6 : 234 : 07 : 19 : 04

Fighting a war’s a lot like riding a bicycle. Everybody’s nervous at first. It might take a tumble or two, but if only you bravely keep at it, you’re bound to get the hang of it eventually. And from there on, every time you hop into the saddle and start pedaling, no matter how much time passes in between, it’s like you were never away. You’re not even actively aware of what your hands are doing. Your body operates purely on instinct, while your conscious mind just hangs back and savors the cruise.

Like, I could look at a blade fast approaching my neck and I don’t think about what the cross-section of my primary arteries would look like, or how much it hurts to get sliced open from ear to ear. Instead, I might go like, “gosh, that edge has such a smooth curve, it’d be perfect for making a filet to sear on a pan with a bit of garlic.” And then I get hungry, because it’s been hours since breakfast.

Like that. No anxiety. No fear. No doubts.

Business as usual.

Another day on the job.

The anxiety only comes to you in those lonely hours between three and four A.M. when you’re done itching the ditch for the fourth time in a row and lie safe and warm in your own bed at home. It’s while in the post-O clarity that your imagination takes wings and you suddenly remember, “oh dear Mary in Heaven, that wicked ninja killer so nearly lopped off my head that day, and she’s still somewhere out there, sharpening the knife for a rematch.” And guess who’s not sleeping anymore?

God damn it.

And now I’m horny again.

“—Zero!” Sephram’s alarmed shout brings me back to my senses.

I lean far to the left and the blade whistles past my neck.

I can’t cast a shield this close, and even if I did, it’d just get in the way. Instead, I rely on my training, my body's automated reactions, tempered to excellencce by Lieselot’s unrestrained kicks and punches. But the foe this time could give my BFF a run for her money.

Even dressed in steel from head to toe, the ninja assassin’s every move is fast and graceful. She fights like a machine, no screwing around. Not holding nothing back, not pitying her own body, not allowing a hint of exhaustion to show on the outside. Attack and retreat. Attack and retreat. Three cuts and away. She cartwheels backwards into a high, round somersault, draws a big shuriken out of thin air, and accurately casts it between my eyes before her heels touch the ground again. I slam my palms together to catch the star-shaped projectile of darksteel right as it’s about to dig into my forehead.

As soon as the assassin lands, Sephram’s at her.

Dual-wielding his extra large kukris, he cuts the foe from behind. Is that very knightly behavior? Taking a swing from a blind spot like that? But I worry about nothing. She knows he’s there, even without looking. Quicker than the eye can follow, her wakizashi reappears between her neck and Sephram’s blades and a spinning back heel kick follows seamlessly right after. Sephram ducks and dodges!

Damn, I would’ve given up right there, having my sneak attack brushed off like nothing, but this guy—he’s not a jobber. The enemy’s faster, more agile, and has all these weird skills, but our guy’s got field experience. He plays it cool and his guard is rock solid. Not one move goes wasted. Clink, clink, metal meets metal. I almost forget myself watching that beautiful ballet of steel.

Then I remember this is supposed to be two-on-one. I raise the finger gun and fire a Flashpoint at the assassin. She drops her head out of the way, and then somersaults to the side to prevent Sephram from capitalizing on her off-set balance. Holy moly. Are you telling me she just dodged an invisible bullet from behind? How the fuck can you explain that? Did she somehow feel the flow of the air, or whatever the hell it is that ninjas do? I have no idea.

My missed spell hits the side of the narrow alley instead. Pang. The old brick wall is dry and brittle, and a big cloud of dust and chalk shrapnel bursts out. Sephram covers his face and stumbles back. Looks like I stunned my own ally instead of the enemy. Well, not my fault! Wear a helmet!

See, our ninja killer is a lot better prepared. A solid helmet, a thick visor to cover the face. Protects your eyes AND hides your identity. Very effective. Plus it looks absolutely badass.

I fire a few more Flashpoints at the shady figure, to keep her from making flank steaks of my distracted partner. She dodges my shots, or offsets them with her blade, and retreats into the shroud of chalk dust.

Then I see the look of shock on Sephram’s face.

At first I think he somehow got hit anyway, but no, it's actually me who's about to eat it.

By the time I realize the enemy presence in front of me has vanished and reappeared directly behind my back, a very sharp blade is already poking my kidney.

Yes, it’s that move! The classic “teleports behind you!”-thing!

Oh my god! That is so awesome! I wonder how she does that?

My response is too late. I can’t turn around fast enough.

My partner is too far away to save me this time.

Oh no, this might be——Hang on, what do you mean I skipped something?

6 : 240 : 04 : 37 : 12

The window is just a rough hole in the wall. You open it by pulling the rags out of the way—and then put them back on, to keep the stench of garbage and decomposing poop from getting in.

Sephram has rented a cramped attic apartment near the slums as our base of operations. It’s a real man cave, dark and devoid of house plants. All that's missing is the Xbox.

In his roleplay, Sephram has traveled to Nikéa on behalf of an Arcadian contractor to get cheap carpets and oil lamps for retail. I mean, that’s his cover story, however you want to spin it. To support the narrative, he has a pile of sample rugs in one corner of the room, and boxes of brass lamps in the other. It’s about the laziest display imaginable. Just in case, he says. He’s not expecting to get raided.

I’m supposed to be Mr Textile Agent’s visiting kid sister. Must be from another marriage, because we look nothing alike, but somehow, the landlord buys it. The amount of silver Sephram threw at the geezer may have helped a little.

If I adjust the ratio of light my hair absorbs, I can make it look darker brown-ish, like his. But it’s not totally effortless, and having to maintain it every time I go out is a huge pain in the ass. But Sephram insists I have to. White hair is seen as some kind of ill omen in the eastern lands, apparently, and the less educated locals sometimes stone albinos to death. My travel guide didn’t mention that bit.

In the middle of the living room we have a square, knee-high table, which occupies most of the floor space. Tables are stupidly low here by design, and nobody has chairs, they just sit on the floor. I assume it has to do with the lack of trees. Only the elite can afford to import proper furniture.

In the back of the room is a small alcove. A local-style “kitchen”. The fireplace is masoned directly into the wall, but it’s surprisingly versatile. You can boil tea on the stovetop when it warms up, or pan-fry eggs and veggies, and when the fire below goes out, you can stick your dinner in and let it grill on the hot coals. Thankfully, the house is made of stone, or else everything would be on fire.

We even have a separate bedroom. Like a true knight, Sephram offers the bed to me, but I politely decline the offer. Because the “bed” is just a slab of rough-cut stone padded with straws, a few blankets thrown on it. I prefer to sleep on the carpets. They’re not the softest bed either, but you won’t have to wake up and find all your round sides flattened—if you can actually sleep a wink, that is.

At least one thing’s for sure. I won’t be spooning with this guy anyday soon.

And so, I make myself at home and get used to my new routine as a secret agent.

99% of the job is about staying put, waiting quietly for news to trickle in. The same foreigner popping up everywhere would be too weird, so Sephram has a number of helpful locals keep an eye out for him throughout the city. They’ll let us know if there’s anything worth knowing, and most of the time there isn’t a peep.

We’ve a lot of downtime, so Sephram takes the opportunity to lecture me on the finer points of espionage. According to him, wearing a big hat and shades is not the best disguise ever conceived. Just like wearing garbs of bridal white in a town where only the Sultan is allowed to wear white and the masses dress in earthen colors is not enlightened. Asking for trouble.

After rudely limiting my constitutional freedom to self-expression, the spy master also teaches me various handy tricks: the ABCs of tailing people without being noticed; how to disappear when you’re followed; lock-picking and pick-pocketing; how to tell who you can trust and who you can’t. The value of money. How to enjoy sightseeing and getting to know new cultures—discreetly.

But after a full month of smelling the sewage water our neighbors dumb under our window, our merry sitcom is getting old and I’m starting to miss Orethgon for real.

The war is almost upon us and, as far as I can see, we have nothing.

Late on the night of day thirty-two, I return home after yet another low-effort errand. I climb upstairs and see the light peeking through the shoddy door. It seems Sephram’s still up too. Us spies work long days. I throw open the door, step in, and pause at the threshold to check if I smell too badly of booze, before extending a hearty greeting.

“Honey, I’m home~!”

Sephram answers me with a scowl across the living room table.

“Did it really take you nine hours to deliver one letter?”

“That’s abnormally fast by my standards,” I tell him. “And just so you know, after taking the letter, I went to watch striptease. Or maybe it was before I delivered the letter? I’m not so sure anymore, because one of those things was so much more memorable than the other.”

He gives me one of those miffed step-dad looks that have become a permanent part of his repertoire. I ignore the look and report my daily learning experiences like an excited school girl,

“Can you believe it? For just twenty coppers, you can watch so much tits and ass without anyone frowning on you—and for only another fifteen, you can get a private show too. Is this paradise? It’s paradise, right? And now I know why the Kingdom wants it.”

The guy looks like he wants to comment, but I gesture at him to hold it in.

“But wait, it gets better. The girls at the club thought I was cute, so they even gave me a free lesson after the show. Taught me a few pro moves. Wanna see?”

“…”

“On dancing! It’s crazy how you can drive a person nuts just by shaking your hips a little, swinging a leg up and down. That, my friend, is real magic! By the way, what were we doing here again? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind rooming with you, as long as you pay me my allowance, but—No, seriously, why?”

Sephram rubs the bridge of his nose, as he tends to do when the annoyance crosses a certain threshold. I’ve gotten pretty good at pushing his buttons.

“Oh, I know! You’re here to ‘investigate’, isn't that right?” I add the air quotes. “When in reality, it’s basically a paid vacation with endless cheap liquor and oriental women. Oops, sorry! Was I supposed to pretend I didn't notice? Hey, no sweat, playboy, I understand! I won’t tell a word to Irifan—if you don’t snitch on me either. You rub my back and I rub yours. Actually, just get a backscratcher, I’m not rubbing any spot on you. That’d be weird.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

My esteemed mentor leans heavily on the table and draws a deep, deep breath. But he’s built resistance over the month. He exhales slowly, lets the tension in his shoulders melt away and gives up on the sermons. Instead, he beckons me to come over.

“Have a look at this.”

A detailed map of the city lies spread over the table, riddled with marker pins of different colors. Here and there around the map he has arranged a multitude of small papers, notes, letters, and whatnot. I assume everything there has a clear purpose and isn't just for a passing interest in handicrafts.

Sephram takes one of the sheets and hands it to me. On it is a portrait of a well-fed, middle-aged local man. Shaved head, as is the local style, a thin moustache; small, narrow eyes. The artist has skill. The picture was made with just a piece of charcoal, but it looks so alive.

“The man is Maohen Tyuan-Hé,” Sephram explains. “A local business magnate, as well as the leader of the Yellow Fist, the current number one among Nikéa’s criminal gangs. He owns or co-owns nearly every club and brothel in the city, including the one you wrecked the other day, and probably the one you just came from too. His other activities include sponsoring cotton farms with unpaid labor—and raising poppies. Together with two other major factions in the city, the Yellow Fist forms a power triad responsible for over two thirds of the total supply of opiates, domestic and foreign. Considering his position, Mahoen is almost guaranteed to be personally involved in the plot, with direct ties to the Kingdom's side.”

“Down with the capitalism,” I say. “So when do we kill him?”

“We don’t,” Sephram answers. “Maohen is only one piece of a much bigger picture. You kill him and another scoundrel takes his place, and all we’ve done is show our hand for nothing. No. Our goal is to cut the flow of drugs from Nikéa to Alberion for good. To that end, patching the leak on our side is still easier to achieve. Which is why I’m betting on Mahoen to lead us to the one in charge. The guy with the money. For that, I’ve been following his every move for the past eleven months.”

Almost a year?

“You know what? Being a secret agent is mostly just a huge waste of time.”

“You haven’t even started yet,” Sephram tells me. “Fortunately for you, our long wait appears to be nearing its end. According to my sources, Maohen is set to meet with his contact on this week’s Friday. Most likely to inspect the next shipment and decide on the details of its delivery. You and I will be there when that meeting takes place. One way or the other, we must learn the name of the Kingdom's contact. If only we have his identity, our allies in Alberion can handle the rest. Knowing the time for their meeting was nigh was the reason why I wanted to have backup now. Although, to be honest with you, I was hoping for Vysania.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

I’m worth like ten Vysanias. My ears are so much cooler too. Okay, I may not have a tail, but nobody’s perfect. It’s the one critical character flaw that keeps people from calling me Mary Sue. All calculated, see?

“Just try not to mess up when we’re there,” Sephram asks and I hate how sincerely worried he sounds.

I ignore him. “So? Have you ever tried it?”

“Tried what?”

“Strawberry crepes. No, I’m talking about opium.”

“What?” He pauses with a frown. “Why are you even asking me that?”

“Never be afraid to ask the tough questions. How can you condemn something as wrong and evil, without even knowing what it really is? From what I’ve heard in town, smoking pipe every now and then only makes you feel better and gives you nice dreams. So can you really say for sure we're on the right side of history here?”

“...You’ve got a point.”

“I do?”

It was mostly just rhetoric.

There's a strange look on Sephram's face. One I haven't seen before. He blows the oil lamp’s flame out and takes off towards the door, urging me to follow.

“Come. Let’s walk a little.”

What got into him now?

6 : 240 : 02 : 48 : 04

Instead going deeper into the slums, we stroll towards the central city and the wealthier parts. The less stained boxes of stone. The sidewalks there are wide and smooth. No need to look down at your feet, no risk of stepping on cow or horse poop. There aren't stray dogs that look at you like you're a walking kebab skewer, and on an occasion you can even see a lone palm tree decorate a street corner. It's an ordinary residential district not that much worse than anything in Morelieu.

We follow a row of tall apartment buildings when without a warning, my companion takes a sharp turn and dives through an inconspicuous doorway on the side.

We descend narrow stairs to quarters below the street level.

There are no doors to bar the way. We pass through a little vestibule, where a drowsy-looking old uncle sits in the corner, next to a table with a pot of incense, a decanter of wine, and glasses. He sees us but says nothing. Sephram doesn’t spare the man a word of greeting, or even a look, but walks by. There's another doorway across, a light, carmine silk veil to hide it. We pass through it into a room wider and longer.

“The hell…?” I stop and look around with a frown.

The first thing you notice is the smell.

After the smoke of incense drifting at the doorway comes an ambiguously sweet, sort of floral scent, which makes my hair stand on end. Soon after, my nose picks out other subtle scents in the mix, like the dank reek of old sweat and rotting teeth, unwiped ass cracks, and then some.

The air is humid. Only small, sparse candles give the room light, but they're enough for my eyes. What we stand in looks like a catacomb, or a barrow; a long, bare-bones room without any furniture, only a few colorful pillows and carpets. Hacked into the walls on both sides are recesses just about long and wide for a person to lie in and keep out of the way. The openings are covered with thin curtains, but I can tell most of the slots are occupied. Not by dead ancestors. By people who are unmistakably still alive, but lie quiet and motionless, barely breathing.

This isn't a capsule hotel, is it?

Sephram stops and turns back to me.

“The use of intoxicating substances is prohibited by the Sultan’s law,” he quietly explains. “Which is why the addicts frequent rooms like this one. As long as it’s not in plain view, no one cares enough to do anything about it.”

The room goes on and on. There must be dozens of people here, chilling in that nauseating, suffocating odor. I want to leave. Sephram goes to pull one of the veils aside, with no regard for the privacy of the person inside. Instead of an angry outburst, we're greeted only by silence.

I see a skinny guy resting in the recess. The beard makes him seem old, but looking closer, he’s not even thirty. A regular young dude you'd see anywhere. His clothes look brand new too, no patches, the colors yet unwashed. He's not a beggar. He lies still on his back and cradles a long wood pipe in his hands against the chest, like a pharaoh. There’s a small, flat metal contraption by his pillow. I don't know what it is. He stares up at the ceiling with eyes wide open, like seeing a view altogether removed from the physical world, and we're nothing but ghosts to him, less than air.

“Opium was used to make medicine,” Sephram tells me. “It can be vaporized and inhaled, or eaten as is. The processed plant latex dulls the senses, making it an effective painkiller in the absence of magic. Wars brought demand through the ceiling. People discovered it works on mental pain just as well as the bodily sort, and the customer base spread like wildfire. Many in today’s world are discontent with their lives. Where’s the harm in forgetting about it, if only for a moment? An eight-gram dose will induce a state of euphoria that lasts up to four hours. Opium was deemed safer than alcohol. There’s no hangover, no damage to the organs.”

“Huh.”

“Then the cartel took over. They came up with new ways to refine the substance, to produce a cleaner product with a stronger effect, with no regard for the fact that it's also highly addictive. It’s often easier for the customer to simply take a new dosage than deal with the agony of withdrawal symptoms. Yes. Opium is not that bad, as poisons go. At first. Alas, long-term use tends to negate what few benefits there are, rendering the user intensely depressed, passive, numbed, and infertile. The addicts gradually fall off of their daily routines, lose human contact and wither away, unable to muster the will to even eat.”

Sephram turns to face me.

“Opium use isn’t a local specialty,” he tells me. “There are rooms like this in Lincastle too. In every major city. How do I know this? To answer your earlier question: yes, I’ve tried it. I’ve lost good friends to it. I believe I know sufficiently well what we're dealing with. And if I find you here one of these days, ironically or otherwise, I promise I will strangle you. Slowly.”

Looks like I’ve touched a sore spot.

“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “But isn’t this all the more reason to deal with a fatass like Maohen while we’re at it? By what I hear, he’s a big part of everything wrong with the place.”

Sephram shakes his head and turns to go.

“We can’t solve all the problems in the world, Zero. Not even the gods could. Mahoen is a product of his age. Unless the times and circumstances themselves change, there will be more monsters like him around every corner, seeking to take advantage of the weakness of the fellow man. And therein lies our hurdle. However great the urge, we can't lose sight of the whole. From among the countless problems that plague the world, we must somehow pick out the ones that give rise to the rest, and start with those. Otherwise, everything we do or try will amount to nothing.”

You don't solve problems by solving them. One day, you'll be no more but the problems will stay. It's only when you've taken away the reason why something is an issue in the first place that it ceases to be so. A very long poem, by Sir Sephram.

We leave the gloomy lair behind and return upstairs among those still more than half in this life.

I don't get it.

Sure, life may not be all rainbows and sunshine. Sometimes, it's more than you can bear. But where's the use in sticking your head in the sand and hiding from it? Even if you can't see them, or forget they're there, that doesn't mean the bad things are gone.

Personally, the idea of standing right next to my worst nightmare without even knowing it—that scares me a lot more than the nightmare itself. Knowing just how much you don't know.

Ignorance is hell.