Grandma Elunara's eyes flicked toward the patrons once more until they landed to a man at another table who had just crushed a glass in his hand. The way he stared, tense and unblinking, told her he was the one drinking thirty-eight.
Without a word, Grandma pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, different from the one Nellie had given her and placed it on the counter.
The woman behind the counter glanced at it, her dark eyes narrowing as her expression shifted. She gave the paper a casual push back. "I don't know him."
Grandma's brows tightened. She picked it up, scanning the contents with only two numbers written there: 35. Strange. For the woman to claim she didn't know him over just numbers… it meant these weren't merely digits. They were someone.
Quietly, she slipped the paper back into the pocket of her jeans.
---
Outside in a different street, Mikko followed J until they reached a massive stone building, its walls rough-hewn and imposing. A wide opening stretched before them, more gate than door, yet nothing barred entry. The place felt sealed off from the world, as if stepping inside meant leaving reality behind; no sound, no motion beyond its walls.
Mikko moved cautiously, like a frightened child clutching a teddy bear, though every hesitation was calculated, every step deliberate. His eyes flicked to every shadow, tracing J's path without drawing attention.
J entered and settled onto a colossal throne, nearly twice his size, radiating authority that seemed to bend the air around him. A human woman in purple robes appeared, trembling with each step. Her head bowed low, bruises mottled her skin, tears streaking her face like ink on parchment.
Her voice quivered as she spoke, searching for the right words. J's gaze remained sharp, unyielding.
"Lord J…" she stammered, breath hitching. "The boss… he needs to see you immediately."
J's expression didn't change, his eyes lingered on her a bit longer. Then he rose from the throne, turning to leave, his long strides carrying him past her. She followed, dwarfed by his height, her movements tentative and careful.
That was Mikko's chance. He stepped forward, centering himself in the grand hall. The space felt like a king's court, designed for gatherings of power, for commands that shaped worlds. His eyes swept across the chamber until they landed on a smaller room to his left. Curiosity pricked at him, and he moved toward it.
Stepping inside, Mikko's breath caught. His eyes widened, taking in the sight. The teddy bear in his hands slipped unnoticed to the floor.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked with tins and kettles painted in every color imaginable. But these were no ordinary containers. Each held a spirit, trapped or preserved, pulsing faintly with life. Mikko's gaze darted from tin to tin, deciphering the auras, sensing the presence of each within.
A red kettle drew his attention. No spout, no handle yet inside sat a small child, barely four in appearance, a spirit cloaked in darkness. Her lips pressed tight, presence quiet and sorrowful.
He moved to a darker tin. Inside, almost nothing stirred, just a faint bluish glow pulsing erratically, inscrutable and eerie.
Lower on the shelves, his eyes caught a yellowish tin. Inside slumped a twisted Malged, grotesque and undefined, silent as if dead. The arrangement spoke of design: stronger spirits above, weaker below, an unspoken hierarchy etched into their captivity.
In the room's center stood a vertical carved stone, upon which rested a black kettle, the only one resembling a normal, everyday vessel. Mikko leaned closer, peering in, but the contents remained hidden. Still, the aura it radiated felt unmistakably familiar.
"This has to be it," he whispered.
With careful hands, Mikko lifted the kettle. He couldn't see what lay inside, but instinct told him this was the object of their search. Cradling it to his chest, he slipped from the room, re-entering the vast chamber beyond.
The air felt thick, heavy with stillness. Dim light quivered across the walls, the neon glow of high-mounted lanterns flickering like dying stars. Only three lanterns burned, casting long, broken shadows that danced with each sputter.
Step by step, Mikko advanced toward the main gate. Silence reigned, so complete that it seemed the building itself had paused, as if no living thing could notice his passage.
---
Inside the bar, Grandma's eyes swept over the patrons once more. At the far end near the door, she spotted a man who kept avoiding her gaze, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the table. Leaving the counter, she strolled over with unhurried steps and took a seat to his left. Hands folded neatly in her lap, she acted as though she hadn't noticed him at all, as if she had simply chosen the spot by chance.
In her mind, she called Clara: "Is Mikko done?"
"Not yet," came the quiet reply, "but I think he's found it."
So his intuition was right, Grandma realized.
Then a memory hit her.
---
While they had stood in the alley, as she tried to summon Komo for the second time, her silk belt had slid slightly across her hand. A subtle movement but it carried a message, whispering volumes without a word.
Mikko had told her then: there was a creature above, watching. Yet he sensed something unusual about it, something that might matter. He promised he would go, follow it. He might find what they were looking for.
And so, when Grandma gave permission, he moved to shadow J, while she stepped into the market seeking whoever—or whatever—35 was. Every step she took bought Mikko precious time.
---
"Mistress Elunara," Clara called through Grandma's Head, her voice edged with urgency. "Mikko found it… I think Mikko found it. But he says there were many more spirits in that place, as if they were being gathered… for something else. He'll tell us more once he's clear of the barrier."
---
Mikko kept walking until he reached the narrow alley where he had first transformed. There, with a shimmer of movement, he shed his human form and became the red silk belt once more, curling himself protectively around the kettle.
Then, like the wings of a silent plane, the silk spread wide. He rose into the air, gliding toward the barrier's edge. The far top was an open escape route hidden in the shadows of the night. Slowly, carefully, he ascended into the dark until the oppressive walls were beneath him, and the cool night air signaled his freedom.
---
Clara called Grandma. "Mistress Elunara… I think it's time we leave too. Mikko is outside the barrier."
When Grandma heard that Mikko was out, her gaze shifted to the man on her right, the one avoiding her eyes. His head remained bowed, fingers tight around a glass that hadn't lost a drop. Whatever he was drinking, not even a sip had been taken.
Slowly, Grandma inclined her head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. "You know the man I'm looking for, don't you? Because the moment I mentioned him at the counter, something about the way you carried yourself… changed."
The man snapped upright, knife in hand, his shout sharp and hungry, full of desperate longing.
Time seemed to stretch. Grandma's body moved before thought could settle; fluid and precise. She shifted her weight, pivoting to the side with seamless grace. Her hands shot out, grasping his right wrist mid-swing. The knife clattered against her palm. With a sharp twist, she redirected it, cutting into his right biceps. A grunt of pain escaped him, sharp and stifled.
Grabbing the back of his head with both hands, she slammed him down onto the sturdy table. The surface rattled violently, drawing every patron's attention. Conversations faltered. Eyes widened, some tensed, others were already waiting for this moment.
Beside them, another man moved. Strapped to his right thigh, an axe rested snugly in a sheath. In a single, fluid motion, he drew it free. The blade sliced through the air toward her.
Grandma didn't flinch. She shifted a fraction, letting the axe embed itself into the wooden table instead. Her right leg snapped backward, then arced forward with precision, striking his head. The force sent him tumbling to the ground, the axe wobbling uselessly beside him.
The man who had smashed the glass in his hands recovered, vaulting onto a table, then flipping to the next. His fists were aimed straight for her face.
Her right fist met his in a clashing strike. Metal and wood seemed to hum in the tension between them. Another swing came for her head. She bent just in time, the fist passing by her left ear with a rush whip of air.
Every movement flowed into the next. She twisted her torso, pressing her back against his chest. Her right elbow drove into his right ear, a sharp, calculated strike that left him staggered, his ear ringing.
With a controlled step back, she pulled him closer, using his momentum against him. Then she leapt, landing both legs squarely across his chest. He slammed into the floor, groaning under her weight, as she crashed onto the table behind him, poised for the next attack.
Gasps echoed, the woman behind the counter didn't even spare them a glance, this was normal in this place. She continued bending and rising behind the counter.
From the bar's dim corners, eyes followed each precise move, some bristling with envy, others with fear. The chaos of broken glasses and displaced chairs painted a slow-motion canvas of calculated violence, each beat punctuated by the subtle shuffle of patrons stepping aside, the clatter of fallen objects, and the almost inaudible hum of tension in the air.
Every strike, twist, and pivot revealed not just her skill but a careful choreography, a conversation of movement that spoke louder than words.
Grandma's eyes flicked from one aggressor to the next, reading intentions, predicting swings, and adapting instantly. She was no longer just reacting; she was controlling the battlefield, the air, and the space itself.
---
Just outside the barrier, near the alley they had entered but tucked away from prying eyes, the silk belt draped itself over the kettle, patiently waiting for Grandma.
---
Not long after, Grandma stood in the bar. Broken chairs littered the floor, tables lay overturned, and shattered glasses caught the dim light like scattered gems. Only two women, still seated at the same table, dared not challenge her; they were the last to remain.
The rest of the men writhed on the ground, each groaning from his own pain.
Grandma spared them no more than a glance. With calm, unhurried steps, she walked out of the bar, moving steadily toward the barrier as if nothing and no one could stop her.
Once she reached the barrier, Grandma pulled out the brown button and tossed it onto its surface. As she stepped forward, she phased through the barrier, moving as if the wall wasn't even there. Emerging on the other side, she approached Mikko and the kettle with measured calm.
She pulled out her phone, her finger hovering over a contact labeled Salin Click. Sliding the device to her ear, she spoke evenly, "Come pick me up."