The Archmetamagician: The Weave Collapses Again

”Heh, you sure talk a lot.” The strange bird stared at him for a moment, then its tone shifted. ”Since you don’t look too unpleasant, I’ll say a bit more.”

”Once you go in, don’t tell anyone your origin or your true name. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone touch your teleportation medium. That’s all. Now pay up—ten pounds of gold or equivalent.”

Gold was a hard currency across the multiverse, far more liquid than most gemstones.

”Uh… alright, thanks.” Anser didn’t dare ask more. He crouched down, counted out five hundred and fifty gold coins from his pouch, and placed them on the ground.

Fifty gold coins weighed roughly one pound, but considering variations in purity and wear across different coinage systems, he added an extra fifty coins.

The strange bird opened its beak and inhaled, sucking all the coins into its belly. It nodded in satisfaction. ”Go on in.”

With a click, the door opened.

Anser took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and a wave of noise immediately flooded his ears.

There were no attendants outside. What greeted him was a hall of over five hundred square meters. The layout resembled a bar with booth seating—relatively sparse—but each booth had a completely different design style: minimalist, gloomy, rugged, mysterious, bloody…

And the sizes varied as well, clearly tailored to accommodate different species’ physiques and habits.

The exit he came through was at the edge of the hall. Nearby were dozens of doors, likely teleportation entrances and exits, while the counter was on the opposite side, requiring him to cross the entire hall.

Anser stepped into the hall at a steady pace and noticed that only a portion of the booths were occupied, yet there were still over a hundred ”people,” all dressed in strange ways, from equally strange races.

Not only that, but the decorative objects and plants in the hall were bizarre—most of them completely unrecognizable to him.

He didn’t know how to describe the place. It wasn’t luxurious in any human sense of the word, but rather embodied a form of civilization unlike Faerûn—yet with faint similarities.

As he passed by a semi-enclosed private seat, a female elf’s eyes lit up. She beckoned at him. ”Hey, little boy, come have a drink with me. My treat.”

She spoke in Draconic, perfectly standard.

Anser turned his head and met a pair of eyes shimmering with starlike light.

’Astral elf.’ With a brief recollection, he identified the race.

Long, long ago, a group of elves had sought to draw closer to their gods. They migrated from the Feywild to the Astral Plane. Living within the silver void infused their souls with sparks of divine radiance, causing their eyes to always display starlike glimmers.

Anser smiled at her, then quickened his pace and approached the long, curved counter.

In an unfamiliar place, he felt it was better to be cautious.

”First time here, right? Looking to eat, stay the night, or have a drink?” (Draconic)

The speaker was a satyr standing behind the bar. Dressed in a red tailcoat, he was shaking a cocktail shaker while sizing Anser up with interest.

Anser’s appearance clearly bore draconic traits, and everyone spoke Draconic by default, saving him the trouble of switching languages.

”My first time here. What are the rules, what services do you offer, and what are the prices?” he asked directly.

The satyr seemed used to this. He bent down, pulled out a stack of tattered booklets from under the counter, and slapped them onto the surface. ”Read it yourself.”

Anser sat on a high stool by the counter and carefully picked up the booklet. The cover depicted a massive beast, and inside were densely packed lines of text—but not in any language he recognized.

”You don’t know how to read?” The satyr suddenly leaned in, grinning slyly. ”We offer translation services—one pound of gold per minute.”

At that moment, Maeve quietly brushed against Anser’s ear.

”I can read, thanks.” Anser refused without hesitation.

The satyr looked disappointed and walked away with his drink.

’Meow, this is Giant. It’s not commonly used—they’re doing it on purpose,’ Maeve said angrily.

’Makes sense. Help me take a look and explain it to me,’ Anser replied with a chuckle, unconcerned.

Traveler’s Rest forbade spellcasting. Aside from storage items, most magic items were also rendered ineffective. Ensuring safety was secondary—the real purpose was profit, and the prices were outrageously steep.

A simple translation service cost one pound of gold. If he had truly been just an ordinary sorcerer wandering in, he wouldn’t just lose his savings—he might lose his life.

’Traveler’s Rest is built inside the corpse of an astral dreadnought, drifting through the Astral Plane, never remaining in one place. It has been open for over three thousand two hundred years…’ Maeve translated the booklet sentence by sentence.

Astral dreadnoughts were gargantuan monstrosities, Challenge Rating 21. Since the birth of the multiverse, they had roamed the mists of the Astral Plane, attempting to devour every creature they encountered.

Killing one of those things was no trivial feat.

’Combat is strictly prohibited within Traveler’s Rest. Violators will be fined… Damage to property must be compensated at full cost…’ Maeve continued translating.

Anser clicked his tongue inwardly. So the place didn’t even bother posting rules—it just waited for people to break them.

Still, taken individually, the rules weren’t excessive. As long as one remained cautious, it was unlikely to violate them.

As for services, they mainly included lodging, dining, medical treatment, shopping, trade brokerage, and mission commissions. Every single one came at a steep price.

Lodging was calculated per day—twenty pounds of gold per day, or equivalent. That came out to a thousand gold coins per day.

In Faerûn, just a few gold coins could get you the finest suite, complete with servants attending you all day.

But here, that thousand gold wasn’t wasted. A single night’s sleep would restore one’s physical condition to peak.

If one had disabilities, poisoning, or curses, the inn also provided treatment—for an additional fee depending on severity.

The food and drink here were anything but ordinary. Either the taste was exceptional, or the ingredients were extremely rare, or they provided special effects—such as lasting buffs, supernatural enhancements, or protective enchantments.

As for the prices—equally ”beautiful.” A bowl of Seven Heavens cocoa soup cost twelve pounds of gold and granted cold resistance for seven days.

However, none of the food could be taken away. It had to be consumed within the inn.

The second floor housed shops. A small portion of goods were sold by Traveler’s Rest itself, while most were consigned by others, all authenticated by the establishment. Commission fee: 15%.

Following the corridor behind the counter deeper inside would lead to the trade center.

There, one could set up stalls selling anything—slaves, corpses, materials, magic items. Since many couldn’t stay long, spectral attendants could be hired to manage sales, charging the same commission.

Information could also be traded here, and all kinds of tasks could be posted. There were no restrictions on accepting tasks—after all, anyone who could enter this place was at least a professional. Even elite professionals were considered the lowest tier.

After a brief overview, Anser felt he had a grasp of the place.

’Isn’t this just a hidden astral adventurers’ guild?’

He set down the booklet and walked along the corridor behind the counter. After turning a corner and passing through a door, a vast trading market came into view.

The market was extremely orderly. There were no messy stalls—only standardized cargo cabinets paired with counters. Each had a number and a magical lock. Behind the counters stood either spectral attendants or the sellers themselves, everything neatly arranged.

Some cabinets even had enclosed storage areas behind them, likely used for bulk goods.

’Traveler’s Rest has this many people?’ Anser was somewhat surprised.

But then he reconsidered—Faerûn, located on Toril, was already vast. And beyond that, there was the greater cosmological expanse. Who knew how many such worlds existed?

”Hey, little sorcerer—selling your cat or not?” A frivolous voice suddenly rang out beside Anser’s ear.

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I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> /TitoVillar

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