Flipping the eerie emptiness of the outer town, the heart of Worwick was stiflingly bustling. The narrow roads were packed as can be, with people on foot mingling with animals, carts, and carriages. Beor slowed the groffs pulling the wagon to navigate the traffic carefully.

“This is the time I should’ve said welcome to Worwick,” said Cogwyn. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

The surroundings were how someone might picture a town from a fantasy book instead of the grimy reality of medieval towns and cities. Brick houses with wooden second floors extended over the roads, cramped but in an endearing way. Shops filled to the brim with wares, both normal and magical. Statues, fountains, and elaborate shrines scattered all over without reason, the nobles splurging when Speckles used to flow.

“It does look amazing…” Finlay slowly nodded, reminiscing about his adventures, or misadventures, in Worwick. A long time ago and yet to happen at the same time. And would never happen because he’d change how things would unfold.

“Another amazing thing is that you know how to make a melloswine puff its smoke.” Cogwyn peered at Finlay with narrowed eyes. “You know your beasts. Does your family own a Soulheart farm?”

In Finlay’s rush to distract the captain, he acted the opposite of an out-of-his-depth noble, traveling far only to get robbed. This was easy to salvage though. “I’m just well-acquainted with the… abilities… of a melloswine. It’s not always easy to find a Warden far out in Elmbow, so we—”

“Use a real melloswine for your parties,” Cogwyn finished. “I get it.”

“I don’t partake much of the smoke,” said Finlay, putting on an embarrassed tone. “But I can’t really avoid learning how to make a melloswine puff. I swear by the Firstborns I wasn’t pretending not to know about Soulheart farms.”

Let them build his backstory from that tidbit. The captain confirming he had heard of the Rasbands of Elmbow lent credence to Finlay’s story.

“On the topic of pretending…” Finlay looked to the front of the wagon. “Trance, I apologize for cutting you off. If the guards knew I was robbed by bandits, they’d take me in for questioning. Nothing wrong with that, of course. It’s just that I’d rather not associate too closely with the Princeps’ soldiers.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sir Rasband,” Trance replied over his shoulder with an overly polite tone. “I should’ve been more discerning with my words. Beor hinted you should sympathize with him since you’re from Elmbow. I didn’t immediately realize your place had issues with Gilders as well.”

“Issues? You can say that. Something related to ancient treaties. I don’t want to get too much into it.” This was another reason why Finlay picked Elmbow. He learned from Cogwyn of the future that Elmbow revolted against Gilders along with other southern cities before the Sporeal Tide invasion.

“Touchy-touchy history,” Cogwyn sang as he climbed down the cage to avoid the blue and gold bannerets strung over the road.

“Fork up ahead,” Beor said. “The left road leads to the constable’s office. Finlay of Unluckiness, best you report your misfortune to the constable of Worwick, if not the soldiers. He is an honorable man who’ll help you. A retired sternial artisan with a clean name, he was appointed as a neutral officer in charge of Worwick while the conflict between the lords is being resolved.”

“If it’ll be ever resolved,” Cogwyn muttered.

“However, Finlay of Misfortune, our party’s destination is the marketplace, following the road to the right,” Beor continued. “We aim for the midday auction. The sooner these beasts are turned into coins, the less risk they’d injure themselves or contract illnesses. We don’t know when bad luck strikes like the sudden storms of Worwick. My suggestion is for Cogwyn to accompany you to—”

“I’ll join you to the beast auction,” Finlay interjected. “I’ve never been to one before. If that’s alright?”

Finlay didn’t want to meet the constable as a fake robbed noble wrapped only in a cloak. The constable could be an ally in cooling down the bickering lords someday, and Finlay should approach him in a position of power.

Also, he used to work at the market. Couldn’t say he missed the place, but he wanted to see it just the same.

“Very alright!” Cogwyn made a two-finger gesture that was the thumbs-up equivalent in their culture. “I can show you around the marketplace too.”

“You just don’t want to meet the constable,” Trance said. “He hasn’t forgotten what you did to—”

“I haven’t the faintest of idea what you’re talking about,” said Cogwyn. “I want to buy our friend some clothes. That’s how charity works, if you don’t know.”

“Great idea,” Beor said. “Show the gods our appreciation for sending Finlay the Tragic our way.”

Cogwyn gave Finlay a knowing wink. “Sure, that too. Wouldn’t want to anger any god.”

On their way to the marketplace, sloshing through the sludge of crowds, they passed many places that jogged Finlay’s memories. His past life in Worwick returned as if pieces of a jigsaw puzzle getting slotted into their correct spot. He flipped through the pages of his mind, looking for an advantage his past knowledge of the future could give.

“You’re smiling again,” Cogwyn said. “Are you some kind of eccentric noble who finds the commoner life interesting? I’ve heard of rich people dressing up in peasant clothes and—”

“That’s an improper question,” Trance sternly said. “Apologies, Sir Rasband.”

“I don’t mind,” Finlay replied. “And I never said I’m a noble.”

“Noble or not, you’re important enough to be invited to a party with a melloswine,” Cogwyn said. “Haven’t been to one. I’m thinking—it’s a good idea this time. Better idea, I mean. None of my ideas are bad. Hear me out—what if we throw a party and use this melloswine ourselves?”

“What if we just auctioned you off?” Trance said.

Beor laughed. “No one would bid for Cogwyn!”

Letting their banter fade into the noise of the crowd, Finlay peeled his eyes for a store they should soon pass.

Nostalgia wasn’t the reason for Finlay’s smile this time. Rather, he was pleased with himself for recalling a solution to a huge problem—how to earn money fast. He puzzled over it since the bus ride to Grandpa Swaney’s farm. Odd tasks here and there—being an errand boy of the workers constructing the tournament stands, cleaning the cages at the auction house, and gathering spoiled vegetables from vendors to feed the beasts—were too slow and time-consuming.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Here was the answer.

The Acclaimed Plant Solutions of Gideon the Floramagus was displayed on a signboard clasping for dear life with a few rusty screws. The flaking hand-painted letters were too big, resulting in squeezed words that were barely legible. The rundown façade of the shop, its door moldy and windows dabbed with dust, wouldn’t entice anyone to enter.

Not that the owner cared.

Gideon Oberath Malvar of Lyndell, a self-proclaimed ‘floramagus’, his own made-up word, was the son of a merchant who built his wealth during Worwick’s first Speckle rush. Unlike the nobles of Worwick, Gideon’s father was close-fisted with money. He passed to his son a sizeable inheritance. Taking this fortune, Gideon returned to this town and opened a shop specializing in all things plant.

By all things, it was anything one could think of. Turning green leaves into sparkling blue and red? Gideon would take on the challenge. A floral perfume that doubled as a love potion? Sure, no problem.

Well, there was a slight problem.

Floramagus Gideon accepting a job didn’t mean he’d succeed. More like, he had his definition of success. A love potion making groffs fall for a human was still a love potion in his messed-up dictionary. Done with the project, he’d move on even if the customer complained. Cogwyn thought Finlay was eccentric; Gideon was the real deal.

Despite bordering insane, the floramagus was an undeniable expert in plants, collecting the rare and valuable. The rich biodiversity of the forests around Worwick, legacy of the ancient lifestream, was what drew him to this town.

Finlay planned to visit Gideon after finding a Century-Blooming Azalea. I’ll earn big selling it to him.

The flower’s name was an exaggeration. It bloomed once every twenty years, not a hundred. Still incredibly rare. Add that its flower wilts within a few days, losing its magical properties. Gideon would buy a freshly picked one in a heartbeat.

Finlay knew the rough location of this special azalea that’d bloom in about a week because Gideon told him before. Practically told everyone. The floramagus missed harvesting its blossom by five days or something. Devastated, he stomped around the town square, yelling at workers that it was their fault for distracting him with their hammering and clanking and digging.

That time, Finlay was waiting to talk to the foreman of the carpenters and ask for a job. Gideon zeroed in on Finlay for some reason, forcing him to listen to a half-an-hour-long tirade. Gideon detailed everyday of the construction and what noises they made, putting emphasis on the noisy digging. Finlay could still hear Gideon’s grating voice. He avoided the deranged floramagus since then.

Let’s be friends this time, Gideon, Finlay cheerily thought as the shop’s signboard disappeared from view.

Their wagon slowed to a sluggish crawl as the narrow streets widened and buildings fell back, revealing the half-completed tiered stands for the audience of the tournament. They had reached the town square.

The bronze statue of the first Lord Vassenet in the middle gazed at the sky in a pompous pose. At the opposite end of the open space, which wasn’t so open because it was filled with festival stalls and people, stood the church built with white bricks.

Tolling bells swallowed all other sounds. The church’s massive doors swung open and parishioners poured out. The mass worshipping the Firstborns, whose elderbones were used for everything magic, had just ended.

Finlay shivered at the sound of the bell. Prayers of priests trying to ‘exorcise’ the demon that supposedly possessed him and made him speak in an unknown tongue clanged around in his brain.

That wasn’t a good time. At all.

“Will any of you join the tournament?” Finlay almost yelled to make sure they heard him.

“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” Cogwyn replied. “But I think Beor has a chance. The limit is two Links, isn’t it? He’s fine.”

Finlay knew of Monolinkers that could beat Dualinkers. The power gap between them wasn’t big. A different matter going up against Tri-linkers with bodies tempered with anima, making flesh and skin harder than regular steel. It’d be like letting an adult bully a kid if they were allowed to fight lower Links. Not that there were many Tri-linkers who’d be interested anyway.

Most Wardens would join an elemental sect upon reaching three Links to further their growth. Some backwater tournament in a minor princedom far north should be beneath a sect member.

Finlay had a short stint at a sect. The remnants of one. The war against the Sporeal Tide was in full swing by then, with many elemental sects diminished.

“Without an entire river of luck washing over me,” Beor said, “I wouldn’t dare risk my limb in the tournament. It’s supposed to be a fight for show, but it’ll be serious, believe me. Rumors say that the lords vying for control of Worwick hired prodigies from abroad to represent them. It’ll be a contest between those three. All others are simply looking to be injured. Or worse.”

“Things might get ugly,” Trance said. “It will, I daresay. There’s too much at stake.”

“What stake?” asked Cogwyn. “Money? Why would those prodigies bother with that? They get paid a lot, and would rake in more coins when they reach higher Links. If you meant recognition… I guess there’s that. Somewhat. Many nobles in the audience.”

“That’s the stake,” Trance said. “I was referring to the three lords, not the contestants. On its own, the tournament is an event for the festival. It just commemorates the fights the Vassenets held way back to entertain the Speckle miners. Nothing big. The patron of this year’s winner, however, will—”

“Have bragging rights,” Cogwyn cut in.

“—display power to everyone watching,” Trance continued. “Bragging rights, yes. Public perception, the wealthy public, is the currency of influence. Connect that to their claims on Worwick. It’s all politics, in the end. I shudder to think how the losing lords would react.”

Not very well, Finlay mused as he looked for a house along the street east of the town square.

There it was, that one with a roof of maroon ceramic tiles. He climbed up there to view the final match of the tournament because the town square was packed.

Representatives of Wyrenth and Baccarat faced each other in the middle of the ring. The Vassenet champion was beaten by the fire-specialized Warden of Baccarat in the prior round. House Wyrenth’s contestant had two water Soulhearts. Almost everyone bet that she’d win against Baccarat. The fight started even, but it turned out that the water element beats fire in this world too.

What happened next was a jumbled mess. Finlay was sure the Wyrenth Warden managed to encase the Baccarat Warden in ice. Did she then prepare for a final blow? Or did someone try to stop the match? The popsicle Baccarat seemed pretty defeated already.

And then Finlay found himself flung in the air with roof shingles.

There was no conclusion to the fight. To be more accurate, a huge explosion concluded it.

He was lucky he didn’t suffer serious injuries. Many people died. Many important people. A huge mess with plenty of finger-pointing escalated into skirmishes between the forces of the three lords.

How can I prevent that? If Finlay won the tournament—a monumentally tall order; he hadn’t even qualified yet—he’d gain fame while simultaneously erasing a flashpoint for the three lords to fight. His win might discourage whoever rigged the explosion. But if it’d happen regardless, Finlay should find the would-be culprits and stop them before the tournament’s end.

He first thought of the Vassenets. Everyone did.

What did the Vassenets stand to gain though? Their champion was already eliminated. Surely, the Baccarats were the culprits—the Baccarats didn’t want to lose, so they blew everything up. Too obvious. Probably? Others asserted the Wyrenths were framing the Baccarats. No one would suspect the winners to orchestrate the explosions.

Or maybe it wasn’t connected to the conflict over Worwick at all. It could be the handiwork of assassins targeting other nobles in attendance.

A month to figure it out. Around three weeks to join the tournament—those without sponsor-nobles had to qualify first. After time traveling, he was already lacking time.

“Make way! Make way!” The loud calls broke Finlay’s reverie. It came from behind them.

“There’s no way to make way here,” Cogwyn murmured. “What do they expect us to do? Pile on top of each other? We can try, I guess.”

“Who’s coming?” Trance craned his neck over the feathery bulk of the sleeping terror bird.

Finlay spied banners bobbing over the sea of people. Branching horns on deep green. The Vassenets.