouette fell across the stone steps. He looked up, his face entirely devoid of the fear or suspicion that most people showed when facing an armed, masked S-rank bounty hunter. Instead, his eyes softened with genuine warmth.
"Oh, a new follower of Christ, welcome to our sanctuary, traveler. Care to join us for reflection? We may be few in number, but the Lord's presence is vast here." Father Columbia said kindly, gesturing toward the empty pews with an open, welcoming hand.
I didn't make a sound. I simply extended my right hand and handed him the pre-written note I had meticulously drafted during his message.
Father Columbia adjusted his glasses and looked down at the paper. The jagged, clear handwriting read:
I'm a reincarnated being.