《Mystic Mystery. Case (01: The Forbidden Patience)》


 CH—01: Xavier’s Market.

    Wanderlust.


    Epigraph:


    Not all worlds are bound together through the invisible¡ªinevitable¡ªconnection of Will. Though the planet lies within the Belt of Life, a mesh of interconnected networks, some drift in their own orbs¡ªgoverned by their own concepts.


    CH¡ª01: Xavier¡¯s Market.


    Myriad mysteries and breathtaking wonders have made Wanderlust their home. Yet, none of its residents dare wander the vast mystic plains or dream of solving the many mysteries surrounding its origin¡ªbecause some mysteries are better left unsolved.


    One factor that makes this heap of rock floating in outer space both habitable and life-threatening is the abundance of Mystica. A term coined by us¡ªthose fortunate enough not only to survive, but to thrive and become the dominant race of Wanderlust.


    Mystica are creatures with greater access to the mystical realm than Wanderers. They are faster, stronger, and far more mystical than any Wanderer could ever plausibly wish to be in their lifetime.


    Even under such heavy disadvantages, how we became the dominant race remains a mystery in and of itself.


    The well-known historical records divide Wanderlust¡¯s history into four eras.


    The first era marks our origins: When some Mystica protected us¡ªtheir creation¡ªwhether it be from the weather or other dangerous Mystica.


    The second era saw an alliance between Wanderers and Mystica, where we borrowed their power to fend off stronger Mystica and strange weather patterns that came to life due to the heavy concentration of magic.


    In the third era, most of the stronger Mystica disappeared, and Wanderers waged war against the weaker Mystica for control and resources.


    And finally, in the current era, we hold the upper hand.


    Wanderers were never meant to be on top¡ªno species is. But we, especially, were never meant to be part of Wanderlust.


    Since we joined the cycle of life, it has withered and deteriorated. The realm has lost its magic¡ªits Mystica.


    For generations, we have tried to restore the balance while maintaining our dominance, yet we have barely scratched the surface. Only Wanderlust itself can regain its equilibrium, and we somehow manage to stand in its path as well.


    Thank Aurochs, we are not immortal like many of the Mystica!


    The damage has been done, set in magic, never to be reversed. Yet we continue our efforts, striving for stability, settling for a slower demise¡ªfor now.


    Just as Mystica made our planet special, the magic they drew from the universe and the various aspects of Wanderlust helped shape the Wonders of Wanderlust.


    These ''Wonders'' are regarded as relics left behind by the most tyrannical Mystica of the current era. Similar to the two Suns, Wanderlust revolves around. Which is rumored to have been created by an ancient Mystica¡ªone that Wanderers dare not even think of!


    This misunderstanding about ¡®Wonders¡¯ is not entirely the people''s fault, as the true history of these relics has been deliberately hidden, forcing the public to construct myths, rumors, and prophecies in a world already steeped in superstition.


    The current ''Wonders'' are believed to be places as mystical¡ªif not more so¡ªthan the Mystica themselves.


    Among these wonders stands a market first discovered by a man named Xavier. According to his altered journal, this market contains mysterious Mystica¡ªor perhaps a single Mystica¡ªtrapped within its confines, only to be stumbled upon by the worthy.


    Situated atop a moving mountain named ¡°Ouroboros,¡± that drains life from even the most powerful Mystica, Xavier warned wanderers to set foot upon this mountain only when it comes to a stop.


    Once anyone steps foot inside the market''s territory¡ªhidden deep within this maze of a mountain¡ªtheir single most desired wish is said to be granted without them uttering a single word. And the longer they stay, the faster they run out of desires.


    A direct quote from the journal described this as: "A being with the ability to have anything, wishes for nothing!"


    The elixir of life is available in every shop as a free sample to taste, while the stone of prophecy is on sale¡ªbuy one, get another for free!


    "If you can dream of it, and hold onto your dream until you reach the market, it shall be available¡ªand affordable."


    To this day, the current government continues searching for a solution to stability within the Wonder known as Xavier''s Market.


    "Having one agenda is the key!" scoffed Mrs. Hope.


    Jefferson Hope wanted to argue, but deep down, he knew she was right.


    As absurd as it may sound, even the foolish have wise thoughts once every blue moon. Whether they act upon them is the only distinction between the wise and the doltish.


    Mr. Jefferson Hope considered being cruel, lashing out at her round neck, stubby nose, or downright torpid lifestyle that drained the only redeeming quality she had¡ªher beauty. But patience was key... the key to setting it all right, once and for all.


    Jefferson readjusted the slender, rope-like Mystica wrapped around his waist, which held his pants and stomach in place. It required no real adjustment, as this Mystica locked the very concept of space to a fixed point, never to move until the manumit chant is heard by its Caregiver. Neither a sagging stomach nor loose pants was anyone¡¯s concern anymore. Yet Jefferson adjusted it anyway, all the while wondering if accepting verbal abuse without resistance would also raise suspicion.


    After a brief pause, he replied in a deep voice, stroking his bushy mustache as if struggling to control his anger.


    "We also have to keep a constant eye on the fake market... the, the... Mystarch¡¯s trying to claim¡ªwho knows what¡ªand... and..." Jefferson kept breaking off after each word, unable to form a proper sentence.


    This wasn¡¯t his usual stutter, but something more¡­ a hint Mrs Hope didn''t bother to wallow in.


    "Oh, hush!" Mrs. Hope threw a loaf of bread at Jefferson. "Control that... whatever it is, when you''re around me. How many times do I have to tell you this?" She said, cringing away in disgust.


    ¡°But¡ª"


    "¡ªThere you go again!" she interjected.


    "It... is... a condition¡ª"


    "¡ªShut up already! Whatever it is, not near, or around me. Use that damn belt around your neck. Lock the accursed problem at the source."


    "But... that''ll kill me!¡± His voice trailed off.


    "And you might be missed. Now shuffle along and let me deal with this stress¡ªalone!"


    She shoved past him on her way to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.


    Jefferson''s anger flared to new heights as he took a quick peek inside their queen-sized bed, covered with Ornyxes, or if you fancy the now new-slang term¡ªmystical objects¡ªsuch as red ¡®Love Petals¡¯ for customized scents and soft ¡®Cloud-Sheets¡¯ for mind-numbing sleep.


    Since their arrival at the hotel, his wife had banished him to the sofa. It was comfortable, and Aurochs knew much more embracing than she was, but he had paid for that bed and the delicious-looking treats she hoarded for herself.


    "I wish those calories never dissolved," he muttered, drooling.


    Once his eyesore of a wife had cleared the room¡ªand his consciousness¡ªJefferson could finally appreciate the master suite they had received as a courtesy, thanks to his status and position in the Arcane Force.


    The suite¡¯s floor, made of Gator scales, shifted from soft to rock-solid depending on the pressure exerted. This helped Jefferson''s uneven footing find balance, with his left foot sinking deeper into the floor while his right hovered an inch above. He knew the abundance of Quincil bought extravagance, but this was beyond his imagination. Each step supported and rejuvenated his spine, making walking enjoyable again.


    Maybe this had to do with Ouroboros'' extreme climate, or one of the hundred other things he had to solve before this mysterious mountain thinks of moving again.


    Unlike standard Ornyx, such as a ¡®cloud current¡¯ for wind, ¡®booger snorts¡¯ for light, or the need to step outside to use the lavatory¡ªthis suite had personal Mystica bending the laws of nature for their everyday convenience.


    For illumination, they had Sparkles¡ªa delicate, tiny Mystica with luminescent wings that shimmered like liquid gold. Its slender body was covered in soft, velvety fur, which glowed faintly even at rest. But its most striking feature was its glowing abdomen, which emitted a steady, warm light.


    Sparkles¡¯ wings were skeletal until it rubbed them against its belly, transferring magic onto them.


    The result?


    Specks of light dancing to the rhythm of the wind with every flap of their elfin wings.


    Speaking of wind¡ªunlike the finicky cloud currents that required a constant supply of ''Wind Clouds,'' frequent maintenance, and precise knowledge of neighborhood wind patterns (honestly, just opening a window would be easier)¡ªthe Hopes had a Mystica from which the ¡®Cloud Current¡¯ Ornyx had been modeled.


    The Zephyra: A small and playful Mystica, hovering a foot off the ground, with sleek, silvery fur that shimmered like fresh morning mist. Its tail, elongated, with a translucent, ethereal quality, resembled a drifting wisp of air rather than fur.


    Their paws were webbed, each toe tipped with tiny, feather-like tufts that stirred the air as it moved. Around its neck swirled a vaporous, ever-shifting scarf¡ªa living embodiment of its wind-based power.


    One glance at the ethereal Zephyra playing with the wind itself, the countless specks of light interrupting its imaginary game, the combined chirps of the Mystica forming new hums that soothed the soul, a distant drumbeat, and the sheer weightlessness of standing in their presence forced Jefferson to rethink his choices.


    Mystica had always held a grip on Wanderers. Whether gruesome or playful in appearance, we have always wondered¡ªand wished¡ªto inherit their mysticism.


    Jefferson soaked in his mystical surroundings, taking one last deep breath before chanting, "Dusveil!"


    Upon hearing their ''Caregiver''s'' command, the Sparkles absorbed their glow, dimming even the specks of light floating across the room.


    "Suvrah!" Jefferson waved his hand, and the Zephyra wrapped its scarf tighter around itself, shutting off the air currents within the room.


    He scratched the Zephyra¡¯s belly, making it stretch, purr, and curl into deep slumber, sucking on its thumb. Taking steady steps backward¡ªhis footsteps soundless thanks to the Gator floor¡ªhe pulled out two black rods from beneath the desk and placed them in a corner, far from the main door and window looking into the streets.


    "Nap time," Jefferson whispered, applying an orange layer of sticky substance to the rods.


    Drawn by the aroma, the Sparkles scattered around the suite fluttered toward the rods, away from the doors and windows, light following them as if they carried the concept of sight, with darkness claiming the rest.


    After checking Mystics'' positions for the umpteenth time, he tiptoed out of the suite. More out of habit than necessity.


    Even in the hallway, he carefully extinguished every glowing footprint left by the Mystica ¡®Glorvoise,'' leading to his room, while making his way to the lower floors.


    Any general or mythical Ornyx can be used as a source of light, but artificial light alone cannot help one see through the various mists that creep through Wanderlust.


    One such mist is the ''White Ghost Mist,¡¯ which always settles atop Ouroboros.


    Civilians claim the mist has a will of its own, while experts claim the mist to be a mixture of several vapours released by Mystica, such as Zephyra.


    Light created by the strongest Mystica is devoured by this mist, rendering it impossible for anyone, even Mystica themselves, to find the market.


    While the market itself is impossible to locate, a giant moving mountain, however, is not so much.


    Since the First Era, Wanderers have climbed Ouroboros for its many medicinal and mystical benefits, though only a handful have ever been lucky enough to find the final market. Which was, and is, everyone¡¯s primary objective.


    Rumors say the first mythical Ornyx discovered within the market sparked the conflicts of the Second Era¡ªconflicts that ultimately led to Wandererity evolving into the dominant race.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    In time, Wanderers developed a system to embark and disembark from the mountain without suffering any adverse effects. This revolution led to the next and current era, where the government organizes and sells slots to various Mystkeepers, Healers, Animysts, and such professions at the Fake Xavier¡¯s Market they created.


    Xavier''s Market may hold the power to grant any wish one desires, but even the imitation benefits from the mystical climate of Ouroboros. The enchanted mountain enhances, stores, and fuses various Mystica traits, creating an environment where even a simple first-aid remedy contains the ingredients to cure the deadliest diseases.


    This unique environment turned even the ¡®fake¡¯ market into a global phenomenon, attracting people from all four kingdoms.


    The allocation of market slots depends on where the mountain stops and who controls the land it settles upon.


    The first slots go to the landowners, who are forced to shift their entire livelihoods due to the massive, uninvited guests.


    Next, slots are granted to the ¡®Zone Heads¡¯¡ªthose who have been assisting villages in relocating throughout the decade-long journey of Ouroboros. Following them are the ¡®Mayors¡¯ and ¡®Regional Rulers,¡¯ both those who have already relocated and those whose territories will soon be affected.


    The kings and queens of the four realms have unlimited access, though those closest to the mountain benefit from faster onboarding¡ªfor obvious reasons.


    Jefferson belongs to the ¡®Oracle Department'' of the ¡®Arcane Forces.¡¯ Unlike the Arcane¡¯s primary function¡ªenforcing the queen¡¯s laws and punishing those who defy them¡ªthe Oracles specialize in predictions. And instead of reporting to the Arcane hierarchy, they answer directly to the queen.


    Despite his laid-back attitude and willingness to let the world walk all over him, Jefferson held the most stars in his department. Since childhood, he had possessed the rare gift of predicting a Mystica¡¯s abilities, its potential effects on the environment, and vice versa.


    The additional responsibility of preventing disaster before it struck had been drilled into him by his ¡®Guru,¡¯ which allowed him to rise through ranks so fast.


    Like the kings and queens of the four realms, the Oracles of each kingdom are deployed at every market to keep casualties to a minimum. Along with the benefits of Ouroboros, each Oracle earns ten ¡®Joul'' per day¡ªcounting their time here as life-ending overtime. Because a Wonder is more ominous than auspicious.


    Some specialists within the Oracle department are handpicked to locate the real Xavier''s market, but Jefferson lacked the single-minded, yet distracted zeal required to qualify for such a position.


    Confusing, right?


    That¡¯s the reason he didn¡¯t even think of applying for that wild goose chase.


    ¡®One problem at a time,¡¯ Jefferson muttered to himself, suppressing the creeping tendrils of his inferiority complex.


    Not being part of the special forces provided him with the perfect opportunity to pull off a mystery, that which a Sentinel could never hope to solve.


    Never on a ¡®Wonder¡¯ such as Ouroboros at least!


    Oracles are thinkers. Their minds are as sharp¡ªor sharper¡ªthan a Bachulant¡¯s stinger. And Jefferson planned to use his mind for something nefarious.


    "Not a Sentinel, nor an Oracle,¡± he said, grinning and stepping out of his hotel, onto the bustling streets of the fake Xavier''s market¡ªknown to the world as the market of ¡®Oru''Ma.¡¯


    No records exist detailing the true nature or environmental conditions of the real market, but even the imitation is riddled with life-threatening hurdles¡ªones that could break a person if they weren¡¯t careful.


    At the core of this mystery lies the labyrinthine mountain itself. No one¡ªnot even the Pyxen¡ªare skilled enough to navigate its twists and turns alone. Above the maze, multiple layers of ''White Ghost Mist¡¯ blanket the terrain, reducing visibility to barely a meter. And as if that weren¡¯t enough, there exists an even greater peril: The Lure Of Ouroboros.


    Vitality is surged, and memories are distorted.


    One can neither sleep nor recall.


    Stay stuck in a loop for more than a minute and a half, and the lure shall lure you away into the depths none have returned.


    A phenomenon born from the air grazing against the mountain¡¯s surface and mingling with the countless Mystica residing within, the Lure of Ouroboros is a hypnotic symphony of sounds. It does not simply distract; it ensnares the mind, compelling travelers to drift into thought until it¡¯s too late.


    Lost in their own musings, they lose both their senses and their sense of self. Drawn deeper into the mountain¡¯s embrace, they follow the sound blindly.


    Sending a search party after them is as futile as seeking the real market.


    Curiously, this phenomenon does not affect children. Whether this be one of Ouroboros¡¯s mercy, or the simple inability of a child to hold onto a singular thought remains unknown.


    To combat the lack of visibility, officials beg and lure the Mystica known as ¡®Ethekul¡¯ into Oru''Ma.


    These small, ethereal creatures possess an otherworldly presence. Their silvery-gray fur shimmers faintly in the dark, seamlessly blending with the shadows. Their most striking feature, however, is their large, luminous eyes¡ªglowing in hues of deep blue and violet, as if reflecting the very stars themselves.


    Perpetually clutched in an Ethekul¡¯s tiny paw is a ¡®CuCu leaf,¡¯ which it rolls up into a joint and smokes endlessly. The exhaled smoke twists into intricate, glowing shapes¡ªMystica, symbols, even entire scenes¡ªeach illuminating its surroundings with a dim, ghostly light.


    The Ethekul¡¯s smoke possesses a unique property: it can cut through mystic mist and unnatural darkness, creating a safe bubble of visibility within the white ghost mist. The swirling figures it forms often act as guides, drifting ahead to lead travelers through treacherous paths. Despite their calm demeanor, the Ethekul are highly attuned to their surroundings, capable of sensing dangers lurking in the unseen.


    Many believe that their smoke carries subtle messages or warnings, and the presence of an Ethekul is considered a sign of protection and wisdom. Their small, round ears twitch at the faintest of sounds, and their slow, deliberate movements only add to their enigmatic aura.


    However, not just any Mystica can be brought into Ouroboros. Many Mystica refuse to fly near the mountain, sensing its approach long before Wanderers do. And once a Mystica rejects a location or refuses a command, there is no room for negotiation.


    A Wanderer faced with such defiance has only two choices: leave the Mystica behind or abandon their journey altogether.


    After all, no mere Wanderer can overpower¡ªor undermine¡ªa Mystica¡¯s will.


    To even attempt such a thing is not just taboo in the current era.


    It is pure folly.


    The Ethekul¡¯s ability to nullify the mist was a lucky discovery during the First Era when a Pyxen guided a lost child out of Ouroboros. Since then, outsiders have passed down this knowledge, requesting the Ethekul¡¯s guidance in their travels. The current government has even stationed them atop lampposts, using their ethereal smoke as a constant source of light.


    The Mystica agreed to this meaningless trade only because the government supplied them with endless ¡®CuCu leaves¡¯ for their lifetime.


    Which is essentially just drugging them for generations, as kingdoms changed and kept focusing on farming CuCu leaves.


    For some reason, Mystics do not farm. Like how we cannot tap into the mystical power, they simply don''t understand the mechanics behind farming essential herds, combining unique branches, concentrating energy flows to create ''Ores,'' and basically everything else related to farming.


    And thank Aurochs they don''t do. Otherwise we would have never been able to climb up the ladder the way we did...!


    "A minute and half, sir!" The gatekeeper of Jefferson¡¯s hotel called out, his voice tinged with urgency. "We almost lost you there!¡± He shook Jefferson firmly, as if trying to dislodge the mountain¡¯s lingering spell.


    "AH¡­!" Jefferson snapped back to awareness, his vision sharpening as he realized how close he had come to succumbing to the lure of Ouroboros.


    "That was close! Thank you, dear sir," he leaned forward in gratitude, while his ample belly prevented him from offering a proper bow.


    "That¡¯s what you¡¯re paying me for, sir." The gatekeeper replied with a chuckle. "Also, mind your thoughts while you''re on the streets. Best not to drift off again."


    Jefferson ran a hand through his damp hair, the absence of his hat serving as an unwelcome reminder.


    "You''ll catch a cold at this rate, sir. Shall I fetch your hat from the suite? I know my way better in... than out.¡± The Gatekeeper winks.


    "No!" Jefferson barked, startling the gatekeeper. Then quickly forced a casual laugh. "I left it on purpose. Dry scalp and all..." He waved a dismissive hand before pointing to the shop across the street. "Ah! I just remembered¡ªI need to speak with Tendra about¡­ something. Off I got then!¡±


    Jefferson reached to tip his hat, and mentally scolded himself. "A Joke," he says in a hurry.


    The gatekeeper¡¯s expression darkened with concern. "I recommend you wait for your guide, sir. Even if it¡¯s just a few strides away, the ''Lure of Ouroboros'' isn¡¯t to be taken lightly¡­ even for an Oracle.¡±


    Jefferson straightened his posture, looking down at the scrawny man who scraped by on the bottom floors, both in stature and physique. He understood the concern and implications. He also knew he was in the wrong and not the Gatekeeper. Yet he used a firm, mocking tone.


    "Do you know what it takes to become an Oracle. Or how many stars do I have under my belt?"


    The gatekeeper glanced at the mystica wrapped snugly around Jefferson¡¯s belly, dividing it into two equal parts, and barely held back a laugh. Instead, he maintained his professional composure, saying, "You paid me to caution you¡­ sir."


    Standing perfectly straight, the gatekeeper placed his hands at his sides and offered a small bow. "My apologies if I have offended you in any way. Sir!¡±


    Jefferson snorted but said nothing. Instead, he turned his back to the street, took a step back, clicked his feet together, and then spun around, stepping forward again, twirling once more, and repeated the process¡ªslowly making his way toward the shop in an unorthodox, almost ritualistic dance.


    Each Ethekul along the street smoked a different hue of CuCu leaf, their vibrant exhalations transforming the cobbled path into a swirling kaleidoscope of colors.


    Within this luminous haze, Jefferson stood at the center like a lone performer on a cosmic stage.


    Jefferson''s crude ¡®Pyxen Dance,¡¯ paired with the Ethekul¡¯s playful formation of smoke rings around him, was too much for the gatekeeper. He didn¡¯t even have time to ask his Mystica to cast a veil to shield his outburst from the wealthiest patron at the hotel as he burst into laughter, unable to maintain the professional fa?ade anymore.


    From Jefferson¡¯s perspective, the gatekeeper¡¯s outburst could either be a lapse in judgment or a trick played by the mischievous Lockmure mystica¡ªone designed to trap him in a single emotion, making him vulnerable to the lure of Ouroboros.


    Without the Mystkeepers'' constant announcements, one might get caught in the ''Drums of Liberation,'' a hypnotic rhythm crafted by Cadenzis'' mystica.


    Once lost in that tune, a person¡¯s emotions would spiral out of control, locking them into a single, overpowering feeling. This fixation would lead to a singular thought¡ªa dangerous state that left one exposed to the Lure.


    Perhaps it was just superstition, since nothing within Ouroboros could ever be proven definitively. But Jefferson wasn¡¯t about to test that theory today. Instead, he shifted his mind away from the gatekeeper¡¯s mocking laughter and toward his destination, keeping his cool. Deliberately, he slowed his pace, hoping the Lure would take care of the gatekeeper for him.


    Not for mocking him, but for being a witness that could spoil his decades of planning.


    While Jefferson engaged in his silent battle of wits, across the street, another man, who towered over burly men like Jefferson, making them look like toddlers, was waging his own war¡ªa desperate attempt to free his soul from his body.


    At least ''one'' of them had to escape this accursed life.


    Yet no matter how hard he tried to latch onto the rhythm echoing from the drums of Cadenzis, a sharp voice yanked him back to reality.


    "I can slap your soul into the next life if you want." Tendera reminded her husband, smacking a dusty rag across his face. "Now get your ass back to work!"


    "Yes, dear!" Tenshu snapped to attention, instantly towering over his wife.


    Tendera narrowed her eyes and spoke in a calm, threatening tone. "You forgot something."


    Tenshu hesitated. Was he supposed to be shorter or taller than her during working hours? He did a few quick squats, adjusting his height to test the waters. Then he checked his rag¡ªit was dirty. And to him, ''dirty'' meant¡ª


    With a swift motion, he shoved the rag into his pants pocket and ripped off his shirt pocket for cleaning instead.


    Tendera crossed her arms. "A smile," she reminds him.


    Without hesitation, Tenshu stretched his cheeks into a wide, forced grin¡ªnever once stopping his impromptu squat session.


    Tendera smacked her forehead.


    The impact reminded her of the missed announcements. Instead of throwing a rock at her husband to break his ridiculous self-imposed training, she turned to shout¡ªbut was instantly distracted by Jefferson¡¯s comical approach from across the street.


    "Someone¡¯s been practicing," she giggled.


    Tenshu immediately relaxed, puffing his nostrils at her sudden change in demeanor.


    "Why do you only pick on me?" he muttered¡ªor so he thought. He often forgot that his whispers were the average person¡¯s yells.


    "Because I love you -- you dummy," Tendera chuckled, not even turning around.


    Jefferson cleared his throat. "You look as lovely as always, Mrs. Hoofer." He tried¡ªand failed¡ªto keep the blush off his face.


    "You''re too sweet, Mr. Hope. And please, call me Tendera. We know each other well enough for first names. Or even¡­ Jeff," she winked.


    "Oh... yes!" Jefferson stammered, shrinking away as she leaned in.


    Across the shop, Tenshu sighed internally.


    Here it comes. He tapped his fingers together.


    This time, he wisely kept his thoughts inside his head, where they usually belonged.


    It was thanks to the ''lure'' that some of his thoughts escaped their prison, for Tenshu never thought, or spoke, this much in his life. And he lived a long life.


    Tendera leaned back, her voice sharpening. "Anyway! Moving around without a guide is stupid." She pointed at a Pyxen sitting in the corner of her shop.


    A Pyxen was a mystic figure¡ªan ascended Wanderer who lived and died within Ouroboros. They had never strayed beyond their territory nor lost their way within it, for the mountain had been their home since before the First Era.


    Some believed the Pyxen weren¡¯t Wanderers at all, ranking them among the lower-tier Mystica. Yet aside from their bizarre fashion choices, they were Wanderers through and through¡ªfor better or worse.


    Jefferson knew more about them than Tendera. After all, when the mountain first settled and became habitable, his team had been the first to set foot on this ominous soil and negotiate with the Pyxen. Without them, the current Oru''Ma would never have been possible.


    The market was a paradox: those who entered could never leave, and those who somehow escaped could never return to where they started. Only the Pyxen had a sense of direction within the mountain, and they were also the ones who could sense when the mountain was preparing to move again, making them the default guides for Wanderers. Both into and away from Ouroboros before disaster struck.


    Yet, no matter what, the Pyxen themselves never left the mountain. How they survived the transition remained a mystery¡ªeven to the most powerful kingdoms.


    They were easy to recognize. More muscular than typical Wanderers, their bodies were coated in ash, adorned with shell piercings, and covered in the barest of clothing¡ªjust enough for modesty. Their wild, unkempt appearance set them apart, but their most distinctive feature was the staff each one carried. Tall and intricately carved, it symbolized their bond with nature and the mystic forces of their realm. They often used it to walk, but Jefferson could never tell if it was practical or merely symbolic.


    Tendera crossed her arms, scowling. "And I don¡¯t have to remind a ''market official'' about the horrors of getting lost¡­ now do I?"


    ''There it is.'' Tenshu chuckled to himself.


    "More cleaning, less giggling like a little girl," Tendera snapped without turning around. "At least I only have to remind this fool once¡­ unlike someone who needs reminding every second," she growled.


    Tenshu slouched into a ball of disappointment as Tendera redirected her sharp tongue toward Jefferson.


    "Right, Mr. Jefferson Hope?"


    "Eh! Yes!" Jefferson stammered between hiccups. He wished he could scurry away, but until his guide arrived, there was no escaping Tendera¡¯s lecture. "I just... had a small... tiny... fight with my wife¡ª"


    "No excuse is worth the price of a life!" Tendera interjected.


    "Yes! Sorry! I will wait for my¡ª"


    "Stop moving before I break your precious legs," she warned, her words wrapped in an eerie smile that only made her more terrifying. "A leg is better than a life, aye!" She chuckled darkly.


    "You are -- so -- kind," he stuttered.


    "Don¡¯t want an official shutting down my one shot at wealth. I paid a mini fortune for this spot, you see." She gestured toward the ''Crawler Board''¡ªa chaotic mess of numbers that would never add up, for them to break even.


    The board was less a testament to their business skills and more proof of their tragic relationship with basic math.


    ''Of course!'' Tenshu gulped. ''She doesn¡¯t give a Joot¡¯s ass about some high-ranking official. She has, and always will, only care about Quincil.''


    The realization struck him like a hammer made up of pure Ore. Tears welled up in his eyes as he grasped what that truly meant for his status.


    Suddenly, Jefferson¡¯s voice cut through the tension. "I am here!" he yelled.


    Without a second thought, he bolted toward a little girl across the street. Halfway there, he stopped, frantically shouting his intentions to leave town before sprinting toward her again.


    Just before he could reach her, the girl flickered like a mirage¡ªdisappearing and reappearing behind him in an instant.


    "Running in a maze is unwise, mister," she said, tapping Jefferson lightly on the back, snapping him out of the illusion. "I recommend we walk." She flashed a ghostly smile.


    ''Even the kids¡­!'' Jefferson gulped down the thought and obediently followed the little Pyxen girl to the edge of her territory.


    She could have taken Jefferson all the way, but finding an official breaking the most common rules her chief laid out, irked her into leaving him halfway.


    The Pyxen divided the mountain into distinct sections. Even they avoided long treks across its expanse, adhering to an invisible boundary set by their chief. Travelers had no choice but to switch guides at each new section, handed off from one Pyxen to another like a fragile package.


    Jefferson changed three guides before reaching the mountain''s foot. From there, he secured a personal carriage and rode to the nearest Halloway station, where he boarded anArborcentis bound for Zone N-147.


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 Ch—02: A Mystical Incident.

    Before dawn¡ªbefore the Suns created by the ancient Mystica¡ªcould pierce the thick mists, two voices were lost to the swirling wind currents of Ouroboros. Even those who heard the cries could do nothing, for a minute and a half was not enough time to quench their curiosity in this ominous setting.


    Among those who believed themselves closest to the source, only Nostaw, a renowned no-revision author, felt a rush of excitement.


    ¡°What a ghastly scream at such a ghastly hour,¡± he whispered, clutching a Whisper Leaf in one hand. The enchanted leaf recorded the scream in a series of shifting letters, while his other hand gripped a Mystica known as the ''Scruner.''


    Shaped like a book, this Mystica contained the first¡ªand last¡ªdraft of his current work-in-progress, abandoned when pure mental exhaustion forced him to clock out for the day.


    That didn¡¯t mean he went to bed. Or fell unconscious.


    No, sir.


    Ouroboros flooded its inhabitants with too much energy for that. Instead, Nostaw crawled into his cloud sheets and stared up at the arch over his bed. The structure thrummed with power, implanting thoughts and diversions every other minute.


    This wasn¡¯t sleep¡ªfar from it. But in a realm where sleep meant death, where exhaustion could never overpower the relentless currents of energy, certain Ornyx were essential to keep the mind from splintering into oblivion.


    His arch was crafted from the Ornyxes of three Mystics¡ªResonix, Quenara, and Flutter¡ªand powered by ''Veyrunite -- Ore,'' which mimicked motion in a stationary object, allowing a still body to siphon away excess energy. The Resonix¡¯s hum soothed the soul, the ever-shifting colors of a Quenara feather provided a mesmerizing feast for the eyes and mind, while the Flutter¡¯s magical dust transported its user into a multidimensional state, effectively shielding them from the powerful ''Lure'' of Ouroboros.


    All this, just to keep a person from going insane.


    There was no way Nostaw would risk an investigation, no matter how enticing the mystery. Even if it was the scoop of the century.


    One has to be sane to enjoy the rewards, thank you very much.


    Far away, around the same time, the Halloway Master of Zone N147 tapped his foot against the pavement, nervously awaiting the arrival of his first Arborcentis carrier-Mystical.


    The Arborcentis was a colossal, elongated creature, its massive, spindly legs stretching outward like the limbs of an ancient forest tree. There was no way he could miss its approach.


    At least, that¡¯s what Garry¡ªthe Halloway Master¡ªtold himself.


    Based on travel distance, the amount of Quincil a passenger was willing to spend, Halloway benefits, and a plethora of other factors, the Station Master had to prepare the Mystica and fine-tune individual carriages to match each traveler''s requests.


    Garry Coach hated statistics more than he hated his luck.


    Among the few who had lived through the Third Era, Garry¡¯s luck had blocked him from obtaining the riches most naturally acquired while transitioning into the next. Ever since, anything remotely related to basic statistics stumped him.


    There were many without a ''Guru''¡ªa basic teacher to guide them through their journey¡ªbut for Garry, his luck made learning math a moot point¡ªlet alone ''Mystic Math.''


    During the dire times, when the government handed out surplus stars and high-ranking positions to advance careers, he found himself unknowingly breaking laws, unaware that, apparently, rules changed during situations of crisis.


    Just as earning stars had become easier, losing them had too.


    Garry bounced from one job to another, the fluctuating star system and ever-changing societal rules carving deep wrinkles into his once-young, elastic face. He remembered being in his twenties when he first forgot his birthday; after that, many more slipped by, leaving him unable to recall his own age.


    His luck, however, finally shifted when he became the Halloway Master of Zone N-147.


    Some high-ranking official in the Arcane Force had misread his experience as a mere ''Carriage Boy''¡ªcombined with his old age¡ªas a sign of excellence in mythical transportation and offered him the position. Not wanting to pass up the luxuries of his final days, Garry accepted.


    From day one, he lied to himself¡ªand to his crew.


    He bribed his subordinates with promises of his soon-to-be-vacated position, convincing them to do his job for him. He learned more by watching them work than by doing it himself, all the while fearing that his bad luck would soon catch on. He could already imagine it lurking in the shadows, waiting to wipe the unusual smile off his face and restore his lifelong misfortune.


    "A frown had been written, and a frown shall remain until reincarnation," a Shaman had once told him.


    And today, his bad luck had finally made its move.


    It had delivered a ''Wonder'' straight to his doorstep.


    Not even a week into his new position, the infamous Ouroboros had traversed the vast planes, only to stop at his workplace--before its designated time.


    He had no land to claim damages. No means to set out on a quest to the mysterious mountain in search of better luck.


    Instead, he was stuck managing the one lucky break he had cheated his misfortune into giving him.


    Every one of Garry''s underlings was now off enjoying their wild rooster chase inside Ouroboros, while he was left to man the station¡ªalongside his soon-to-return bad luck.


    The constant back-and-forth traffic led to a flood of complaints, but as the station manager¡ªand the sole recipient of said complaints¡ªGarry had found a clever use for them. He used the ''Whisper Leaves'' to keep the fireplace in his cabin running.


    Up until now, this trick had worked.


    But soon, an official from the Arcane Force was set to arrive.


    There was no way he could simply toss that complaint into the fire.


    So, for the first time in a while, Garry worked more diligently than before.


    He paced around the station, checked on the ''Centi Mystica''¡ªwhich would replace the incoming ''Arborcentis''¡ªand ran through the station¡¯s checklist. He also inspected the multipurpose ''Ekanze,'' a mystica responsible for keeping both his pants and the carriage doors in place.


    Practicing a few chants over the ''Ekanze,'' he somehow managed to entangle himself in the very vines that made up the platform¡¯s floor.


    Locked within several layers of ''Ekanze,'' he sighed.


    "I wish someone would fire me already."


    Lucky for him, the only transports allowed to break a schedule were those that ran into a terrifying Mystica or those that had encountered a ''Wonder of Wanderlust.''


    Wonders had a unique trait: they distorted physical laws, attracted Mystica, and could mystically erase objects, people, Mystica, or even entire regions from Wanderlust itself.


    Garry wished the Arborcentis would roll right off the massive Oak branch and into Ouroboros. That way, he¡¯d only lose his job¡ªnot his sanity.


    Anything short of that would lead to endless inquiries, forced community service, another excruciating math involved investigation to determine his true age, and stars owned¡ªsomething even he didn¡¯t want to know.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "I¡¯m still close to Ouroboros," Garry assured himself, croaking out a chant to free himself from the ''Ekanze¡¯s'' grip. "I can still access the market and buy some luck... right?"


    But all his hopes were shattered with the low, unmistakable rumble of bark smashing against bark.


    The Arborcentis was making its way back to the station.


    Garry groaned, drawing out a sleek, wooden skateboard. Kicking off, he glided across the platform, hopping from one massive vein to another until he reached the station¡¯s Sylvarin.


    Unlike the Pyxen race, whose powers lay in movement and survival upon Ouroboros, Sylvarin¡¯s were wanderers who had found a way to forge a ''mystic-connection'' with a nature-attuned mystica.


    Some even served as hosts, transforming their Wanderer bodies into living nests where Fairies slumbered.


    Sylvarin¡¯s had an earthly complexion and were the only ones capable of communicating with nature¡ªor more precisely, the mystica within it.


    Garry only resented his lack of education when it came to Sylvarin¡¯s for one particularly beautiful reason.


    D¡¯Las, a female Sylvarin tasked with maintaining the ancient ''Mazeler Oak'' trees near the N-147 Halloway station, felt the faint scraping of vines and shivered.


    "Reglen!" she chanted, brushing her thick, bushy hair off her forehead.


    At once, both her ivory-colored, vine-like hair and the tangled network of tree veins upon the platform straightened themselves. Overhead branches wove together, forming an arched canopy of leaves for shelter.


    "Thanks!" D¡¯Las beamed, running her fingers through her hair.


    It chimed back, purring in response.


    The sudden shift in the environment didn¡¯t faze Garry. He simply flipped his ''Ornyx Board'' over his shoulder and landed on his feet with practiced ease.


    "The Arborcentis is about to arrive," he blurted out before his thoughts could betray him¡ªbefore he could get lost in D¡¯Las¡¯s beauty.


    After experiencing one too many awkward silences, Garry had learned to spit out important information before going completely speechless in her presence.


    It was still weird.


    But at least now, D¡¯Las understood what he was trying to say before it was too late for her to act.


    Garry wasn¡¯t sure if all Sylvarins carried themselves with such grace and poise or if it was just D¡¯Las.


    She moved with an elegance that could put even the Hystorian race to shame.


    Her light brown skin reminded Garry of home, and the soft, nostalgic scent that lingered around her¡ªlike rain meeting dry earth¡ªtrapped his senses in a state of quiet awe.


    Sylvarins were nature with legs.


    And boy, did he realize how much he had missed out on life during adolescence, blinded by the prejudices of his time.


    D¡¯Las casually ran her fingers through her hair, weaving a delicate ring of flowers into the shape of a crown. Then, without hesitation, she plucked a single blossom, placed it in Garry¡¯s mouth, and gently shut it closed.


    "I know what to do, Master," she teased, her laughter intertwining with the soft hum of her hair, melding into a melodious tune.


    Through her golden irises, she spotted a group of fairies rough-handling a local mystica, an ''Arachnivis,'' and briefly wondered¡ªWas this the reason Mystica, when scorned by nature, lashed out against those attuned to it?


    Of course, she might¡¯ve been biased.


    Having only ever hosted and interacted with nature-aligned Mystica, her perspective was limited. But thanks to her ancestors, who had convinced nonbelievers of the importance of ''Nature Sprites'', or the latest term ''Nature Mystica,'' in shaping their world, the Sylvarins had finally earned a somewhat equal seat at the ''World Council.''


    "If only they could see their beauty," D¡¯Las mused, smiling at the fairies.


    Then her expression soured.


    "And their ugliness."


    Her gaze shifted to the ''Arachnivis,'' and her smile flipped upside-down.


    "Let¡¯s go."


    With a practiced ease, D¡¯Las charmed the fairies away, guiding them toward the overhead branches with a gentle sway of her hands.


    She paid no mind to the designated ''Centi'' arriving at their station. Garry had mentioned it twice yesterday before freezing up, but in her defense, she never cared enough to remember the names of those ghastly creatures.


    Without knowing which Centi was approaching, she had no way of gauging its length or guessing which compartment the Arcane official would exit from.


    Still, she could feel it.


    The Centi''s massive claws pierced into the connecting branches of the ancient Oak, the vibrations traveling through the tree¡¯s vast network.


    Long, whip-like antennae swept the branches ahead, sensing the path forward. Its massive pincers snapped away excess plant growth¡ªextra mushrooms and stray branches deliberately placed along the tracks to nourish the Centis, ensuring they stayed on the designated route while carrying passengers back and forth.


    D¡¯Las recognized the ingenuity of the system.


    But she hated the process.


    Being the station¡¯s resident Sylvarin meant it was her responsibility to regrow the lost limbs of the mighty ''Mazeler Oak.''


    The fairies scattered the moment the ''Arborcentis'' came into view. D¡¯Las had to coax them back, swaying and twirling as she hummed a soft melody.


    "Just a second, stay by me... for we are in this together!"


    Her voice intertwined with the chime of her hair, as she wove a flowing dress from fresh blossoms, blooming with each spin.


    How could anyone not want to be a Sylvarin? Or worship one for the rest of their pathetic, little lives?


    This always stumbled her very being.


    "Rosera!"


    D¡¯Las chanted the spell, tracing an arc across the station¡¯s platform with her bare foot.


    The fairies spiraled into motion, fluttering across the arc, leaving behind a glowing foothold made up of flowers.


    But she still couldn''t pinpoint which carriage would carry the Arcane official.


    So, she expanded the spell.


    She created a flowery foothold for every carriage along the platform, all the while grimacing at the inevitable fate of her delicate petals¡ªsoon to be trampled under the grotesque shoes of passing wanderers.


    Above them, the ''Arborcentis'' moved with an ''almost ethereal grace,'' gliding upside down along the towering branches of the ''Mazeler Oak.'' The interconnected limbs formed a twisting sky-road, guiding the creature as it traversed vast distances without pause.


    With each step of its massive legs, the ''Arborcentis'' moved with effortless power¡ªnever once straying from the grub-lined branches it clung to.


    And stopping such a humongous beast?


    That required something larger¡ªor something far more magical¡ªto halt its million ceaseless steps.


    "Tacku--ten--tome," D¡¯Las whispered to the ancient Oak.


    At the edge of the platform, a gigantic mushroom erupted from the wood, growing fast enough to halt the Arborcentis in its tracks. Each time the ''Centi'' tore off a massive bite, the mushroom regrew¡ªlarger, stronger¡ªbuying the passengers within enough time to disembark.


    "Lights or not?"


    D''Las hesitated. She hadn''t confirmed the official¡¯s request.


    Playing it safe, she beckoned the ''Lymphs'' nesting in the overhead branches. In response, the tiny creatures cleared small pockets in the leaves, allowing slivers of sunlight to pierce through.


    No two chambers within the ''Arborcentis'' were alike¡ªeach one highly specialized based on how much quincil a passenger had thrown into their comfort. This made spotting the official¡¯s quarters easy; his was the most exclusive, just two tiers below a Queen¡¯s carriage.


    A fairy fluttered near, whispering his name and chamber number into D''Las¡¯s pointed ear.


    "Ah. Jefferson," she acknowledged, turning toward the very end of the train-beast.


    For a man traveling in first class, Jefferson had chosen a curiously isolated chamber.


    Now knowing which carriage required her charm, D¡¯Las considered removing the rest of the welcoming flowers. The low-level wanderers neither paid for them, nor did she enjoy seeing her precious blooms trampled beneath their grotesque shoes.


    But she had little time, so begrudgingly, she moved on.


    She wasn¡¯t attempting to impress Jefferson just for the sake of station decorum. He was posted close to the Queen¡ªa simple man to solicit and bend in her favor during the next council.


    The Sylvarins deserved more recognition¡ªand the right connections could make that happen.


    D¡¯Las spotted his carriage from a distance, but before she could reach it, impatient passengers rushed out, ignoring Garry as he fumbled to open the doors.


    She scowled.


    They blocked her path forward.


    Towering over the crowd, she peered into Jefferson¡¯s dark carriage.


    "No lights?!"


    D¡¯Las cursed herself. Of course! Jefferson had requested darkness, and in her distraction, she had failed to seal all the pockets of light shining into his chamber¡ªand onto the path he''d take through the station.


    A blunder.


    A mistake that could cost her an imaginary standing in Jefferson¡¯s eyes¡ªand Garry¡¯s.


    D¡¯Las forced herself to focus.


    She needed to see Jefferson¡¯s face. Memorize it. He was crucial to her plans. If she could make him remember her, she could raise her ranking among the Sylvarins.


    But the ungrateful Wanderers trampled both her welcome flowers and her toes, forcing her attention away at the worst possible moment.


    She barely caught a glimpse of Jefferson¡¯s ''Sigil'' over his shoulder before he wrapped himself in an oversized, thick blanket.


    And then¡ª


    A spark.


    And everyone¡¯s world turned upside down.


    The fire did not roar¡ªit shrieked. A raw, vengeful wail that tore through the air, devouring all sound but its own. What had once been a mere spark had twisted itself into a column of white-hot agony, writhing like a living thing¡ªunchained, insatiable. It drank the air from the lungs of those who stood in its presence, leaving them gasping, unable to scream, and mortified into stunned statues.


    And at its heart, buried within the searing tempest, was Jefferson.


    His oversized blanket ignited first, curling inward like charred petals, disintegrating before it could fully burn. The sigil on his shoulder¡ªthe only mark of his existence that had reached D¡¯Las¡¯s eyes¡ªglowed for an instant, then crumbled into embers, spiraling away. His flesh, his bones, his very presence became fuel for the unnatural blaze. The fire did not allow him to thrash or claw for survival. It held him still, erasing him from the world with merciless precision.


    No ash. No remains. Just nothingness.


    The screams had long since died¡ªnot from mercy, but because there was no mouth left to voice them. Even the fire, once ravenous and furious, began to coil inward, folding in on itself as if... satisfied. Then, silence.


    Where Jefferson had stood, there was only emptiness.


    And then, the void he left behind shuddered.


    A pulse of unnatural stillness spread outward, washing over the terrified crowd, sending icy tendrils into their chests, squeezing their hearts with an unspoken warning.


    Something about this fire was wrong.


    Something deeper than simple destruction.


    D¡¯Las clutched her arms, the scent of burnt nothingness seeping into her nostrils. Her mind whispered a truth she dared not speak:


    Fire does not erase. It blackens. It leaves traces.


    But here, in this forsaken moment, there was nothing left of Jefferson.


    Not even his shadow...


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