With a wary heart, Adam stood up to the chorus of a thousand cheers. Not for me, he reminded himself. The Puppets wouldn't have cheered for an Imperial Lord if threatened or bribed. Those cheers are for Merrivale...and for the curtain rising on a new show.

  Their fervor was a joyous threat. Adam couldn't stay in his seat lest he offend them and further worsen his negotiating position with the Grandmaster. Not that dueling the Puppets' Champion would be much better for his reputation – chances were he was going to make a fool out of himself.

  But I still have to try.

  Adam took his first step onto the stage, feeling the weight of a thousand eyes and the enmity of a thousand wronged citizens. The cheers were deafening, almost enough to drown out the voice in his head that screamed, 'This is a mistake! Run, now!'

  One step. Then another. He focused not on the impossible stakes, not on his unlikely chances, and not on the deafening sound so loud it shook the ground beneath his feet – but solely on the path forward.

  Though the sound was especially difficult to ignore.. The Puppets' cheers rolled like thunder, a cacophony of faceless animals with endless hunger and boundless thirst.

  My blood. That's what they want – the blood of an Imperial Lord. A vengeance that would normally be impossible to them...unless one delivered himself right to their doorstep.

  Merrivale grinned like a devil, his sword twirling in a performative rhythm. Their eyes locked. The Painter felt the stage tilt underneath and his world tremble, understanding that he had entered a realm that was not his own.

  I may be a Lord, but he rules this stage.

  It was an acknowledgment, not a stutter of fear. He accepted his reality – and chose to defy it. There's too much on the line to let something like this overwhelm me.

  "I've heard much about you," said Merrivale, tilting his neck backwards, but never shifting away his eyes. "Ah, to be so young...and already so legendary!"

  Adam laughed politely. "You flatter me, Champion. There can't have been that much you've heard about me."

  "Easy there. Show care when speaking of impossibilities – life has a way of making us fools, Young Lord! For example..."

  Merrival's whimsical tone took a sharp turn into seriousness. "Bards sing that you were not raised as a Lord."

  The silence dropped like a guillotine, sudden and absolute. Adam fought the urge to shift his weight or glance away. He could feel the crowd's focus tighten around him.

  Swallowing his fear and summoning his duty, he forced a mask of confidence onto his face. "Bards sing of many things," the Painter quietly said.

  "They sing of many things, they do!" Merrivale replied, in a much more boisterous voice. His words were deliberately simple, purposefully repeating what Adam had said, but louder, more memorably, with wild arm gestures to ensure that even those seated far away could understand the importance of his words.

  This isn't a conversation; it's a spectacle. At that moment, Adam hated the man for putting so much pressure on him...but at same time, he couldn't avoid – hell, he didn't even want to avoid – feeling impressed by Merrivale's professionalism and dedication to his craft.

  And this professional was devoted to putting on a show. "Know this, my dear Lord of Penumbria! This tongue of mine speaks no idle gossip, only the truth! My sources extend beyond mere songs, don't you know? Different people, from different areas of life, they all confirm it–! You were Aspreay's son, raised not as a noble but as one of the common people, and you took over Penumbrian rule after your father tragically fell ill."

  The murmurs in the crowd began low and rose steadily like a tide. Adam caught no words, but he did feel the atmosphere...and contrary to his expectations, it wasn't one of hatred. Perhaps 'curiosity' was a closer feeling to that elusive sound, if not a touch of – could it be? – approval, somehow.

  How did the story of my lineage spread to the Puppet Mines? A false story, at that. In reality, Adam had trapped Lord Aspreay's soul in a painting, stolen both his Talent and title as Lord of Penumbria, then conspired with Tenver to spread lies of his ancestry in order to legitimize his title.

  Except...those lies had just started making the rounds above-ground. They weren't commonly known even within the Empire. While Adam should've been pleased that his fabricated ancestry was gaining traction, he only felt unnerved that the rumors had reached Merrivale's ears at all. Well, at least he believes them.

  A sudden glimmer in the Champion's eye stabbed at the Painter's fears. Or...does he? Is he just playing along for some reason?

  Adam curled his hand into a fist, yet maintained a level expression. "Why speak of my birth, dear Champion? Does it matter if my mother was without title?"

  What's your game, Merrivale?

  Anyone versed in noble gossip would've realized that the important distinction was not Adam's upbringing, or what his mother's title was, but rather the existence of a mother at all. Aspreay's preferences were the worst-kept secret in the Empire. Someone with the connections to receive obscure news from the surface would be well-aware of that.

  Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe he was reading too much into a single glance. But no matter how much Adam tried to quell his paranoia, he couldn't shake the impression that Merrivale already knew the truth.

  If so...

  Adam's smile was polite. His voice was pleasant. And his eyes were a raised blade ready to duel. If you want to play this game, I'll do you one better – I'll beat you at it.

  Do your worst, Champion.

  "Surely!" Adam repeated the word as if it were a whole sentence, projecting his voice so the entire theater would hear its echo. "That I was not educated as a noble should hardly be a problem. Not when I have capable advisors and trusted friends."

  He waited a beat to strengthen his verbal blow. "Your disciple among them."

  "And I am most pleased for your acquaintanceship," Merrivale replied, without so much as a pause. "I mention your birth not to blame – but to praise. The word amongst the Penumbrian people is that you are a kinder lord than Aspreay ever was. That you forsook parties, banished nobles, and used your own personal treasury to prepare your people for this oncoming winter."

  So you do know everything. What he'd just said was true, but it wasn't included in the stories Adam had chosen to spread to neighbouring cities. The other Lords would've taken offense if he'd made them look bad, and his position was tenuous enough as it was. Still, he couldn't simply let his people starve to death, so having the bards downplay his support of the common folk had been necessary.

  Why lie about my parentage, then? Is this a power play? Do you want to hold it over my head? Threaten to expose me to the Grandmaster? Or–

  The noise around him surged once more, jagged, raw, and unstoppable. It went beyond cheering – this was adulation akin to a religious sermon. What the hell had Merrivale done to have the crowd so invested in his every word?

  Merrivale bowed. "If anything, my Lord, I believe your common birth is why you care so much more for the common people than those others. If only the Empire could have more lords like yourself...! Ah, to imagine–!"

  This man could sell rain to a storm, Adam thought, half in awe, half in dread. Merrivale's words weren't just convincing – they were undeniable, even to a crowd filled with people wronged by the Empire.

  Nearly every Puppet here was once an Imperial Citizen. All of them had either died in bitterness, abandoned by their own Emperor, or had sought out the Mines in despair when their City Lord responded to desperate pleas with a careless shrug. They hated the Empire, the nobles, and the world that drove them to their choices.

  But someone who was, in many ways, like them? Who had merely happened to grasp his power by chance? Who was already saving people in desperate need – just as they wished someone had done for them, so long ago?

  That, they could cheer for.

  And Merrivale is...damn, saying he's 'popular' would be underselling it. The Champion basked in their cheers, his arms wide and his closed eyes aimed at the ceiling, as if embracing a torrential rain. He suddenly stood straighter and spun his blade in a graceful arc, feeding the crowd's fervor with practiced precision.

  It was with this same precision that he had mentioned Ferrero and Adam's joint efforts against the Ghost of Waters – to make the people think of Adam as someone aligned with him.

  Merrivale's steps echoed across the cavern, his sword trailing sparks of the strange glimmering light that bathed the Mines in an ethereal glow. The Champion walked from one side of the stage to another, seemingly trying to make eye contact with every single person in a theatre that could house hundreds; welcoming the crowd's adoration like an old friend he often saw, yet never grew weary of spending time with.

  He repeated this fervent dance across the stage twice, three times, and encouraged the crowd to scream again before he appeared satisfied enough. Then, whilst the deafening sound of the crowd still shattered the theater, Merrivale approached Adam casually. The man leaned in with an almost conspiratorial grin, whispering in a tone that was far too conversational:

  "Earth. A fascinating place, I hear?"

  Like a cold grip of ice, Adam's breath froze in his throat.

  He knows. His pulse quickened. He knows I'm not from this world. Somehow, he's the very first person who – how?

  Instinctively, Adam leapt away from Merrivale as if he were a Stained Creature, a monster from the Rot itself. His nerves were more aflame than if the man had struck at him with steel. Do I have to fight him? Do I have to kill him? Do I–

  Merrivale clapped his hands and called for the crowd's silence. "Lord Adam of Penumbria has accepted my invitation for a lesson! WE SHALL NOW BEGIN!"

  "YOU'RE TRYING TO MAKE THIS PART OF THE SHOW?!"

  Adam's shout was completely muffled by the audience's thunderous response. Electricity crackled in the air, the thrill and tension cutting like steel. The stage beneath him felt alive, thrumming with energy.

  He wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. But he moved anyway, knowing only one thing – that he was at peace with being a challenger, with aspiring to reach a Champion he couldn't possibly best.

  It's your right as a genius to not take me seriously...and it's my right as a common person to want to take you down anyway.

  Adam let the crowd's fervor infect him. A smile came unbidden to his face. He refused to be overwhelmed, intending to make the so-called Champion pay for every inch he took.

  It wasn't because looking weak in front of a huge audience would erode his position as Lord of Penumbria. That was part of it, to be sure...but just the rational part. His driving voice, the loudest voice, was much simpler–

  If I'm standing on a stage, he thought, his Stained Ink swirling beneath his sleeves, then I refuse to be anything but the leading character!

  Only one thing held him back, and even then only barely: the fact that his Stained Ink would make him look like a monster born of the Rot. He couldn't let them know that–

  Merrivale swept his blade through the air, his voice carrying above the roaring wave of the crowd's emotions. "Oh, behold, dear audience! The mighty Lord of Ink graces us! Shall we witness the brilliance of his Talent, the artistry of his soul?"

  His words were a symphony of drama and flair – no, worse. He was the conductor, and the people were his orchestra, his instruments.

  "Do not think that we know not," Merrivale went on, his voice carrying an odd rhythm. "This is a city of Puppets! This very audience is filled with beings crafted by the Grandmaster himself – do you think they've failed to detect the Rot within you? They haven't simply heard the rumors, they know of it!"

  There...was so much to unpack in what the Swordmaster had just said that Adam didn't even know where to start.

  One, he was implying there were rumors of Adam's Stained ability. How? The Painter had used it while aboard the ship with his allies, but they hadn't been allowed outside until very recently.

  I have the Captain's Talent, and I know for a fact that no one left the ship until I did, Adam thought. Not even a raven carrying a letter.

  Two, he was loudly stating that everyone was aware of Adam's Stained influence. A mild level of suspicion was to be expected – Puppets were able to sense the Rot, and had been created partially for that purpose. But they couldn't have known for sure until the Swordsmaster declared it so brazenly.

  Third, and perhaps most importantly...

  He said I tamed it. Not that it infected me, but that I tamed it, then used it to defeat the Ghost troubling the Mines.

  Actually, if Adam was thinking charitably...perhaps there'd been no way of hiding his ability from the Puppets long-term. The Champion, aware of this, chose to instead shape the narrative of how they perceived it.

  Considering how popular he seemed, maybe this approach would–

  "Show us!" Merrivale's sudden roar cut Adam's thoughts short. "Do you think the people of the Mines so cowardly as to be afraid of it? What do you say, my dear audience?"

  He twirled his rapier to conduct their roars like an orchestra. "Show us the horror that you've smithed into your steel!"

  Adam took a moment to process the situation.

  Between being betrayed by his best friend, transported into another world, stealing a Lord's soul, becoming a lord, killing two ghosts – all in all, he liked to think that he was fairly adaptable. The fact that he hadn't crumbled under the weight of it all, even when overwhelmed by a barrage of disquieting information, meant that he was reasonably good at rolling with the punches.

  Which meant that despite his frustration over being subjected to so many surprises in a row...he was still more excited than anything else.

  After all – the show must go on.

  Stained Ink coiled and uncoiled like living vines, wrapping around his arms in a dance of defiance. It twisted with an eerie glow, a dark energy that pulsed in the same tempo as his heartbeat. Ink raced inside his veins, pumping oxygen through his body faster than blood ever could, accelerating his movements, his speed of thought, and most of all, the raw power behind his strike.

  The Ink spurred his legs to leap faster and longer than what any normal person could have accomplished. His vault was paired with unnatural, otherworldly ink swirling around his arm, like vines stretching forward and sharpening into a blade. It was an attack far quicker, far stronger, and far more sudden than what any person or Puppet should've been able to deliver.

  And then–

  Merrivale parried it.

  He didn't seem to use a special Talent or magic to match Adam's power. In fact, there wasn't any power in his move at all. The Swordmaster had encircled the Painter's Inkblade from underneath, using the strong part of his rapier to gently tap the middle of the weapon to the side, like a gentle touch on someone's back as they ran past you.

  Adam certainly felt like that, as his attack ended with him missing Merrivale entirely. The two of them ended their exchange on the opposite ends of the stage, having traded places, neither looking worse for the wear.

  He didn't attack me when my back was turned...so he doesn't really mean to kill me. That was good news, at least.

  "Timing is more important than strength," Merrivale told him, in a strangely kind tone. "Remember this, if nothing else, Lord of Penumbria."

  Adam reached for his Stained Ink. Merrivale may have managed to evade him once, but that didn't matter. This world had strict rules about how Talents and Ranks interacted – no amount of skill could change that. If I make the Ink flow faster in my veins...if I convert more of my blood–

  "Careful," Merrivale said, his voice almost scholarly as he lunged with deadly precision. "You don't know how your Talents work, do you?"

  Adam used his enhanced speed to retreat with frantic backsteps, feeling the rapier briefly touch his neck before he could put himself at a safe distance. "Lecture me or kill me – but for the love of god, not both."

  "You must use your Talents wisely," Merrivale continued. "Do you not feel the staining of your Canvas?"

  His voice was quiet now, too muffled by the crowd's own cheers for them to hear his words. Immediately upon locking eyes with the Swordmaster, Adam understood – everything up until now had been for the people of the Mines.

  This part was for him.

  "Don't feel ashamed, I was much the same way," Merrivale jovially confessed. "People grow up with their Talents, their Canvases. To them, it's such a natural feeling they don't know how to explain it to you – nay, worse! They simply cannot explain it. Such ability is beyond them."

  His roguish grin said what the Swordmaster thought, as plainly as if he'd said it aloud.

  'But there is nothing beyond me.'

  "The inside of your soul is a canvas, my dear lord. Does that not please an artist such as yourself? Knowing that this world behaves according to what you, specifically, value the most? What a stroke of good fortune!"

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Adam cried out, advancing with his sword at the man once again.

  Merrivale nonchalantly pushed the Painter's blade away. "Think again – have you ever been inside your Canvas?"

  The memory struck him like a sudden burn upon a scar that hadn't fully healed. Adam remembered a vast, formless expanse, white as far as the eye could see. The Ghost of Waters had met him there to speak of his 'Canvas', gesturing at the other creatures that resided there.

  The souls that I trapped, he thought. Nothing else. Just pure white.

  "I...once." Adam's response came between his own attacks. He no longer expected them to land, and didn't even feel any animosity towards Merrivale. His attacks were now part of the dance – a rhythmic performance for the crowd. "I met the Ghost of Waters there."

  "And it wasn't full of the darkened blob of Ink that my lovely people call Rot, was it?" Merrivale asked, between a parry and a riposte. "It was colored after your soul."

  Adam stumbled as the Swordmaster drew a slight pinprick of blood from him. "I...sort of. It was blank. There...was nothing there."

  "Ah. Well, you are young. It is normal for your soul to be unpainted."

  Despite not understanding the full meaning of those words, Adam felt their stab nonetheless. It was enough that his grip on his Inkblade relaxed by a sliver – allowing Merrivale to disarm him and approach, suddenly using his blade as a shield to spin around the Painter and end up behind him.

  The Swordmaster easily outwrestled him in that distance, holding his arms around his neck, yet the Stained Ink inside Adam's veins gave him the strength to fight back. Neither could overpower the other, both of them locked in a standstill.

  "It's alright," Merrivale whispered into his ear. "You don't know what you're doing, who you are, or even what you like." His voice was soft and paternal in a way that Adam had scarcely heard before. "Your canvas will be full of color soon enough – you won't have to put up with the loneliness for much longer."

  Adam felt a necessary urge to push the man away. When he wrestled to free himself from Merrivale's grip, his desperation was not because he feared for his life, but because he feared having to answer the man honestly.

  I don't want to think about things like that – I need to focus on Penumbria! My duty to those people living there! I can't waste time worrying about–

  His thoughts were cut short by an approaching blade. "When you use a Talent," Merrivale explained, falling into a fencing stance and speaking casually, "you temporarily Stain your Canvas with something similar to the Rot. So long as you don't overuse it, this should be temporary. A day or two at the most. But it means you cannot, must not, and will not overuse it."

  That...mostly made sense. Cities like Penumbria possessed magical Realm Walls to protect them from Stained Monsters. If there wasn't a limitation on the overuse of Talents, Lords would be able to freely remove and rebuild the Walls without issue, and Adam hadn't seen anything like that yet.

  Tenver mentioned before that Lords could quickly remove and rebuild Walls in case of emergency, but that it was something they liked to avoid. Thought it was because they were afraid of monsters getting into their city and attacking people – should've known it's more selfish than that. They're just afraid of dying from overusing their Canvases. It's probably extremely difficult for them to reconstruct their Realms right after undoing them.

  However, one detail didn't add up. "Why are you telling me all of this?" Adam asked. 'How do you know this?' was another, arguably more important question, but also one he didn't expect to be answered. "You could have traded this information with me instead of giving it away for free. I'm a Lord. I have a lot to give."

  "You do," Merrivale acknowledged, "and you already have. Our trade was finished aboard that ship of yours, where you fulfilled your side of the deal. This is merely a rendering of payment owed unto you."

  Adam inhaled deeply, although it didn't steady his mind as he'd hoped. Merrivale was neither toying nor killing him. Instead, he had a third motivation...one that the Painter couldn't quite piece together.

  "Oh, forgive me," Merrivale apologized. "I thought your apparent confusion was intentional on your part – that you thought it would make for a better show." He rolled his shoulders back, arms loose at his sides as if he were warming up for a duel, like the two of them hadn't been crossing blades until now.

  The tilt of his chin was confident, the subtle arch of his brows challenging, and the smooth flick of his wrist commanding. His blade caught a shining glimmer of stage light, erupting the crowd into applause once more. "It's simple, truly. My dear disciple is alive thanks to your intervention. More than gratitude, I owe you a debt no normal person could afford to repay."

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  Adam shook his head nervously. "That's not–"

  "But there is nothing I cannot afford, and as such, I shall enrich you today. Were I the Grandmaster, you'd have all the coin you requested. Were I some master of the arcane, I would gift you magic to solve your problems. But I am neither of those – I am a duelist and a performer. And so what I give to you is skill and love."

  He raised his sword. "Skill from me." He gestured to the crowd. "Love from them."

  With a smile on his face, Merrivale advanced yet again.

  Adam couldn't have said how long the show went for. Five minutes? Fifty minutes? A day? All answers felt reasonable. Sweat dripped from his brow, his legs screamed in agony, his shoulder pulsed with soreness – and yet the crowd's cheers prompted him to ignore his own body.

  Their sword practice continued on and on, an elegant cycle of attacks, lessons, and showing off for the audience.

  And...briefly...if only for a single moment...

  Adam felt light. As if the responsibility weighing on his shoulders had ceased to exist. On that stage, he was no longer a lord, or a man desperate to survive, or even an actor putting on a performance.

  He was just a guy having fun learning about swordsmanship. Merrivale didn't give the Painter free wins, but neither did he seek to embarrass him. The Champion fought with the intent to teach, instructing Adam in-between each exchange, highlighting strengths and weaknesses while building up his foundation.

  This...probably feels like playing catch with your father, he thought, absently.

  Stab, parry, dodge, lunge. They fell into a rhythm of footwork and steel. The adulation of the crowd became secondary to the comforting burn of Adam's muscles. His responsibilities would still be there when this dance finally concluded, but right now, they all seemed so very distant. It almost felt like this moment would last forever.

  Maybe he wouldn't have minded if it did.

  –

  "Shit, I wasted my time," Adam said, wincing in pain as he sat on Ferrero's couch. "Where'd your master go, anyway?"

  The Duelist shrugged, handing him a glass of water. "No idea. We'll find him soon, he always comes back."

  Adam winced again, this time less in pain, and more in shame. The Painter had been so absorbed by their little practice – and everything else going on – that he'd allowed Merrivale to leave after the curtains fell...without finding out how the hell he knew about Earth! And all because he got too emotionally invested in their show.

  Well, not just because of that, Adam thought, his desire for accuracy surpassing his self-loathing. There's also how I was so tired that I collapsed on the floor and couldn't say anything while the annoying dude just smiled and walked off.

  Now, several hours later, he was at Ferrero's house, collapsed on his couch and regretting – if only outwardly – his decisions.

  "Would you believe how many Puppets are speaking about you?" Ferrero excitedly asked.

  "All good, of course," Adam replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, as if even that would exhaust him further.

  Ferrero laughed. "You know some will be torn between hatred and fear of you regardless," he said, far too jovially. "But most people are speaking about how you've tamed the Rot and bent it to your will, how you're a rare heroic lord who cares about his citizens...honestly, Master Merrivale helped you make quite the impression."

  "Great," Adam grumbled – though he knew his sarcasm was unfair. This had been helpful. "Strange that they're willing to think positively of me just based on a stage drama. Aren't I still a nobleman infected by the very thing that's destroying the world?"

  "Do you think anyone is sure of how the Rot works? Because if so, I must confess to being dumber than the average Puppet, for I don't know either. Master said you tamed it, rather than being infected by it, so that's what the people believe in."

  Adam sat up to look the Duelist in the eye. "Why?"

  "Because they believe in Master," Ferrero replied. "Isn't that good enough?"

  It really wasn't. People shouldn't heed a man's word just because they admired him and he stated it with confidence – especially when it wasn't even related to his specialty! The man was an actor and a swordsman, not a scholar. He shouldn't be any more trustworthy than your average lunatic enjoying a late night drink in the tavern.

  But Adam knew he shouldn't complain. This was essentially the best scenario he could've asked for. A Puppet of great renown was vouching for him, when in all likelihood he should have been viewed as a Stained aberration.

  Some of his displeasure must've still shown on his face, however, as Ferrero leaned forward and said, with an apologetic tone, "Your slaying of two Ghosts is also to do with it. Do you know how much we Puppets loathed their existence?"

  "A lot?"

  "A lot. They were spawned by the Dark Sorcerer to spread Rot and kill those who sought to combat it – Puppets most of all. Think of how the Ghost of Waters isolated the Mines, draining us of trade and new blood both. Every single living being here has ample reason to hate the Four Ghosts."

  Adam nodded. Technically speaking, he hadn't killed two Ghosts – he'd trapped the Ghost of Flames inside his tablet, and had later cornered the Ghost of Waters into a position where Valeria could slay him. Then again...why fuss over details that benefited him?

  "So killing two Ghosts has earned me the Puppets' appreciation," he began. "What if I kill the other two?"

  Ferrero scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes darting to Adam before quickly diverting away. "Ah...I believe you did mention not having all your memories, correct?"

  "I did." I did lie about that, yes. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because the other two Ghosts are already..." He paused, grimaced, then smiled. "I know how to explain this better. Allow me a second or seven."

  Ferrero moved with purpose, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he searched. "Just a moment," he said, waving Adam off when the Painter tried to stand up and follow. His hands hovered over a series of drawers as though they could sense its contents before his eyes would. Maybe they can, Adam thought, remembering the man's Puppetry.

  When the Duelist returned, he did so with two large glimmering orbs. They were as large as human heads, balancing precariously on each of his hands. Between Ferrero's odd behavior and the ethereal light emanating from the orbs, Adam was certain they must contain something truly unique.

  He still wasn't prepared for what he saw. Light danced inside the orbs, shapes twisted into coherent figures, and a history was told anew.

  The Lord of Penumbria saw a pair of battles forming within. Each orb featured the same man, yet each contained a different abomination that Adam immediately recognized as a Ghost. Both scenes endlessly replayed, seamless and haunting.

  He ran a hand through his hair, swallowing his disbelief. "That's...that's a vide– a moving picture," the Painter corrected himself.

  "I would wager my Lord of Paint has never seen something like this before," Ferrero said confidently, as if half-bragging about the Puppet's incredible technology.

  "That would be a fair bet," Adam responded, punctuating his response with a gasp of amazement. And one you would lose. It's almost like...a literal video. Something I'd have seen on Earth.

  "It's part of Serena's Talent," Ferrero explained. "The hooded woman who was aboard your ship," he added, as if afraid the Painter had forgotten that detail. "She's our Master of Communications for a reason."

  Adam's thoughts whirled. Communication – messages, coordination, control. In a place like the Mines, where whispers could mean survival or death, such a Talent would be invaluable.

  But why had someone so important as Serena gone to the surface? Wasn't that too risky of a move for the Mines? What if she was caught by the Emperor or killed by the Ghost of Waters?

  His brow furrowed. Something was wrong, even if he didn't know what.

  "Is this...what happened to the Ghosts?" Adam asked, staring again at the two video Orbs. Ferrero nodded, gestured down at the devices.

  Adam watched as the footage revealed a battlefield beyond comprehension. On the first sphere, the Ghost of Earth towered above, a mountain that moved with terrifying purpose, its form crushing everything beneath it. It looked like a man that had been stretched sideways and filled his limbs with rocks. On the second sphere, the Ghost of Wind danced as a storm incarnate, a delicate, malformed humanlike figure with edges sharp enough to carve through stone.

  The man they faced showed little hesitation and less mercy. He moved with a steady rhythm, each of his steps weaving through the chaos like a song building to its crescendo. His presence was undeniable, his actions effortless. He was not merely fighting the Ghosts; he was executing them.

  This man is a Hangman, came the thought.

  Then his hand flickered out, just the slightest of gestures in their direction, his hands making a gesture so subtle the spheres couldn't catch it–

  And suddenly, they were dead.

  But not just them. The world itself recoiled from his attack, the land an unfortunate bystander of his strength. Mountains in the distance trembled, their peaks shearing off. The ground cracked and groaned, splitting into massive chasms. The man stood amidst the chaos, unflinching, his smile serene as though there was nothing to be concerned about at all.

  Hangman. The word again rang in Adam's mind.

  Not long ago, he'd tricked an Imperial Hangman to dispose of Belmordo – a rival nobleman who made an attempt on Solara's life. Suddenly, all the warnings he'd been given about their kind made sense: he couldn't possibly fight one of them and expect to live.

  They were less fighters, and more heralds of death.

  I can't get involved with Hangmen, Adam thought. If they send one of those to Penumbria, I – we're dead.

  He bottled up his dread and stored it away for later. There were more pressing panics to focus on. "Who was that?" Adam asked, his index finger aimed at the spheres like a weapon. "Those Ghosts seemed far stronger than the ones we fought, and he just...wiped them out. Like nothing."

  "Those Ghosts made the mistake of venturing too close to the Capital," Ferrero said, with some bitterness. "So Emperor Ciro sent his strongest soldier to meet them – Valente, the Dark Captain of the Hangmen."

  Valente.

  Adam had heard that name before. Aspreay and other natives of this world had used it almost like a curse, the same way one would invoke the devil on Earth.

  'May the Dark Captain take him!'

  'Valente cut this bastard!'

  'Careful. You don't want Valente to get you, do you?'

  And now...now, Adam could put a face to the name behind the legend.

  A face that was too gentle and too young. Valente wasn't what Adam would have expected from the monster that single-handedly demolished a Puppet city so many years ago. It didn't feel real that a man with such an innocent smile could've been responsible for all of this.

  Yet it was true. The slaughter he'd committed was proof of that.

  He destroyed everything around him, Adam thought, with creeping horror. It wasn't just that he killed the Ghosts. When he attacked, it was like he forever reshaped the land itself.

  A sudden understanding dawned on him. "Wait, so I killed two of the Ghosts." Technically. "And Valente killed the other two."

  Adam gestured at the recordings, his voice filling with exasperation. "Does that mean that people in the Mines think I can do that?"

  Ferrero glanced at the spheres, then back at him. "Oh, that could be playing a part in their reaction, yes," he absently replied. "And they might think that it's easier to accept the notion of you as a burgeoning hero. If you're as strong as Valente, better you be a man of virtue than some dastardly villain."

  Adam wanted to shout many things in response. 'I'm not anywhere near as strong as him! Do you expect me to fight THAT? Are you trying to get me killed?!' was the runner-up.

  The winner was a more urgent matter. "There are three people with Emperor-Ranked Talents in the world," he began, repeating what he already knew. Somehow, speaking it aloud made it feel more real. "The Emperor himself, Ciro...the Dark Captain of the Hangmen...and our Grandmaster of Puppets."

  The man that Adam had to defeat – even if only with words rather than combat.

  Just imagining meeting someone with a power to rival that force of nature he'd just witnessed...goddamn, it wasn't easy. He would need some time to wrap his mind around the concept.

  Adam drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes in concentration. For the first time, I'm glad we're not meeting with the Grandmaster yet, he mused, somewhat guiltily. I was annoyed initially, but this whole tour of the Mines should give me time to prepare myself before–

  Ferrero clapped his hands. "My apologies for making you wait for so long. How about I take you to the Grandmaster's workshop now?"

  The Painter smiled weakly. "That...uh..."

  His chest tightened as he watched Ferrero's eager expression, eyes glimmering with sincerity. Adam's fear of the Grandmaster clashed against his guilt over the Puppet's genuine desire to help, both wrestling for control of his mouth.

  "Yeah, sure," said the Painter's guilt, unfortunately victorious.

  –

  Haven't felt this nervous since the contest's deadline.

  It was a grim thought, considering how that debacle had ended. Adam tried not to think of it further. Instead he focused on the King's Cave, where the Grandmaster's Workshop resided.

  The King's Cave wasn't just a place – it was an idea carved into stone. The barracks screamed functionality, the kind of brutalist architecture that didn't ask if you liked it but demanded your respect. The noble houses told a different story: ambition draped in crystal light, beautiful and threatening all at once. Their set of auspicious buildings wouldn't have looked out of place in a city like Penumbria...at least if they hadn't been so opulent in comparison to Adam's own destitute city.

  And then there was the Workshop.

  It felt like the equivalent to a Lord's manor, or to a King's castle, and that was before Adam even took in its structural design. The mere aura of the building exuded that feeling, made it feel like the seat of the Puppet Grandmaster.

  A true marvel. One that evoked beauty and inspiration in equal measures.

  "Are you...painting?" Ferrero asked. "Nevermind that, my lord, another question – I see the paintbrush, but where did you even get the paint from?"

  "It's my Talent," Adam lied, setting up his tablet and sliding his stylus across the screen. People of the Painted World always perceived it as a regular canvas and paintbrush. Rather useful not having to explain what the hell a tablet is. "And you can't blame me for wanting to paint this."

  "No," Ferrero conceded, with a sigh. "I suppose not."

  The Grandmaster's Workshop dominated the cavern like a forgotten relic of a future yet to pass. The walls were intricate and seamless, a mosaic of spinning gears and polished brass pipes that gleamed in the faint crystal light. It seemed alien, like a fusion between a factory and a castle.

  Only one entrance was visible. A narrow tunnel arched like the maw of a beast, radiating authority, dread, and anticipation.

  The Grandmaster's Workshop wasn't architecture, Adam realized. It was an ideology made real; one he had yet to decipher.

  "Hey," Adam pointed out. "That guy looks like he's trying to enter the Workshop." He gestured at a lone figure near the tunnel's entrance. The person wasn't just nervous – they were terrified, and rightly so.

  The Painter glanced around. "No guards around. Who do we call?"

  "Hmm. Poor bastard wears murder on his eyes." Ferrero shook his head sadly. "Shifting gaze, nervous sweat...evil intentions, that one."

  He frowned. "Classic case. Some people come to the Mines in an attempt to kill the Grandmaster, hoping to earn a reward from the Emperor rather than embrace their new life as a Puppet. This one must've journeyed here on what is now your ship, Lord Painter."

  Adam narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Then I should stop him. If he rode aboard my ship, then he's my responsibility."

  He attempted to step forward, but Ferrero held him back. "There is no need," he promised. "Watch."

  The man in front of the workshop allowed himself one last moment of hesitation. It only served to highlight his macabre end. One step into the tunnel and his body froze mid-motion, as though held in place by...

  Strings. The word rang in Adam's mind. But nothing of the kind existed, at least not in the physical sense.

  What followed wasn't dramatic, but it was horrifying. As the man stepped into the tunnel, reality seemed to fold him out of existence. No light show, no grand gesture. One moment he was there; the next, he wasn't. The Workshop didn't kill him – it erased him, as if he'd been a mistake.

  Only a cut-off part of his cloak remained, flickering in and out of existence for a moment...until it too blinked out.

  Adam was immediately struck by a remarkable sense of isolation. The shock churning inside his gut – like a clenching fist had gripped his heart – wasn't shared with any of the Puppets around him. They merely stared, vague disinterest plain on their features.

  To them, this sight was expected, normal. They were used to it.

  How is no one reacting? Why is no one trying to shield their children's eyes from this? Why–?

  There was no gore, no screams, but Adam still felt sick. "What the fuck was that?"

  Ferrero's hand on his shoulder was unnervingly calm, his voice patient. "Look up, my lord."

  Adam did, his eyes catching on the words carved above the tunnel – each one heavy with finality.

  This world has not and will not ever spawn any Puppet, Human, Dragon, Stained Monster, living creature, or facsimile of life that may enter my domain without my permission.

  – The Grandmaster's First Law

  "That's why I said that trying to force your way in would be ill-advised." Ferrero whispered apologetically. "Didn't think that you would have to see a demonstration like this, but...I believe you understand now."

  "Yeah," Adam admitted. The oppressive aura of the Workshop felt like a checkmate on his very soul. Every strategy he'd painstakingly crafted for this meeting, every Talent he'd stolen and honed – they all seemed laughably small in the face of such overwhelming magic. It was like trying to move a mountain with a whisper. "I get it. Won't try to force my way in."

  The Painter stood there for a time, hollowed out by the realization that everything he'd built was fragile, a sandcastle before the tide.

  He would've stood for a longer had Ferrero not put a hand on his shoulder and gripped it tightly. "Fear not," he said, with an encouraging tone. "Mayhaps Master can arrange a meeting for you regardless."

  Adam nodded and forced himself to smile, even though he didn't truly believe in the possibility. "That would be great," he said. "But I can't impose on your master more than I already have. I–"

  A sudden chill cut his words short.

  "Lord of Paint?" Ferrero asked, confused. "Is anything the matter? Believe me, my master will help you with your issue. You need not fear for Penumbria! The Grandmaster will..."

  Ferrero's voice faded, but not because he'd stopped speaking. Adam simply couldn't hear him anymore. A voice entered his mind like a slow-moving shadow that danced with the setting sun, creeping into the spaces between thoughts.

  It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be.

  Its presence was enough.

  Its sheer weight was too much.

  Its sound was torture.

  You wish to meet with me?

  He did, but dared not think it.

  For my boon to save your humans?

  It was his greatest desire, but he dared not say it.

  That is not impossible.

  The voice was softer now, almost tauntingly so. This time, Adam found the nerve to take up its challenge and respond.

  If you can hear me–

  A sudden laugh – someone else's laugh – echoed in his mind, answering the query before it finished. Adam bit his lip and shook his head, perhaps in fear, perhaps in anger. He refused to think through the emotion and inform the Grandmaster more of himself.

  Tell me. What do you want in exchange? What can someone as strong as you need of me?

  A soul.

  Adam's eyes widened. He could see Ferrero's concerned expression, his quick lips inferring at words he could not hear. You want me...to steal someone's soul for you?

  I need not the soul to fall into my hands – I only need its owner to no longer possess it. Rather, it would please me more if you were to destroy it thereafter.

  Who? Adam demanded. Who do you hate so much that you need me to steal their goddamn soul?

  The Merry Man from the Vale – Merrivale. Steal and destroy his soul, and you shall have your reward, Painter.

  The voice vanished as abruptly as it had come, its suffocating presence now gone. Yet Adam still felt a suffocating oppression on his thoughts, the cracking weight of having brushed against the surface of something distinctly above him.

  "Lord Painter? Lord of Paint? Lord of...Ink? Lord of...hmm...Adam?" Ferrero attempted. "Ah, there you are! Can you hear me now? Are you feeling sick? Did you overexert yourself again?"

  Adam pushed a smile onto his face. "No. Everything is fine."