At the break of dawn, we departed The Cobblestone Cradle, heading south toward the Merchant's Promenade. Aside from the individual street names, I had practically memorized the entire map of Ingcaster. And while there were plenty of traders and stores peppered throughout Ingcaster, the promenade apparently offered more.

  As the morning crowd thickened, I adjusted my filter to only display level fours and above. I squeezed my right hand, noting it was fully healed. It took an hour of speed walking before we reached an intersection that turned into a cobblestone highway cutting across from the east and west.

  Is this the Ingcaster Beltway?

  The map belied the route's size. The beltway provided a direct path to the Regal Plaza on the west side of Ingcaster, linking it to the Merchant's Promenade on the east. From what I'd gathered, the south was a hub of guilds and lodging for travelers. The north mostly consisted of Oarwin, a neglected, lawless district, while the nobles lived in the west and did business in the east.

  Although I studied the map, I was still far from calling myself a local. Viessa followed in tow, dressed like a nun mixed with the Zodiac killer. The baggy outfit was the result of her remaining clean clothes and an oversized cloth mask with two tiny peepholes. But compared to what the general population of Ingcaster wore, her attire hardly stood out.

  Lots of folks donned layers of heavy garb and masks despite the rising morning heat. Those seeking anonymity weren't subjected to much suspicion. As we moved east, we passed several royal guards on horseback who didn't give us a second glance. Viessa looked onward in awe as we hugged the side of the road designated for pedestrians. Soon, the path became congested with an obnoxious amount of inbound and outbound traffic.

  I never thought Ingcaster was capable of traffic that rivaled rush hour in downtown Chicago. Yet here we were, nuts to butts with a never ending line of people that all had the same idea of cutting into the road, weaving between sluggish carriages.

  A group of furious guardsmen swooped in on horseback, pelting jaywalkers with pebbles from their slingshots.

  “Stay in the proper lane!” a guardsman shouted as he nailed a woman in the back.

  She stumbled back into the outer pedestrian lane, clutching her spine as she merged past us. The woman pulled a stale muffin from her pocket and launched it like a quarterback. It crumbled upon impact aside the guard's helmet.

  “Who threw that? I'll detain the lot of you!”

  Four royal guardsmen swerved across three lanes, further impeding the congestion as they descended into our lane. I l yawned as they formed a blockade ten yards ahead of us and a pissed off line of people behind us started shouting.

  “Hey assholes, some of us have better things to do,” someone shouted directly over my shoulder.

  I shot him a 'don't yell in my fucking ear' look and realized he was rolling eight men deep.

  The armed group of roughnecks hovered their hands over their weapons. I recognized their dire expressions. The expressions of sunburned men who had been waiting in a drive-thru for 90 minutes only to find out the ice cream machine was busted. It was this type of frustrated stupidity I'd seen countless times before—the kind of stupid that made people kill and die over the most trivial matters.

  The guard with crumbs stuck to his collar unsheathed his sword. “The bastard who said, that you're under arrest!”

  “Try it, prick,” the man shouted past my ear again.

  It looked like the guard was pointing his sword at me, so I stepped aside. But the point of his blade followed as our eyes locked.

  Is this stupidity contagious?

  “Obstructing traffic, assaulting a nobleman, and ignoring lawful orders. Your sentence won't be kind. All of you put down your weapons,” he shouted.

  His fellow guardsmen backed him, swords at their sides, holding a steadfast V formation. One of them blew a whistle, and I knew reinforcements would be on the way. A voice whispered in the back of my head, suggesting I diffuse the situation by tearing out their jugulars.

  I motioned Viessa aside and raised my hands over my head. “We're not with them.” I pointed over my shoulder. “This guy is the one talking trash, and it was that woman in the red outfit that threw the muffin.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The loudmouth behind me stared daggers, silently pledging that he would seek revenge as his group reached for their swords. Unfortunately for them, the cavalry arrived. Outnumbered two to one, they suddenly dropped their weapons into their sheaths.

  “Don't hesitate now, you cowards. I'd be happy to cut you all down,” the guard behind them said.

  Viessa and I stepped out of the way as the guards flocked through the crowd, detaining the roughnecks and the muffin tossing perpetrator.

  “You and your friend are dead!” the loudmouth shouted before a guardsman kneed him in his belly.

  Filter off.

  Target: Skurt

  Level: 3

  Karma: -100

  Additional Data: Age 26. Leader of the c-rank adventurer group Deadly Talon. Currently being arrested for obstruction. Favorite song is Bastard's Ballad.

  Filter, display level fours.

  As the sea of statuses disappeared, I carved his name and association into my memory in case our paths crossed again. There was no pleasure in snitching and even Viessa properly assessed it as a coward's play, despite the language barrier. But I'd rather they get trampled by overzealous guards than inconvenience my day any further.

  Sunlight peered through the sky, warming my back as we continued our stroll. With a pocket full of gold and a million knives soon to be pointed in my direction, preparations needed to be taken. I was also on my last pair of clothes, and the so-called 'heat resistant' cloak I had worn in the dungeon was full of holes.

  The air thickened with the mingling scents of exotic spices, freshly baked bread, and smoked meats as the beltway transitioned into the Merchant's Promenade, which stretched for miles—a labyrinth of commerce and culture. Cobblestone streets worn smooth by countless feet, glistened under the morning sun, projecting a warped reflection. Viessa mimed biting into a sandwich and I nodded.

  Aromatic wafts of cinnamon and cloves guided us down a street lined with merchants' vivid displays. Their stalls, draped in colorful silks and distinctive signage, tantalized passersby. Viessa pointed out a nearby stand with a 500 lb wild horned boar rotating on a massive spit.

  The strange creature smelled tasty enough, so we took our spot in line. A banner stretched across the front of the stall, along with an oak A-frame sign with their daily specials. The Sizzling Spit offered a variety of freshly roasted meats along with sides of spiced rice and pan-fried veggies.

  An enthusiastic young man waved us up to the counter. “Whatcha eating?”

  I turned toward Viessa and she tilted her head toward the gargantuan beast.

  “We'll take two orders of whatever that is, along with a side of vegetables and rice,” I said.

  “Five silver for two Bristle King specials.”

  As I handed over the silver, I asked, “Who sells the best armor and weapons?”

  “Folks say Hammer and Hand is the best.” The youngster leaned in across the counter. “But they're overpriced. Try Hammer and Hanover. They're just up the street.”

  “Thanks.” I tossed him an extra silver.

  Moments later, they served us with two piping hot bowls along with some strange hemp-like disposable silverware. We carried our meal into a sprawling courtyard outfitted with marble tables and benches. Viessa chose our table beside an intricate bronze fountain. The cacophony of hawkers calling out their wares, and the constant hum of haggling voices blended with the babbling water.

  “I thought you were a vegetarian,” I said, figuring the ambient noise would mask our conversation.

  Viessa's eyes went wide. She glanced over her shoulder before whispering, “There's no divine law against eating meat. It's only forbidden in Onadell...”

  “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” I said.

  Of course, the reference flew over her head, but saying it aloud brought me comfort. I already felt nostalgic thanks to the frenetic atmosphere.

  Viessa pulled up her mask and tightened her hood, keeping her face concealed with a small gap for food. As she took her first bite, her pale skin flashed red. I passed her my canteen, and she took a long swig.

  “S-s-spicy.”

  Sure.

  Unlike her, I was a connoisseur of 4 out of 5-star Thai cuisine and religiously consumed extra-hot buffalo wings every Friday since I was 17. The tender boar meat easily fell apart as I speared a bite with my fork. Rich, fatty flavors exploded across my palate. It was slightly gamey, but the texture of the perfectly charred bark and succulent spices elevated its taste.

  I eagerly scooped a truckload of spiced rice into my mouth. As my tongue went numb, I realized Viessa's palate wasn't that of a suburban soccer mom. The rice was indeed spicy, overwhelmingly so.

  I reached across the table, snatching the canteen from Viessa as my taste buds combusted. Tears blurred my vision. I turned the canteen upside down, but only a drop hit my tongue.

  Viessa passed me a handkerchief. I wiped the deluge of snot from my nose and coughed into the rag. I sought refuge in the vegetables and the rest of the meat, wishing I could taste them.

  “It's not inedible,” Viessa said with another mouthful of rice. “Are you OK?”

  “Y-yes,” I choked.

  “What do you need to accomplish before we leave for Onadell?”

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you believe in the will of the gods?”

  “Naturally, only heretics and lunatics forsake their will," Viessa said, helping herself to the rest of my spicy rice.

  “I'm operating on their behalf. Until my objective is complete, no amount of asking 'are we there yet' is going to expedite our vacation.”

  Viessa laughed, covering her mouth. “I was hoping for a more believable excuse.”

  I shrugged. “I've been tasked with ridding this world of corruption. Justice mentioned something about balance.”

  “Who is Justice?”

  “The goddess of this realm.”

  Viessa's jaw dropped. “Everything you've said is blasphemous. If you're not careful with your words, Galdir will strike you down.”

  “Who's Goldor?”

  “G-A-L-D-I-R. God of the living.” Viessa pulled down her hood, obscuring her minuscule eye holes, too ashamed to look at me.

  “Never heard of him,” I said truthfully.

  Viessa pushed the rest of my dish aside and stood up. “I won't ask about Onadell again. Just don't offend the gods further.”

  “You've got a deal.”