Enter the Domain of Lies and Truths… Enter, N’Sharan… The Voice awoke him.

As the darkness subdued, there was no sight of the spherical room where he had spent an amount of time most unknown. He laid his eyes on the clean marbled streets, the many people who walked on them, going about their own lives—some carrying things, others pushing through the crowds in haste. This was all he could see from the balcony where he was—in a city he had never seen before.

A sigh filled with a bundle of mixed feelings was let out: “N’Sharan, the city where my love remains... In your language, one would perhaps call it “the City of Sharans” or “the City of Angels."

“Look around and see through the eyes of those who once lived here the beauty of this masterpiece... and how it was then soiled, broken, and left in the ashes of time..."

The Voice touched him and filled his mind with nostalgia and then regret, leaving him soon to experience it all alone. A city, which he would have to navigate, as someone who only had the memories of another to help in his quest to find the truth, or perhaps just a truth.

N’Sharan… A city of hopes and dreams, as fragile and as nonexistent as the concept of freedom. A city that was once built by those who aspired to be different from tyrants—different from those they deemed evil. A city where they all could be, where they could all exist as equals.

The garments he wore were of great quality; even he could notice such a thing among all these things of grandeur. The people below did not have what he had on him; most of them were poor, yet he would observe them from above a tower, which represented the very difference between those who had something and those who didn’t have enough. The one who had built this house and looked down on those below was someone of great wealth.

He looked beyond the people—beyond the orange roofs that were around him, that were all around this great city. All he knew was that he was in a place where those who had wealth could dine, drink, and spend their nights.

The buildings across did not only have those orange roofs that seemed to be on top of every building in this city, but their facades were sometimes gilded, with red flags made out of silk garnishing that, which was already far too extravagant—far too expensive for most to own.

N’Sharan—the city where people were divided by wealth and power. Surely, wealth was just another word for power, but there were those, like he who he was now, who were above the many people below in status.

Although this body he was given was not one that had a past, it was still given considerable wealth and a position that gave him inherent power—even if among the so-called powerful, his power remained insignificant.

He was a journalist—one who worked for the Times of N’Sharan, the oldest and most respected news source in all of N’Sharan. One that was completely mandated by his now master, the Sharan of Lies and Truths, under their domain.

His master was someone who ruled over the matters of the truth and the false—the lies. So, they invented something—a way for people to receive information that could be trusted. The newspaper—a simple piece or a bundle of paper that had the most important information of the past day and night that any citizen would need to know.

And his job was to provide that truthful information, to tell the truth—to expose that which was false, the lies—but only the truth that was agreed upon. All information had to, of course, be fact-checked, lest there be lies that would poison the minds of the many citizens of the great city of N’Sharan.

N'Sharan, a city where the truth remains a question left unanswered, and to find an answer from the lackluster memories received or from the newspapers or any other piece of literature, was nigh impossible. Why would he trust the memories of someone who had not given him their name but instead just their occupation? And why would he trust the information he already knew to be poisoned by the Sharan of Lies and Truths?

But if he were to follow the given memories, then there was a memory more bright than the others. The memory of a murderer—or someone blamed for murder. He left the balcony behind and returned to the large lobby. There were cushioned divans and chairs around tables, and people sat around them, reading from papers that were called The News and sipping from small porcelain cups a drink they called coffee.

The Sharans have no gender, as through their magics, there was no use for it; the birth of a child was conceived through the combination of the magics of the Sharans who wanted a child. As an outcome, there would be born a child who had no gender, one who was the combination of two parents of the child.

The Sharan were of all shapes and sizes, but on average they were taller than humans were, and on their skin grew scales, and depending on the magical ability of the person, they would have more scales.

Through the eyes of a human, the Sharan could be at times beautiful or ugly, even horrific, but truly, they were wonderful creatures. Yet there wasn’t even one Sharan that had the outlook of the grotesque angels that Kanrel knew of. But then again, he had not seen one of the Magi.

The person he had become had no memories of childhood or that of a normal person, yet curiously, they had information about not only the history of the city and the Sharan but also general information that any Sharan would know almost by heart.

One such thing was the fact that most of the magi chose not to show their faces in public; they remained hidden in their homes. Some even believed that the nine magi had died ages ago; it was hard to believe that any of them would live for thousands of years.

Age and how long a Sharan could live were connected to their magical ability. One who had more would live a longer time, and one who had less would succumb sooner rather than later.

Most did not live longer than fifty years. It was said that the first settlers might have lived a hundred years or even longer, but as time passed, they all seemed to live shorter lives. A thousand years of regression, they say.

The reasons for such a thing were lost on Kanrel; he could not even begin to guess what had caused such an effect. But it did not seem to matter to most, for life went on. And the millions of people who lived in this city were a testament to that.

Alas, the people in this little cafe were cultured, and they all came here for a simple reason—the very same reason that he had coincidentally given for himself.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Kanrel chose a table at random, one that was free, and took the paper that was laid on the low table in front of him. The headlines on the paper read:

Times of N’Sharan No. 12

Hartar Agna: a loyalist or a murderer?

Corruption—a tale as old as time itself; the reason why one cannot get the job they had an interview for; why bread is too expensive; and the reason why the winner of the Sharan Awards was the same as the previous year.

Corruption, the name we call at night, the one we pray to... and, apparently, something Hartar Agna can blame for murder?

On the 23rd day of the 9th month in the 1207th year of the Common Times, we were presented with a murder in Olruan Street, one of the poorest neighborhoods of the city. A civil servant, a city guard, to be precise, was found dead in a small alleyway.

And after a week-long investigation, we are finally presented with answers: a murderer is presented: Hartar Agna, the child of a local baker, and someone who works at their parent's bakery.

At first, the motive given was uncertain, but the local police of the District of Copper, in their interview, proclaimed that the murderer was most likely a terrorist of sorts.

But now, with new information received through our sources in the police, after they arrested the assumed perpetrator on the 30th, the perpetrator, in an interrogation, accused the victim of attacking and demanding money for "safety."

Therefore, the victim is not a victim but rather another perpetrator, this time of the foul crime of corruption.

But is there any truth behind this accusation thrown at the dead? The good people at the Office of Peace loudly acclaim a simple response given to such accusations: “There is no corruption in the Office of Peace, and if there were, everyone could quite easily see it.”

This is but the beginning of further investigation, both by the city guard and by us, The Times of N’Sharan.

He read through the article multiple times, mainly to remember the key points and to compare the information with the memories that he was given. They were accurate because memories told of a murderer who was not a murderer but rather someone framed for murder, as Hartar Agna had been just at the wrong place at the wrong time, for he had witnessed the execution of Wiltem Torna, a city guard who tried to report information about the corruption at the Office of Peace.

But was it really the case? This was, after all, all the information that he actually had about these two people. Information that was received in the form of a memory, given by a mysterious voice that seemed to have something against the Angels. And then an article written mostly to ridicule the suspect.

He carefully placed the paper back on the table and looked around, peering at the faces of those who had gathered there. These people, like him, had come here for this—an article. They had come here to discuss the article in groups and then mingle with each other. They were writers and hobbyists, some of the richer folk of the city, but those who were out of the “ins and outs” of how their beloved city truly worked.

Of course, there were those who greatly doubted the printed words in the article, questioning if the person who had written it truly had any sources at the police or if the person had actually killed anyone. Some believed the tale of the person suspected of murder, and some did not.

It didn’t matter if they did or didn’t. None of them would do anything about it either way. They were here just to discuss the matter, to gossip, to mingle, and, often or not, to make things up about the things they read. Perhaps not out of ill will, but just out of the fact that they could. Who would question them other than those that were here?

It was all to kill time.

But why was he here then? Why had the Voice given this place and this time to experience the city and its people? Was it to show the juxtaposition of those who had wealth and power yet did nothing with it and those who had neither and could do nothing about the circumstances that they found themselves in?

What was the point of it all?

He got up and, from the pocket of his vest, took out a coin, which he placed on top of the newspaper, as was customary. In an establishment like this, one didn’t have to pay for anything, per se, but they would have to tip for the services; he had not experienced any of them, yet he partook in this strange custom they had here.

He walked past the tables and the people who crowded them, hearing snippets of conversation about the topic of the hour, and navigated his way to the elevators. A wondrous achievement of engineering and magic. And knowing how scarce magic was as a resource in this world, made him question how many people had given all that they had left to build such an elaborate piece of technology. How many were drained out of their powers until there was nothing left but a husk of the person that once lived?

He pressed the button that would allow him to return to the first floor and then out of the building. The doors closed, and a humming sound filled his ears, and the machine jerked and began ascending. Such an experience made him sick to the stomach—not because of all the magic that was around him or the possible deaths of those who had built it, but rather the journey itself.

Even with memories about such things, they could never be as true as the experience itself.

He left behind the extravagant experience of the hotel and all the things that it could offer those who had the wealth. Instead, he went outside to experience the street view of things—a world from the eyes of those who had less wealth and far less power.

Here, the city was made out of wonders. Out of magic and technology greater than the sum of all human history, there was none of that to be seen on the streets. The memories given by the Voice showed great achievements. Carts that would move on their own, entirely powered by magic, even flying vessels and such.

But from below, he could only look up to see things of wonder. The tall towers that reigned the city—housing such technology and magic, yet mostly just ordinary people. In the tight space that was the city, it was far easier to build vertically than horizontally.

The people crowded the streets. Not once had he seen so many people in one place. This city had millions of people living in it—the total population of the Kingdom as a whole—located in a small, cramped space.

A city that was surrounded by walls that were taller than most buildings. There were many districts that had different purposes and housed different kinds of people—of different crafts and of different levels of power in society.

Here, he was smaller than he had ever been. Here, he had less meaning than ever before. Here, he truly was nothing—someone out of place—not just in the tower but also in the streets. Most of those who lived here would not live as long as he would.

Even when he had nothing, the people here seemed to have less. Somehow, in a city far wealthier than all of the riches of the Kingdom combined, they still didn’t have enough to provide for their people. Homelessness was a rampant issue, and disease was another, for not just any regular citizen could afford the services of an expensive doctor.

There was starvation, even when more food was thrown away than eaten. How could a city of such considerable wealth not provide for its people? And why would the people not rise up? Why would they accept how they were treated—how they were all treated?

He looked back. He looked back up at the tower that pierced the heavens. Somewhere in that building lived one of the Sharan—one of the great magi who had constructed this city and promised that they all could be equal here.

And he could do nothing about it. Nothing at all. This was just a memory, or a vision, or a dream, that he had to experience. And why? Just to see how much suffering the Angels had caused?

He walked into the crowd, becoming just another face you’d forget in mere moments, and slowly began navigating his way toward Olruan Street and the District of Copper.