Hector frowned. It was a strange coincidence to be sure, or maybe it wasn’t, but at least they wouldn’t be far from the action when it all kicked off.

At the very least, I’ll get to see what kind of trouble my Talent can help me avoid. In a way, it’s almost like a future-telling ability. I wonder how it compares to Mirae’s [Dreams of Time] Talent.

“Well, now that I’ve found you,” Marcus said, bringing his book to his chest—Hector had no doubt he was trying to show it off. The book was likely why he’d come to the market, aside from the masks, that is. “We should get going—if my hunch is correct, this should be a good deal for us.”

“I hope so,” Hector said, jingling the sparse coins he had in his pocket. “I don’t exactly have a lot of money.”

“It’s alright,” Lincoln chimed, raising a hand and resting it on Hector’s shoulder. “My mom’s had quite a few clients lately, so I’ve got a few more coppers on me today.”

Hector raised a brow at Lincoln as he signalled for Marcus to lead the way. He’d been right—something must have happened. After all, business didn’t just pick up for no reason, especially for a healer.

“Any idea where all this extra business is coming from?” Hector asked, following behind Marcus as he made his way through the market. Hector had a hunch that the new Scoda gang he’d seen in the dumps the other day could be involved.

Lincoln took his hand off Hector’s shoulder and brought his finger to his lip, tilting his head with a look of contemplation. “I don’t know, to be honest. I asked my mom, and she said it was something to do with a turf war. But I find that hard to believe. After all, the Collar gang has a large part of the slum under their influence—controlling all of Sirius quarter and a large part of Yolda quarter in the north.”

More like a chokehold. Damn pig bastards.

“Yeah, who knows? Maybe a new gang tried to take over,” Hector said, glancing at a clay pot resting at the bottom of a stall they passed. It reminded him of the one they’d had at home. “I hear that happens a lot more frequently towards the edge of the slums closer to the city walls.”

“Maybe,” Lincoln said, shrugging, “But I can’t—”

“And this is it,” Marcus said, interrupting Lincoln.

Hector paused, regarding the stall for a moment. He’d noticed it on the way over, but it didn’t particularly stand out to him. Its outward appearance was like that of any market stall. The wares—in this case, masks—sat in large rectangular drawers, exposed to the elements, while the store owner sat elevated above them.

The man—clearly well worn by time—had a short scruffy grey beard that connected with his thick sideburns. On his head, he wore a red hat that sagged off to the side, as he rested a weathered hand on the side of his face. He appeared to have grown tired of his day-to-day and was just waiting for his heart to give out.

“What can I do for you children?” he asked, his voice like broken cobblestone.

“You want to get the masks from here?” Lincoln said, looking between Marcus and Hector.

Marcus tilted his head, sliding a hand into his blazer. “Is there something wrong with them? I assure you, we can get a good bulk deal here.”

Lincoln raised a brow and looked at Hector. It seemed like his friend wasn’t too sure about the stall, but Hector couldn’t see why. The store—even with its grumpy owner—was fine. The masks didn’t look too expensive, and Marcus believed he could get a good deal.

Hector moved past Marcus and nodded at the stall owner. He regarded the masks. “They look pretty good to me. As long as we can get a few, it should all be fine.” Hector smiled as he spotted a mask that looked familiar.

It had a similar style to the one he’d seen a wrestler wear on TV, back on Earth. He missed watching TV, the simplicity of it all, just being able to turn your mind off. But now, in many ways, he was wearing a mask.

Sure, he was still the same Hector from this world, but he wasn’t at the same time... There were feelings that he had, experiences he’d lived, that no one could ever relate to—unless he wasn’t the only transmigrator from Earth. But he didn’t know the chance of that.

All he could do right now was treat that part of him as little more than a dream. “I like this one,” he said, pointing to the one that reminded him of the wrestler from Earth.

The old man perked up, scratching his grey beard and letting out a slight yawn. He rubbed a tear from his eye as he leaned forward, looking to where Hector had pointed. “Ah, the Mysterious Ray pattern, that’s a good one. I believe my grandson painted it some years ago now.”

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

I wonder why he went with that design?

The stall owner glanced at Lincoln and Marcus and raised an eyebrow. “Are you two children buying anything, or is it just your friend here?”

“Umm...” Lincoln stammered as he stepped forward, his eyes looking from mask to mask. “I-I did need one, umm...”

The stall owner paused and brought his hand to his chin, rubbing at his beard as his beady eyes scrutinized Lincoln. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, child?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Lincoln said, lowering his head. It struck Hector as odd that he would do that. After all, Lincoln didn’t have much to hide, and he stayed out of trouble—for the most part, anyway.

Hector turned toward Marcus, who stood off to the side with his book clutched to his chest. He was looking around like a child who had lost his mother. Hector spared a glance at Lincoln as he walked over—they could talk about what had him so spooked later.

“What’s wrong, Marcus? Who are you looking for?” Hector asked, glancing around the market. From the looks of things, the crowd that his Talent had picked up earlier was starting to grow.

Even from where he stood, what sounded like shouting could be heard over the general chatter of the market. What was going on? It couldn’t be anything too big. Perhaps an impromptu street performance—those did happen from time to time when a street performer was feeling particularly creative.

“Oh, no one,” Marcus said, turning back to the stall. “Have you picked a mask yet? Oh, don’t forget to pick ones for the girls as well.”

Hector raised an eyebrow but turned back to the stall. A low groan escaped his mouth as he thought about what mask to pick out for the girls. What would they even like? There wasn’t exactly one that looked overly girly, and he had a suspicion that Nyx wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to receive something that was pink—the girl seemed to love black.

You know what? I’ll get one for Mirae and Jodie. Those two are easy enough. And leave the other two to these guys.

Hector made to walk back to the drawers, but paused, turning back to Marcus. “Why were you so confident you could get us a good deal, anyway? Do you know this old man?” he said, thumbing behind him.

Marcus’ shoulders sagged as he looked down at his book and went quiet. This lasted for a few moments, but eventually, he spoke, his eyes watery. “Well, I had—”

A scream pierced the air, ringing out like a bell, stunning Hector. His head snapped to the crowd that had gathered, now at the density that his Talent had predicted. On one hand, he was glad—the Talent had worked, and the gathered crowd had nothing to do with them. But on the other, whatever was going on seemed bad.

Hector turned back to Lincoln, who held a mask in his hand, trying his best to avoid eye contact with the stall owner. The man kept stroking his beard, looking at Lincoln before going back off into a daydream. Whatever was going on between those two, it was starting to get a bit awkward.

“I’m going to go look at what’s going on,” Hector said. “Do you want—”

“Lead the way,” Lincoln snapped, resting the mask back down into the drawer and hurrying over like someone had thrown him a rope. What was going on with these two? They were all over the place.

I’ll need to sit and have a chat with them later. We can’t have this on the day of the operation, or we might be in some trouble.

Hector made his way past Marcus, signalling for the boy to follow as Lincoln trailed behind. For now, he needed to see what was going on in that crowd—his Talent just let him know that the crowd would gather but nothing else.

Hector pushed into the crowd, moving into the body-odor-choked cluster of people. A few of the people pushed against him, but their efforts amounted to little. He was a Mana Cultivator—the average person wouldn’t get too far in a contest of strength.

After a few moments and bruising a few amongst the crowd’s ribs, Hector made it to the front of the crowd, with Lincoln and Marcus just behind him. There, he found a group of four boys. One lay on the damp cobblestone while three others stood over him with smug grins.

The three appeared to be Farmhands, Middlecians who worked on the farms at the edge of the city, right up against the walls. They were a well-respected group, for the most part—due to their affiliation with the Glademoors, one of the three Great Families. But there were those who felt their status as Farmhands put them above the average slum dweller.

“I told you before, you pig. Is your brain made of grim-grain, or are you just slow? If I say you are to follow me, you will do so.”

The one who spoke was a boy dressed in dark green robes, accented with black stripes and gold trimming—customary for a Farmhand. Pinned onto his breast was a small badge in the shape of a pitchfork. The other two beside him were dressed in the same way, all of them sneering as they looked at the boy on the floor.

————————————————

///: No talent found...x4

————————————————

Well, it couldn’t hurt to look. But seriously, what’s his problem? Even for a Farmhand, this is going a bit too far.

“Hector,” Lincoln said, his voice barely a whisper, “they’re Mana Cultivators.”

Hector’s thoughts slowed, and he began regarding the Farmhands more closely. It was subtle, but Mana Cultivators had movements that could give them away, though it was easier for other Mana Cultivators, with their enhanced sense, to pick them up.

“Well, that’s not right,” Hector said, looking back at Lincoln, who seemed just as confused. Farmhands were usually mortal for the most part. Those who cultivated would usually be of a higher rank. After all, the higher rank you were, the more contact you had with the Great House and their resources.

A low-ranked farmhand wouldn’t waste their time cultivating if they could spend more time working the farm, climb the ranks, and thus surpass the growth of an average slum dweller with the high-end resources they would receive.

“Delworth,” Marcus said with a whimper. Hector turned to find his friend covering his mouth with a hand, staring wide-eyed at the boy, who lay with his arm twisted out of place on the cobblestone.

“Do you know him?” Hector asked, narrowing his eyes at the three farmhands.

“Yes. He’s my cousin.”

That was all Hector needed to hear. With a grunt, he kicked off the cobblestone, the wind whipping by as he surged towards the three Farmhands. He leapt off the ground, raising a knee as he sailed through the air, before slamming it into the lead farmhand’s back.