Vern brushed off his outfit with vigorous strokes, dislodging clumps of snow. The weather had turned hostile, blanketing the city in relentless waves of white. Fortunately, the steam carriages proved their worth, cutting through the snowdrifts with ease, ensuring he got here in time.

Soon, however, he forgot all about it as he stood in front of what used to be one of the biggest employers of Fundamentalists—a corporate behemoth that was a big part responsible for Elmhurst's industrialization.

Humongous, complex machinery dotted his sight, the engineering at display putting even his Master’s personal lab to shame. Except, even half of it isn’t functional, he critiqued.

Before he could let his mind run rampant about why, a worker covered in soot walked up to him.

"Aye, Mister, would you happen to be the Savant that Young Master mentioned?"

Vern nodded. That was indeed what the letter said.

Apparently, one of their lead Fundamentalists had to be reassigned to a higher priority task, and a big chunk of their contracted members were missing since Duskfall.

Until a month ago, he probably would’ve rejected an offer to work with Von Industries. While their salaries were competitive, they were known to have harsh work conditions, and the fact that they skirted the line of ethics and morality every now and then didn't help either.

They were notorious for launching contraptions that put hundreds of thousands of laborers out of work without as much as a simple warning. They justified these abrupt debuts again and again as a need to maintain a competitive edge.

Some bullshit if you ask me.

Vern wasn’t one to resist the tide of evolution and industrialization, but he always felt that a better balance could be achieved to make the transition smoother for those affected.

Well, the situation has changed too dramatically for any of it to matter now, he mused. The workforce had been cut down by more than half while the amount of resources remained the same.

On top of that, rebuilding cities was no easy task, and private corporations like Von Industries were essential to the effort. From what he’d seen, they were more than doing their part and that was good enough in his books.

Not like that’s the only reason I'm here, he shook his head.

His cane tapped on the metal flooring as he followed the man covered in soot down the winding pathways and soon asked, "If you don’t mind me asking, what’s Mr. Alistair like?"

That was the person who sent him the letter asking for help. He didn't know much about the man, but he'd still accepted it because he needed the money. Selena's trinkets didn't come cheap, after all.

"Young Master?" He chuckled, "Hah, you really must be a Savant—knowing exactly who to ask. I've watched the young master grow from a timid toddler who'd flinch at the sound of a gunshot to become the greatest marksman this city has ever known."

A marksman? That wasn’t what he expected at all.

"Go on," he urged, and his escort's eyes lit up, clearly relishing the chance to gossip.

"Well, you see," the man leaned in conspiratorially, "Madame was dead set on the young master taking over Von Industries—wanted him to keep the family name blazing across the skyline for eternity. But wouldn't you know it," he chuckled, shaking his head, "her prayers might as well have been whispers in a hurricane. The young master? Bless his heart, he had about as much talent for running a company as a fish does for climbing trees."

The man walked ahead and stroked his patchy beard, a glint of mischief in his eye. He ushered them through a door before continuing, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction.

"Now, the young master? He'd always scamper off faster than a cat in a dog park, leaving yours truly to pick up the pieces." He puffed out his chest, then deflated with a theatrical sigh. "Don't get me wrong, I'm no slouch, but commanding respect from the workers? That's a whole different ballgame. The Von name carries a weight that my humble self just can't match. It's like trying to move mountains with a teaspoon, I tell ya."

That was interesting. Is this related to Alistair not being a great fit for whatever sequence is prevalent in the Von lineage? After all, from what he’d heard, many seats in the commerce chamber and royal court were filled by the Vons.

They typically held positions of influence. In simpler days, he would’ve attributed that to mere teachings and knowledge, but he wasn’t that naive anymore.

Surely, it’s their shade sequence that gives them an edge in human relationships that got them here.

The soot-covered man's eyes darted around before he leaned in close. "Listen," he muttered, voice barely audible above the factory din. "You seem clever. Want some real advice? There's someone here who pulls more strings than the young master ever could."

He thinks I’m trying to impress someone here, huh? Regardless, Vern was curious, so he asked, "And who would that be?"

Instead of answering, the man's weathered face creased into a knowing smirk. He tilted his head, gesturing silently. Vern followed the cue, his gaze sweeping across a cavernous hall. Before him sprawled a mechanical wonderland—furnaces roaring, steam cores hissing, and intricate cranksteel devices whirring in a melodious symphony.

What truly caught his eye, however, wasn't the machinery but the workers. Over a hundred of them swarmed the floor, operating, maintaining, and handling each intricate part with astonishing precision.

Yet, he quickly realized even that was just an embellishment to the real magic at play here. In the center of it all was a girl who weaved between different operators and machines as she succinctly ordered one alteration after another.

Vern instantly perked up. It's her! Cera.

Today, her attire was as practical as it came—a leather apron hugged her frame, its deep pockets filled with tools, while a crisp white shirt peeked out at the collar and sleeves. Protective goggles rested on her forehead, nearly lost in the gleam of her short, dark hair.

"The stocking station needs a repairman." She shouted, then pointed at another worker, "Meli, assess the damage and report back."

She instantly moved on and spoke to another group, "Fifteenth aisle is blocked. Hemner, you take three apprentices and clear out the inventory."

"Shipment of fine steel is due in eleven minutes. Elijah and Homnes, go wait for them and help unload."

.

.

.

The workers followed her words like clockwork, and she moved on with unwavering confidence, somehow assured that every instruction would be carried out flawlessly.

The scene was breathtaking, reminiscent of a well-rehearsed orchestra in a grand opera house.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" murmured his escort.

Vern nodded without taking his eyes off the spectacle.

"That's Lady Thorne," the man continued. "An orphan Madame took in during the Duskfall. Surprised everyone by grasping the entire operation in a heartbeat. Within weeks, she was orchestrating the workflow like she'd been born to it. Makes managing this chaos look as easy as breathing."

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Satisfied by Vern’s expression, he chuckled, "Of course, I showed her the ropes early on, but the girl's a natural. Unlike our Young Master, she soaked up every trick of the trade in no time flat. If you ask me, she's got the potential to rival Madame herself. A true genius, that one."

His expression grew increasingly incredulous as the tale unfolded. "I should've expected this," he muttered, shaking his head. Of course it would be her. Who else?

The patchy-beard man patted his shoulder with a thump, "Let’s just wait a couple of minutes. It’ll be lunch break soon. Then, you can discuss your role with Lady Thorne."

"…I will." He answered, his eyes fully focused on the spectacle in front of him as the soot-covered man walked off somewhere.

Fascinating as it was, Vern saw beyond the surface. He couldn’t visualize it properly just yet, but he knew the fundamentals of relationship had to be at play here.

It made sense. If he remembered correctly, Helena Von Arden—the magnate—gave some kind of test to Cera, which she'd passed by enlightening herself during the disaster at Steamscript relay station.

Then, it was reasonable to assume she was granted an opportunity to shade her perception with the sequence owned by Von Industries. And it was only logical that this sequence focused on relationship fundamental, given their influence.

Every now and then, he felt like he understood something, but the insights were fleeting and he didn’t have a framework to internalize them just yet.

I wonder what she sees. He wasn’t really going to ask that question, but he was tempted.

He found himself a nice wall to lean on as he observed her in the element, showcasing the limits of just what one could achieve in the first shade of a sequence that focused on relationship fundamental.

Wait. What if she’s ascended to the second shade already? For some reason, he hadn’t considered that.

I like to think I was quite fast at adapting my viewpoint to Stability Inducement, but I don’t know how much faster someone else with a proper mentor and path could go.

Surprisingly, he found the idea of her being faster than him a little anxiety-inducing.

Wow, here I thought I’d lost my competitive streak.

Chuckling, he shook his head. In reality, he knew it didn’t matter. As long as he was putting in a balanced amount of effort and wasn't lagging behind seriously, then there was no need to worry too much.

This was a long race. Running fast for the sake of it wouldn’t just be harmful—it would be fatal.

.

.

.

Seconds turned into minutes, and he spent them trying to harmonize his personal understanding of relations with what was in front of his eyes. It was a good exercise for him, who was trying to pre-emptively mold his viewpoint to better fit the Arbiter pathway.

Before long, a clap resounded in the factory, easily drowned by the machine noises but still somehow audible, "Alright, everyone, it’s time to get your lunches. We’ll meet back here in sixty minutes sharp."

The whole group of workers sighed before walking out of the chamber in groups with half-smiles as they debated on what to eat and whose packed lunch was better.

Once everyone was gone, he saw her letting out a deep breath of her own before she suddenly perked up, "Hey, you. Don’t waste the lunch time. If you don’t eat as soon as possible, you’ll have a hard day ahead."

Vern looked around only to realize there was no one else. She’s talking to me?

He chuckled, understanding the issue. The corner he was standing in didn’t have much in the name of light. Observers were supposed to have better vision than normal, but well, that was the only explanation he could think of.

So, he walked out, his cane tapping beside him.

"Hello, Cera. Been a while, eh?"

The girl in question froze, her gloved hands flying to her mouth.

"Uh…umm…Vern?" Cera's voice trembled, barely audible above the factory din.

He approached, offering a short bow. "At your service."

Her face flushed deeper. "Since when were you standing there?" She clasped her hands, suddenly fascinated by the floor.

Amused, Vern decided on honesty. "Been a while."

Her thumbs frenzily wrestled to stay on top of the other as she looked down even further, blinking rapidly without a word.

When she didn’t say anything even after a while, he chuckled, "That was impressive. Nothing to be embarrassed about if you ask me."

"I...I didn't know you were coming today," she murmured. "Alistair only said you might come sometime this week."

Vern frowned. "Huh. I did send him a letter this morning. There was even a guy who came to pick me up outside."

"...no one told me," Cera whispered, swaying slightly.

His brows furrowed in concern. "Cera...? Are you alright?"

"I…yea—" she only managed that much before the light amber shine in her eyes suddenly faded.

That's not good. He also just remembered that her eyes weren't naturally amber. She must've been using her percption all this time.

Without any hesitation, he flared his perception, conjuring a stable barrier right next to her, which supported her for the instant it took him to close the distance and help her up.

"Cera!?" Panic edged his voice.

After an incredibly long moment, she mumbled, "I—yes. Just give me a few seconds."

He abided without question, holding her steady as he watched beads of sweat roll down her flushed cheeks, reddened by the furnace's glow.

With a thought, he stabilized their surroundings, calming down the chaos, which had the effect of lowering the temperature. Not by much, but it was something.

She drew in ragged breaths, her chest heaving. "I'm... fine," she gasped, clearly anything but. Her eyes darted around, unfocused. "Just... dizzy."

Vern asked with concern, "Whispers?" If she was overusing her perception, it might've made her an easier target.

She met his gaze for the briefest of moments before shaking her head.

What? What else—

But that's when it hit him, and he narrowed his eyes. If it's not that, then…

His voice turned sharp, "When did you last eat?"

Cera jolted under that question, going completely silent.

Wow. Who would believe this?

He bent his knees and tried to look her in the eyes. She turned away.

Once. Twice. Thrice…

"Umm…it was yesterday morning," she finally confessed, her complexion improving as the temperature dropped around them.

Vern fought the urge to facepalm. It was tough. Instead, he grasped her hand firmly. "Let's go."

"But where?" Panic tinged her voice. "I have to prepare for a business meeting."

"To get something to eat. What else?"

"But I can't waste time..." she protested.

Vern halted abruptly, fixing her with a steely glare. Cera fumbled for a bit but still whispered, unmoving, "I can't disappoint Madame."

Something in Vern snapped. He yanked off his right glove, primed his middle finger, and before she could retreat—

Smack!

"Oww," she yelped, rubbing her forehead.

"Can you see clearly now? Or do I need to knock you out?" His tone was glacial.

She gasped, speechless for a bit, but her feet finally moved.

.

.

.

As they stepped into the hailing outdoors, Cera visibly perked up, color returning to her cheeks.

"Thank you…but that was mean…" she grumbled in a tiny voice as they crossed the road.

"That was stupid," he bit back.

"But I am an Observer. I don’t get that hungry."

"Yeah, that’s why you were about to pass out, right?"

"I wasn't…"

"I must be walking with a ghost then."

"That was because you surprised me!"

"That’s not how it works."

"…I know," she sighed.

He slowed down, "Then why?"

"I..." Cera's voice cracked. "Vern, I can't mess this up. If I fail, if I disappoint Madame..." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "This is all I have. I can't lose it."

Rest of his retorts died on his lips, and he sighed, "Do you prefer biscuits or pancakes?"

She whispered, "Pancakes."

----------------------------------------

Vern sipped his second cup of the day as Cera cut a piece of that fluffy pancake and stabbed it with her fork before biting into it in an impressively elegant manner.

I still can't believe she's not some noble's lost child, he mused, wisely keeping the thought to himself. It was a delicate matter in her case.

"So, how's life been as an Observer?"

"It's great!" Cera nodded enthusiastically.

Vern reached for his right glove, fingers poised to flick.

"Eek, no! Really, it's... it's not as bad as it seems. Please don't hit me again," she pleaded.

He donned the glove back skeptically. "Is Helena Von Arden only concerned with results? Can't she see you're overworking yourself?"

"Uhh, she's left the city for some important matters, leaving me in charge."

Understanding dawned on Vern. He suppressed a deep sigh. "Lady, are you ten years old? How can you forget to eat simply because you have more responsibilities?"

Cera focused on her food, too embarrassed to respond.

Vern's frustration bubbled. "Look, I get that you're trying your hardest, but this isn't sustainable. You can't help anyone if you collapse first."

"I just... I want to prove I'm worthy of this chance," Cera mumbled, her fork pushing food around the plate. "Madame took me in when I had nothing. I owe her everything. She's given me the chance to…"

Vern's expression mellowed a bit. "I understand, but there are better ways to show gratitude than working yourself to exhaustion."

She just tapped the fork on the ceramic plate.

Gahh! I'll only get angrier if I don't change the topic.

"Anyways," he shook his head and sat straighter before whispering, "Would you be interested in swapping some insights from each of our observational domains?"