You've got to be kidding me.Rod's expression stiffened.Is this man for real? He's not setting me up, is he?
But Laurent merely chuckled, stepped down from the coach, and drew a peculiar weapon from his cloak.
It had a long barrel, a heavy stock—like an old-fashioned musket—yet no trigger, no powder chamber.
"This," Laurent said fondly, "is Raven. Limited-edition spiritual firearm, Model 1301, by Simans Foundry.Twelve-mil bore, gas-guided, rotary auto-lock. Weight—7.1 kilograms.Fires true-silver rounds. Effective range—one hundred and ten yards.Max spiritual load—forty Carves. Muzzle output—thirty-one."
He handed it to Rod.
"My first love from my youth. Now, it's yours.Excellent for self-defense when you're weak.There are seven rounds chambered. Reload after that."
Rod took Raven, feeling the perfect balance in his grip.The gun felt whole—from muzzle to butt, one smooth, unbroken line.Elegant engravings coiled along its body, ornate but never clumsy.
Except… there was no trigger.
He looked to Laurent for guidance.
Laurent smiled."Hold the grip. Focus your Soul Energy into your palm—channel it inward.When the pressure column fills—"
BANG!
The shot cracked like thunder through the quiet street.A water tower at the crossroads shuddered.The true-silver bullet tore through one side, exploded out the other,and left a smoking hole wide enough for a man to crawl through.
A cascade of crystal-clear water poured down, turning the filthy street into a swamp.
No one was outdoors—but in the windows of the shanties around them, silhouettes appeared, peering out at the source of the blast.
Laurent sighed, half-laughing."Report it to the Outer District administration. The damage costs go on your tab. Don't look at me—I only showed you how to use it. I never said fire it."
Rod's hands were numb from the recoil. Now his brain felt the same."I have to pay for that? But it was an accident—aren't we on official duty? Doesn't this count as operational loss?"
Laurent's smile widened. "If I filed it that way, Molly would kill me. Accidental discharge isn't 'official loss.' No reimbursement."
Rod's face sank.He'd barely started and was already bleeding money. He had forty-two silver sols to his name—earmarked for supplies.
"Don't worry," Laurent said lightly. "A trivial matter."
He snapped his fingers. The horseless coach rolled backward on its own, retracing its path."The important thing is the investigation."
Laurent strode off.Rod gathered himself and followed, boots squelching through the muck.
Mud coated their trousers as they walked deeper into the quarter.This place was nothing like the Academy.
Kinworth glowed with perpetual light—rows of lamps stretching into infinity, walls glittering with crystal and brass,even the trees and vines sparkled with embedded luminescence.It was a city of elegance and artistry, a night that never ended.Perfect—as long as you didn't look up at the darkness above.
But here—here was the other side of the capital.
The fog hung low, thick enough to taste.The streets were a swamp of filth, the houses—rotting timber packed shoulder to shoulder without order.Each had a lamp—door, window, or iron cage—but most were dim, sputtering, or dead.These lamps were crude, fragile cousins of the Academy's gleaming crystal lanterns.
Shadows gathered everywhere.The air stank of decay, acid, and fermenting waste.Rod held his breath. Something inside him cracked—a naive piece of him dying as he saw the capital's true face.
Laurent walked unfazed, eyes half-lidded. He'd seen it all before.
After a while, Rod couldn't help asking, "Mister Laurent… is this the slum?"
Laurent answered evenly, "No. This is the Trolean Capital, Lower City, Outer District One—Firehammer Street."
His tone carried the faintest irony—subtle, but sharp enough for Rod to feel it.
"But… aren't we all united beneath the Sacred Flame?" Rod ventured."A kingdom bound to its king, one people, one purpose—to guard our home?"
Laurent gave a dry, humorless laugh."If that were true, tell me—why do the Doomsday Cults still thrive? Why do some dream of extinguishing the Flame, and ending mankind?"
He turned then, gray eyes catching Rod's. There was something complicated in them."I underestimated you, Rod," he said quietly.
Before Rod could reply, Laurent went on."The capital has two tiers—Upper and Lower. The Lower has inner and outer rings.The Sacred Flame burns in the Upper City, in the King's Ward.This"—he gestured at the grim streets—"is the farthest edge.The Flame's reach here is faint.We can't light the entire city. There isn't enough Afterlight to go around."
So it's resource scarcity, Rod thought. Then asked, "What exactly is an Afterlight lamp?"
Laurent's reply was patient, almost teacherly.
"Afterlight is splintered radiance from the Guardian Flame. Within a small radius, it repels the black mist.A Spirit Lamp captures that light, projecting it in a fixed space.Of course, its range is limited."
"It's our most common household tool," he added."Every home in the Outer District has one."
"Do they last forever?"
"They need Fuel Essence."
"What's that?"
"The additive that sustains fire. The stronger the Flame, the higher the grade of essence required.Afterlight lamps only need the lowest grade—they can glow for a month on a few coins.That's why the poor can still buy light."
"But…" Rod frowned. The street was getting darker.He realized some lamps ahead were dead—houses swallowed in shadow."Some are out."
Laurent's pace quickened. Rod jogged to keep up."Some are abandoned. Some—met their end."
Rod's voice lowered. "Don't you… reclaim them?"
Laurent's eyes stayed fixed ahead. "No need."
Rod hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, a black shape slipped past an empty doorway."But… I think I saw a ghost."
BANG!
An explosion erupted in front of him.Black fragments burst apart, scattering into the mud—but none touched Rod.
Laurent raised his iron staff across Rod's chest, eyes narrowed toward the abandoned warehouse.His voice remained calm, almost gentle.
"Ghosts," he said,"are far less frightening than people."