He lit an oil lamp, his hand momentarily lingering from the assuaging warmth. Just for an hour, he told himself, deciding to sleep.

  Then, as he fell asleep, a beautiful dream reached him.

  He's a garden that blooms hazily during spring, and a garden that wilts every stray rainfall. A garden of indecisive petals which’ve held no promise, in sooth, but this concave devotion was persistent.

  The flowers which wilted every torrent have verily grown. The garden of petals, of which bloom hopelessly, grew the ideal of existentialism and began to esse as if it was the genesis of all life.

  The giggles of children whom of which had a florescence so pulchritudinous that seemed to travel nearby—and as curious as he was, he thought twice of walking over.

  But then again, this is a dream, he thought.

  His pace which started off slow and calm quickened as the laughter seemed to quieten and reach further in the distance. Eventually, he was running.

  The sound of flowing water reached his ears. The splashes of water embraced a seeming melancholy in his heart, and a memory he couldn’t place flashed in his mind.

  A yellow, bright sun, a little child with tanned skin and messy teeth, and the deep blue sea’s rippling water.

  In this fragile and mystifying memory, he's running. But after a child whose laugh echoed painfully.

  Those beautiful waters; He’s never been the ocean before. Did he want to see the sea? To let the sand of the shore find its home in the crevices of his toes?

  He couldn’t feel that, but it's not like he looked down.

  Nevertheless, he simply looked ahead at that red, radiant sun, and the water which danced in its presence.

  The child’s smile was like a miniature sun, and in a way his own eyes were like the sea as he looked at the warmth in their eyes.

  Who were they? He’d have to learn that another day.

  As he awoke, he quickly looked at the clock whom’s tick lost its éclat. Only thirty minutes had passed—but he thought it was a much, much shorter period than that.

  This world, no, Borgia City confused him. The murky gray bides all day, and it’s rain halted ne’er. He couldn’t have told if time passed at all if he didn’t have that clock.

  He prayed Borgia City wouldn’t be this way forever. Perhaps it used to be beautiful.

  Ruffling his hair, he sighed and walked to the desk near the bed. A clean, unblemished notebook sat in a dusty corner of the room.

  He’d have to decide on a plan to help Prince Notra. Should he try to befriend him somehow?

  Appear interesting in the background during the festival in a week’s time so that he’ll want to investigate me? He jotted down.

  Still, he scribbled a line over it. He decided not to, since he wasn’t interested in that at all.

  Pretend to be a mysterious, hidden figure who becomes His Highness’ Savior? Dreamy, but he crossed that out too. He didn’t know if he could even fight the danger on equal footing. He had more illusionary ability, rather than physical.

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  Sighing, he sketched a couple of people he saw in the streets with focus. Perhaps it’d help. He drew three people.

  A woman with a hooked, elegant nose with brown eyes.

  A man dark brown skin and beautiful slanted eyes.

  Another woman with a round face, green eyes, and thin hair.

  A child who smiled with a dainty canine visible. The child in his memory. He stared at the half-done drawing, contemplating to rashly cover it with his pen.

  He kept remembering that child. But Angra didn’t need to, because that was his old world. Those recollections were all for naught. They lack a liquid physicality.

  He sighed, returning to the crafting of how to makeshift a way to contact the prince. Should he do some research? Angra didn’t find the idea of leaving home once more to go to some bookstore appealing; He’d just returned less than an hour ago.

  Very suddenly did a thought enter his mind-space. He remembered the contents of the diary he’d read, which contained lots of information including one specific line.

  ‘If you find yourself struggling with a matter, feel unstinting to use the ‘Book of Matters’ to consult with a higher being; Their identity should be of no interest to you.’

  The Book of Matters was one of those empty notebooks that caught Angra’s eye. If he remembered correctly, it was actually one of the books in a pile resting on his nightstand.

  He looked through them before eventually finding it in the bottom of the pile. He laid it on the desk and sat on his cushioned chair.

  Should he just write something?

  [Hello?]

  Although it wasn’t the native language of this planet, surely it wouldn’t matter.

  It took a few seconds, but red, crimson ink found its way on the paper.

  [I assume you must be the new Iles,]They wrote. [Or Angra, perchance.]

  [Iles?] He wrote back. [That’s the real name of this body?]

  [ILA! You don’t have to adopt it, loving soul.] Their calligraphy was quite beautiful in Angra’s point of view.

  [What does ILA mean?] He wrote with no interest.

  [I laugh amusedly. Its formal slang.]

  Again, it attracted Angra’s thoughts. Each word was faintly cursive; Sophisticated and polished being its largest qualities. Perhaps they were noble, or just liked calligraphy. He leant towards nobility.

  Also, the name ‘Iles’ was mentioned in the note of the clerk as well. Was this person the clerk?

  The original soul said not to worry about their identity. Angra sighed and rubbed his eyes—he’d take his advice.

  [Does the name have a meaning?]

  [Do you enjoy listening to the definition of names?]

  That question seemed to be written a little rougher.

  [… Yes.]

  [The given name Iles was shortened. It does have meanings, howbeit,] They continue writing after a pause. [Iles means herald or isle.]

  [The meanings I imagine being delicate… Nonetheless, I wrote with a purpose. How can I find a way to create a connection with His Highness, Notra?]

  [Straightforward. I quite like humans with a nature such as yours. Prince Notra will be attending an auction in 2344 Weights Rd. You will know which building when you’re there. Also, it’s an hour. Cloth yourself appropriately.]

  [Thank you. Is there anything specific I mustn’t do?]

  [Rather than that, I suggest bidding for Sanctum’s Horn… and garb your red overcoat etched with the Eternus Vivus’ insignia as well. If you can find it.]

  [Eternus Vivius?]

  [My, my! You were oblivious that fact? It’s the infamous symbol of the Heavenly Damned!]

  [Actually, no more. Please. I’d like to stay ignorant. Ignorance is bliss.]

  [I’ve never heard of that saying.]

  [Ignorance is bliss.] Angra wrote a little heavier, emphasizing it.

  [Okay… We’ll speak again. Goodbye...]

  He would not be wearing the red overcoat they had mentioned.

  He sighed and got up, resolving to look for attire emanating the word ‘sybilline’.