Adriel kept walking forward at a leisurely pace, glancing around while stripping the last piece of meat from his skewer with his teeth.
"Eh, is this my fourth skewer?" he thought in mild confusion, reaching into the paper bag. He pulled out another skewer and frowned at the lone one left inside.
'When did I eat three already?' he wondered, momentarily baffled.
Shrugging off the thought, he bit into the meat, chewing more slowly this time—a habit of his whenever food was close to running out, as though savoring every last bite might stretch it further.
"I should reach the training center in ten minutes or less…" he muttered, tearing off a strip of meat before glancing at the time on his SpectraComm.
Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, Adriel arrived at the training center.
'It's 9:17 right now…' he noted, eyes flicking to the SpectraComm resting on his wrist. '...which means I got here in exactly eight minutes—just as I predicted.'
The doors of the training center slid open the moment he stepped in front of them, reacting to his presence. He waited for the glass panes to part fully, then walked inside. A short passage carried him forward before opening into the vast main hall.
The familiar sounds washed over him at once. Small clusters of conversation. Barked instructions and loud shouts echoing from sparring partners. The heavy thud of fists and kicks landing. The rhythmic slap of jump ropes against polished floors. The sharp grunt of exertion here and there. The place pulsed with energy, a hundred different cadences of training blending into a single living rhythm.
Adriel wove through the light crowd, heading to his usual spot—a quiet corner, secluded and undisturbed. He lowered himself onto the ground, back against the wall, and let his gaze sweep over the hall.
Some trainees sparred against sleek combat robots, their movements timed against unrelenting precision. Others paired with fellow humans, their strikes clashing with raw intensity. A few practiced silently alone, running forms with meticulous repetition. Some scrolled through their devices, studying techniques before attempting them. Others honed weapons, steel ringing as it struck against designated dummies. Adriel simply watched, letting the scene sink in.
'I feel like training with weapons today,' he thought, pushing himself to his feet.
He walked over to the weapon rack, scanning the array laid out before him—swords, spears, halberds, daggers, bows, axes, and more. After a moment of thought, he selected a matching pair of dual daggers. Adriel always preferred wielding two weapons, firmly believing that leaving one hand unused was a waste of potential.
The daggers he chose were simple but elegant: straight, single-edged blades about seven inches long. Though they weren't forged from metal, their construction—somewhere between plastic and rubber—mimicked the weight and balance of real steel. Their blunt edges kept them safe for practice, but everything else about them felt authentic.
Adriel carried them to an open space reserved for training.
He rolled his shoulders, loosened his neck, and began bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His body swayed in small, controlled hops, movements relaxed but deliberate. Stiffness melted away as blood began flowing faster, each bounce sharper, his frame gradually shifting from casual readiness into sharpened focus.
When his body felt primed, he began.
The daggers sliced through the air in quick, precise motions.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
The sound of blades cutting through empty space resonated around him as he practiced his forms. At times he froze mid-strike, frowning, replaying a motion that didn't land with the precision he demanded. At others, he surged forward, chaining a flurry of cuts into fluid combinations, each strike designed to overwhelm with speed.
Sweat soon began to gather along his temples, rolling down his cheek.
After several minutes, he paused and took a break, sipping water in small measured gulps. Then, deciding to test himself against something more solid, he approached a humanoid training dummy.
He shifted into a stance, the twin blades poised. Then he lunged.
Slash. Stab. Parry. Swing. Thrust.
His daggers struck the dummy in relentless succession, every hit landing with sharp, repetitive impacts that left visible marks across its reinforced surface.
Minutes passed, and the air grew heavy with the rhythm of his strikes. Finally, the only sound left was his breathing—harsh and uneven. Adriel stood, daggers clenched tight, jaw locked as he forced himself not to gasp for air. He focused on breathing steadily through his nose, regaining composure through sheer will.
Eventually, his stamina returned enough for him to lower himself into a lotus position on the floor. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling in controlled patterns, he sat still until his strength had fully returned.
When he was ready, he stood, walked back to the weapon rack, and carefully set the daggers back in their place.
This time, he chose a pair of straight dual katanas, made of the same blunt training material. With them in hand, he repeated the process—warming up, shadow fighting, and eventually turning his focus on another dummy, his movements sharp and relentless.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
At last, Adriel lowered his blades. His shoulders sagged, breath dragging in steady but labored pulls. Sweat clung to his skin, his body heavy with the weight of hours spent training.
He headed for the bathroom, stepping into a light shower. His used clothes went straight into the washing machine, and he emerged minutes later refreshed and clean, retrieving his garments, now washed and dried. He dressed quickly, reattached his SpectraComm to his wrist, and made his way to the refreshment section.
He cracked open an organic energy drink and downed it in measured sips, feeling his body slowly rejuvenate. For a while, he simply rested, savoring the moment of calm after the storm of training.
Finally, he rose to his feet again.
"It's getting late," he muttered, glancing at the clock—3:28.
He walked toward the exit, greeting a few familiar faces along the way, before stepping outside into the open air.
—
Adriel walked down the gleaming streets of the Market District at a leisurely pace, his gaze wandering over the kaleidoscope of stalls, shops, and neon-lit attractions. The hum of chatter, the faint aroma of food stands, and the steady whir of drones overhead blended into a familiar, almost comforting background.
His eyes lingered briefly on the stall where The Merchant sat—motionless, just as before. The figure was so still that he might as well have been carved from stone, a statue draped in gray and etched in gold and silver.
"He's just like a statue…" Adriel murmured under his breath as he passed by, the words slipping out without much thought. The Merchant hadn't shifted a finger since Adriel had first noticed him earlier. The only time he had seen him stir at all was when two curious customers had approached the stall.
'I wonder what those people even bought from him—if they bought anything at all,' Adriel thought, curiosity prickling at the back of his mind as he continued walking past.
Just as he moved further along the street, voices rose from somewhere nearby, loud enough to pierce through the crowd's noise.
"Yo, look—he's packing up."
"Fuck, he's actually packing up."
"Yeah, I guess he finally got tired of waiting for nothing."
"Business must be rough, huh?"
"Seriously, it's only been three days."
"Three days with no customers? Could you survive that?"
"It's not…"
Adriel slowed, turning his head back toward the sound of the commotion. The tone of surprise caught his attention. His eyes scanned the bustling avenue, past the crowd and flashing advertisements, until he finally spotted it.
'Eh… he's actually packing up,'
Sure enough, The Merchant—the same man who had sat like a silent sentinel every time Adriel saw him—was now moving with startling urgency. His cloaked figure bent and shifted rapidly, sweeping his strange wares off the table with practiced precision, tucking them away as if every second mattered.
'Why is he in such a hurry?' Adriel thought, puzzled. 'And… why does he keep looking upward?'
The Merchant wasn't just packing. He was glancing. Every few seconds, his hooded face tilted skyward, always toward the west. His movements grew quicker with each glance, as though some unseen clock was running down.
Curious, Adriel followed his gaze. He turned his head to the west, expecting… something. But all he saw was a calm, sunlit sky, its golden glow warming the Market District as it always did. Not a single thing stood out.
When his gaze returned to the stall, The Merchant was no longer emptying the table. He had already stripped it bare and was now crouched behind it, hands fiddling with something unseen.
Adriel studied him, but before he could make sense of it, something else drew his attention.
A cleaning bot stood only a short distance away. It was about three feet tall, with a cylindrical body and a disproportionately large head that made it look oddly comical. Two tiny black eyes were fixed on Adriel, unblinking and uncomfortably still.
Adriel frowned. "Is something wrong with this bot?" he wondered aloud. It hadn't moved an inch, its round little face just… staring at him.
He shifted his foot, taking one step forward. At that instant, the bot whirred to life, rolling directly toward the spot he'd just vacated. Its suction ports opened, neatly swallowing a paper wrapper that Adriel hadn't even noticed he'd been standing on.
"Ohhh," Adriel said in sudden understanding. "So that's why it was looking at me—it was waiting for me to move."
The realization brought a faint smile to his face. Despite its blank, mechanical expression, the little machine seemed almost alive. 'It looks really cute though…' he thought, watching it scuttle about as it scooped up bits of trash and trundled dutifully westward.
Then he froze.
His gaze, trailing after the bot, naturally drifted upward—and his breath caught in his throat.
From the west, a mass of black clouds was sweeping across the heavens, devouring the sunlight as it came. The shift was so sudden, so violent, that it was as though some giant hand had dipped a brush in ink and was dragging it across the sky, blotting out the blue with pitch darkness. The golden glow of the sun dimmed in moments, shadows falling across the streets like a curtain being drawn.
"Mommy, mommy—look at the sky!" a child cried, tugging on her mother's sleeve.
"What the hell is that?" someone else blurted, voice sharp with confusion.
"Are those… rain clouds? Or what?"
"I don't know…"
Passersby slowed, craning their necks upward, voices layering into a chorus of alarm and disbelief.
Adriel's heart thumped as he remembered.
"Come to think of it… that's exactly where The Merchant kept looking." he muttered, his brows furrowing.
He turned his gaze back toward the stall—only to freeze.
The Merchant was gone. So was the stall. Not a crate, not a trace, not even a scrap of fabric left behind. One moment it had all been there, and the next, it was as though it had never existed.
"What the hell…?" Adriel whispered to no one in particular, his voice barely audible over the growing stir of the crowd.
He rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly, half-expecting the scene to snap back into place, to reveal that his mind was only playing tricks on him. But when his vision cleared, the space was still empty.
The Merchant—and the stall—was nowhere to be found.
—
Adriel scanned the crowd, his eyes darting left and right in search of the Merchant. For the briefest of moments, he caught sight of a figure vanishing into the sea of bodies with startling speed. That figure—without a doubt—was The Merchant.
'From my observations, The Merchant's retreat has something to do with the dark clouds. He kept glancing in that direction as if expecting them,' Adriel mused, rubbing his chin while stroking at an imaginary beard. By now, the clouds had swelled ominously, blanketing the entire market district in their suffocating shade—or at least as far as Adriel's eyes could reach. There was no telling how vast they truly were.
'The only problem is…' His features hardened, shadows tugging at his expression. '…do I follow his lead and run?'
There was an old saying: when you see a crowd running, you run with the crowd. But here, it wasn't a crowd—it was just one man. That was the heart of the dilemma.
As his mind wrestled between survival and curiosity—whether to obey every logical instinct and flee, or wait and discover why the Merchant was running—a sudden voice cracked across the heavens. It was sharp, female, and thunderous, like the sky itself had spoken.
"SWINDLER! HOW LONG DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME!?"
The sheer fury woven into the words made the air tremble.
Another voice thundered in response, equally resonant, not from the heavens but from somewhere deep within the crowd. Its tone carried a mocking playfulness, though a sharp undercurrent of resentment pulsed beneath every word.
"CRAZY WOMAN! MUST YOU DRAG MY GLORIOUS NAME THROUGH THE MUD EVERY TIME YOU SHOW YOUR FACE?!"
The crowd gasped, heads snapping in every direction to locate the source—but no one could pin it down.
Suddenly…
CRACK—BOOM!
The world exploded in light. A searing bolt of lightning tore through the sky, streaking past startled onlookers before striking the exact place where the Merchant's stall once stood. The ground split open, dust and rubble spraying outward in a violent wave.
When the debris settled, all eyes widened.
Standing amidst the ruin was a breathtaking woman clad in a flowing blue dress, arcs of living lightning writhing across her form like serpents of pure power. Her beauty was sharp, undeniable—ethereal, yet dangerous. Silvery-white hair tumbled down her back, streaked with glimmers of cobalt blue, while her eyes blazed like twin storms of electricity.
She did not speak at first. She only stood there, her presence alone commanding the entire square into silence. Blue lightning danced and hissed at her fingertips. Her electric gaze swept across the arena, her willow-like brows knitting as she scanned for someone she could not find.
Adriel stood frozen in place, jaw slightly slack, dumbfounded as he stared in awe at the beautiful woman who had just descended from the sky.
Then the murmurs began to ripple through the crowd:
"Oh my god, it's an Awakened—an actual Awakened!"
"No way… she just dropped out of the sky!"
"She's beautiful… unbelievably beautiful."
"Wait—she seems to be searching for someone."
"It must surely be me."
"Heh! Fat chance. More likely that shady Merchant guy."
"Didn't she call him a swindler?"
"I knew there was something off about that guy."
"Doesn't matter—if she's an Awakened, he's as good as dead."
"Forget about The Merchant—who exactly is she?"
"I…I think she's the Lightning Princess…"
"Whaaaat!?"