Loen Kingdom, Backlund, South of Backlund Bridge
The carriage rattled steadily along the cobblestone street, its iron-rimmed wheels hissing through puddles as another curtain of cold rain swept across the windows.
Abel leaned against the frame, looking out at the sodden environment.
It was another wet winter morning in the Loen capital—of course it was. The rain never really stopped in Backlund. It just paused now and then to catch its breath.
Unlike the commoners who had to huddle in public carriages—no glass windows to keep out rain, and with barely enough space for twenty souls pressed shoulder to shoulder—Abel rode in quiet comfort.
The average fare was a penny or two per mile, if you could spare it, and a bit more if you wanted to sit down the whole way. They had to cling to the side rails and jostle through turns, their coats soaked and knees knocking together from the cold.
In districts closer to the factories, the trackless carriages ran more often, twice an hour on good days, crawling slower when the roads turned to mud. Further out, toward the edge of the boroughs, folks either walked or waited. Sometimes for hours.
If you had coin to spare, you might flag a small rental with a driver, four pence a kilometer inside the city, double that beyond. Not cheap. But some did it anyway, if they were in a hurry or needed to keep up appearances.
Backlund's metro existed too—born five years before his birth in this world. It still ran on steam, belching white clouds through underground stations. It connected both banks of the Tussock River and wound through the key boroughs—West, East, South, North, and the class-divided districts like Cherwood and Hillston.
During peak hours, it came every ten minutes. Off-peak, every fifteen. First- and second-class seats had to be booked ahead. Third-class didn't even bother with seat numbers, just a few pence to squeeze in where you could. An annual pass cost eight pounds if you wanted comfort. Most people didn't bother with such a thing, saving their money for a rainy day.
The city was vast—which Abel thought should be expected, given that it was basically London—five million people packed between the riverbanks, stretching from dockyards to smokestacks to towers. The Tussock River cut through the middle of the city, murky and always busy, with the famous Backlund Bridge—more proof that this was London equivalent—linking both halves. Some crossed by ferry instead, when the bridge was choked with carriages and carts.
Abel could confidently say Backlund wasn't beautiful. It was crowded, noisy, full of fog and ash. In some ways, it reminded him of Gotham because of how alive it was. And more importantly, it was the center of everything —Loen's politics, money, industry, and religion. Beyonders, nobles, pickpockets, Church agents, factory workers—you'd find them all here, if you knew where to look.
"What are you thinking about?" Dominique's voice pulled him from his thoughts. His golden eyes met hers—eyes that, if one looked closely, were tinged with crimson.
She's begun digesting the potion. Abel realized. Once the process was complete, her eyes would turn entirely blood-red. Veronica was proof of that. The only reason their elder sister still had golden eyes was because of a mystical Seer pathway item she had received from their father.
According to Veronica—now a Sequence 6: Potions Professor—she could easily concoct a potion to alter her eye color. But the mystical item, with its negligible side effects, was far more convenient than brewing a potion and drinking it every twelve hours.
"Oh? Did those bikes catch your eyes?" Dominique's eyes had moved to the window he was looking out of, seeing the latest form of transportation in Backlund.
Ah, right, bikes. Abel's gaze flicked back to the window. He had been in this world for two decades now—had memories and experiences. Steam engines, early typewriters, airships, they existed, but everything was slow on the uptake.Nothing like the twenty-first century he remembered.
But then, two months ago, in September, the first bikes rolled onto the streets. Back then, he didn't think much of it—how could he when it wasn't truly him.
However, now that he knew a Transmigrator existed—The Fool—the sudden appearance of bicycles couldn't be a coincidence.
Abel recalled an incident from early last month. Several members of the Aurora Order who had been plotting something near the docks were found dead. The leader was a swindler named Lanevus, notorious for conning people out of ten thousand pounds.
Lanevus' body was found in the sewers, surrounded and covered by tarot cards.
That was likely the first appearance of The Fool and the Tarot Club publicly. He was more inclined to believe that it was the Transmigrator who invented bikes, he didn't think that The Fool who was playing a god would delegate a mortal to create a business.
What does Mr. Fool, an ancient God, need money for? That's what Tarot Club members would wonder. So, the only plausible explanation for the existence of bicycles… was that the Transmigrator had gone out of his way personally.
Then there was the case of the human trafficker Capim. He and his associates had been killed by a figure now dubbed Hero Bandit Black Emperor, who had left behind the Emperor and Judgement cards at the scene.
Is Mr. Fool outsourcing Tarot Club positions? Abel thought, feeling amused. There was no Emperor in the Tarot Club, so one couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps it had been Mr. Fool himself. After all, Bandit Black Emperor had apparently robbed the safe while saving the enslaved girls. Maybe his fellow 21st-centurian needed some cash until the bike sales took off.
"Abel."
A gloved hand suddenly grasped his chin, gently turning his face forward. Dominique stared at him with pursed lips, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for something.
Abel felt his characteristic digest slightly, giving him an inkling of what was going through his sister's mind.
"Ever since you became a Monster, you've seemed… more pensive. It's unlike you," she pointed out. And from the expression on her face, it was clear she wanted an answer.
How could I not be, with everything feeling like a powder keg waiting to explode? You, my dear sister, with the Mother Goddess of Depravity in your corner… East Borough possibly on the verge of being smothered in smog… Mr. Fool is entangled in his own Mysteries… and most of all, the looming Apocalypse. Abelfelt the corruption within him stir at the mention of the Outer Gods names, but he was used to it by now, and simply ignored it.
He, of course, couldn't tell Dominique any of this, not yet. But it wouldn't be wise to keep her in the dark forever either.
Grasping the hand on his chin, Abel gave her a teasing smile, "What about this morning? The moan you were releasing is unlike your dignified self."
Dominique sputtered and immediately withdrew her hand, a hint of colour rising to her pale cheeks. She glared at him, though it lacked any real heat, "I'm being serious."
Abel's smirk faded, replaced by a gentler expression. He leaned back into the seat and sighed, rubbing a hand through his wavy hair. "Alright, alright. Relax."
The rain continued its steady patter against the windows, the world outside blurred and grey.
"It's just…the world's more dangerous than we know. Than we want to know."
Dominique didn't answer straight away, staring at him quietly for a moment, "I know that," she said softly. "We've both experienced assassination attempts when we were young, just because of our Intisian heritage. Or because people wanted leverage over Father."
She crossed her legs, her eyes never leaving his, "But that's not what you're talking about, is it?"
Abel didn't say anything, waiting for her to say her piece.
"It's about the dream, isn't it? The one where East Borough gets swallowed in smog."
The Monster nodded. "That…and more."
A short silence fell on the carriage, only broken by the rattling of carriage wheels and the pitter patter of the rain.
"As you said Domi, becoming a Monster has changed me," He admitted, continuing before she could say anything. "Mainly how I sense things. And what I've seen—and what I felt—is that the smog is just the prelude. Just the curtain rising."
He leaned forward, gently taking her hand in his, "It's going to escalate. Bit by bit. Until…" Abel trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. He couldn't really say until the Outer Gods descended now, could he?
Dominique stared into his gold eyes, "I believe you." She said, eyes clear of hesitation and doubt.
Abel smiled at that, "That's all I want to tell you, to be careful when you go out."
The Vampiress nodded, her grip on his hand tightening, though not enough to hurt him.
"Young Master, Lady Dominique, we've arrived."
Roberta's voice came from the small sliding window at the front.
"You heard my dear maid," Abel smiled cheekily, making Dominique roll her eyes, and release his hand.
He put his hat and coat on, adjusting the collar as he glanced out the fogged-up window. The rain was still coming down in sheets, heavier now, or as English people say, it's raining cats and dogs.
….
….
….
South of Backlund Bridge, Rose Street
The Harvest Church stood near the end of the street, its modest frame easy to miss if not for the golden steeple catching what little light the sky offered. The Sacred Emblem of Life was etched clearly above the entrance—a swaddled infant cradled by wheat, spring blossoms, and flowing water. The cathedral itself was small, humble even, lacking the high walls and grandeur of other churches, but it stood out all the same, out of place among the brick shops and damp tenements.
"Hm? Is something wrong?" Dominique's steps came to a stop as Abel halted at the walkway to the church.
"I was just wondering," Abel's eyes calmly swept over the church's exterior, showing no reaction to the subtle warnings of his SixthSense, which pinged him about a gaze fixed upon him.
Insight stirred as well, and at just a thought, he could peel back the layers of reality and trace its origin. But given where he was, and the scent of earth clinging to his supernatural senses, it was rather obvious who was peeking at him.
"Why are we here again?"
Dominique threw him a dry look, already used to his impious behaviour, "Did you forget about the incident from looking at Fors? And that Dream of yours, it's obvious it's bothering you." She reminded him.
"To an extent," Abel admitted, "Then let's head inside."
As he and Dominique entered the church, a quote from Sun Tzu flickered through Abel's mind: "Opportunities multiply as they are seized." Another followed in quick succession, no less fitting—"Fortune favours the bold."
I'll take the initiative to contact Earth Mother. The goddess should be able to see that, despite his corrupted state, there was nothing wrong with him—mentally or physically. And as for why he was confident he could secure an audience with Her… well, what god wouldn't be interested in a Beyonder who was Grounded and incorruptible?
He wasn't sure if gods could lose control or fall to corruption, but given that they were once mortal Beyonders too, the possibility was there.
Looks like I'll have to take a page from Mr. Fool's book—pretend to be a follower of myself. The Summoner. Abel chuckled inwardly, stepping into the church.
He was unsurprised at the quietness; there weren't many believers of the Earth Mother in Loen, as it was the state religion of a rival country, Feynapotter.
The prayer hall was simple and narrow, with rows of wooden pews laid out in clean, straight lines. At the very front stood the altar, and above it, the Sacred Emblem of Life watched over the space, its stone surface warmed by the soft glow of candlelight.
Candles lined both sides of the hall, their flames steady, giving the place a gentle orange hue that softened the stone walls. The silver stands holding them were polished, though a bit dulled from age. Off to the side, a small confessional sat tucked against the wall, unused.
Abel's attention didn't linger long on the surroundings. A familiar ripple of unease rose within him—corruption stirring, clashing, churning like storm-tossed waves beneath his skin. Subconsciously, he shifted his gaze to the pews at the front, the seats tucked into the corner.
Gold eyes met brown.
At this distance, he couldn't make out the man's expression, and the other's face remained unreadably calm. But Abel didn't care. A laugh itched at his throat, one he barely held back.
The ember within that man blazed. It blazed brighter than Dominique's had the night before, brighter than any of the passersby on the street, brighter than anything he'd seen since his senses awakened. One thought—just one flicker of his goal—was all it would take for that ember to ignite into a blaze of Living Dream Energy.
And that wasn't all, similar to the blonde haired Spirit World creature, Abel could feel the Knot in Fate as he looked at him. He was someone significant.
But Abel already knew that the moment he laid his eyes on him. And it wasn't because of Knot Sense as he'll take calling it.
Endless Gray Fog filled Abel's vision once more—swirling, parting—and in its midst, he saw it again.
A Door of Light.
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A/N: Shorter chap than usual, but I felt like this was a good place to end, otherwise, knowing myself, this chapter would have dragged on, and I would have ended procrastinating for a few more days for the best way to execute it.
Anyways, I realised I didn't introduce Backlund properly before, so I took the opportunity in this chapter.