August 15, 1067
Once more…
My name is Waelz Ez Benedict. I am seventeen, and again… I am in hell.
The pen did not stop there.
Line after line followed—each stroke pressed deep into the page, some sharp and hurried, others slow and deliberate. Words bled into words, sentences into sprawling shapes that meant more to him than they ever could to another. The candlelight trembled over his hand, catching in the ink's wet sheen before it dulled into permanence.
At times, his jaw clenched; at others, his shoulders sagged forward as though the weight of what he wrote threatened to pull him into the page itself. The scratching of the nib was the only sound in the room, a restless tide rising and falling in the quiet.
And then—
Two hour twelve minutes later, the book closed with a muted thump. The sound seemed to settle heavily into the wood of the table, as though the words within had gained weight by their very writing.
Waelz sat still for a moment, fingertips resting on the worn cover. The stitched title stared back at him like an old wound, ragged but unhealed. Without looking down again, he slid the book back into the rusted iron box, turned the key until the lock caught, and let the locket's chain slip once more against his chest.
The chair creaked as he rose, its protest fading into the silence that followed.
******
The next morning, Waelz woke later than he ought. The clock on the wall read seven thirty-seven, its hands seeming almost smug in their stillness.
For a long, dazed moment he stared at it, the weight of the time sinking in like cold water seeping through cloth. Then, like a spring uncoiling, he shot upright.
"What am I going to tell the manager…? Ideas?! Ideas?! Ideas?!" His voice cracked in panic, the words spilling into the still air.
He snatched up his toothbrush, squeezing paste onto the worn bristles before stepping into the narrow washroom. The mirror above the sink was fractured into uneven panes, each shard catching a different piece of him.
Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Slender brows over a face drawn in sharp lines. A frame both wiry and short—hard edges wrapped in thin muscle, as if he had been carved to fit inside small spaces.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll die single with this face and body, he thought, a flicker of self-pity touching his lips in a faint, humorless smile.
He brushed quickly, the motion brisk and mechanical, then stepped into the shower. Minutes later he emerged dressed, still fastening the last buttons as he moved to the kitchen.
On the counter, tucked beneath a food flask, a note waited. He recognized the handwriting at once:
Hope you woke up early. I'll be leaving ahead of you today so I can get permission and withdraw the amount needed for visiting the priest.
Waelz's eyes softened. "Now that's my brother," he murmured, slipping the note into his work bag with quiet satisfaction.
Five minutes later, he was outside the apartment, tucking the spare key into the familiar hollow at the left corner of the wooden doorframe. With that ritual complete, he started down the narrow corridor toward the stairs, his pace quickening with every step.
The building was old—three stories of mismatched doors and weathered paint, housing more than a dozen small living spaces on each floor. He and Jemmiel occupied the second floor, door eleven. Their flat was modest: a single room, a small living area, a cramped kitchen, and a bath that served both for washing and as a toilet.
Halfway across the floor, his rush came to an abrupt halt when he collided with someone—a freckled-faced youth about his own age, a work bag slung over one shoulder.
"Wailer? You're late again?" the boy asked, his surprise clear.
"Don't give me that nonsense, Fawkin—you're late too," Waelz shot back, his voice carrying the half-accusatory edge of someone deflecting guilt.
Inwardly, though, a small flicker of satisfaction stirred. Misery did love company, and in this case, tardiness did as well.
"Oh, really? I never noticed," Fawkin replied, wearing an expression of false innocence so thin it might as well have been painted on.
"Yeah, right…" Waelz huffed, brushing past him.
Fawkin had been their neighbor for a year and four months now. He lived with his single mother and younger sister in door six, just a few doors down. Two months younger than Waelz, he was—according to others—close enough to be called a friend. Waelz himself, however, would never use the word so lightly. To him, Fawkin was a bundle of noise wrapped in an overly curious face.
"So…" Fawkin's voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "About that request I made… what do you think?"
Waelz didn't slow his steps as he replied, his tone sharp with impatience. "See, guy—if you want to talk to her, talk to her. Stop being scared."
"Come on, bro… you know it's not that simple," Fawkin muttered, lengthening his stride to keep up.
At that, Waelz stopped mid-step and turned, his gaze steady and edged with the weight of someone who had already made up his mind.
"You see, that girl's a no-go. I'm telling you this plain and straight. Believe it or not, I'm saying this for your own good, brother. Believe it."
Without waiting for an answer, he resumed his pace, taking the stairs two at a time. By the time they reached the first floor, Waelz was moving quickly enough to almost be running.
Passing a worn bench set against the wall, he inclined his head toward the elderly couple seated there.
"Morning, Mister and Miss Bethloid."
"Oh, good boy Waelz," the woman replied warmly. "And is that the Nicolas boy behind you? Fancy seeing you here these days." Her husband nodded with a soft smile.
The Bethloids had been the caretakers of the building for over a decade, their presence as much a fixture as the creak in the stairs. The place itself belonged to their daughter, a lawyer who rarely visited but was often spoken of with quiet pride.
"Of course you wouldn't see him," Mr. Bethloid grumbled, "he's always following that Marlolar girl around. Kids these days…"
"And a beautiful morning to you as well, Mr. Bethloid. An even lovelier day to you, Miss Bethloid," Fawkin replied with an exaggerated smile and an almost theatrical bow.
"Brat…" Mr. Bethloid muttered under his breath.
"Look out for each other, boys," Miss Bethloid called after them, her tone kind but laced with warning. "And come back quickly. Don't make me reopen these gates after I've closed them—because gods help me, I probably won't hear your knocking."
"Thank you," Waelz said politely.
"No problem," Fawkin added.
And with that, they finally stepped out into the broad daylight.
The street was already waking—lamp posts clicking off one by one as the pale gold of morning spread. People emerged from side streets, tricycles rattled past with early commuters, and vendors were starting to stir.
"We better move faster or the manager'll hang both of us by the neck," Fawkin said, suddenly breaking into a jog.
Waelz shivered at the thought. "Then maybe stop wasting your breath on talking," he shot back, breaking into his own steady run.
The road was still muddy from the downpour two days before, each step sending splashes of rainwater and grit up their legs. Soon, their jog became a full-blown sprint—half a race, half a desperate attempt to arrive before disaster.
It was a forty-seven-minute walk to the factory, so the run was nothing short of grueling. A few other stragglers, clearly in the same predicament, joined the impromptu dash.
"But seriously," Fawkin panted, "why's she a no-go?"
"Let it be, Fawn," Waelz replied, his words clipped between breaths.
Fawkin, annoyingly more fit than Waelz, kept pressing. "No, I want a real reason. I've liked this girl for forever. You can't just—"
"What do you mean forever? You've known her for two weeks," Waelz shot back. "And my reason? Trust me—you'd rather not know."
"I'd rather know," Fawkin said stubbornly.
Waelz gave him a sideways glance and a soft scoff. "I know you, and you'd rather not know what I know. Sometimes it's better not to know than to know. The unknown is scary—but the known and ignored? Even worse."
"What kind of unauthentic load of garbage was that?!" Fawkin groaned. "How many 'knows' did you just fit in one sentence? Damn all that—just tell me what I want to know!"
Waelz only shook his head and slowed to a stop—prompting Fawkin and the others to halt as well.
A few yards ahead stood their workplace: a modest factory nestled between two larger buildings. Inside the rounded metal fence, a short, stocky man in a trench coat and black trousers stood waiting. His dirty-blond hair caught the light, and in his left hand he rested an umbrella like a cane. His right hand held a copper pocket watch, dangling from its chain.
The man raised his head, meeting the eyes of the latecomers. A polite, almost pleasant smile curved his lips before he slid the watch away, pulled out a small leather journal, and scribbled something down. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the factory doors.
"…Ooh," Fawkin exhaled, his lips pursed. "We're cooked."
Waelz shot him a glance from the corner of his eye, then let his head slump forward in defeat.
"Thanks for figuring that out, buddy. Real detective work," he grumbled inwardly.
Without another word, they joined the other latecomers in a slow, reluctant march toward the factory gates. The rounded metal fence loomed closer with every step, and though the morning air was cool, a nervous heat crawled along Waelz's back.
Somewhere inside, the short, chubby man with the trench coat and copper watch was waiting—no doubt already writing their names in that little journal of his.
"Hello, Manager Eric—what a lovely day this is, isn't it?" Fawkin blurted, the words tumbling over themselves in a desperate attempt at charm.
Waelz, along with the rest of the latecomers, forced polite smiles that strained at the edges. Beneath them, panic prickled, their expressions a careful mask of we know we're doomed, but we're pretending otherwise.
Eric stopped mid-stride. The tip of his umbrella tapped twice, tok-tok, against the ground before he looked up. His gaze swept the group with a slow, deliberate precision, like a magistrate inspecting an unruly court.
"Mm," he began, his voice carrying that clipped, measured cadence of an educated Yharnorian. "And here I was thinking the lot of you had taken ill—or perhaps decided to try your luck in more... punctual professions." His umbrella tapped again, tok-tok-tok, this time against his palm.
He smiled—not warmly, but as if humoring a joke only he was in on.
"Do come along, then. Best not keep the rest of us waiting, eh?"
He turned, walking toward the factory gates at an unhurried pace, the steady tok… tok of his umbrella accompanying his steps. Every so often, his fingers drummed twice against the journal tucked under his arm—soft, rhythmic reminders that his attention never truly wandered.
The closer one walked toward the factory, the more the air seemed to thicken with sound. The shriek of metal being cut, the heavy clang of hammer on steel, the sharp zzzt of a light-cutter, and the low, ceaseless rumble of mechanical engines—each layered over the other until the noise became a living thing.
The factory was never silent; it breathed in steam and spat out clamor.
Manager Eric led them on, his umbrella's tip tapping in perfect counterpoint to the surrounding racket. Tok… tok… against the cobbled path, then a soft tap-tap of his fingers along the umbrella's shaft as if checking some invisible rhythm.
"Quite the symphony, isn't it?" he remarked lightly, his accent slicing neatly through the industrial din. "A bit much for delicate ears… though, fortunately, none of you qualify, hmm?" The comment floated somewhere between jest and quiet mockery.
At the factory's main gate, two hulking shapes loomed into view—mechanical things that looked disturbingly like a cross between a gorilla and a tractor. Brass pistons hissed with each movement of their broad, jointed limbs, and their heads swiveled with the slow, deliberate focus of a predator.
Eric didn't pause, though his umbrella rapped twice against the metal gatepost as he passed. Tok-tok.
"Marvels of modern engineering, gentlemen. Try not to upset them—they're frightfully literal about their duties."
As they filed past the mechanical beasts, the hiss of their pistons and the faint scent of heated oil filled the air. Then, without warning, one of the hulking constructs turned its head with an unnatural smoothness, the glowing red lenses of its eyes locking directly onto them.
For a breath, the glow deepened—brightening until it was almost blinding, like the beast was ready to charge.
All of them jerked backward instinctively, heartbeats skipping in startled unison. Well… all except Manager Eric.
He merely paused mid-step, gave the construct a mildly disapproving glance, and rapped the tip of his umbrella twice against the iron grating. Tok-tok.
"Stop playing with my expensive bio-mech, Markadh," he said, his voice calm, clipped, and faintly amused, as though chastising a mischievous hound for nipping at guests.
The mechanical gorilla's eyes dimmed at once, and it returned to its idle stance, steam venting softly from the joints in its shoulders.
Without warning, a small cockpit between the beast's barrel chest and its tractor-like lower frame hissed open, releasing a thin veil of steam.
From within stepped a wiry, middle-aged man with a stomped beard and hair as grizzled as tarnished steel. He wore the grin of someone who'd been caught red-handed and found it rather entertaining,speaking in britzan accent.
"Ah, lads—sorry for the fright," he called, giving the latecomers a broad, unapologetic wave.
Then he turned his gaze toward Manager Eric, that grin sharpening into something far more mischievous. "C'mon, mate—just givin' your boys a bit of a scare."
Eric's expression did not shift. He simply gave the man a measured look, tapped his umbrella twice against the cobblestones—tok-tok—and exhaled through his nose as though considering the matter far too trivial for actual words.
'Scare us?' Waelz lamented inwardly. 'More like trying to send us to our graves early—with fright as the carriage'.
From the corner of his eye, he could tell the other latecomers shared the same sentiment, if not word for word, then certainly in spirit.
Manager Eric sighed—quietly, almost wearily—and tilted his head until a faint crack resounded from his neck. Then, in an instant, his posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and his voice took on a clipped, commanding edge.
"You lot—District Seven. At once. And mind you, every steel transmission pipe, every liquid-metal heat channel—cleaned and scrubbed properly," he said, giving the word its full weight. A faint tok-tok from his umbrella tip punctuated the order, almost like the gavel of some unseen judge.
Inside, every latecomer screamed in silent agony—Nooooo!—a collective howl none dared give breath to.
Outwardly, all that escaped their lips was the well-drilled response:
"Sir. Yes, sir."