At the end of the alley stood a row of low stone houses.
These houses were even more dilapidated than the homes along the street, clearly temporary lodgings for the miners. Their walls were mottled, their roofs weighed down with thick layers of thatch and roofing felt, and their windows boarded shut. Only the innermost house had a faint light seeping through the crack in its door.
Inside, the damp smell of mold mingled with the choking stench of cheap tobacco.
Several battered wooden tables had been pushed together, with an oil lamp burning on top. Its flame was turned low, the dim light barely illuminating the faces around it. Seven or eight men sat around the table, all wearing coarse work clothes caked with mud and slag. Some had bruises on their faces; others had filthy bandages wrapped around their fingers.
They were all miners.
The door opened, and the man in the gray cloak walked in.
He lowered his hood, revealing an ordinary face in its thirties, with thick eyebrows, slightly chapped lips, and fine lines of exhaustion at the corners of his eyes. He nodded to the people inside and hung his cloak on a nail behind the door.
"Fuke, why are you so late?" A young man at the head of the table frowned, a trace of displeasure in his voice.
The man called Fuke rubbed his hands together sheepishly, his voice hoarse. "Sorry, I only just got the boy to sleep. He got caught in the rain yesterday, and his fever still hasn't broken. He kept fussing."
The young man waved it off without pursuing the matter and gestured for Fuke to sit.
"Everyone's here." The young man looked around. His voice was quiet, but carried a steadiness beyond his years.
He was in his early twenties, with regular features and a sharpness about his brows. His eyes were bright and resolute, unlike the dull, clouded eyes of the other miners.
He wore a gray-blue shirt washed pale, its sleeves rolled up to reveal firm but not bulky forearms. A crumpled roll of parchment and a blunt-tipped quill lay on the table, beside half a cup of water that had long since gone cold.
"Everyone... things always develop in unexpected ways. With the situation as it stands, no one..."
"All right, all right." A heavily bearded miner sitting opposite him waved impatiently. "We don't understand any of that. Just, just..."
"Get to the point, yeah!" several others chimed in.
The young man smiled helplessly, taking no offense. He tapped the tabletop lightly and cleared his throat.
"All right, the point."
He picked up the roll of parchment and spread it open. It was densely covered in writing, with a few marks made in charcoal.
"First, food. You all know what grain prices in the city are like. They're over ten times what they were, and still rising. The merchant association has already announced that prices will at least double again over the coming week."
A low chorus of curses rose through the room.
The young man ignored it and continued. "Second, transport. The storm destroyed every road leading inland. The main roads are severed, and the minor paths have collapsed too. Wagons can't get through, and boats can't travel either. Even if there's grain outside, it can't be brought in. For the time being... Luoweida is an isolated city."
"That can't be..." A young miner went pale. "What about the empire? The empire won't just abandon us, will it?"
The young man scoffed, a flicker of mockery passing through his eyes.
"The empire?"
He slapped the parchment onto the table, his voice rising. "Hah, they've probably already started fighting each other, openly and in secret. Once the storm stops, the first thing those noble lords will do won't be disaster relief. They'll be grabbing territory, fighting over mineral veins, and shifting blame onto each other. The Tower Mage Corps in the imperial capital is still arguing. The conservatives say the reformists angered the gods; the reformists say the conservatives' incompetence is ruining the empire. Who cares whether we live or die?"
"Then... what about the lord?" another miner asked quietly. "Surely Viscount Heluos can do something?"
The young man lifted the half cup of cold water and took a gulp, his lips twisting into a cold curve.
"The lord? That fellow's probably still thinking about how to squeeze a little more out of us.
"He won't speak up for us. He'll just keep collecting our taxes and docking our pay under orders from above."
The room fell silent.
The oil lamp's flame trembled in the night breeze, casting shifting light and shadow over every face.
Fuke lowered his head and stared at his calloused hands. His lips moved a few times, but nothing came out. The bearded miner clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking. The young miner huddled in a corner, his eyes empty, as though all his strength had been drained away.
After a long while, Fuke raised his head and looked at the young man, his voice hoarse. "Then tell us... what should we do?"
The young man did not answer immediately.
He stood and paced a couple of steps through the dim room, his boots thudding against the dirt floor. He stopped before the mottled wall, his back to the others, and remained silent for several breaths.
Then he turned, sweeping his gaze across every face, his voice low and firm.
"We have to find a way."
"What way?" the bearded miner pressed.
The young man was about to speak when a voice suddenly came from outside the door.
"So, you want to take Luoweida?"
The room erupted instantly.
All seven or eight miners sprang to their feet, knocking chairs askew. The quicker ones had already snatched up bottles and stools, and someone even drew a pickaxe polished bright from his waist.
"Who's there?!"
"Who's outside?!"
Fuke turned deathly pale and instinctively stepped back, fumbling for the cloak behind the door as though that thin piece of cloth could ward something off.
The young man at the head of the table did not move.
He merely frowned, staring fixedly at the closed wooden door as his right hand slipped discreetly beneath the table and found a short blade hidden in a secret compartment.
The door opened.
It was not forced, nor smashed in. It was simply pushed open, gently and unhurriedly.
A young man stood in the doorway.
He looked seventeen or eighteen, his light brown hair slightly tousled by the night breeze, his dark brown eyes as calm as still water. He wore a frayed gray-blue mage apprentice's robe, with a chipped iron sword at his waist.
He held no weapon, and there was no hostility on his face. There was even a faint, somewhat helpless smile at the corners of his mouth.
"No need to be nervous."
Nuoyaji raised both hands to show he meant no harm, his gaze passing over the glaring miners to settle on their young leader.
"I'm just a... tourist."
"A tourist?" The bearded miner's eyes bulged, his bottle held high. "You're fucking sightseeing in the middle of the night?"
"Ahem..." Nuoyaji coughed lightly. Knowing the excuse really did not hold up, he simply lowered his hands and stopped trying to hide anything. "All right, I was actually passing by, saw someone sneaking around, and followed to take a look."
"You followed me?" Fuke's expression grew even worse.
Nuoyaji ignored him, looking only at the young leader as he said calmly, "You're discussing how to deal with the lord, right?"
Another stir ran through the room.
Several miners exchanged glances, tightening their grips on their makeshift weapons. Though they were only ordinary miners, they knew that if word of this got out, it would mean treason and rebellion-enough to get their heads chopped off ten times over.
The young man stared at Nuoyaji for a few seconds, then suddenly waved for everyone to lower their weapons.
"Are you a mage?"
"A magic apprentice," Nuoyaji corrected. "I haven't earned my official qualifications yet."
"An apprentice..." The young man nodded thoughtfully, his gaze falling on the iron sword at Nuoyaji's waist before moving away again. "What's your name?"
Nuoyaji hesitated for a moment.
He could have used a false name. Revealing his real name in such a sensitive situation was hardly a wise choice. Yet as he looked into the young man's eyes-those bright, resolute, keen eyes-he suddenly did not want to lie.
"Nuoyaji."
The young man nodded. He asked neither where Nuoyaji came from nor what he wanted, merely pulling an empty chair over to the table.
"Sit."
Nuoyaji paused in surprise.
He had expected it would take some talking to earn these people's trust, and had even prepared himself to be thrown out or beaten up. Yet this young man had only looked at him for a few seconds before inviting him to sit.
Either he's too naive, or... too confident.
Nuoyaji did not refuse. He walked over and sat down.
The oil lamp's flame danced before him, illuminating his face clearly.
"You just said... 'You want to take Luoweida.'" The young man leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped on the table, watching Nuoyaji calmly. "How did you figure that out?"
Nuoyaji thought for a moment. Rather than answer directly, he asked, "How many people do you have? What about weapons? Food? What about the lords' guards out there? The grand duke's army?"
The string of questions hit them, and the room fell silent once more.
The young man was not angry. Instead, he smiled.
There was no mockery in that smile, only the frank acceptance of someone who had been seen through.
"So you came to... throw cold water on us?"
"No." Nuoyaji shook his head, looking at him earnestly. "I came to help you."
At a distant street corner, a pitch-black figure stood motionless in the standing water.
Black Owl's enclosed mask turned slightly, its dark gold patterns almost invisible in the night. Through this avatar's senses, King Ghidorah took in everything inside the distant stone house-the dim lamplight, the tense faces, the miners' curses, the young man's speech, and the youth who had just walked through the door.
"Finally here."
The human he had previously seen in the projection.
A regressor.
Was the "protagonist" finally about to begin his storyline?
King Ghidorah directed Black Owl to retreat a little farther into the shadows, suppressing his presence as much as possible. Like a ghost that did not exist in this world, he quietly watched the faintly glowing window.
He wanted to see just what kind of waves this so-called "protagonist" could make.
There was nothing else to do anyway.
The night was deep. Flooded with standing water, the city of Luoweida resembled a slumbering giant beast, its low, barely perceptible breathing sounding in the darkness.
And inside that shabby stone house, a conversation that would change destinies had only just begun.