"He's coming with me."
"As you say, Miss Rockstone."
When we thought it was all over, the guard called Miriel back and confessed he didn't give a shit what happened on the road, but emphasized it'd be "fucking rude" to waltz in with her companion dressed like a hobo. He ordered her to avoid public roads and find any clothier in the city [In this world, nobody buys new or used clothes—only poor folks do. Everyone else goes to a clothier. Another way to separate the highborn from the gutter trash.]. Don…
As they crossed the massive entrance, Don's eyes lit up like a kid's at the sight of all the fancy people and manicured halls. The main street looked like a garden mixed with the dark tones of every house. Some had little tables and chairs out front. Everything felt modest and clean, but what really blew his mind were the gorgeous maids passing by, some in giggling groups…
"Hey! Over here. We don't wanna attract attention."
"Huh? Why? This is the main road, right?"
"Get your ass here, dumbass! Forgot you're butt-naked?!" She yanked him off the main streets into the city's grimy alleys to find the nearest clothier.
Don fought her, hungry to see the city's beauty, buzzing with curiosity about everything he'd never done. They zigzagged 50 meters through back alleys, dodging stares. Even though Dusk was so fucking huge it'd take a month to cross nonstop.
At the first shop, the clothier took one look at Don and refused. The second was in a crowded area packed with shops—fruit vendors, tool peddlers, blacksmiths, fishmongers. Plenty of clothiers, perfect for Don. He walked into one and choked: 50 gold coins for a basic suit—pants, vest, the works.
They hit up multiple shops. Truth was, in this noble-infested shithole, nobody got Don's "style." Every clothier scowled at his requests. Finally, Miriel snapped: "Just buy a noble suit. Change later if you wanna look like a clown." Don haggled the price down but insisted on "modifications": a spy-like cut with ripped sleeves. A look that'd scream "mechanical farmer from Dunkaster."
Then they waited.
While waiting, Don flicked flames between his fingers, stayed creepily quiet, or bombarded Miriel with questions: "What's special here?" "New foods?" "Beaches? Heard they exist." "What's a 'first-grade guard' look like?" "Where's the king?" "What's the Flame Legion's Third Division?" "What's… chicken?" Miriel, who never shut up, humored him for two hours. But when Don finally called her out on her lies—he's not stupid, he knew she'd faked their way in—she froze. Then he dropped:
"My, who's Mei Wei? And why's she 'the boss'?"
"You don't know? She runs Montesis' most famous bar… Guess it's true—you really never left Dunkaster." She sighed, annoyed. "You're like a kid tasting candy. Everything excites you."
"Never wanted to leave. Always dreamed of staying village, meeting Kira. Weird, but my master and granny were so happy… I wanted that."
"So you crushed on a woman 5-7 years older? Freak. How old are you—17? 21?"
"Tell you later. You—why'd that guard say 'Rockstone' like you're royalty? You noble?" The clothier's head whipped around at the name.
"The hell you saying, idiot?"
"Just asking…"
"Later. Drop it."
"Hey!" Don pressed.
"What?"
"Can I… touch your ears?"
"What?!"
"Just wanna check if they're real."
"They're real, dumbass! Weirdo… Stay here. Don't move."
"Where you going?"
"To find someone useful." She left.
Later, the clothier returned with Don's finished outfit, suddenly polite. Weird—he'd dragged his feet earlier, but now he'd tweaked the design specs last-minute. Why?
"Sir, would you try this on? My masterpiece."
"Sure, but… it won't rip? Looks tight."
"Don't worry. It'll adjust." And it did—hugging Don's body perfectly. He looked sharp, elegant… different.
Don tossed off his master's cloak, revealing his torso—scars, but mostly the curses: two tattoos fused to his skin. One covered his entire back, the other his neck. Most'd think they were seals, but trust me—they're worse.
He stared into the mirror. The suit was meticulous: black pants hugging shiny shoes, crisp white shirt tucked in like it belonged there. The cut sleeves—his request—hung with chains, giving it a jagged, unfinished edge.
His messy hair clashed with the suit's perfection. A chaotic fuck-you to elegance. He felt like an imposter. So he "fixed" it: added pockets for tools, tied his cloak around his waist to cover his ass, and wrapped a scarf over his neck (hiding his glowing red eyes). The clothier nearly fainted.
Miriel returned to this abomination.
"What the hell? You look like a terra-mechanic."
"I am one. Problem?"
"Yes. Let's go."
"Wait—gotta pay. Here's 15 gold, sir."
"No need. Honored to serve a Rockstone. Just remember me."
"Seriously? Free? What's happening…" Don muttered, glancing back, sure the guy'd scream "thief!" Who'd believe he'd scored free luxury? Again, he wondered: Who is Miriel?
Both had secrets, but neither'd spill. Who knew a handshake with a pretty elf would spiral into this mess?
As we walked the city center, I begged Miriel to show me around. We passed warehouses, cliffs under the city, and hit the slums—guards block adventurers from "poor zones."
The path was dark, endless… I'd have collapsed without her. After 2 km, the tunnel opened into a clean, guarded area—black market paradise.
"NO FUCKING WAY!" I yelled. "Etheric Flux Condenser… Aetheric Fractalizer… Plasma Etheric Omniarc?! This is heaven!"
"We're passing through, Don. And—"
"1,500 gold each?!" I barked at the kid vendor. "I've got 50. Deal for just the Fractalizer?"
"1,500 or fuck off."
"1,300?"
"How much you got?" Miriel cut in.
"1… 2… 110 gold."
"Quit wasting my time, fucking human! You've scavenged garbage all day!"
"No need to scream…"
She dragged me out. The only thing I bought? Food. Not just any—today I unlocked a new love: cheesy chicken empanadas. 10 for 1 gold. The sexiest woman alive stole my heart. I'm marrying these, storybook-style.
Next, a traditional shop with cheap blankets, cribs, buoys… Then I saw stalls with people—young, old, women, men. Mostly girls chained at the neck and feet. I moved to help…
"No," Miriel hissed, gripping my arm.
"Something's wrong—they're chained!"
"You can't go."
"Why?!"
"They're slaves. Merchandise. You can't save them."
"What's 'merchandise'?! Why not?!"