Chapter

The typhoon that swept through that night was ferocious. By dawn the next day, I stood at the window gazing out at the devastation—streets littered with broken branches and debris, shoddy roofs and windows torn off houses, owners scrambling to patch things up.

I suddenly recalled the housing agent’s words: though old, this place was sturdy. He hadn’t lied.

This city had no street cleaners. Residents usually maintained public areas together. Soon, neighbors came knocking, asking for help with cleanup or a small fee. I preferred paying.

Later, Emily headed to the nearby bazaar district for fresh groceries. After lunch, we sipped tea, read books, and chatted—a quintessential aristocratic life.

Emily, a local, had long grown accustomed to this. Perhaps it was even her dream. But I was different. My world had the internet, computers, phones, and vibrant 2D culture—entertainment far richer than this. To me, such days felt dull. A persistent longing to return home flickered in my chest.

At 5 p.m., I draped a black robe over my long dress, then carefully put on my mask, gloves, and shoes. I pinned the fresh Magic Emblem to my chest and turned to Emily. "I’m heading to the auction. Any flaws in my disguise?"

"None at all! No one will guess Sister Raelin’s actually a woman." She pouted slightly. "Can I come with you? I’ve never seen an auction!"

"This is a Scott Clan event. Your presence might cause trouble."

Her lips curled in disappointment. "Fine… What time will you be back?"

"Not sure. Might be late. Rest early."

"Mm! Bye, Sister!"

The difference the Magic Emblem made was staggering. Without it, people saw a shady figure to avoid. With it, their eyes held instant respect—many even bowed. It felt like a high-ranking official inspecting the masses.

Two hours later, I stood outside a small apothecary near the auction hall—the rendezvous spot agreed upon with the tavern’s black-clad man three days prior. A plain-looking middle-aged man quickly approached, slipped me a card—the private booth ticket—then vanished into the crowd.

The auction hall matched my high school gym in size. A central stage displayed items, surrounded by rows of seats holding roughly a thousand people. Above, a ring of private booths circled the second floor. Each was about ten square meters, fitted with chairs and a tea table for snacks.

I occupied one alone. Five gold coins weren’t spent for nothing—you got what you paid for. Intel said Alchemist Master Cavendish would sit in the booth to my right. But the auction hadn’t started yet, so his booth stood empty. I idly nibbled fruit from the table.

As the lower seats filled, the auction’s start drew near. Then, a familiar voice echoed outside my booth door: "Master Cavendish, this is our booth. About that matter…"

An elderly voice followed: "Raymond, the Scott Clan and I have collaborated smoothly for years. No need for formality. I’ll prioritize crafting that item."

"My deepest thanks, Master!"

A headache throbbed behind my eyes. I’d known a Scott Clan member would escort Cavendish—but of all people, it had to be that fat pig Raymond.

Still, I needed to meet Cavendish. True alchemists were rare. He was the only one passing through Saxton City lately. Missing him would be disastrous.

I closed my eyes and slipped into meditation. Mages drew ambient magic when meditating—Cavendish would sense it.

Soon, the old voice drifted through the wooden partition: "A fellow mage graces this hall? May I ask your name?"

"Raelin Black," I replied through the wall. "A newly certified Mage. I’ve long admired your renown, Master Cavendish. An honor to meet you."

Flattery never fails. Cavendish’s tone warmed instantly. "Renown is undeserved. But as fellow disciples of Truth, join me. Let us discuss the mysteries of Truth."

If one tracked mages’ most frequent word, "Truth" would win. Though many titles existed for mages, they preferred calling themselves "disciples of Truth," "seekers on Truth’s path," or even "Truth’s earthly incarnations."

I accepted the invitation and rose. As expected, Raymond sat beside a man in his early fifties—Cavendish. Behind them stood several young apprentices in identical red-and-black alchemist robes. Raymond’s glare at me was venomous, the kind that wished to dig up my ancestors’ graves. But with the master present, he held his tongue.