"Why are we going to the pirates' territory, Sir Arthur?" Lucian asked, leaning on his cane as he adjusted his cuffs.
"Don't worry, you will know soon enough," Arthur muttered, scratching his messy hair. "Just know that it is for something important. Now, chop chop. We need to move. The tide waits for no man, and my desire to sleep waits for no one."
"Who is the third person?" Lucian pressed.
"I'll introduce him when we get there," Arthur yawned, a sound like a cracking glacier. "Go get ready. Wear something... durable. But knowing you, you'll just wear a suit."
Lucian nodded and retreated into his room. He didn't own "durable" travel clothes. He dressed quickly in his signature black tuxedo and a crisp white shirt, fastening his cufflinks with precision. He grabbed his silver-tipped cane—more of a weapon than a walking aid now—and stepped back out.
They walked through the morning mist toward the Bond Street Plaza. The city was still waking up, the air thick with coal smoke and the lingering cold of winter.
"Sir," Lucian broke the silence again as their boots clicked against the cobblestones. "Can you at least tell me what we are looking for?"
Arthur sighed, the sound of a man burdened by having to speak. "We are going to retrieve fragments of Steles."
"Steles?" Lucian frowned. "What are those?"
Arthur stopped walking for a moment, looking up at the grey sky as if praying for patience. "Ah, right. The Old Man didn't get to that lesson yet."
He continued walking, his hands deep in his coat pockets. "I don't have the energy for a history lecture, so listen closely because I'm only saying this once. Steles are ancient stone tablets from the First Dark. Think of them as recipe books left behind by the Gods."
"Recipe books?"
"For us," Arthur clarified. "They contain the specific rituals and required materials for higher-tier advancements. Most Sequences have their paths documented in the Guild Archives, but just to certain tiers. We are going to the Archipelago to find a specific fragment for the Guild."
Lucian's mind raced. Rituals for specific pathways... If I can find a Stele for the Pride Sequence, I wouldn't have to guess my advancement criteria.
"So," Lucian asked, glancing at the sleepy Man beside him. "Why only the three of us? If this is a retrieval mission in hostile territory, shouldn't we bring a squad?"
"Too much paperwork," Arthur grumbled. "Besides, everyone is busy. The Iron Kingdom is mobilizing, the Crown is cleaning up the mess in Victoria City, and Azrael is dealing with politics. We are the only 'free agents' available right now."
Arthur let out a small, amused huff. "And the third guy... well, he's mostly there for show. I like to call him 'Sera.' He hates it."
Arthur pulled a hand from his pocket and pointed lazily toward the edge of the plaza, near the river embankment where the private boats were docked.
"Look. There he is. Always showing off."
Lucian followed Arthur's finger.
Standing by the pier, illuminated by a stray beam of sunlight that seemed to ignore the rest of the gloomy city, was a man who didn't belong in this century.
He was tall, lean, and possessed a beauty that was almost offensive. He wore a frock coat of deep midnight blue with gold embroidery, pristine white gloves, and polished boots that somehow had no mud on them.
His hair was the color of liquid silver, flowing down to his shoulders in perfect waves. But it was his eyes that caught Lucian off guard—they were burning amber, like fossilized resin trapping a fire, glowing with a soft, warm light.
He stood with impeccable posture, one hand resting on a gold-tipped cane that matched Lucian's in style but exceeded it in opulence. He wasn't just standing; he was posing, staring out at the river as if he were being painted for a portrait.
He looks like a...
Lucian's thought process stuttered. A word floated up from the depths of his mind—a word he didn't remember learning in this world.
...Supermodel?
Lucian froze. Wait. What is a 'supermodel'? Why did that word just appear in my head?
It felt alien, a glitch in his memory. In this ruined world of monsters and steam, the concept of a "model" didn't exist. Yet, the word felt perfectly descriptive.
Before Lucian could analyze the strange intrusion in his thoughts, the silver-haired man turned.
"Hey, lazy boy," the man called out, his voice melodic and smooth, carrying easily over the wind. He looked from Arthur to Lucian, his amber eyes narrowing with interest.
"And you," the man smiled, a dazzling expression that practiced perfection. "You must be Lucian."
He stepped forward, bowing slightly—not enough to be submissive, but enough to be charming.
"I am Seraphim Valerius. But since you are traveling with this brute," he gestured elegantly to Arthur, "you may call me Seraph, if you wish."
Lucian gripped his cane tighter, his King's Aura instinctively reacting to the man's overwhelming presence. He forced a polite smile.
"Hello, Sir. I am Lucian."
"A pleasure," Seraphim straightened his coat, flicking a speck of nonexistent dust from his shoulder. "Well, let us get going, shall we? The sea air is terrible for my complexion, and I wish to get this over with."
He gestured to a sleek, reinforced steam-cutter boat waiting at the dock.
"Our chariot awaits."