The last door of Les Murmures: the residence of Daughter. The sycamore fig wood door dissipated upon a transfixed set of incantations from the blonde in the white summer dress, the hieroglyphics glowing red momentarily. “Here you are!” Grace gestured to the opened door with a dramatic arm. “Daughter is waiting.”

Indeed, she was. Stepping inside, a heavy weight came upon his shoulders. The sun-kissed woman bathed in gold accessories lazily looked at him, head hanging off the hammock.

“You disappeared on us, Jack.”

“I had business to attend to.”

“The Hall of Players?” Daughter questioned, deep brown eyes lit up by the floating candles.

“Indeed.”

So the Whispers’ spies didn’t extend to the Hall of Players? Why?

“The Architects are an annoying bunch,” Daughter said as if reading his mind. “They declare the Hall of Players a neutral territory. Ironic given they allow the selling of merchandise.”

‘Implying the Architects have a deal with the people selling stuff. Good to know.’ The precise role of architects wasn’t outlined in any manual or book in the House of Wisdom. From his understanding, the existence of the Architects was known but not understood.

Hidden information known only to those in the big guilds seemed common, akin to the entertainment industry and the “open secrets” it kept. In other words, the general public was made up of players that failed to make an impact. Those that worked at stores were unsuited for battle, or perhaps they did excel and lost their resolve. Nevertheless, they weren’t in the “know” in regards to certain terms, people, and organizations.

Dasha sat down on the floor, cross-legged. He opened his inventory and took out a set of vintage tea cups. “Victorian era,” he said. “Would you like some?”

With no table, he set the cups down on the cold, hard surface. Retrieving a kettle of Earl Grey, a traditional bergamot-scented black tea, he placed it on the floor beside him and gestured at the woman to sit. He shook her upside down head and yawned. The candles swiftly went over to light up the area around him. Without a word, he filled up the two cups. As soon as the first was done, the cup lifted up in the air and floated over to Daughter. She heaved up, lying on the hammock like a normal person, and let the floating cup tilt up to her lips.

“There’s no sugar,” Daughter stated, a tinge of disgust in her voice.

“How much?” Dasha's voice was calm, his masked gaze meeting Daughter's with an unreadable intensity.

“As much as you can give.”

He opened up his inventory and took out a pouch of sugar. “Another,” she said, so he took out a second. “Another.” Then a third. “Another.” Fourth. “Another.”

Fifth, sixth, seven, eighth. In total, Daughter asked for twelve pouches of sugar, all of them opening and filling her cup of Earl Grey tea. Upon her first sip, a big smile spread across her. “That hit the spot,” she muttered.

Dasha stared at her blankly. ‘...at that point, it’s not even tea.’ He enjoyed tea like a person would appreciate art. It was something he played and experimented with during his off-time. As well, when it came to elderly people, it was the best way to win them over. A method of sophistication without giving away information.

“You want to ask me something?” Daughter said after a sip.

“Am I so easy to read?”

“Not at all. In fact, your energy always reads to me as deafeningly still. A little disappointing, really.” Her gaze flickered over. “I assumed Jack the Ripper would be much more bloodthirsty.”

“Tragedy cannot happen until there is peace,” he replied.

“I suppose so.” She sipped on the tea without touching it, her eyes closing. “You should lay low. The Templars have already started interrogating one of our own.”

‘Interrogation? Isn’t there a law of neutrality?’ This was one of those inner-working things he spoke of earlier. Daughter said it was normal while Dasha thought it was impossible. ‘There was even mention of an assassination. How does that happen if there’s a magical law in place that prevents violence?’

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When Azrael declared violence was to be conducted in the White Abyss, she didn’t say it as a suggestion or some law written a hundred years back. It was a magical enforcement. A law based on omnipotent authority, not societal authority. Besides pushing, shoving, and light punches, players and non-players were literally unable to hurt each other.

“Any risks?” Dasha asked, quietly drinking.

“Only a small circle of the Whispers know details about you. There’s a reason we handed you Sigurd’s cloak. Basic energy sensing will be ineffective in finding you.”

“And the contract?”

“The death penalty for those that leak our information,” Daughter said. “It is only fitting.”

He briefly wondered how they accepted applicants. Their spy network spanned nearly half the Nebulous Bazaar. That kind of influence could only come from time, effort, and deliberate planning.

“Allow me a question then, Daughter.” He set the cup down. “What can you tell me about the Warrior of Light?”

“The Warrior of Light? The Lost Class?”

“A Lost Class? What makes you so sure?”

Daughter stopped drinking and looked at him. “Have you encountered an individual with that class?”

“I have.”

Daughter crossed her and turned her gaze over to the ceiling. “The Warrior of Light…the Warrior of Light…but who?”

“You make it sound like you should know?”

“Yes, we should,” Daughter said. “The Warrior of Light is a Class that is gifted to you. It is not earned through your work in the Heavenly Games but on Earth. It is the class given to Saints, Popes, and Prophets. A class to reward those that did good on Earth and to ensure that these blessed few are not killed early. It should be very clear who the Warrior of Light is because they often amass followers upon their appearance. Since the Enlightenment Era, as secularism has populated the world, Warriors of Light have dwindled in numbers.”

“Hugo Sánchez,” Dasha said. “That is the Warrior of Light’s name.”

“Hugo Sánchez. We will add him to the list of Champion Candidates. Unless…” She glanced at him. “You killed him already?”

Dasha filled his tea cup. “Unfortunately, our battle was interrupted by the grace period.”

“Unfortunate, eh?” She mulled over the name and emptied the last of her cup, which promptly floated over for a refill. Dasha obliged, making sure to add in the necessary sugar pouches. The cup returned to its owner. “A Mexican name, yes? That means we can assume he's been given the Divine Blessing of the Lord.” She raised four fingers. “The class gives four Class Skills: Healer’s Touch, Rays of the Sun, Ultra Mana Efficiency, and a skill bestowed by the god of their religion. Only two elements can be used: Holy Flames and Holy Water. But it’s the Gifted Skill that poses the largest problem. The Divine Blessings of the Lord, a branch of the Foresight skill. In practice, it's the same thing but the cause of it is different. Foresight is from one’s own future sight—the Divine Blessing of the Lord comes from the Abrahamic God. Ah, well, I suppose it does have one key difference. Unlike Foresight which requires manual application, the Divine Blessing of the Lord is autonomous. It’s a semi-passive, semi-general skill.”

‘Ah, so that's why he was directly outside the range of my Qi Sense. I thought it was luck but no. He was given the future.’

“I believe his flames…” Dasha muttered. “...bypassed my defences. At least, that is the only way for me to make sense of the damage I took.”

“Yes, that is the effect of Holy Flames. They bypass any armour and strike the soul directly. You have been training as a Cultivator, yes? Until you reach the Nascent Soul, your armour will mean nothing to him.” Daughter locked eyes with him. “You should kill this Hugo now while he's still experienced. His overall offense and defence are likely close to class three or four but his raw stats are not. His reaction speed can only go so far with the Divine Blessing. We will have someone follow him and you will give him a death that he cannot avoid—”

“No need. I'll wait.”

“No? Is that not why you came to me?”

Dasha stared at his Earl Tea. Rather than his face, he was met with the white mask of Jack the Ripper. He had figured something was going on. Even so, his lips moved on their own. “I see no point in killing a fighter with such potential. I intend to finish my battle with him properly. There will be no question regarding which of us is the stronger one.”

In the old world, he would have assassinated Hugo, no questions asked. But here, in a world of unknowns, he was…intrigued. This class that was considered all but extinct had returned—and in the hands of a real warrior at that. Not some Saint or Pope or exalted prophet, but a fighter. This was—

Illogical.

‘This desire to fight powerful opponents is not my own.’ Dasha touched the mask. ‘It's Jack. It's this mask which is slowly warping me into its original wielder. I should kill Hugo and all the players that could pose a threat to me, yet for some reason…’

“So, the rumours are true,” Daughter echoed. “Jack the Ripper is obsessed with finding worthy ones.”

‘I can't fight it. I want to fight. I want to wait.’

All actions had consequences. All power came at a price. This was Dasha's. A curse preventing him from thinking straight—from being himself.

“Although…it's strange.” The tea coming down to the floor, Daughter sat upright and cross-legged. A brow raised, she cupped her cheek. “The last time the Warrior of Light appeared was in your era, Jack. In fact, you were the one that killed her.”

Dasha collected his tea seat, body language empty of emotion. “I don't recall such a weakling.”

Daughter cracked a small smile. “Marianne Cope…I suppose she was more of a caretaker than a fighter.”

He turned his back to her. “Just keep me updated on Hugo.”

“I will have Grace give you a report if anything intriguing happens.” He felt Daughter smile. “I am enjoying your progress, Dasha. Take care not to run into a block.”