Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

After twenty minutes of navigating the academy’s ever-helpful (and occasionally over-helpful) corridors, deflecting three duel challenges, politely declining to recount his fight with Damus for the seventh time that morning, and somehow ending up in the West Wing twice despite explicitly heading east, Adom finally arrived at his destination. In the East Wing. Where he’d been trying to go all along.

Little victories.

He doubled over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. Adom’s lungs, he noted with clinical detachment, were definitely not built for this much walking. Adding ”cardio” to his mental to-do list, he reached for the classroom door—

BOOM!

”Whoa!”

Adom jumped back instinctively as a wave of purple smoke seeped under the door, bringing with it the distinct smell of burnt sugar and... was that peacock feathers?

Several gasps echoed from within, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass and what sounded suspiciously like something still bubbling.

When he finally opened the door, he found the classroom divided between students hiding behind their cauldrons and others trying very hard not to laugh. In the center of it all stood a girl, her face and robes covered in sparkling purple residue, her notebook now sporting several smoking holes.

Professor Mirwen had an arm around the sniffling girl’s shoulders, somehow managing to look both sympathetic and amused.

”Now, now, Miss Chen. As I always say, if you haven’t blown up your cauldron at least a hundred times, you haven’t really tried. Though I must say, adding the moonflower essence before the stabilizing agent was... a creative interpretation of the instructions.”

A few poorly disguised snickers came from the back of the room, quickly silenced by the professor’s raised eyebrow.

”Ah, Mr. Sylla,” she said, noticing Adom in the doorway. ”How kind of you to join us. Please find a seat before someone else discovers an exciting new way to redecorate my classroom ceiling.”

Everyone’s eyes instinctively looked up at the various colorful stains marking the stone above.

As he stepped inside, the whispers rippled through the classroom like wind through leaves.

”That’s him—”

”The one who fought Damus and won—”

”THE Damus?! That skinny kid?”

”I heard he used forbidden magic—”

”Never even talks in class—”

”My sister said he glowed like—”

”Probably just got lucky—”

”Did you see the lightning though?”

Just what kind of person did the rumors make Adom out to be?

”Silence!” Professor Mirwen’s voice cut through the chatter. Her eyes settled on Adom, who had just spotted Sam waving enthusiastically from their usual spot near the window.

”It seems you’ve become quite popular this morning, Mr. Sylla,” she said. ”I trust it’s for good reasons?”

”Always, Professor,” Adom replied, trying to channel his younger self’s earnestness.

”Good.” She nodded, returning to wiping purple residue off Lisa Chen’s textbook.

Adom was halfway to his seat when—

”Forgetting something, are we?”

He turned back, perplexed. What was she talking about? His books were in his bag, his wand was... he never used a wand in his second year. His thoughts scattered as he finally noticed what everyone else was wearing. The mandatory protective glasses. Of course. He was about to confess he’d left them in his room when—

”I knew you’d forget,” Sam whispered, pressing a spare pair into his hand. ”You always do.”

”Thanks, Sam” Adom whispered, sliding the glasses on. Sam just grinned, already flipping open his notebook.

”Now then,” Professor Mirwen said, finally finishing with Lisa’s cleanup, ”since Miss Chen has concluded her... energetic presentation, next we have...” She consulted her list. ”Ah, Mr. Sylla.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. Adom had barely caught his breath from the morning marathon through the academy’s corridors. But there was no helping it now.

As he approached the demonstration desk, Professor Mirwen explained, ”You’ll be preparing a Resonance Draught today. As you know, a properly brewed potion should create harmonic vibrations when exposed to specific sound frequencies. The liquid must maintain a perfect azure hue and produce three distinct tonal responses when tested. This will account for 25% of your final grade, so do be careful.”

Behind him, Lisa’s sniffling crescendoed into fresh sobs.

That’s it?

He began arranging his instruments with practiced precision.

”Mr. Sylla, please narrate your process for the class.”

”Right.” He cleared his throat. ”First, we need a copper-bottom cauldron for this specific brew - iron would interfere with the sonic resonance. I’m setting the flame to exactly three-quarters strength, as the Resonance Draught requires precise temperature control.”

His hands moved with quiet confidence as he spoke. ”Adding the base solution - pure spring water with a three-drop measure of morning dew. The dew acts as a natural frequency conductor.”

”And why morning dew specifically, Mr. Sylla?” Professor Mirwen interjected, quill poised.

”Because it’s naturally attuned to the day’s first vibrations, Professor. Evening dew would create discordant frequencies.”

He continued, measuring ingredients with fluid grace. ”Now, powdered quartz crystal, but it must be added in a spiral pattern to establish the initial resonance field. You can see the liquid beginning to shimmer - that’s the crystalline matrix forming.”

”Excellent observation. And the timing for the next step?”

”We wait exactly thirty-seven seconds - there’s a subtle shift in the surface tension that...” He trailed off, watching intently. ”Now. Adding three clockwise stirs with a silver rod, followed by one counterclockwise to stabilize. The color should begin shifting toward azure, starting from the edges.”

The class watched as the liquid transformed exactly as described.

”The critical step is the sonic essence,” he explained, carefully uncorking a small vial. ”It must be added drop by drop while humming a perfect middle C. This creates the base frequency the potion will later respond to.”

The liquid rippled with each drop, perfect concentric circles spreading outward as Adom hummed the note.

”And finally,” he concluded, ”three drops of liquid moonstone to lock the resonance pattern. When done correctly...” He picked up a tuning fork from his kit, struck it, and held it near the cauldron. The potion swirled, producing a clear, pure tone. He adjusted the fork slightly - a different note emerged. One more adjustment - a third distinct tone rang out, each one perfect and crystalline.

Professor Mirwen examined the potion, its azure surface still swirling with subtle iridescence. ”That’s... rather impressive for a second year. Have you been practicing, Mr. Sylla?”

”A bit lately, yes.” For about sixty years, he added mentally.

”Class, take note of Mr. Sylla’s precise technique. Twenty out of twenty. You may return to your seat.”

As he walked back, the whispers started again:

”Did you see how steady his hands were—”

”Perfect pitch on that humming—”

”Show-off—”

”How did he know about the surface tension—”

Adom slid back into his seat, and Sam immediately leaned over. ”Dude, how did you get this good at alchemy?”

”I’ve always been good at alchemy,” Adom reminded him. ”It’s one of my favorite disciplines.”

”You’re good, but not that good. That’s Mia Storm level good!”

Adom was about to explain when—

”Mr. Harbinsky.”

Sam froze mid-whisper.

”Mr. Harbinsky?” Professor Mirwen repeated, more firmly this time.

”...Me?” Sam squeaked.

”Are there two Samenel Harbinsky in this class that I’m unaware of?”

The class erupted in laughter as Sam, his face almost matching the color of his hair, stumbled to his feet and made his way to the front.

Sam’s presentation was a study in controlled chaos - he dropped his notes twice, accidentally added ingredients in the wrong order, then somehow saved it with quick thinking and rapid stirring.

His Resonance Draught ended up a shade too turquoise but still produced the required tones, if slightly off-pitch. Professor Mirwen awarded him 16/20, making him beam with pride as several classmates congratulated him on scoring third highest.

The rest of the day flowed like a well-worn stream. In Theoretical Magic, Professor Thane went off on another tangent about the proper geometry of ancient incantations, only to be interrupted by his own demonstration backfiring and turning his mustache bright pink.

During Magical History, half the class dozed off while Professor Hans enthusiastically detailed the Rise of House Borealis in 3832 BR, though they perked up considerably when she mentioned it was likely to appear on next week’s test.

At lunch, a malfunctioning spell made the cafeteria’s self-serving plates get into an argument with the floating drink pitchers about proper meal sequencing, resulting in several students getting their dessert before their main course.

Adom found himself repeatedly explaining that no, he hadn’t used any forbidden magic against Damus, while Sam helpfully deflected the more persistent questioners with increasingly outlandish theories about hamsters being involved.

Where did that even come from?

The afternoon brought Practical Applications class, where a student managed to accidentally merge his chair with his desk while attempting a simple transformation spell. It took three teaching assistants and a very amused Professor Kirna to separate them, though the chair maintained a distinct desk-like aesthetic afterward.

By the time the final bell chimed at 3 PM, Adom had answered forty-seven questions about yesterday’s duel, declined twelve more challenges, and somehow acquired a small fan club of first-years who trailed him between classes until Sam scared them off by claiming Adom was contagiously radioactive.

”Library?” Sam asked as they packed their bags. ”We could start prepping for the exams. I found this great corner where the bookshelf actually suggests relevant readings based on your stress levels.”

”Think I’ll pass,” Adom said, suppressing a yawn. ”Still feeling yesterday in my bones.”

”Really?” Sam studied him with genuine concern. ”Then yeah, definitely go rest. You look kind of pale anyway.”

”Says the guy planning an all-nighter.”

”Hey, these runic sequences aren’t going to memorize themselves. I still can’t tell if Professor Thane was saying ’ethereal manifestation’ or ’eternal constipation’ in her drawing.”

”We’ll see each other tomorrow then,” Adom said, watching Sam hoist his overstuffed bag. All-nighters, he thought with a slight shudder, remembering the years of caffeine-fueled study sessions that seemed to stretch into eternity. Some experiences he definitely didn’t miss from his first time around.

They parted at the corridor junction, Sam heading toward the library’s towering spires while Adom turned toward the dormitories.

Adom gratefully shed his school uniform - the black robes, white shirt, tie, waistcoat and his ring that marked him as a Xerkes student - and changed into his own clothes: worn leather boots, comfortable dark pants, a soft gray henley, and his favorite navy blue jacket with brass buttons. Simple, practical clothing that helped him blend in with the city crowds.

Arkhos, the capital of Lumaria, the Borealis Duchy, sprawled across its island like a living thing, equal parts ancient stone and modern innovation. The city had grown around Xerkes Academy over the centuries, until the two became inseparable - much like magic and progress themselves.

Steam-powered trams wound through cobblestone streets. Ancient buildings with their weather-worn gargoyles stood shoulder-to-shoulder with sleek new constructions of glass and steel. The air hummed with both mechanical and magical energy, the scent of sea salt mixing with coffee from countless cafes and the ever-present undertone of alchemical experiments.

In the older district, where the streets still followed their original meandering paths, tourists and locals alike gathered around the preserved Farm of Law - a humble plot of land that had somehow survived millennia of urban development.

Its simple wooden fence and modest farmhouse seemed almost impossible amid the city’s grandeur, yet there it stood, protected by both law and legend. Children pressed their faces against the fence, hoping to spot some sign of the mysterious farmer-mage who had reintroduced magic to humanity before vanishing without a trace. Some 3000 years ago.

The markets were in full swing as Adom walked through the city center, where merchants sold everything from mundane vegetables to bottled starlight. Street performers entertained crowds with minor illusions while automated brass musicians played on street corners. Students from Xerkes, easily identifiable by their rings despite their civilian clothes, mingled with the crowd, taking advantage of their freedom to explore the city until classes.

Above it all, the great lighthouse of Arkhos stood sentinel at the island’s edge, its eternal flame - said to have been lit by Law Borealis himself - still burning after all these centuries, guiding ships through the often treacherous waters around the Lumaria archipelago that consisted of an impressive 12,025 islands with 4,672 Dungeons scattered throughout.

Adom wandered through familiar streets that existed now only in his memories - and wouldn’t exist at all in about forty years when the bombardments began. But today, those same streets pulsed with life: merchants haggling over the price of enchanted trinkets, children playing hopscotch with chalk that changed color with each jump, elderly couples sharing spiced tea at corner cafés.

There were so many restaurants to try here. More than he ever cared to count. But he wanted to discover them.

He stopped at the crowd gathering around a street performer named Old Jack. The man was creating elaborate fire dragons that danced above the audience’s heads, weaving between floating rings of blue flame. Adom remembered this act; he used to be so entertained back when he would visit Arkhos with his parents as a kid.

A child in the crowd gasped as a fire butterfly landed on her nose, warm but not burning. ”Are you a real mage, mister?”

Jack smiled. ”The Seeker’s stone turned silver for me when I was your age, little one. Should’ve gone straight to Xerkes then.” He created another butterfly, this one changing colors as it flew. ”But I made some bad choices, unfortunately.”

The girl’s mother pulled her closer, whispering something about ”generational opportunity” and ”secure future.” It was true - having a mage or knight in the family meant wealth and status for generations to come.

It was why the Empire sent Seekers every five years to test children across every province, every island, every remote city and village. Missing a potential mage was considered a tragedy.

The crowd applauded as Jack’s dragons performed one final spiral before dissolving into a shower of harmless sparks. Some things, Adom mused, had a way of working out differently than expected. He dropped a coin in Jack’s hat - for the nostalgia - and continued his walk through the living city.

It was still so entertaining.

Here, a fish seller chasing a cat that had made off with his prized catch, over there, on the left, an old man feeding pigeons some breadcrumbs. A beggar sat in his usual spot, his sign reading ”Will do magic tricks for food”

Then there was the Weird Stuff Store.

Yes, that was literally its name. Someone, presumably the first Mr. Biggins, had looked at their shop five centuries ago and thought ”yes, this is the pinnacle of creative naming.” The current Mr. Biggins, from the long line of Mr. Biggins, was supposedly the 102nd owner, though nobody quite knew how that math worked out.

You could buy regular candy bars right next to Levitating Licorice that actually tried to float away if you didn’t hold onto it tight enough. They sold ordinary sandwiches alongside things like Pocket Dimensions (Small Size, Perfect for Lunch Storage!) and Crystallized Dragon Sneezes, a sort of spicy candy. Very sour at the start, and very sweet in the middle, only to end up even more sour at the end and make you sneeze fire from the nose.

No longer regulatory.

Suffice to say, a lot of the other things in the Weird Stuff Store were no longer regulatory compliant these days for obvious reasons, yet, the store kept selling them. And people kept buying. And no problem ever arose.

Then there were the Frosties - hundred flavors of frozen heaven (or hell, depending on your choices). Adom and Sam had tried every combination possible. Cloud Nine mixed with Summer Sunset had been their masterpiece, and ”Lightning in a Cup” - Storm Essence and Rainbow Rush that actually made you feel tiny lightning bolts crackle between your teeth.

Their worst creation? Pickle Surprise. Sam’s temporary transparency and time-bubble hiccups had been... interesting. Though somehow, That flavor had its dedicated customers.

The store was called ”Weird Stuff” - it had to cater to its demographic.

”Actually, you know what...” Adom pushed through the door, its bells chiming their eternally unfinished melody. He found himself craving their old favorite.

The flavors he wanted to mix were already front and center in the Frosties machine.

Right. The store was one of the many enchanted shops on the islands - which wasn’t surprising, being neighbors with Xerkes Academy and all. The building’s enchantment, generated and maintained by runes, would show you exactly what you wanted to buy, sometimes before you even knew you wanted it.

Of course they were.

That kind of spell was... problematic these days. Mind reading without customer consent had been perfectly normal maybe fifty years ago, but progressists had been pushing hard against it at this point in time. Most stores had abandoned the practice as customers grew more privacy-conscious. But not the Weird Stuff Store.

Mr. Biggins didn’t give a shi-

”Why hello there, young man!” The old shopkeeper materialized behind the counter, his white hair sticking out in all directions as if he’d just been electrocuted (which, given some of his inventory, was entirely possible).

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

”Hello Mr. Biggins. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

”Oh, splendid, splendid! Had to wrestle a Pocket Dimension this morning - nasty little thing tried to eat my socks. Again. But otherwise, feeling fresh as a spring chicken! Could probably take on a dragon today.” He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ”Though perhaps a small one.” His gaze returned to the glasses. ”Those have seen better days. Not like you to be careless with your things.”

Adom couldn’t help but laugh. Classic Biggins - the man made no sense half of the time.

”Just went hunting last night,” he replied casually.

”Hunting...” Biggins murmured, almost to himself. ”How peculiar indeed...”

”Speaking of troublemakers,” Biggins continued, reorganizing an entire shelf without looking at it, ”where’s that partner-in-crime of yours? Young Sam, wasn’t it?”

”Sam’s back at Xerkes,” Adom replied, watching as three different types of candy sorted themselves out on a nearby shelf.

”Xerkes?” Biggins stopped his stacking. ”Correct me if I’m wrong - though I’m only wrong on Thursdays, and this is clearly a Wednesday, unless the calendar’s lying again - but aren’t you supposed to be there too?”

”Just running some errands,” Adom said, moving toward the Frosties machine and grabbing a cup. He glanced at the candy display. ”Could I also get a bag of those hard candies? The mixed fruit ones.”

”Well, well,” Biggins chuckled, unwrapping a piece of chocolate. ”That’s a change - quite the change indeed. You usually never come on a Wednesday at this hour - become quite bold, haven’t you?” He laughed then popped the chocolate in his mouth, then held out the bar. ”Want some?”

”It’s really just errands,” Adom said, pulling the brass lever for his Frosty. ”For a project. An important one.”

”No doubt, no doubt!” Biggins said cheerfully, still holding out the chocolate. He reached behind the counter and grabbed a paper bag, starting to fill it with candies.

The bell chimed its discordant melody as a group of first-years entered the store.

”Welcome, welcome!” Biggins called out cheerfully.

”Hello, Mr. Biggins!” they chorused back.

”That’s him,” one whispered to her friends, not nearly as quietly as she thought. ”The one who fought with Damus.”

The girls huddled near the candy display, their whispers and giggles punctuated by quick glances in Adom’s direction. He regretted hitting Damus in front of everyone.

”You know,” Biggins said casually, organizing some jellybeans that were trying to escape their jar, ”it feels like just the day before yesterday you could barely look at a young lady without turning red as a Flame-Breathing Gummy Bear.” He chuckled. ”Time does fly.”

Adom barely registered the comment as he placed his Frosty on the counter and accepted a piece of the chocolate. ”Thanks. Though you know, merchants aren’t supposed to eat their own products.”

Biggins let out a hearty laugh. ”Ah, the tragedy of being a shop owner with an incurable sweet tooth! Can’t help myself, I’m afraid.” He laughed again, adjusting his spectacles. ”That’ll be on the house, by the way. Last customer of the day.”

”Closing early today?”

Biggins laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a thunderstorm. ”Time is just yesterday wearing tomorrow’s hat backwards.”

”Right,” Adom said, deciding it wasn’t worth trying to decode that one. He pocketed the bag of candies. ”Thanks, Mr. Biggins. I’ll see you around.”

”Welcome back!” Biggins called as Adom reached the door.

”But I’m leaving,” Adom said, pausing with his hand on the handle.

”Exactly!” Biggins beamed, as if that explained everything.

Adom shook his head with a smile and, catching the first-years’ eyes, gave them a small wave. They waved back enthusiastically, breaking into fresh giggles as he stepped out.

As the door’s bell chimed in three different octaves, he could hear their excited chatter through the closing door and couldn’t help but think that if he’d known standing up to his bully was all it took to be this popular with girls, he might have done it in his first life. The thought made him chuckle.

He took a sip of his Frosty as he walked. Cloud Nine and Summer Sunset swirled on his tongue - cream and citrus and something ethereal that tasted like sunlight through morning mist. Even better than he remembered, and he remembered it being amazing.

But enough nostalgia. He had a cure to find.

*****

Beneath the gleaming spires of the merchant district and well past where cobblestone streets gave way to mud paths, there was a part of the island that tourist guides conveniently forgot to mention. Even most locals pretended it didn’t exist, though everyone had heard the whispers.

The Undertow, they called it.

Funny thing about the Sundarian Empire - they didn’t actually mind the illegal trading, the smuggling, or even the occasional theft of priceless artifacts. What really got under their skin was that sweet, sweet tax revenue slipping through their fingers. When investigations revealed that the Undertow’s annual turnover equaled roughly 5% of the entire Empire’s economy... well, let’s just say a lot of bureaucrats needed their fainting couches that day.

It had been around for centuries, they discovered. All the way back to the 23rd Duke of House Borealis.

A sprawling web of underground markets and secret warehouses, spreading beneath every major city in the Empire. Merchants who could get you anything from legitimate artifacts to things that definitely ”fell off the back of a cart.”

Need a banned spellbook? They had those.

Experimental potions that hadn’t quite gotten Ministry approval? Sure thing.

Regular stuff too, though nobody went there for that - why brave the Undertow’s dangers just to buy something you could get at the corner store?

Adom had never ventured there himself - in this life at least.

Though he knew that in about three decades, when the final bombing of Arkhos would tear open the ground like an overripe fruit, everyone would see what had been lurking beneath their feet all along. A whole shadow economy, complete with its own rules, hierarchies, and a very strict ”no questions asked” policy.

The Empire had tried to shut it down countless times, of course.

But trying to catch Undertow operators was like trying to grab smoke - just when you thought you had them, they slipped away through hidden passages and secret doors that seemed to appear and disappear at will. Not that the Empire’s heart was really in it.

As long as the goods kept flowing and society kept functioning, they mostly just grumbled about the lost tax revenue and pretended not to notice.

After all, even some of their own officials were known to make discrete purchases there from time to time. Not that anyone would admit it, of course.

The best way into the Undertow - if you were either brave or desperate enough to try - was through the Dregs, the lowest part of Arkhos in every sense of the word. Down where the city’s grand floating platforms cast permanent shadows on the streets below, where the air hung thick with factory smoke and failed enchantments.

The Dregs weren’t just poor - they were forgotten. The bottom rung of a city that prided itself on soaring ever higher. Here, buildings sagged against each other like rotting teeth, their walls stained with the residue of magical waste that rained down from above.

Street kids played with broken enchanted trinkets while their parents worked jobs the upper districts preferred not to think about.

Adom had always been one of the fortunate ones. His father had started as just another fortune-seeking adventurer, but year after year of successful expeditions into dungeons had built him both wealth and reputation.

Enough of both that he’d eventually traded his adventuring gear for a knight’s ceremonial sword, while his mother’s healing magic kept noble families paying in gold and favors.

They were the kind of rich that meant Adom had never had to think about being rich - the kind that got him into Xerkes without a scholarship, that kept him far from places like this and the sharp lessons they taught.

The kind of rich that made him an obvious target for the boy currently sizing him up from the shadows.

Three...

Adom kept walking, pretending not to notice.

Two...

The soft scuff of worn boots behind him.

One...

”Aha!”

His hand snapped back, catching a bony wrist mid-reach. The would-be thief couldn’t have been more than thirteen - all angles and hungry eyes, wearing clothes that looked like they’d been inherited from inheritance.

”Why, hello there,” Adom said. ”You know, you could have just asked.”

”Let go!” the boy hissed, trying to twist free from Adom’s grip.

Adom released him, watching with barely concealed entertainment as the pickpocket stumbled back, face flushed with equal parts anger and embarrassment. ”You might want to work on being a bit quieter. I could hear you breathing from three steps away.”

The boy’s face darkened, jaw clenching. ”Shut up. I’m the best pickpocket in the Dregs.”

Is he... proud of that?

”Is that so? The best don’t usually announce it,” Adom finally. ”They prove it.”

The boy’s mouth twitched in irritation.

”You know what though?” Adom continued. ”Since you’re the best, you probably know your way around here pretty well.”

”Depends what you’re looking for.”

”I need to meet someone. Man named Cisco.”

The boy let out a dry laugh. ”Right. Some pampered rich kid thinks he can just waltz in to meet Cisco?”

”One silver piece.”

The boy’s stance shifted slightly, words stumbling. ”That’s not—”

”Two. Three if you can do it today.”

”Ten,” the boy said, crossing his arms. ”And I’ll take you straight to him.”

”You think a boy my age would be walking around with ten silver pieces?”

”How much you got then?”

”Three. Final offer.”

”Fine,” the boy huffed. ”Pay up.”

”Ah ah ah,” Adom waggled his finger. ”Wouldn’t be very smart of me to pay before getting what I’m paying for, would it?”

”Half now, half after.”

”And how do I trust you?”

The boy straightened his spine, chin lifting. His voice dropped an octave, attempting gravitas. ”I may be a thief—”

”A bad one.”

”—shut up!” His shoulders tensed, but he recovered, clearing his throat. ”But I am not. A liar.” Each word carried the weight of practiced nobility, like he’d heard it in a street performance once and saved it for just such an occasion.

Adom’s eyebrow arched slightly. A beat passed.

Then another.

His laugh was short and sharp. ”Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

The boy’s attempt at dignity crumbled. His ears turned red first, then the rest of his face followed. ”I—just—stop laughing! I meant every word!”

The theatrical solemnity of moments before lay in shambles around his feet.

”Do you need me or not?” the boy snapped, fists clenched at his sides.

”Alright, alright, calm down. Damn, you have no sense of humor, do you?”

Adom flicked a silver coin through the air. The boy snatched it mid-flight, then frowned at his palm. ”This isn’t half.”

”I may be a clown,” Adom intoned, matching the boy’s earlier theatrical gravity with exaggerated precision, ”a good one—but I am not a liar.”

The boy let out a long-suffering sigh.

”You’ll get the rest when I meet Cisco.”

They wound their way deeper into the Dregs, Adom taking in everything with careful eyes. This was his first time here - in this life, or the other - and the reality hit harder than the stories. Shadows seemed deeper here, clothes more threadbare, hopes worn thinner. A woman stirred a pot that seemed to hold more water than ingredients. Children played with broken trinkets that still sparked with dying magic, while their parents watched from doorways with hollow eyes.

The contrast with the upper districts felt like a physical thing, heavy in the air. A few hard-eyed men sized him up from an alley entrance - expensive clothes, clean hands, easy target - but Adom kept his gaze down, staying close to his guide. Not too close though. His fingers remained near his coin purse.

”So,” Adom said, stepping around a puddle that smelled nothing like water, ”do you have a name, or should I just call you Pickpocket?”

”Don’t call me that,” the boy muttered, earning Adom’s confusion.

I thought he was proud of that. Huh. Not totally hopeless, I guess.

”I’m... uh, Barn.”

”Barn?” Adom glanced at the weathered sign of the tavern they’d just passed - ’Barns & Targ’ - and bit back a smile. ”You definitely didn’t just get that from—”

”Of course not!”

”Eren! Eren, you’re back!”

A group of smaller children came tearing around the corner, faces lit up with gap-toothed grins. They swarmed around them, tugging at the boy’s sleeves. ”Do you have some cookies from your mom today? Can we see? Did you—”

Eren’s face had gone the color of old chalk.

Adom cleared his throat, adopting the same noble gravity Eren had attempted earlier. ”I am not a liar.”

”Shut up.”

”Not now, you guys,” Eren continued. ”I’m working. But I’ll bring you all some cookies when I’m done, alright? Promise.”

”You always say that!” a tiny girl with missing front teeth protested.

”Did I break my promise last time, Maya?” He ruffled her hair. ”Or the time before that, Tim?”

”Pinky promise?” A small boy with a soot-streaked face held up his finger.

”Pinky promise, Rook.” Eren linked fingers with him, then looked meaningfully at the others until a chain of pinky promises had been made.

”Is he your job?” Maya pointed at Adom.

Before Eren could answer, Adom stepped forward. ”Yeah. Name’s Law.”

”Law? Like the farmer mage from the stories?” Tim’s eyes went wide.

”Just like that. Hey, would you all like some candies?”

”You have candies?” Several pairs of eyes locked onto him.

Adom reached into his pocket, pulling out a paper bag from the shop he’d visited earlier. The children crowded around as he handed them out. ”These are some special candies.”

”Thank you, thank you!” They chorused, sticky fingers already working at the wrappers. Maya immediately popped hers in her mouth, cheeks bulging. Tim carefully wrapped his back up, probably saving it for later.

Rook split his in half, offering the other piece to Eren.

Eren glanced at the offered half-candy, then flicked Rook’s forehead. ”Heh. Keep it. You’re skinny enough already.”

The liitle boy rubbed his forehead, pouting, but quickly popped the candy in his mouth before Eren could change his mind.

”Want one?” Adom said as he popped a candy in his mouth, holding another out to Eren.

Eren looked at the offered candy, then clicked his tongue. ”No. Let’s go.” He turned sharply, leaving Adom to wave goodbye to the children as they headed deeper into the Dregs.

”You sure?” Adom dangled the candy between them. ”Kids are gone. No need to play tough.” ”Do you ever shut up?” ”Sometimes.”

”Good. Try it.”

”Well, if you don’t want the candy...”

Eren’s eyes flickered to the wrapped butterscotch, trying and failing to look disinterested. For all his street-hardened act, he was still just a kid. The sweet would probably cost him half a day’s pickpocketing.

Adom sighed. ”Oh, come on. Stop with the side-eye.” He grabbed Eren’s wrist and pressed the candy into his palm.

”I don’t—” Eren started to protest, then stopped. His fingers closed around the wrapper. ”...thanks.”

”You’re welcome, Barns.”

”You never let anything go, do you?”

Adom’s laugh echoed off the cramped walls. ”Can’t help it. You make it too easy.”

As they made their way through the maze of cramped alleys, the buildings pressed closer, their foundations sinking into the perpetually damp ground. Finally, they reached what might’ve been a tavern once, before time and neglect had their way with it. Two men flanked the door, the kind whose muscles weren’t just for show.

”Wait here,” Eren said, moving toward them.

Adom leaned against a wall, looking perfectly at ease. His fingers traced a subtle pattern in the air - [Echo-thread] - and suddenly the conversation by the door became clear as if whispered directly into his ear.

”Got someone wants to see mister Cisco,” Eren’s voice came through.

”Yeah? Who’s the fancy boy?” One of the guards grabbed Eren’s collar, yanking him closer. ”Better not be wastin’ our time, rat.”

”Dunno who he is,” Eren said, voice steady despite the grip. ”But he’s got coin. Good stuff too, not that copper shit.”

The other guard spat. ”Rich little bastard probably got lost on his way to buy silk underpants.”

”Nah, he asked for mister Cisco specific. By name.”

”Did he now?” The first guard released Eren with a shove. ”And what’s your cut for bringing him, street trash?”

”Just doing my job,” Eren muttered, straightening his shirt. ”You gonna let him in or what?”

The guards exchanged looks. ”Tell pretty boy to come here.”

Eren beckoned, and Adom strolled over, hands in his pockets.

”Name,” the first guard growled.

”Law. Son of Count Bardeaux.” Adom’s posture shifted subtly - chin lifted, shoulders back, the practiced arrogance of nobility. ”Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

The guards exchanged glances. ”Bardeaux, eh? Bit far from your fancy towers, aren’t you?”

”I wasn’t aware the Dregs had restricted access.” Adom’s tone was mild. ”Is there a problem?”

”What’s your business with Cisco?”

”That’s between him and me.”

The second guard stepped closer, trying to use his height advantage. ”You got some balls on you for someone who looks like they haven’t even dropped yet.”

”Thank you,” Adom replied pleasantly. ”I do try.”

The first guard’s jaw clenched, but after a long moment, he jerked his head toward the door. ”Wait here.” Both men disappeared inside, leaving Adom and Eren in the damp afternoon air.

They stood in silence broken only by distant shouts and the constant drip of water from rusted pipes. The guards’ absence felt heavy, deliberate.

”I honored our deal,” Eren said finally. ”The rest of my money.”

Adom pulled out two silver coins, then after a moment’s thought, added a handful of candies. ”Here. Thanks.”

Eren stared at the unexpected extras, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he looked like he might throw them back. Instead, he pocketed everything with quick, sharp movements. ”Want me to wait?”

”Think I can find my way back. No need to worry.”

”Tsk. Wasn’t worried. Could’ve charged you more is all.”

Adom laughed. ”Bye, Mr. Pickpocket. See you around, maybe.”

Eren turned to leave, then paused. ”...Law’s not your real name, is it?”

”Of course not. What do you think I am, stupid?”

”Right.” Eren started walking away, raising a hand without looking back. ”Take care.”

Adom stood lost in thought, wondering what Cisco looked like. The reports he’d read in his past life only spoke of the man’s actions - how as an information broker, he’d organized the underground escape routes when Arkhos burned, saved hundreds of lives. A ghost of a hero, known only by name and deed. Now, after all this time...

”Come in, Lord Bardeaux. The boss will be seeing you.”

”How joyful.” Adom’s smile held genuine anticipation.

The tavern’s atmosphere hit like a slap of bitter wine. A fiddle cried somewhere in the smoke-thick air, its notes threading through rough laughter and rougher conversations. Cards slapped against sticky tables, coins clinked, and somewhere a woman’s laugh cut sharp as broken glass. The whole place reeked of spilled beer, unwashed bodies, and desperation worn comfortable as an old coat.

”Not the usual entertainment young master’s used to, eh?” The guard’s laugh rasped like rusted hinges.

”Not really, no.” Adom breathed in. ”But it has its charm.”

Eyes tracked Adom through the room - hard eyes, measuring eyes. ”Pretty little lordling,” someone muttered. ”Rich boy’s lost his way.” A burly man at the bar spat. ”Since when we babysitting?”

At the inner door, one of the guards caught Adom’s arm. ”Word of advice, young master. Boss don’t like smart games. Keep it simple, keep it straight.”

”Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

The door opened to reveal a spacious office. A tall man in crisp white clothing stood beside a massive desk - dark-skinned, blond, with wire-rimmed glasses that caught the lamplight. He had the steady presence of someone used to authority. Cisco, Adom thought, just as a deep voice rolled from behind the desk.

”Young Master Bardeaux. Welcome.”

Huh. Not Cisco then.

”Thank you,” Adom said, advancing into the room.

”I hear you were asking for me. By name.” The voice carried amusement. ”Curious, that a noble would know of such a humble personage.”

”I have good contacts.”

”I see.” A sharp clap echoed. ”Turn me around, Marco.”

Marco moved toward the chair with practiced grace. Each step seemed to stretch time, the leather creaking as the massive chair began to rotate. Adom’s prepared speech died in his throat.

First came the tail, long and elegantly curved over the armrest. Then tiny hands folded over a silver-headed cane. Finally, the chair completed its turn, and Adom found himself staring at... nothing.

He lowered his gaze.

Lower.

Lower still.

There, barely visible above the polished desk, sat a mouse beastkin in a perfect miniature suit. Silver-grey fur caught the lamplight, each whisker precisely trimmed. Behind tiny spectacles, dark eyes studied Adom with centuries of cunning.

Adom’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Cisco. The most dangerous information broker in the slums was... cute.

Don’t laugh. Don’t you dare laugh.

”A pleasure to meet you, Mister Cisco.”

”You’re even younger than I expected.” The mouse’s deep voice seemed impossibly large. ”What can I help you with?”

Adom opened his mouth, but Cisco raised one tiny paw.

”Before you start, young Master Law Bardeaux...” He adjusted his suit with delicate precision. ”I prefer to build partnerships on respect and dignity. There can be no respect in a relationship founded on lies.” His whiskers twitched. ”Perhaps you’d like to start with your real name?”

Adom smiled. He’d hoped to avoid this, but wasn’t surprised. ”I’d prefer to maintain my anonymity, for now. Law will suffice.”

”So you confess it’s not your real name?”

”No, it’s not.”

”Honesty.” Cisco’s tail curled thoughtfully. ”I respect honesty. Most who come here try to maintain their lies even when caught. You admit your deception openly - which means you have good reason for it.” His dark eyes studied Adom with renewed interest. ”And in my experience, those with the best reasons for secrecy are often the most interesting clients.” He leaned forward, paws folding atop his cane. ”Let’s cut to the chase then. What do you want?”

”I need water of jouvence. One liter, minimum. And a wyvern’s fresh heart. Within a month.”

Cisco’s whiskers stilled. The silence stretched until it hummed.

”Interesting requests.” He tapped his cane thoughtfully. ”Rare items. Expensive items. Hard to locate, harder still to acquire.” His dark eyes glinted. ”As an information broker, I can certainly find them and connect you with the right people for retrieval. But...” He studied Adom carefully. ”No disrespect intended to a potential client, but you don’t strike me as someone with that kind of capital.”

He turned slightly. ”Marco, calculate the operation costs. Including expedited delivery.”

Marco adjusted his glasses.

”Water of jouvence requires highland spring access, six months minimum aging, specialized alchemists - twenty thousand for production alone. Premium for immediate stock acquisition, fifteen thousand. Transport through three secured checkpoints, eight thousand. Bribes for customs, three thousand. Security detail, five thousand.” He paused, barely breathing. ”Wyvern heart - tracking party for two weeks minimum, twelve thousand. Professional hunter team, twenty-five thousand. Medical preservation, four thousand. Transport costs in specialized containers, seven thousand. Rush delivery fees across territories, eighteen thousand. Additional bribes and miscellaneous expenses, eight thousand. Total operation cost: one hundred and twenty-five thousand gold pieces, excluding our standard fees.”

Cisco’s tail swished. ”So, what do you think?”

Adom smiled, moving his hand behind his back. Marcus tensed, stepping forward, but Cisco raised one tiny paw. ”Stand down.”

Adom grunted with effort, muscles straining as he pulled out a leather bag from his inventory. It crashed onto the desk with a sound that made the wood groan. ”One,” he wheezed. ”Ten thousand.”

”Magic...” Marco murmured, adjusting his glasses.

Another grunt, more strain. The second bag landed with a heavy thud. ”Two,” Adom panted, wiping sweat from his brow. ”Another ten.”

”You seem quite out of breath for someone so young,” Cisco observed with amusement. ”Perhaps more exercise would do you good.”

”That’s...” Adom straightened, still catching his breath, ”exactly what I plan to do soon.”

One final effort, face reddening. ”Aaand... three.” The last bag hit the desk with a decisive bang, scattering a few papers. ”Ten thousand more. Thirty thousand total. Feel free to count it - it’s all there.”

Three bags sat before them, their presence as heavy as their weight.

”The remaining ninety-five thousand upon delivery,” Adom said, finally recovering his composure.

Cisco chuckled. ”What an interesting young fellow. Normally, I wouldn’t accept less than half for a job of this scale.” His whiskers twitched. ”But in your current state, I fear attempting to produce more bags might actually kill you.”

”I appreciate the consideration,” Adom replied flatly.

”Then we have a deal. Return in one month for your items.” Cisco turned slightly. ”Marco, add our standard fees to the remaining balance.”

”Ninety-five thousand plus twenty percent operational fee... Total remaining balance: one hundred and fourteen thousand gold pieces.”

”Works for me,” Adom said.

”I trust you understand there would be... grave consequences should you fail to honor our agreement?”

”Perfectly. I have no intention of making an enemy of you.”

”Good.” Cisco extended his paw across the desk - tiny, grey, and perfectly manicured.

Adom stared at it for a moment, then reached forward. His hand hovered, adjusted, readjusted, fingers awkwardly trying to find the right position to shake something the size of a child’s toy.

At last, the tiniest handshake in his life. ”Deal.”

The handshake had barely broken when the sounds erupted from below - crashes, shouts, the unmistakable noise of bodies hitting walls.

Marco moved toward the door, but before he could reach it, it exploded inward. A mountain of muscle and tattoos filled the frame, blood streaming from various wounds. A dagger protruded from his thigh, yet he seemed not to notice.

Some called his kind barbarians, though you’d have to be particularly eager to die to use that slur. Free Folk was the term - or in this case, a very angry Freeman.

”CISCO!” The Free Folk warrior’s voice shook dust from the ceiling. His chest heaved, eyes wild with rage.

Cisco didn’t even flinch. ”Thormund. I had hoped we could discuss this more civilly.”

”Civilly?” Thormund spat blood. ”My men-”

”Your men betrayed us. Betrayed you,” Cisco interrupted calmly, adjusting his tiny suit. ”They were dealt with accordingly.”

”I SAID I’D HANDLE IT MYSELF!”

The warrior lunged forward. Marco stepped between them, but against Thormund’s mass, he might as well have been a sapling before an avalanche.

Adom saw it unfold as if in slow motion - the massive hands reaching for the tiny information broker, Marco’s futile attempt to intercept, Cisco’s whiskers barely twitching.

He thought hard about this for a literal second. Having his supplier squashed to death before delivering the goods would be rather inconvenient for his plans. So...

[Control].

Thormund froze mid-stride, his fingertips inches from Cisco’s desk. The room fell silent except for the warrior’s ragged breathing.