I continued my stroll through the city, the earlier aimlessness replaced by a simmering focus.
The unexpected shift had left a faint, lingering taste of stale cigarette smoke in my mouth, even though my own was long gone. My hand instinctively went to my chest, searching for a phantom weight—the suitcase. It wasn't there, of course. The vision was over. But the tension clung to me, a faint pressure behind my ribs, like my pulse hadn't quite caught up yet.
This time, things were different. Profoundly different.
The first time I had a vision—back in my academy dorm—it was like watching someone else's memories unfold from a distance. I'd seen Edward, the original one, like some ghostly third person just standing by, observing his own past.
But this time?
This time I was someone else.
I saw the world through his eyes. Felt what he felt. Heard his thoughts as if they were my own, clear as a bell. There was no distance—just raw, unfiltered immersion. A full download. And it was… informative.
From what I saw… it didn't take a genius to figure things out.
A shady deal was going down. Two parties, one mysterious "item," and a whole lot of cold, hard cash. No digital transfers, no paper trail, just bills stacked neatly in a canvas bag. One side demanded, the other paid. The man whose eyes I borrowed? A middleman—probably just there to make sure the exchange went smooth, a disposable errand boy.
From the location alone, it stank of something illegal. I mean, come on—a dimly lit office run by a man who looked like he moonlighted as a mafia boss? The actual transaction happening in some nondescript, shadowy clearing tucked behind the grimiest alleys of Sanctumhaven? Even a child could connect the dots. Hell, even a slightly lobotomized badger could connect the dots.
So now the question is—what the hell do I do with this information?
Should I do the good citizen thing? Blow the whistle?
"Excuse me, officer," I imagined myself saying, affecting a high-pitched, earnest tone. "I just happened to witness—psychically, of course, don't ask—that an illegal transaction is scheduled behind the back alley of our lovely city."
Then the officer, a kindly, credulous sort, would stroke his chin. "Oh really, you look honest, my boy. Why don't I put you up for a medal? National hero and all that."
Yeah. Sure. A medal. Thanks, Officer. Very cool. I'll just wait here for my parade.
...Fuck that.
We don't do that kind of shit. I don't do that kind of shit.
So what will I do?
Well, like any smart, handsome, dashing, and unquestionably clever person—which, in case it isn't obvious, I am—I'll go for the practical solution. The most Edward solution.
I'll take the money for myself.
Simple. Elegant. Profitable.
I'll slip into the role of the middleman. Show up on time. Make the exchange. Play the part.
And then walk away with the bag.
Mine, fair and square. Consider it an unannounced bonus for my continued, involuntary residency in this body.
There are two simple reasons why I'd get myself tangled up in this kind of shady business.
First reason: money.
Second reason... yeah, still money.
Why am I so obsessed with it?
Come on—who isn't? Anyone who says otherwise is lying, or a monk. And I'm clearly not a monk.
Now, I know what you're thinking.
Aren't you the son of the Brightwill family? Shouldn't you be filthy rich? Swimming in gold coins and bathing in lumen bills?
And to that, my friend, the answer is: yes.
The Brightwill family is filthy rich. Generational wealth. Gold spoons. Private estates. All of it. Enough money to buy a small country, probably.
But here's the twist.
When I left home, they handed me a black card—unlimited funds, use it as you like. A key to their entire fortune.
And what did I do? I threw it away.
No, seriously.
I literally broke the card, crushed it in my hand, and tossed it in the trash. Watched it tumble into the abyss of rotting food and discarded hopes.
Don't blame me. Blame the previous Edward. The emotionally unstable, melodramatic idiot who thought burning bridges made him feel powerful. What an absolute moron.
I mean—who throws away money? Who does that?! It's practically a crime against common sense.
And now? Now I'm the one dealing with the consequences of his sentimental tantrum.
Don't get me wrong —I'm not broke-broke.
I've got enough to get by. Enough to pay for food, a place to stay. Live a quiet, unassuming life.
But not enough to, say, throw money at a random girl and say, "Come, baby. Let's go have fun." Or buy that ridiculously overpriced enchanted coffee maker I saw last week. Or fund a personal research project into the nature of these visions. Priorities, people.
And that's where this little side job comes in.
Because if no one's going to hand me power on a silver platter...
I'll just take the platter myself. And whatever's on it.
And for all this, I need a solid plan.
I'm not the kind of guy who just charges in swinging and hopes for the best. That's for protagonists with plot armor, and I've learned I'm not that lucky.
No. That's how you end up face-first in a gutter with a sword through your gut and a dumb look on your face, wondering where you went wrong.
Strategy first. Action later.
…But before any of that—
I need food.
Can't think on an empty stomach. I'm not some war-hardened monk living off willpower and dry air. My brain runs on calories, thank you very much.
So. Lunch.
I'll eat, I'll think, I'll form a plan.
Multitasking at its finest. My kind of efficiency.
So I walked around the street for a bit before finding a cozy little restaurant tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. The kind that just feels right —
comfortable seats, a gentle atmosphere, the soft hum of chatter.
People dined with family, friends, lovers.
It was the sort of place that wrapped you in quiet tenderness. A stark contrast to my internal monologue, which was currently plotting grand larceny.
The moment I pushed the door open, a soft bell chimed above.
"Welcome!" a worker called out cheerfully, a young guy with an apron and a genuine smile.
I gave a lazy nod and strolled in, taking a moment to appreciate the scene. The place smelled like grilled meat, fresh herbs, and something sweet baking in the back—a comforting, honest aroma.
I slid into one of the more comfortable seats near the window and picked up the menu. Mostly handwritten. No fancy holograms or enchanted projections. Just old-school ink on laminated paper. I respected that. A place with character.
A waitress approached—young, polite, slightly nervous, clutching her order pad like a shield.
"Have you decided what you'd like to order, sir?"
"Yeah," I said, handing her the menu back, making sure our fingers brushed ever so slightly. "I'll have some grilled chicken with seasoned rice and sautéed vegetables. Oh, and a side of bread. Fresh, if it's not too much trouble."
"Okay, sir. Anything else you'd like?" she asked, already scribbling furiously.
I paused, then tapped my fingers lightly on the table, drawing out the moment.
"Yeah… Pack me a lunch. For one person. Something simple and healthy. Something I can eat without needing a fork blessed by holy magic or whatever. You know, portable."
"Alright, noted!" she replied quickly, her eyes widening just a fraction. "You can call for me later if you need anything, sir."
She froze a bit after that, probably realizing how her phrasing sounded. Her cheeks colored ever so slightly.
I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling, just enough to show I noticed, but not enough to be truly predatory.
"Well… Anything, huh? I'll consider that."
She let out a tiny, flustered laugh and walked off with a shy expression—either regretting her words, or quietly cursing my handsome face, or both. Her loss, really.
Either way, mission accomplished. I ordered food, secured a takeaway for later, and mildly ruined someone's afternoon with accidental flirting. That's three wins in my book.
Now… time to plan a robbery. Over lunch, of course.
My order arrived shortly, brought by the same shy waitress. I ate quietly, planning my next move as I chewed.
---
Once I finished the meal and paid the bill, I left the restaurant with the packed lunch in hand.
Now that the initial planning was done, it was time to gather the necessary materials.
I headed back to the same convenience store where I'd bought cigarettes earlier. Browsed the shelves. Picked a few items. Ran into the same cashier kid again.
"Hey," I said casually, a lazy smile touching my lips, "did you buy that candy with the extra money I gave you last time?"
He narrowed his eyes at me, a flicker of irritation, or perhaps just weariness, in their depths.
Good. That meant he remembered me.
Anyway, with everything I needed finally in hand, it was time to get to work.
I closed my eyes for a moment, digging into Edward's memories, searching for places in the city where beggars and homeless folks tend to gather. Edward, the previous one, apparently had a mental map of Sanctumhaven's less glamorous districts. Convenient.
Sanctumhaven—supposedly a holy city, blessed by faith, crawling with daily pilgrims and devoted worshippers. And what does that attract? That's right—people who live off the kindness of others. The opportunists.
The logic's simple. The faithful are kind-hearted. They see someone poor, their compassion kicks in. Money, food, spare clothes—handed out like candy from a broken vending machine.
Naturally, the beggars here had it easy. All they needed to do was act pitiful and the blessings rolled in. A comfortable living, if you had no shame.
And today, I was looking for that kind of person. Specifically, the right kind.
Eventually, I found an alley tucked between old stone buildings, narrow and slightly hidden from the main street. The air stank—of piss, stale alcohol, and unwashed bodies. People in ragged clothes were lying around or sitting against the walls, their eyes hollow and lifeless, lost in their own misery.
I walked past them slowly, scanning.
"Please, kind sir, spare some change…"
"Ooh, young man, I haven't eaten in days…"
"Food… Food…"
"Brother, please… please help us…"
I ignored their pleas. They were all too quick to beg, too coherent in their desperation.
None of them fit what I needed. Too loud. Too alert. Too greedy. Too much life left in their eyes for my purposes.
But then—I found him.
Sitting against the wall at the very end of the alley, almost an afterthought. Clothes filthy, but not torn. Long, unkempt beard.
Skinny frame. Pale, hungover. He reeked of cheap liquor, the kind that promised forgetfulness but delivered only a worse headache.
Perfect.
I approached, and he didn't even look up. Just sat there, face down, breathing heavily. Probably nursing the mother of all hangovers, praying for the sweet release of unconsciousness.
I crouched in front of him and shook the packed lunch in front of his face. The crinkle of the paper bag was surprisingly loud in the hushed alley.
"Yo, mate. You hungry? Huh?" I asked, giving the bag a little shake. "Lookin' at you, you seem like a guy who's had plenty to drink but nothing to eat. Am I right, or am I right?"
His head jerked up slightly. Bloodshot eyes. Red nose. He blinked, unfocused—but conscious enough to register what I said, and more importantly, the scent of food. A flicker of something primal ignited in those dull eyes.
"Yesss… I'm hungry…" he slurred, his voice raspy. "Ain't eaten nothin'…"
"Well then," I said with a smirk, letting the bag brush against his nose, "maybe you should thank the gods. 'Cause they've sent a generous man your way. A generous and entirely self-interested man, that is."
He clasped his hands together, a weak, trembling gesture.
"Thank you, Mother of Life… Thank you, Goddess Aevitarnia…" he muttered in drunken reverence, already picturing his salvation.
His hand, slow and shaky, reached for the bag.
I pulled it back slightly.
"Ah-ah. Not so fast," I said, a playful warning in my tone. "Don't worry—I'll give you the food. Might even throw in a little cash for good measure. Enough for another bottle, perhaps."
His bloodshot eyes lit up slightly, a desperate hope cutting through the haze.
"But," I continued, leaning in slightly, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "in return… I want to borrow something from you."
He blinked, confusion clouding his features. What could he possibly own that someone would want?
"Don't panic. I'm not asking for your kidney or anything so dramatic. Just something simple. Something you already have. Something… replaceable."
I gave him a pause to process it, to let the hunger and the lure of a free meal override his suspicion.
"So… do we have a deal?" I finished, a confident, predatory smile playing on my lips.