After shopping, I discovered the most dangerous thing in the world: free time. A whole day stretched ahead of me like stale bread , not pleasant to chew but you'd feel guilty throwing it away. Naturally, I decided to wander. After all, I was in Takhbay, the Magical City. A place famous for curing every illness except boredom.
I hired a Tapori, one of those magical creatures with wheels instead of legs. People ride them like carriages, but honestly, they behave like stubborn donkeys. Mine squeaked the entire way as if to remind me: "Yes, boy, you look ridiculous." I hopped off near a small tavern, stretching my legs with the dignity of a man who had none left.
That's when I saw it.
A bounty board stood proudly by the road, plastered with faces of pirates and criminals. To me it looked less like a warning and more like a family photo album, one you wouldn't bring out at weddings.
And there he was.
Red Roggan.
Even dead, the old pirate still took center stage. His poster carried a bold red X across the face, the official way of saying: Yes, he's gone, stop asking. But what truly knocked the breath from me was the number beneath it. One billion gold. A bounty so absurd it sounded like a child wrote it for fun.
A billion. On a man whose last breath I had watched with my own eyes.
Before I could finish shaking my head, a bell rang above the board. Loud, sharp, metallic. It reverberated in my chest like an unwelcome memory.
"Let's see who fell!" someone shouted.
The crowd stirred. A few faces turned toward Roggan's poster, but I knew better. Roggan was already gone. That X wasn't fresh ink. The bell wasn't for him. It was for some random soul unlucky enough to get himself killed today , another pirate, another story.
I glanced once more at the ridiculous bounty, muttered, "Old man, you were worth more dead than kingdoms alive," and moved on.
The rest of my day I spent like a tourist with no discipline: eating. Street stalls lined the corners, each one competing to shorten my life span with flavor. Spiced fish skewers, honey-drenched bread, soup so salty I suspected the cook had cried into it , I tried them all. "Research," I told myself. Though research usually doesn't end with you groaning in an alley, swearing you'll never eat again before reaching for another skewer.
Elhaan's Narration
Now enough about the boy's stomach. Time for an old man's misery.
The maps are finished. Every place marked, though my fingers shake like drunk spiders. My bones ache with every movement, like hinges rusted shut. Still, the work is done. And the next step? The library. Always the library.
I push myself up from the chair, muttering, "Ah, these bones. Who gave you permission to age, hmm? Certainly not me."
I look around for my staff , my faithful stick, the only companion who doesn't talk back. Naturally, it's missing. Probably hiding under the bed, smirking. "Fine," I tell it, "I'll manage without you. Betrayal suits everyone these days."
The inn lies on the quiet edge of Takhbay. No Tapori to be seen. Just my luck. So I walk. And every step feels like chewing gravel.
"Cursed bones," I grumble. "The empire cursed my soul, but my own body betrays me more. What a fine comedy."
But I am not without solutions. No, sir. With a whisper and a gesture, I conjure up the answer: a cannon. Yes, a proper iron cannon, gleaming with fresh magic. Don't laugh. Cannons are reliable. You want speed? Boom. You want drama? Boom. You want broken ribs? Sometimes boom.
I roll myself into a ball, climb in, and fire.
BOOM.
The shot echoes across Takhbay. I soar through the air, coat flapping like the flag of a madman. Children scream, dogs bark, mothers curse my ancestors. I come crashing down in front of a grand building, dust billowing, stones trembling.
I stand, brush off my coat, adjust my hat. Dignity first, explanations later.
"Hero's landing," I announce, stretching my back. My back protests with a sound like dry wood snapping.
Before me rises the great Library of Takhbay. If knowledge were gold, this place would bankrupt empires. If dust were currency, even richer.
Inside, magic hums. Books float through the air as though running errands. Some whisper in corners, gossiping about who hasn't been borrowed in decades. A fat little tome bumps my shoulder and drifts past with the attitude of a nobleman.
I limp deeper into the aisles, muttering all the while. My goal is simple, though far from easy: something on the Black Mark. Something about the Forbidden Island. Perhaps even if luck ever felt generous a scrap of Roggan's own writings.
The empire tried to erase him, of course. Burned his words, buried his history, rewrote him into a villain's bedtime story. But knowledge is like weeds: burn it, cut it, curse it, it always grows back. Somewhere.
"Pain," I hiss, stretching to grab a book floating just beyond reach. "Endless pain. My knees are gravel, my spine is rust, and now even the books mock me."
But still, I keep searching. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Even when the answers hurt, we keep turning pages.