That same night, before Mako headed to the castle, leaving Polifemo in charge of the mansion…
"Polifemo," Mako said, "I need you to warn the tavern keeper about Zork's plans."
Polifemo was stunned.
"But, Mako!" he exclaimed. "Are you insane? That's… That's… Treason!"
Mako shushed the demon, glancing around nervously. Polifemo grew jittery.
The coast was clear.
"Listen carefully, Polifemo," Mako said gravely. "There's only one reason Zork wants to bring troops to tomorrow's festival."
Polifemo knew. He nodded.
"It'll be a massacre…" Mako continued, his tone darkening.
"What can we really do? If I warn them, it might make things worse," Polifemo replied.
"You don't get it," Mako said, clenching his fists. "It's the only thing we can do. This is my fault for bringing Zork here."
Mako knew it. If not for him… He had to act. This mess, one way or another, stemmed from his actions.
'An assassination attempt on Erick,' Mako thought. 'That never happened before I rewound time. Not that I knew of.'
Mako felt restless. Since returning to the past, every event had been… strange. Not just awakening his system—nothing felt familiar. Nothing close.
'Has destiny changed so much because of my abilities?' Mako thought skeptically, gazing at the horizon.
Both Mako and Polifemo watched the moon rise slowly, surrounded by stars.
"Go, Polifemo. I'm counting on you," was Mako's final order before vanishing into the night.
Thus, Polifemo was left with the mission.
◇◆◇
'Well,' Polifemo thought, skulking in a Lower Galandria alley, 'does everything always fall to me?'
Polifemo was a mere shadow in the labyrinthine streets of the city's slums.
Unlike the day, the night pulsed with life. Despite Erick's reign of terror and the area's supposed infestation of crime lords, once darkness fell, it was a spectacle of lights and sounds.
Every corner hosted street bands, performers, and jugglers dazzling their crowds.
Polifemo watched, entranced. It was, without doubt, mesmerizing.
'Are these the festival preparations Mako mentioned?' Polifemo wondered, weaving through the throng.
No one paid him mind. Not because demons were common, but because everything else outshone him. Polifemo was the least striking thing in Lower Galandria.
'Lower Galandria?' Polifemo mused, spotting a massive mural with those words painted.
It was his first time hearing the name of this impoverished, hidden corner, far from nobles and kings.
Polifemo navigated the tangled paths, avoiding dead ends, guided by the beat of drums, flutes, and lively rhythms.
One man swallowed a thousand knives without injury (most of the time). Another set himself ablaze and emerged unscathed. A third, like a magician, vanished in plain sight.
"System at work," Polifemo muttered, eyeing them with his single eye.
But he was wrong. The performers shouted after their acts: "No system, no abilities, pure magic, ladies and gentlemen!"
'Impossible!' Polifemo thought. 'Impossible! Impossible! Impossible!'
The notion terrified the one-eyed demon. He shuddered at the idea of a world where humans could perform such feats without awakening a system.
Or, in other words, a world where humans didn't need contracts with demons or angels…
"Utterly terrifying." Polifemo pressed on. Finally, he reached the tavern Mako had visited that morning.
Though certain it was the place, Polifemo couldn't shake the feeling he'd erred. It was unrecognizable.
Without his keen sense of direction, he might've passed it by.
Polifemo entered and found a lively scene. The tavern teemed with people—drinking merrily, brawling in the back, playing cards. Not a single person lacked a beer mug in hand.
As he stepped in, a drunk stumbled into him, knocking him down.
"Watch it!" Polifemo complained, but no one heard. Everyone was too absorbed to notice the little imp.
Getting up, Polifemo hovered slightly, scanning for the morning's bartender.
"Hey," a voice said behind him. Turning, Polifemo saw a drunk staring.
"Got a problem?" Polifemo asked, ignoring him and focusing on finding the bartender.
Suddenly, someone yanked his leg, slamming him to the floor.
"You're a demon, ain't ya?" the drunk from before asked. Hitting the ground, Polifemo realized it was the same man. The beer-reeking drunk held his tiny leg.
"Let go!" Polifemo shouted.
A few people noticed, watching the scene.
'Damn it,' Polifemo thought. 'My undercover spy mission's blown!'
The drunk hoisted Polifemo by the leg like a chicken.
"You… damned things! Come on! Give me powers! How much, vermin?" the drunk slurred, spitting as he spoke.
Polifemo glared with his amber eye, disgusted.
"That's not how it works!" he snapped.
A familiar voice cut through.
"What's going on here?" it demanded. Polifemo turned and saw the morning's bartender.
"Oh," the bartender said. "You're with that noble from this morning."
At that, the drunk leaned closer to inspect Polifemo.
"Of course," the drunk said, barely standing. "You scum always trail nobles like dogs."
That enraged Polifemo, who bit the drunk's arm.
"Ow, ow, ow!" the drunk yelped, rubbing his arm and releasing the demon.
"Listen, this is important!" Polifemo said, spotting his target.
The bartender sensed his seriousness and told Polifemo to follow him to the tavern's back.
"Louis!" the drunk shouted, apparently the bartender's name. "You're letting him off? He attacked a customer!"
Louis glanced back, seeming to weigh the drunk's words.
"You know the rules, pal. Tavern fights aren't my business," Louis replied.
Polifemo couldn't resist sticking out his tongue at the drunk.
◇◆◇
In the tavern's back, Louis listened intently to Polifemo.
"You understand what this means?" Polifemo said, ensuring clarity.
Louis stood motionless, staring into space.
"Are you pulling my leg?" was all he said at first.
Louis loomed over Polifemo menacingly.
"What kind of joke is this? A threat?" he asked, furious.
That answered Polifemo's question… 'Clearly, nothing's clear,' he thought.