It had been seven restless days since Jeb arrived in the city, haunted by the ghost of Kendoson—the previous owner of his sword. The thought of Kendoson wandering these same streets on Azibo, lost and desperate, gnawed at the edges of Jeb’s mind. What had Kendoson done to be condemned to this forsaken place? But after days of wrestling with unanswerable questions, Jeb finally surrendered to acceptance, letting the past drift away like smoke.

  On the morning after his deadly duel, Jeb had visited the Hall to request access to maps. His answer had come swiftly, a curt and dismissive "No," delivered with bureaucratic disinterest. Frustration burned quietly within him, a simmering ember he had learned to suppress.

  Now, he walked aimlessly along the rough, uneven cobblestone roads, Raul at his side. Raul’s presence puzzled him; a friendship had grown quickly between them, easy yet mysterious.

  “Raul, why are you even here?” The question had lingered unspoken for days, and Jeb blurted it out with unexpected bluntness. He winced slightly, realizing the sharpness in his voice.

  Raul remained silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful, memories clouding his eyes. “When I was a boy,” he began slowly, as if speaking from a faraway place, “there was this monk. Everyone believed he could see the future, though he always denied it.” A faint smile lifted Raul’s weary face. “He warned people, telling them their path was dangerous. After a while, everyone listened. His warnings always came true.”

  They rounded a corner where market carts, overloaded with fresh produce, crowded the road. Raul continued, his voice steady, almost reverent. “Once, after another reckless fight with village boys, he told me that if I ever wished for freedom, I should follow the man who killed the deadliest person I had ever seen—as if it were nothing.” Raul’s eyes shifted, finding Jeb’s face as if truly seeing him for the first time. “I have never witnessed anyone kill like you did, nor met a man as deadly as Kendoson. So here I am.”

  A chill rippled down Jeb’s spine. Azibo held a Seer—someone of immense value, a rare gift usually harnessed by the Core itself. Jeb felt a strange excitement tempered by unease. Jeebz’s voice flickered sarcastically through his mind: No records of a Seer on Azibo? Shocking. Next, you'll tell me this place has no decent coffee shops.

  Jeb suppressed a snort. “Where can I find this monk?” he asked quietly, curiosity mingling with hope.

  Raul looked eastward, eyes distant and sad. “Perhaps still in my village, a hundred days’ journey or so. It has been years. Maybe he’s still alive.”

  Jeb felt a sudden resolve surge within him. “Then maybe that’s where we go next. I’d very much like to meet him.”

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  Raul nodded thoughtfully, eyeing their modest belongings. “We’ll need supplies—horses, a cart, barrels of water, traps for food.” His eyes met Jeb’s, troubled. “But we lack the coin.”

  At that very moment, Jeb’s eyes caught sight of a weathered announcement nailed crookedly to a wooden post: a swordsman’s tournament with a prize of one hundred silver.

  Raul shook his head in disbelief, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “How is it you always find exactly what you need?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeb answered with a dry chuckle, tearing the paper free. Jeebz chimed in drily: Must be your winning personality.

  They registered for the competition beneath the heavy beams of the competition hall, the clerk barely acknowledging Jeb as he scribbled his name carelessly onto parchment. Raul stayed quiet, absorbing the anticipation of those around them.

  The following days were tense and purposeful. Jeb practiced relentlessly with rough wooden swords, each stroke refining his focus and burying his anxieties beneath disciplined motion. When the morning of the competition finally dawned, the town buzzed with excitement, an energy Jeb quietly fed upon.

  The makeshift arena at the town’s center was vibrant, alive with whispers and shouts from spectators. Jeb stood calmly among the anxious contestants, masking the dull ache of his healing wounds. Raul offered a steady nod of encouragement, a silent anchor amidst the chaos.

  When Jeb stepped into the ring, facing his first opponent—a scarred brute of a man—he felt something shift within him. His pulse quickened, not with fear but anticipation. As the fight began, time slowed. Jeb danced effortlessly around his opponent’s wild swings, his body moving with graceful certainty. Each strike was precise, surgical. With one final decisive blow, the man fell, stunned, to the sandy ground.

  The crowd roared, but Jeb’s expression remained composed, respectful, as he helped the fallen fighter to his feet. Match after match, opponents fell quickly, each victory etched with effortless dominance tempered by compassion. Jeebz quipped sarcastically after each victory: Another flawless win. You're going to ruin the betting odds.

  Finally, in the last match, Jeb faced a lean, wiry man, whose eyes shone with cleverness and agility. This opponent required a different approach. Jeb deliberately slowed his pace, feigned struggle, allowed drama to unfold. The crowd leaned forward, enthralled by the performance.

  Jeebz remarked dryly, Enjoying the theatrics? You missed your calling as an actor.

  When the perfect opening presented itself, Jeb swiftly disarmed the man and gently knocked him onto his back, the crowd exploding into deafening cheers. Yet, standing over his gasping opponent, Jeb felt no triumph, only respect and melancholy for the cost of victory. He offered his hand once again, and the humbled swordsman accepted with quiet admiration.

  Accepting the prize money later felt hollow, a necessary means to an end. Raul’s appreciative gaze, however, warmed him slightly, pulling him back to purpose. As they prepared their supplies, Jeebz commented flatly, I'm sure nothing terrible awaits us on this wonderfully vague and perilous journey ahead.

  As they left the bustling town at dusk, heading east toward distant memories and uncertain answers, Jeb felt a fragile peace—though Jeebz made sure to add, Fragile peace? More like calm before inevitable disaster.