Jett found himself in a large square in the Lower City, deprived of his 'vigilante' partner.

'Ridiculous.'

He sat off to the side, avoiding the paths of people maneuvering through the large commercial area.

With his back on a wall, Jett observed his surroundings carefully.

The Lower City was significantly better in terms of quality relative to Shacktown, but that didn't absolve danger.

That was more of a testament to Shacktown than anything. Lower City crime was nothing to scoff at.

Many people walked throughout the square, occasionally stopping at stalls to observe the consumable goods.

Large crowds like these were especially fear-inducing for Jett. The impoverished were hungry to move up in the world through any means necessary.

Shacktown had burned many things into him, even if he tried his hardest to ignore such subconscious notions.

'What do I do now?'

Jett's guide—as well as his ride back home—was nowhere to be found.

As he looked around, he eventually gave up on the idea of searching for Valeria. It seemed like a futile endeavor to him.

There were just too many people. The Lower City had the largest population by far and was relatively overpacked, being allotted the least amount of land area within the walls.

Not to mention her nature.

To Jett, Valeria could be quite ignorant, but smart enough to avoid overtly rambunctious actions. Her causing a scene would likely be Jett's only way to find her.

As such, he was now all alone. Free to do as he pleased. Not entirely.

There was a catch: he needed to find a way back to Maros' mansion.

But the path ahead was murky and unclear.

'How the hell do I get back?'

Jett couldn't go up to any guard. He lacked the proper identification for a citizen. Such a venture would directly lead to imprisonment.

He also couldn't go to any Storm Warden and announce who he was. He would first be laughed at, then thrown in jail.

Making a run past the entrance to the Middle City—though it would attract lots of attention—was a possibility at his level. But running through the Upper City checkpoint was impossible.

Each checkpoint was heavily guarded, boasting several Acolytes.

Unlike the Middle City checkpoints, the Upper City's only checkpoint was guarded with at least one Stalwart, if not multiple.

As a pseudo-Storm Warden himself, Jett couldn't go into the business of killing the Wardens either.

The Storm Warden safehouses were also of no use. He couldn't recall where the safehouse he had been to previously was located. Jett only followed Valeria there.

'What do I do now…'

It seemed like Jett would have to survive in the Lower City indefinitely.

His initial mission was to go after criminals, but he wouldn't follow through with that; it was entirely ridiculous.

Becoming a criminal himself would likely be his path into the Upper City.

Smuggling. That was Jett's end game here. And it appeared to be his only option

***

It was a little past midday in Strata. An average, cold, and clouded early Winter day. The crowd through the town square had just begun to lighten.

Jett wore his large black cloak, blocking the cold while concealing his leather armor underneath.

He strolled through the square in a final attempt to find Valeria, avoiding the common beggar while maintaining the demeanor of a regular.

As such, he wasn't bothered by seeming out of place, allowing Jett to observe his surroundings with more depth.

Aligned with what he had suspected, Valeria was nowhere to be found.

Vendors barked out wares and prices to potential customers.

Stalls lined the building's edges as well as the square's center. They sold various foods—the lowest being bread at 5 Catas.

A very upcharged price, especially for the Lower City. Bread typically went for around 2 to 3 Catas per loaf.

The reason for price inflation was war.

The Divine Crusaders had begun to disrupt supply lines, inflating the prices of goods. Making traders too scared to import or export did significant damage to the economy.

'Wait…'

Catas.

Jett had no money.

He couldn't secure food or shelter without money.

'First course of action: get money.'

But before that, he needed information. One needed to know how to make the money to obtain it.

'Obviously.'

Jett had already been eyeballing a certain establishment inside the actual buildings of the town square's edge.

He needed to find information, food, and shelter.

What better place than a tavern?

As he took hold of the tavern's door, however, a certain poster caught Jett's eye

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It read:

'Rule One: No Storm Wardens.'

'Rule Two: You Must Pay.'

'Rule Three: No Storm Wardens.'

Jett shrugged and entered.

It was a rather run-down tavern, with a thin layer of filth covering the wooden tables and stools.

Oddly, the tavern had a substantial amount of uncanny characters who threw a few glances Jett's way.

Warmed by the fireplace, it was a favorable area of respite, despite the grimey state.

Jett ignored the looks, walking up to the disheveled-looking barkeep.

"I'm looking for work. Particularly in Upper City smuggling," Jett said.

The barkeep stopped wiping his glass.

He looked Jett up and down with a discerning eye.

"Get the fuck out Storm Warden," the man growled in a low tone.

From the side booths, two very large men stood up, assuming threatening stances.

'I see…'

Not wanting to become a mass murderer on day one of his newfound autonomy, Jett complied, walking back out of the tavern.

…

Back in the cold, he took a deep sigh.

'Now what?'

There was plenty of time in the day and plenty of other taverns to try his luck on.

'Am I really that obvious?'

Jett wandered throughout the Lower City, hoping to stumble upon a tavern that didn't discriminate against those with respectable clothing.

Of course, this wasn't truly the case. He stuck out like a sore thumb. The residents wouldn't trust him.

But there was no way Jett would ditch his cloak. Similarly, he refused to part with his daggers or anything else on his person.

For one, he didn't have any clothes. And without the cloak, his leather would stick out even more.

There was no other option for Jett other than to continue his pursuit of information.

Still, he hadn't made much progress.

"Hey, mister! You don't look to be from around here," A child's voice said.

'Hmm?'

Jett looked off to his right, where a child stood, walking by his side with his hands behind his back.

The boy had a beaming smile, large enough that it practically shut his eyes. He was also covered in faint traces of mud, outfitted in common but very raggedy clothing unsuited for the cold.

"Perfect," Jett exclaimed.

Jett grabbed the boy by the scruff lifting him in the air as he dragged him off to a lesser-filled street.

"Let me go!" the kid kicked, squirmed, and punched.

"Alright," Jett released the kid, though keeping hold of his shirt's collar. "Don't fret. I only wish to ask some questions. Nothing more."

"Please don't hurt me. Why are you doing this?" the kid panicked, his nervousness ramping up.

"Cut the shit. Your friend over there was going to steal from me."

Around the corner was another ragged child, carefully observing with fear-filled eyes.

The boy in Jett's grasp sighed with a defeated look, giving up his charade.

"Now," Jett announced. "I'm looking to make some money here in the Lower City."

"Aren't we all?" the boy chuckled.

A swift glare of Jett's eyes made him awkwardly cease his jokes.

"Illegally. Work that requires hired muscle," Jett tightened his grip on the boy's collar.

The boy paused in thought, tentatively looking around. He said nothing in reply.

Jett gave a curt exhale in annoyance.

Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out his steel dagger, bringing it up to the boy's face.

"I'm no longer asking," Jett said as he waved the dagger in front of the—now frightened—boy's face.

Several other Lower City residents walked through the side street that they were on, but none of them stopped to help, nor did they look to see what Jett was doing with the child.

Selfish, but that was life in the lower echelons of Strata's hierarchy.

"Alright, alright! Please don't…" the boy's voice trembled as he pleaded.

"Tell me."

The boy took a deep breath as he racked his brain.

"The Cartographer's Troupe! They run the East side…"

"Where can I find them?"

"They're set up out the back of a shop, one block East of Central and Yager."

"I have no reason to believe a word out of your mouth."

"I swear!"

"When I force you to take me there, will you still swear?"

He fidgeted around, his face turning uneasy and further distressed.

"The… the Troupe is real," the boy choked out as tears began to roll down his face. "I'm sorry… it's a shop called Lysell's Procurements, three East of Central and Peart."

"And how do you know this?"

"Everyone does!" the boy exclaimed. "The Troupe isn't like other Lower City gangs. The Wardens leave them alone."

Jett put his dagger back into his cloak.

"You'll… let me go?"

"No. You're taking me there."