Anomaly's Underworld
Tucking the wooden box Evel had brought into my bosom carefully, I rummaged around for anything else worth taking as spoils. The results were ambiguous at best. All that turned up were a few silver coins. Selling the paintings on the walls or the bottles displayed in the cabinets would fetch a decent price, but unfortunately, we didn't have the capacity to haul them all out.
"Ha! Don't get greedy over those bulky trinkets, you fool!"
Sigurd chided me as I eyed the cabinet wistfully. "They're too flashy for the black market anyway—too much hassle to fence, and they'd draw unwanted attention if anyone traced them back!"
...Well, he had a point. It still stung that those mana stones worth ten gold coins had gone up in smoke entirely, but since it had happened, I decided to think positively. They were bulky to carry anyway, and tricky to offload discreetly as stolen goods.
"Don't delude yourself with mental gymnastics! Mana stones aren't hot goods—who'd suspect them? Just say you picked them up in the labyrinth and sell away!"
"……"
"You think that bastard stashed mana stones in his safe for nothing? They're the perfect asset—hardest to trace and easiest to liquidate in a pinch!"
Stop... just stop...!
Every word from Sigurd stabbed at my heart.
"You just fed ten gold coins' worth of mana stones straight into that left arm of yours! You idiot..."
"Ah, I get it! I'm sorry, okay?!"
We searched for more valuables after that, but nothing turned up. In the end, we swallowed our tears and slipped out of the mansion.
"So, when do we hand this mana stone over to the client?"
"No need to delay. Right now."
Sigurd said that and swirled his cloak dramatically. Clutching the pouch of silver coins and the wooden box tightly, I followed behind him.
The labyrinth city of Anomaly grew darker as night deepened. The bustling districts were still lit up like daytime with drunken adventurers, but Sigurd led us in the opposite direction. The lights around us faded, and soon we entered shadowy back alleys where even moonlight barely penetrated.
We twisted through the maze-like alleys for a good ten minutes before Sigurd suddenly asked,
"What the hell is that left arm of yours, anyway?"
"It's Dusty."
"That's not what I'm asking."
In the dark alley, I felt his gaze piercing through the gold-embossed mask.
"Forgot the contract terms? You're not supposed to ask about, pry into, or blab about my left arm."
Sigurd snorted at my response.
"Hmph! I swore not to tell others, but that doesn't gag my exalted intellectual curiosity!"
This guy had a real gift for twisting words. I debated whether to answer, then decided to just spill it. Dodging now would only encourage him to pester me forever. Besides, with the contract bound to the scales of fate, he couldn't blab to anyone else anyway.
"It's my Destiny."
"Your Destiny's in your left arm? What a weirdo. What kind?"
"That's a secret."
Sigurd clicked his tongue and said,
"Hmph. Fine. So you're cursed with one too. Not surprising. You look the type."
I ignored the colorful insult at the end and latched onto the front part.
"You think Destinies are curses too, Sigurd?"
"And you think it's a blessing?"
"Dunno."
I glanced down at my bandaged left arm. Blessing or curse? Hell if I knew. Sometimes it felt like one, sometimes the other.
"At least when it devoured my ten gold coins whole earlier, it sure felt like the world's worst curse."
Sigurd let out a disbelieving cough at my answer.
"Ha! Judging the weight of Destiny by your paltry purse strings—what a mortally pedestrian response."
He shook his head with a tsk-tsk, then added in a strangely subdued tone,
"Does Destiny grant talent to those it descends upon, or does talent summon Destiny? You need to grasp that distinction."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sounded like the old chicken-or-egg nonsense. I replied indifferently,
"No clue. You born with one too, Sigurd?"
"This great body is unbound by such petty shackles!"
"Ah, sure."
We bantered idly like that for a while longer until Sigurd's steps halted.
"We're almost there."
He stopped, spun around to face us, and warned,
"The place we're entering now is the true abyss of Anomaly—a den of outlaws beyond light or law."
He tapped the ornate gold mask on his face and continued,
"Don't take it off for anything. Keep your mouths shut inside, and no matter what, hide your identities."
I turned to Evel trailing behind and said,
"Hear that, Evel? No talking."
"Yeah, Iris."
"You idiots! I said hide your identities—why blurt out names?!"
"Oops."
I scratched the back of my neck awkwardly and shut up. Sigurd glared at us.
"'Oops' my ass! Seal those lips right now—no names!"
"Got it, got it. Lips sealed tight."
I mimed sliding my hand over the mouth of my Hahoe mask. Evel plugged the fox mask's mouth with both hands and nodded vigorously.
Sigurd flung off his fluttering, ornate cloak, flipping it inside out so the drab gray lining became the exterior. Gone was the flashy mage; in his place stood a generic back-alley thug.
"You two flip your clothes too. Unless you want the guild pinpointing 'those adventurers' later."
Evel and I followed suit, turning our outer garments inside out. With the dull, reversed clothes and our motley masks, we made a pretty convincing trio of alley rats.
Sigurd tsked in lingering dissatisfaction but took the lead again.
A dead-end alley devoid of light. Moments later, we reached a crumbling brick building at its end. Sigurd headed familiarly to a narrow basement stairwell on one side.
Creeeak—
Descending and opening the rickety door released a waft of tobacco and booze. Inside was a dim, smoky underground tavern. Hooded figures and rough-faced mercenaries. Stolen goods and weapons passing over their tables.
I know this setup. The classic cyberpunk underground bar where the protagonist grabs quests or intel. One wrong move and knives fly from everywhere.
We wove through the worn wooden tables straight to the counter at the far end. There loomed a hulking figure, half his face a gruesome burn scar, silently polishing a wooden mug. The master of this place, no doubt.
"...What're those masks?"
The master eyed us with disbelief.
...What?
I scanned around. No one else wore masks. At most, deep hoods or bare, menacing faces. Our trio—shiny gold mask, grinning Hahoe, and cute fox—stood out like sore thumbs in this gloomy dive.
"We who cast aside the veil of darkness, answering the abyss's call to claim the promised relic..."
"What? Thought some circus runaways showed up—oh, it's you."
The master sighed familiarly.
"Brought some new faces this time."
He sized us up. Ah, I got it. Normally, Sigurd probably just huddled in a robe like the others. But after the mansion fiasco and the pursuit, he'd gotten paranoid. Hence the masks—and forcing them on us.
Not that thorough disguise was bad, but...
We're way too conspicuous like this.
I stared blankly through my Hahoe mask. Sigurd flinched and cleared his throat hastily.
"Ahem! Anyway, for the grand transaction of the abyss..."
"Whatever. Hand over the request slip."
The master set down his mug with a thud and replied indifferently. Sigurd, flustered, pulled a crumpled parchment scrap from his bosom and slid it across the counter. The master skimmed it and jerked his chin toward somewhere.
I followed his gesture. A secluded corner table shrouded in shadow. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat sat alone, puffing on a long pipe. The thick tobacco scent reached even here. On her table sat a heavy leather coin pouch, waiting for its owner.
My five gold coins.
I swallowed dryly and followed Sigurd to her table.
Before we even sat, her languid voice drifted through the smoke.
"Brought an interesting kid this time."
She tapped out her pipe and fixed her intrigued gaze on me from under her hat's brim.
"You... you've got three Heart Images."?