Three days after leaving the ruins of Karsel, Jainal arrived at a small town called Thural—a logistical hub and resting place for merchants, soldiers, and border-crossers heading to or from the northern territories.
Its location was strategic: far from the front lines, yet close enough to catch the foul scent of politics drifting from the western capital.
He entered quietly, his old cloak draped over him, hood drawn low to conceal his face. The child who accompanied him was temporarily entrusted to a nun at a local shelter.
The monastery was known for taking in orphans—no questions asked.
> "Rest for now," Jainal said to the boy.
"I'll be back tonight."
The child said nothing.
But the small hand gripping Jainal's sleeve spoke clearly: don't disappear.
---
Jainal knew that information was the most valuable weapon in a world engulfed by flames.
And the best place to find it wasn't an office or archive—but an old, near-collapsing tavern tucked in the corner of Thural's metal market.
"TheDullIron."
A place filled not just with drunks, but ex-soldiers, bounty hunters, smugglers, and back-alley political brokers.
Jainal took a seat, ordered a cup of cheap fermented tea, and listened.
He didn't need names—only fragments of conversation. And the fragments came quickly.
> "Heard special units were sent northeast..." "...some third party's buying up abandoned villages, claiming it's for mining—but it makes no sense." "...magitek devices that can explode without a chant? You serious?" "...government's quiet, but I saw their crates escorted by heavy arms…"
The words spun like gears—turning, grinding, echoing only to ears trained to hear them.
---
As night fell, Jainal slipped through a back alley behind the tavern.
There, he met the man he'd been watching since afternoon: Arven—a middle-aged informant known for selling scraps of gossip for cheap… though occasionally, he stumbled upon gold.
> "You're not some common traveler," Arven said.
"Your mask's good, but your posture's too straight for a peasant."
Jainal didn't respond.
Instead, he pulled out the small magitek plate he had recovered from Karsel.
Arven's eyes widened.
He glanced around cautiously, then whispered, "That's from Factory Seventeen. Officially neutral. But these days, neutral just means higher prices."
> "Who ordered the round?"
"Don't know for sure. But lately, a lot of unofficial shipments have been heading toward the Eastern Mountains. Through secret routes.
Not for open war… but for something else."
Jainal nodded, then tossed two copper coins toward Arven.
A small price—for the first thread in a larger web.
---
When he returned to the monastery, the child was already asleep.
Beside him sat a small doll—new, clean, and made from monastery cloth.
Jainal sat on the floor near the window.
Outside, gears kept turning. Politics, trade, war, and magitek spun on—driven by unseen hands.
> "This world…
It didn't set itself on fire.
Someone lit the match.
And I intend to find out who."