The creak of wood underfoot, the murmur of voices, and the cries of seagulls greeted Seiran as he stepped off the ship’s gangway.

  Uminari. The largest trading city on the southern coast, where the roar of the waves blended with the hum of human voices, and the scent of salty sea air intertwined with spices, fish, and magical incense. This was a place where ships arrived from every corner of the world, bringing rare goods, knowledge, and whispers. The city pulsed with constant motion, as if it breathed in time with the tides.

  The rooftops curved like waves, and the walls of the buildings were inscribed with protective runes and blessings. Tea shops, artifact workshops, street oracles, and amulet sellers clustered near the docks. Even perfume carriers drifted along the cobblestones, maneuvering through the crowd like slow, fragrant clouds.

  The streets of Uminari teemed with every race imaginable: elves in long cloaks with pointed hoods, fishfolk merchants, animal spirits in human form, northerners wrapped in fur cloaks, and even a few shadow mages in smoky masks. This was a city where no one looked strange—except those who tried too hard to look ordinary.

  Seiran paused at the edge of the pier, allowing himself a moment of quiet observation. His silver hair fluttered in the breeze, and the high collar of his haori kept the chill at bay. His nine tails were hidden by an enchantment—not to draw unnecessary attention.

  “If the rumors are true... then someone here knows everything about artifacts. And maybe something about the Book,” he thought.

  He moved with ease, though his gaze scanned the faces around him—not seeking kindness, but searching for signs of a demon disguised as a traveler.

  He turned into an alleyway—each step deliberate, like a strike in battle—and headed toward the city’s center. According to the map, the marketplace began somewhere nearby.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The closer Seiran came, the thicker the noise became. Vendors shouted prices, invoking gods of luck. The aromas of grilled octopus, caramelized fruit, and dried herbs mixed with the smells of ink, dust, and enchantments. Shops were pressed tightly together: tents of enchanted books, stalls selling live ink tendrils and crystal hearts.

  Small spirit creatures darted between legs, balancing baskets on their backs, while overhead, glowing paper birds—messenger spells—glided through sunlight. Seiran moved slowly, drinking in every detail, as though trying to absorb the very soul of the city.

  Places like this were where rumors were born, rarities surfaced, and people who knew more than they said often lingered.

  He had just reached a stall of enchanted ingredients when he felt a faint tug at his belt. With a swift motion, he tried to catch the thief—but it was already too late. The coin pouch was gone.

  A soft laugh rose from the crowd.

  “Quick hands,” Seiran said, turning. Standing before him was a man: long red hair, a pipe between his fingers, emerald eyes, and a lazy, almost mocking gaze.

  “Are you talking about me?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

  “Give it back.”

  “The pouch? Darling, I have no idea what you mean.”

  Seiran narrowed his eyes, ready to reach for his sword—but then he spotted a tiny shadow nearby: a tanuki spirit with his pouch clenched in its teeth.

  The man sighed heavily and snapped his fingers. The spirit froze in midair, legs kicking like a caught pup.

  “There’s the culprit. Again. I told you not to get into trouble.”

  With another snap of his fingers, the pouch floated gently down onto a market counter. The red-haired man took a slow puff from his pipe, releasing a fragrant ring of smoke.

  “Don’t hold it against the little one. He’s just trying to survive...” His voice was silky, almost musical.

  Seiran said nothing.

  The stranger was already turning to vanish into the crowd, but for a heartbeat, he glanced back over his shoulder—like he knew someone was still watching. And in that brief moment, in a gap between people, Seiran saw it—one tail, then a second, a third... until all nine flashed into view, red as autumn leaves.

  Seiran’s heart skipped. A nine-tailed fox.

  But how?

  The crowd closed behind him. And Seiran stood frozen in the middle of the street, gripping the returned pouch tightly in his hand.

  I came for answers. For a lead. For the Book.

  Not for flirtation, fox tricks, or unsolicited commentary.

  Friendly warning.

  He has a habit of twisting things to suit his whims.