What a sprint that was! But, to put it mildly, it was more akin to a hasty retreat, heels sparkling as I dashed away. I kept hopping up like a meerkat, ever alert for any signs of pursuit! I zigzagged through the city, accelerating along the avenues, then veering into alleyways, cutting paths through walls, and sometimes making high-speed dashes across the rooftops.
I only began to calm down after nearly encircling the entire city without noticing anything resembling a chase or surveillance. Even then, after completing my frantic run, I perched atop one of the high-rise buildings, taking some time to survey my surroundings.
It's fortunate that the state of projection clears the mind and induces calm. Without this, I'd likely have continued running, constantly looking over my shoulder until my energy was exhausted. But all's well that ends well, and in the end, I managed to collect myself and think clearly once again.
What a meeting... What a conversation...
Getting into trouble for no reason? That's something I excel at, love, and practice regularly. It'd make a fitting epitaph; I should remember it and, should I decide to write a will, request for this phrase to be engraved on my tombstone.
For some reason, dark thoughts are creeping into my head. But if I switch on my mind and reflect... that meeting was actually beneficial for me. If even a Maker didn't recognize me as a soul from another world, then it's unlikely anyone else will discover my secret! The rest of our conversation was intriguing and requires thorough analysis, but the fact that the sensum perceived me as a reincarnation from his own world is perhaps the most significant revelation. His words could be seen as something akin to official validation.
However, the conclusion of our conversation left me quite rattled. What exactly happened? It's clear that the historical figure El Cid existed in this world too, but are even his swords identical to their Earthly counterpart?
Perhaps that's the most pressing question now - since the Maker's behavior following some of his deductions took me completely by surprise. And how did he even link the drawing of my projection with everything else? Enlightenment? I know far too little about the capabilities of the sensums, and Izao's memory offers little help, as the boy wasn't particularly interested in the subject of the gifted. This gap in my knowledge demands further investigation. But first, I need to learn more about this Cid Campeador, whom the Maker insistently referred to as "Sire" - I'm certain that wasn't a meaningless slip of the tongue.
The first thought that struck me was to find an accessible computer and delve into the net regarding this issue. But, before I could act on this, a far more logical idea surfaced: such a move wouldn't be the wisest course of action. I was unsure how often people sought information about this historical figure. For instance, Izao had never heard of Sire Campeador at all, despite his strong aptitude for the humanities. This suggested that network requests on this topic would be rare, particularly in Wilflaes, situated on the opposite side of the world from Spain. And in my own world outside the Iberian Peninsula, El Cid was hardly a common name. Had Vicky not proposed Colada as a prototype weapon, I might never have discovered the existence of one Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar.
So, it followed that if I were to begin searching the net for this name, I'd likely be the only one interested in this subject for quite some time. And this Tu Chong appeared influential enough to employ professionals who could trace the location of the request. I'm no expert in digital technologies and wouldn't know how to obscure my online footprint like a seasoned hacker. Even if I had the know-how, the digital technologies in this world differ significantly from those on my Earth. Of course, I could try learning from scratch, but firstly, there was no time for this, and secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I never had any inclination for such an endeavor.
While tracking a location following a network request, even if feasible, is not instantaneous. I'm certain I'd have time to leave the place before anyone arrived, but the issue at hand was different. If I were a reincarnated Cid Campeador, it would stand to reason that I would have extensively researched everything known about that distant past by now. That means, if such a request doesn't outright shatter the legend that has so successfully formed around me, it would cast doubts on its validity. And this is what I wanted to avoid. I'd rather be mistaken for anyone else, but not for an alien intruder!
After confirming that no one was tailing me, I descended from the high-rise and navigated through the shadowy alleyways towards my home. However, before proceeding further, I needed one thing — a simple flashlight.
Upon reaching my apartment, I discarded my motorcycle suit and cooked myself a hearty dinner. I had roughly two hours, and during this time, it would be ideal to conserve energy and further ponder the previous conversation. The more I contemplated this topic, recollecting the minutest details, the gloomier I became.
In essence, I lost this conversational battle. I lost, despite having gained a significant advantage by resisting the Maker's ability and not allowing myself to be forcibly pulled out of the Break. The more I dwell on it, the more I realize that if the sensum hadn't been hung up on the delusion that entered his head, this conversation could have ended poorly for me. Not in the sense of being captured or killed, no, but being coerced or manipulated in the shadows — the likelihood of this was far from negligible. I can't afford to make such mistakes again. The Break doesn't guarantee invulnerability or even invisibility, and this world is full of surprises.
Nonetheless, I can't deny that, despite my blunders, I walked away from this encounter with a notable gain, not due to my efforts but rather a combination of circumstances that remain baffling to me. Yet, in the end, I did come out ahead!
After dinner, barely tasting the food, I decided to postpone further analysis of the conversation until the morning. Besides, I had other matters to attend to. The ability that allowed me to resist the Maker's pressure and scanning, "Mental Shield," is undoubtedly useful, but it carries a significant nuance. I could physically sense how rapidly my aura was changing. Yes, it's beneficial when you need to shield yourself from the abilities of sensums, but even without activating this skill, the changes happen too swiftly in passive mode. This prevents anyone from reading my emotional state and makes tracking me impossible. However, if a gifted individual were to observe me for just five minutes, they would immediately spot the anomaly. If they had access to complete descriptions of the raigs, they could easily put two and two together. Clearly, something needs to be done about this.
The problem is that all the skills gifted to raigs by the Break don't come with any instructions upon receipt. There's no interface with settings either, which is a shame. Well, what doesn't exist, doesn't exist. I merely feel these abilities, and it's challenging to describe them. For instance, when launching a "Word" throw, I don't need to shout "Sword Throw!" like in some cartoons — there's no requirement for additional gestures. A mental command or "pushing a button" in your mind suffices for active skills. With so-called passive skills, everything is much more complex. They just exist. I can sense them, but as for how to influence them or, so to speak, regulate them to suit my needs — I have absolutely no understanding of this.
I tried every tactic that came to mind: meditation, self-hypnosis, transitioning to the Break, but nothing worked. I could sense this ability, I could even track the intervals of the aura's fluctuation, but I couldn't influence it at all. After yet another unsuccessful attempt, I found myself so irritated by the constant failures that even the missteps in my conversation with the sensum seemed insignificant. It was this irritation that ultimately led me to a method for controlling this skill. After several tests, I finally became convinced that my initial suspicion was correct. By midnight, it had been confirmed that the fluctuation interval was directly proportional to my mood, or more precisely, the intensity of my emotions. The calmer I am, the slower the aura changes, and vice versa. Granted, this isn't complete control, but it's a start!
Glancing at the clock once more, I decided that this endeavor was not the most pressing matter at the moment, and since I wasn't in the least bit tired, it seemed the perfect time to initiate the plan I had been contemplating while perched on the high-rise. I carefully tucked my motorcycle suit into the closet and changed into everyday clothing. I then slipped on a thin poncho, wrapped my face in a silk scarf, and, after strapping the most potent flashlight I could find in the house to my belt — not forgetting to put on thin gloves — I stood before the mirror. A thorough self-assessment and a few minor adjustments later, I was satisfied with my reflection. In the dim light of the night city, Izao's identity was unrecognizable beneath the broad attire, poncho, and scarf — unlike the motorcycle suit which could have potentially been identified by someone. It was necessary to alter my camouflage occasionally to avoid predictability.
I nodded at my reflection, then reached for the Break.
Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!
And I stepped through the wall. A "thrilling" night-time journey to the city libraries, long closed off to ordinary visitors, awaited me.
The summer night in Wilflaes is an awe-inspiring sight. I've been living here for quite a while, yet I often find myself pausing in astonishment at particularly striking views. This blend of a modern metropolis and low-rise cottage developments, multi-lane highways and narrow streets where quaint trams make their journey to the depot, still strikes me as unusual and fascinating. The port quarters, lively even at such a late hour, starkly contrast with the profound silence of the parks and the tranquility of the residential areas — even police cars try to rush to emergencies without activating their sirens and flashing lights.
Regardless, my main interest was not in sightseeing, but rather reaching the first address on my schedule before sunrise. It was a typical district library, albeit located in a different part of the city. I understand that visiting the library closest to my apartment would have been the safest option, but my instinct for subterfuge prevailed and I opted for this alternative.
Since I was in no rush, I selected an indirect, slightly meandering route. The final stretch of my path consisted mostly of narrow lanes and the sheltered walkways of park alleys. Of course, if I had ventured into the material world, I wouldn't have chosen this route, primarily because it would be too time-consuming and secondly, this area wasn't the safest at this late hour. However, in the Break, local gangs and other undesirables were inconsequential to me; an additional couple of kilometers meant little when moving at projection speeds.
I was nearing my destination when I heard the sounds of a scuffle and slowed my pace. I didn't want to unexpectedly emerge from around a corner and, due to "Purity", be inadvertently involved in an unnecessary escapade. I hesitated, contemplating whether to circumnavigate the commotion by going over the rooftops or retracing my steps back to the exit of the alley for a minor detour. As I pondered, a gigantic coyote burst from around the corner. It stood nearly as tall as my midriff and must have weighed no less than eighty kilograms. Its mouth was agape, revealing sharp, bared fangs, and its light-gray neck fur was bristling. A sizable, ragged wound on its right side — almost as long as my elbow — appeared to be in the early stages of healing, as no blood flowed from it, despite the visible ribs through the matted fur.
No, this is not my business! I have no desire to get mixed up in shapeshifter disputes. The moment this rational thought formed in my mind, I stepped into the wall. Just as the night alley began to fade behind the brick facade, I caught sight of two more animalistic figures darting from around the corner: a pair of rats that were just as large as the fleeing werecoyote.
Once I'd traversed the wall and found myself in a utility room, my left hand was belatedly seized by a stinging cold.
"No, get lost! Why should I rush to protect one gangster from two others?" I retorted at "Purity", reacting to the pain in my palm. "Besides, the coyote is faster than the rats. If it managed to escape once, it can do so again..." The cold began to subside. "Are you suggesting I follow them?"
Naturally, "Purity" didn't offer any response, but the pain dissipated, which could be interpreted as the blade agreeing with my reasoning.
Ugh... I was on the verge of being entangled in something! I considered myself fortunate that this episode concluded as it did, without "Purity" ensnaring me in the vortex of events as it had with the purse thief.
Taking a moment to catch my breath and calm my nerves, I instinctively rubbed my still throbbing palm. I glanced around to find myself in the storeroom of a grocery store. Going back through the alley from which I'd fled didn't seem like a prudent choice, so I moved through the building, emerging on the opposite side. This wasn't the wealthiest part of town and despite decent street lighting, there were few pedestrians about at this hour. All storefronts had their night-time metal grates lowered — a typical sight in the areas surrounding the port — with one notable difference: this place was relatively clean, free from strewn trash or graffiti.
Had it not been for the constant conflicts between the rat and hyena clans, with occasional freelance contributions from lone shapeshifters of other species, this little district could have been considered relatively prosperous. Its misfortune lay in its geographical position — sandwiched between the port, a baretail territory, and the industrious western capital, which was firmly under the spotted scavenger's control. As is customary for any borderland, bouts of fighting and other signs of territorial disputes would sporadically flare up. It seemed I had chanced upon one such skirmish. If the coyote shapeshifter managed to elude his pursuers, the incident would barely make a mention in the nightly police report among other minor disturbances. Ordinary folks typically avoid getting involved in shapeshifter affairs, and a specialized department is tasked with investigating clan-related crimes. This arrangement makes sense to me: even an armed patrol composed of regular humans would struggle to subdue, let alone catch, an adult shapeshifter determined to escape.
Having regained my composure, I reached my destination within a matter of three minutes, without any further hint of "adventure" along the way. As I'd expected, apart from iron bars on the windows and a sturdy door secured with a barn lock — likely a symbolic nod towards security — the library wasn't guarded in any way. There was no watchman, no alarm system. But then, it was municipal property and there wasn't anything surprising about this. After all, who would consider robbing a public library? The existing security measures seemed more than adequate to deter vandals or aggressive inebriated passersby.
Upon passing through the wall, I navigated past a vestibule and a small reading room housing only four tables, before finding myself amidst rows of shelves packed densely with books. For several minutes, I attempted to decipher the local system of book arrangement to little avail. Then I decided to tap into Izao's memories, which led me almost instantly to the bookshelf I needed.
In the order of escalating complexity, I needed to start exploring my topic of interest. As soon as I transitioned into the physical world, I pulled an eighth-grade history textbook from the shelf. This grade level in Wilflaes covers the history of Europe. Choosing a corner of the room where flashlight light wouldn't spill onto the street, I settled in comfortably and opened the book. I was instantly thankful for my decision to dress lightly and leave my motorcycle suit at home. Reading in a helmet would be far less comfortable than in a scarf. Of course, the library was vacant, and it was unlikely that anyone would sneak in. I probably didn't need to maintain my disguise at all, but good habits are hard to develop and easy to abandon. Continuously maintaining a suitable disguise is such a habit!
A quarter of an hour later, having skimmed through the chapters, I had to close the textbook and put it back on the shelf. The school curriculum of the duchy did not include a single line about Cid Campeador. Izao's memories had hinted at this, but I dismissed them, reasoning that although the boy excelled at the humanities, he did not recall every historical figure taught in school. Recalling my school days, it seemed that El Cid never featured in our syllabus either. Indeed, if it weren't for the replica of Colada and a couple of work trips to Spain, I might not have known about this figure at all. After all, Western European history of the eleventh century isn't widely familiar.
Well then, I thought, I'll need to simplify my approach even further. Guided by this idea, I sought out a twelve-volume collection of the Encyclopedia of the Royal Scientific Society of Prussia, renowned as the most comprehensive French translation.
This time there was a mention — just a brief paragraph. It detailed his birth, his military service, his battles, his conquests, his relinquishing of power, his retirement to a monastery, and his death. Yet, it omitted any reference to poems, novels, songs, or fairy tales inspired by this figure's life. At the very least, it clarified why the Maker referred to him not as "Cid" but as "Sire." In this reality, Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, after capturing Valencia in 1095, did not continue the war with the Moors. Instead, he steered his troops in the opposite direction, subduing Aragon and Castile, and thereby ascending to full kingship — a "Sire." That was the extent of the mentions.
Setting the volume of the encyclopedia aside — without returning it to the shelf — I reflected...
Having come to terms with the fact that I now inhabited a different world, I had scant interest in its history. Izao's memories suggested certain similarities with my Earth-bound knowledge, and this sufficed for me. Fundamentally, I had been right: why bother about centuries-old events in this reality, where an entire continent exists that wasn't on my Earth? Beyond that, the mere fact that phenomena like shapeshifters and sensums exist was compelling enough. It was clear that history here had taken a different course, with the coincidences suggested by the former occupant of my body being exactly that — coincidences.
Delving into Izao's memories and verifying my assumptions through the encyclopedia, I realized my error. The local history, particularly before our era, aligned almost entirely with Earth's. While there were discrepancies in names, general trends persisted. Divergences increased towards the end of the eleventh century, but even then, I occasionally stumbled upon historical figures or events matching perfectly. It was only in the twelfth century that history took a significant turn — preserving the overall development vector, but not much more. This profound divergence was spurred by the so-called "Coming of the True Blood." In simple terms: shapeshifters appeared in the world, rapidly seizing power. The shapeshifters didn't materialize out of thin air; they weren't from other worlds or planes. One night, some humans simply gained the ability to transform into animals. The reasons behind this remained unanswered. The fact was that it occurred.
The brief duration of the wars that consumed the world following the emergence of the shapeshifters was attributed to the "unknown reason" that the Beast's gift was predominantly granted to individuals already in power — nobility, chieftains, criminal leaders, trade guild masters, workshop heads, and the like. Among the commoners, shapeshifters were scarce, or so it seemed from my cursory examination of encyclopedias and school textbooks.
I was so absorbed in my research that I failed to notice the arrival of morning, realizing it only when I heard the shrill clang of a tram bell from the park.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
After returning all the books to their proper places and eliminating any evidence of my presence, I slipped into the Break and made my way home.
Pre-dawn Wilflaes was so tranquil that I reached my apartment without encountering a single soul, let alone any incidents.
On my walk home, I fantasized about taking a shower, sipping a hot cup of green tea, and sitting at my computer. However, as soon as I entered my room and undressed, the fatigue from the long night hit me. I carelessly left my clothes strewn across the floor, barely made it to my bed, and collapsed, immediately plunging into a fitful sleep filled with bizarre, surreal visions.
I woke up well past noon, feeling as though I'd been run through a meat grinder, tossed into a blender, and then somehow reassembled. I languished in the shower for a while, attempting to wash away remnants of disquieting dreams, but it proved fruitless. I even contemplated if I were ill. I ventured out into the Break and returned, but my condition remained unchanged — thus, the issue wasn't some mythical illness, but rather my psychological state.
Hot tea proved much more efficacious than the shower. My thoughts grew clearer, and I felt hunger creeping in. However, my plan for a late brunch was thwarted by an empty fridge, reminding me that one must first procure food before cooking it.
I collected the discarded clothes from the floor and tossed them into the washing machine. Then, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, I grabbed some cash and headed for the store. I could have strolled to the nearest café and dined there, but the refrigerator still needed stocking. In theory, my current financial state allowed me to forget about cooking altogether and dine at restaurants or order takeaway. However, in practice, I still felt hesitant to spend the money I had received from BKDW — or more accurately, from the government. It seemed legitimate — I had checked — but an unnerving feeling continued to discourage me from utilizing it.
Having purchased a variety of items at the nearest store, enough to fill two sizeable bags, I began my trek back home, mulling over my financial situation. What should I do with the money to eradicate even the theoretical chance of being traced through it? I continued contemplating this as I prepared a meal of pasta with ground meat and tomato cream sauce upon returning home.
One option was to travel abroad, exchange the francs for local currency, then repeat the process somewhere else. After all, Novilter wasn't the only state in Lemuria, and crossing an ocean wasn't necessary to reach another country. At my speed in the Break, such an operation would take less than a day. It was a decent and relatively safe option, but the thought of dedicating a whole day to it felt tedious. On the other hand, every other idea that came to mind carried higher risks. Buying something and subsequently selling it — "laundering" the money — had too many potential pitfalls. Various schemes involving disposable cards and ATMs didn't inspire much confidence either.
After dinner, I sat on the windowsill cradling another cup of tea and queried Purity, "What constitutes theft?"
A chilling yet not painful sensation in my palm hinted that the blade was reluctant to ponder this subject.
I didn't need to resolve my financial dilemma instantly; I simply needed to divert my mind from ruminating over yesterday's conversation and my historical exploration. Allowing my brain some respite seemed like a sound approach. This method of giving my thoughts a rest, permitting them to evolve while I pondered something else, had proven effective in my previous life, so why not here? Moreover, I was beginning to develop a semblance of dialogue with Purity. Granted, it wasn't fully-fledged communication, just subtle indications, but it was certainly something to capitalize on. Maintaining contact with this troublesome weapon was essential if I aimed to survive past the first crime I inadvertently bore witness to.
"Is it theft if I walk into a store, take an item, and leave behind money equivalent to its value at the checkout?" I asked.
Purity's response was odd — initially, a sharp painful prick, followed swiftly by a diminishing cold sensation. How was I to interpret that? Did the blade harbor doubt, or was I simply losing my sanity? While the latter was plausible, I decided not to venture down that path of contemplation.
"Should I intervene in a dispute if I'm uncertain who's in the right and who's in the wrong?"
Regrettably, Purity opted to disregard my crucial query entirely.
"Should I rush to the aid of someone being pursued? What if they're pursued rightfully and deserve punishment? Say they're a rapist fleeing a crime scene, being chased by the victim's relatives. Is it worth intervening, saving someone, without understanding the context?"
Once more, silence.
"Would it be deemed acceptable if, in my haste to assist someone, I damage property worth significantly more than the potential harm the person I'm rescuing could suffer?"
It remained silent... However, at least there was a minimal reaction to one of the four questions, and that was a small victory!
I wished I could coax Word into communication, but the sword remained stoically unresponsive, ignoring all my attempts at dialogue.
After investing another hour attempting to elicit some form of reaction from my blades and failing to obtain the responses I sought, I decided to postpone this line of questioning until the following day.
The positive outcome of my inquiries was that my thoughts finally ceased their frantic dance. After finishing another cup of tea, I switched on the computer and ventured online. I navigated to one of the popular search engines under a proxy, but soon found myself questioning: was it prudent to seek the answers I desired via the internet, or did it pose an unnecessary risk? Surely asking generic questions was entirely safe. However, when it came to questions about Sire Campeador, Aragon, and the history of Spain during that era, perhaps I should exercise restraint. Instead, I could delay my pursuit of additional information until nighttime and revisit the libraries — only this time opting for a more suitable one, like a library in one of the capital's higher education institutions. After a brief online search, I decided on the Historical-Geographical University of Novilter's library.
Yet, those were plans best executed at night. During the day, I could visit the library as a common patron and scrutinize some sources in the reading room. However, as far as I remember, my inquiries would linger on Izao's reader card. I understand that no organization would possess the resources or tenacity to conduct such expansive checks to identify me through such trivial means... Then again, there are sensums whose searching capacities I can only vaguely comprehend. Naturally, I shouldn't be overly concerned about my identity being revealed. Nobody would use me as a laboratory rat or incinerate me at the stake as an otherworldly entity. The utmost threat is being coerced into joining the BKDW under someone else's terms — an unpleasant scenario, yet far from fatal. Nevertheless, I'd prefer to retain as much freedom as possible.
There was ample time before nightfall, and undoubtedly, it could be devoted to something productive — training, studying, among other things... Instead, I sprawled on the bed with a bucket of ice cream, binging the second season of a series I had grown fond of until the sun set. Yes, I'm aware that it's a waste of time, but everyone needs a break! Still, who am I kidding... It was sheer laziness, and the series was genuinely captivating.
Just like in my previous world, the entertainment industry here mainly churned out formulaic drivel, almost as if on an assembly line. The only distinction was the absence of a Hollywood equivalent — a single entity dictating the trends. Due to this minor discrepancy, film production here wasn't as costly but offered more variety. The acting prowess and narrative played a far more significant role in films than special effects and other high-budget components. Yes, blockbusters were produced here too, but they were uninteresting for me to watch, given that this world lagged almost two decades behind in computer graphics. Yet, due to the plethora of independent studios, I occasionally stumbled upon surprisingly captivating content. Like this series, seemingly a typical comedy about student life, but it carried a genuinely intriguing plot — aside from silly humor — that revolved around a detective story, not a romantic one. The young actors were so well-cast, they seemed to be playing themselves, lending a natural authenticity to the series. Despite the lack of extravagant settings, guest stars, or even stunts and chases, it was so enthralling that it was impossible to resist watching. The camerawork was commendable too, something I, as a professional, noted immediately. The cinematography was so immersive that it felt like I was spying on the characters through a window rather than watching a TV show.
The day evaporated so seamlessly that it felt almost nonexistent. Additionally, it demanded a sizable portion of willpower to interrupt the show mid-season and embark on the planned nocturnal excursion.
After consuming a simple meal of scrambled eggs with tomatoes and sausage, I donned the same attire as yesterday. Given the summer heat, the clothes were thoroughly dry after washing, eliminating the need for any alternate outfit. As I wrapped the scarf around me, I felt the lingering urge to abandon my plans and resume watching the show.
Really, why am I in such a hurry? What difference does a day make? Does a single day really dictate anything? I no longer live under the Damocles' sword of attracting the Inquisition and similar organizations, so why this rush? Isn't it high time to commence a normal life instead of this frenetic dash marked by constant vigilance and bouts of panic?
The answer is, unequivocally, yes. Yet, lazing on the couch instead of pursuing something equally intriguing and arguably more necessary doesn't qualify as a "normal life." Naturally, relaxation and occasional indolence are crucial to maintain one's sanity; without these moments of respite, it's easy to become a shell of one's former self. However, everything has its time, and excessive laziness, if left unchecked, can envelop your life in a warm, complacent blanket of inertia, from which it can be challenging to escape.
Overcoming a bout of laziness, I switched off the TV and computer, double-checked the planned route on the map, ensured I had spare batteries for the flashlight, and slipped into the Break.
This time, my journey didn't lead me through back alleys and courtyards, but along expansive avenues and highways. After all, few could notice me, and that too, by sheer chance. Even in such an instance, escape would be simple. Balancing such a risk against the potential for an unwanted adventure incited by "Purity," I concluded that I would undoubtedly survive an encounter with a random raig... But handling the antics of wakizashi was a different story. Consequently, I selected a route populated with ample pedestrians and vehicles, even at night.
Approximately halfway to my destination, I chanced upon a car accident. Nothing severe, merely a driver failing to brake in time at a traffic signal and gently "kissing" the vehicle in front. The incident drew my attention as a heated exchange ensued between the drivers, escalating towards a potential brawl. Slowing my pace, I approached the scene of the accident, scrutinizing the situation. It wasn't the drivers' quarrel that intrigued me, but the reaction of "Purity." How would the blade respond? Would it prod me into intervening? Would it compel me to prevent the imminent skirmish? Or would it simply ignore the situation?
As it turned out, the last option was the correct one. Even when the drivers escalated their disagreement into a physical scuffle, "Purity" remained unmoved. I observed the situation until the law enforcement officers arrived, ensuring throughout that the sword was unaffected by the incident.
Intriguing, very intriguing indeed! I have several theories about "Purity," and this incident fits snugly into one of them. Of course, further tests will need to be conducted later, potentially enabling me to more accurately predict the reactions of this fragment of Izao's soul. If my hypothesis holds, then my life could become considerably safer...
The remainder of the journey was uneventful. No unexpected encounters with nocturnal raigs, nothing of note, in fact.
As I had anticipated, the university building was indeed guarded, unlike the district library. However, the three guards on duty, one of whom was snoozing in the booth at the entrance while the other two engaged in a card game in the surveillance room, posed no impediment to my plans. Naturally, I inspected the security monitors to ascertain that the lone camera installed in the library focused solely on the entrance to the room and did not scan the shelves or the reading room.
I spent a good forty minutes inspecting the building and observing the guards' routine. From what I gathered, those responsible for patrolling the premises utterly neglected their duty, opting instead to bicker over their card game.
Once I was confident that my visit would go unnoticed by the guards, I ascended to the library and made myself comfortable at a table in the reading room. I indulged in such brazenness because this table was positioned at the back of the room, concealed from the entrance by bookshelves. I could have nestled myself in the very corner, but one night spent in such a manner was sufficient. After all, consistently spending the night sitting on the floor was not an experience I wished to perpetuate.
The bookshelves were easy to locate, and the volumes, conveniently sorted by topic and course, significantly expedited my search. I started from the ground up, beginning with the textbook "History of Europe, 10-12th century." Arguably, it might have been more appropriate to commence my exploration with the ancient world, but my curiosity was less about the history of this world in general and more about a specific historical figure and all things associated with them.
Subsequently, the textbook was joined on the table by an encyclopedia, followed by a couple more reference books. A few hours in, I realized that a notebook for taking notes would have been beneficial. Regrettably, I didn't find extensive information on Sire Campeador. However, the radical changes that occurred at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries due to the emergence of shapeshifters proved to be genuinely fascinating. Alas, the subject was so vast that even with my nocturnal expeditions, it would take me months to traverse its expanse, yielding only a superficial understanding at best.
Until five in the morning, I engrossed myself in these educational resources, nearly forgetting the initial reason I had come here. Of course, I didn't completely lose sight of my primary objective and managed to uncover a few pertinent facts.
Firstly, in this reality, Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar enjoyed a significantly extended lifespan, almost twenty years more. Consequently, the fateful battle with the Moors where he suffered mortal wounds did not take place here. Secondly, his conquests were far more substantial. Thirdly, the Moors, like the rest of the world, also had their shapeshifters. Still, their power struggles were even bloodier than those in the Catholic segment of the peninsula, leading to their expulsion from Spain much earlier than in my Earth. Fourthly, after attaining the status of a full-fledged king, Sire Campeador ceased to be the folk hero celebrated in songs and tales as the defender of the common people from foreign invaders, as was the case in my reality. Fifthly, his name was most often associated with the voluntary transfer of power to one of the shapeshifter clans - the Batallador clan, which, interestingly, still rules Aragon. From this, it could be inferred that de Vivar did not possess the Beast's gift. From all these observations, it's clear that only a highly specialized scholar, deeply invested in this brief period of European history, could identify my sword. Whether Tu Chong fits that description, or if his deductions are yet another testament to the Makers' remarkable insights, I regrettably have no answer. I also do not know how to determine the veracity of this case.
Having gathered all the books and returned them to their respective places, I checked for any residual traces of my presence. To my surprise, I had left one: a battery had rolled under a table leg, unnoticed during my flashlight battery change. While I doubted that finding such an item would raise suspicions of a nocturnal intrusion, I picked it up and pocketed it as a precaution. Only after a further thorough inspection did I retreat into the Break. As I exited the building, I glanced at the security booth: the two guards had long since abandoned their card game and were now sound asleep in their chairs, oblivious to their duty.
Although it was still very early, and I could have comfortably remained in the library for at least another hour, my plans for this early morning had a different direction.
Stepping outside, I sprinted a couple of blocks, effortlessly circumventing the security barriers, and slipped into a small stationery shop. Of course, it was closed at that hour, and its premises lacked surveillance cameras. After a brief survey and browsing through a few shelves, I found what I needed and returned to the physical world. What I needed was a set of quality drawing pencils, priced precisely at ten francs, a vital component of my experiment.
When I took the set of pencils from the rack, I was acutely aware of the sensations in my left palm. "Purity" remained entirely indifferent to the fact that I was handling someone else's merchandise, which made sense, as I hadn't yet committed theft, and browsing items wasn't prohibited. Approaching the cash register with the pencils in hand, I transitioned into the Break. As my body vanished from the physical realm, the box naturally fell onto the cash register - an expected outcome. Once again, the wakizashi showed no sign of disapproval, perhaps because it knew theft wasn't possible in this manner and hence had no reason to react. Upon returning to reality, I picked up the pencils again, produced a ten-franc note from my pocket, and laid it next to the cash register. Then, I slipped back into the Break. Surprisingly, the box didn't remain in my grasp but fell onto the counter in the physical world.
Hold on...
Why?!
I paid!
How is this possible?
My theory that the subconscious prevents us from carrying into the Break what we don't own had been swiftly toppled like a flimsy house of cards in a hurricane. Because I'd paid for those damn pencils - they were mine! I've previously left cafes without waiting for the bill, merely tossing more-than-enough money on the table. That behavior was acceptable, even in this world, and, by the way, "Purity" hadn't protested against it! So, why is the Break refusing to accept the box as mine now? Furthermore, how does the sorting process work? Who, or what, determines what can be transported into this spectral space?
The universe?
God?
A higher power?
An incomprehensible principle?
...
Regardless, it's bad news.
And I had such grand plans if my hypothesis about the subconscious limiter had proven correct! What a disappointment.
Sure, things would have been easier if... Still, a negative result is also a result. I'm glad I discovered this detail now through experimentation rather than in some critical situation.
Reluctantly returning the pencil box, I retrieved my ten francs from the cash register and, slipping into the Break, exited the store.
On my way home, I muttered a string of soft curses. I was almost entirely convinced that I could have taken those pencils with me. The thwarting of my expectation fueled my anger to such an extent that I continued my tirade of expletives even when I was at home, changed into my nightwear, and lying in bed. The Break usually aids in calming down, but not this time. The source of my fury wasn't hormonal but cognitive, so the projection didn't help. Despite my fatigue, I tossed and turned in bed for a considerable while. Every time I closed my eyes, those damn pencils haunted my vision!