He didn't stop at the gate. Not yet. The night market had a pulse of its own—tighter beats, shorter breaths. Tents leaned into one another like conspirators. Lanterns swayed on thin chains, halos sliding over faces and steel.
A flautist tried a fast run and tripped over the third note. A card dealer laughed too loudly when no one won. Oil crackled in a pan, carrying the salt-snap of frying river fish.
Aiden bought a small heel of bread and a slice of firm cheese. The warmth bled into his fingers. He didn't inhale it. He ate without hurry, listening.
Recruiters worked the corners near tavern doors. Crimson Edge had a table with dented mugs and a neat stack of contracts. Silver Fang's handler wore a cloak that made him look taller. Obsidian Claw ran a quiet booth—no shouting, just a sign that read: Tactics Over Temper.
A runner brushed Aiden's shoulder and muttered an apology. The rhythm of the steps—too fast, uneven—said urgent more than dangerous.
He crossed to a railing that overlooked a lower lane. A pair of rogues tried to mirror-step again. They matched left, right, left, then lost the beat at the third cross. One cursed softly.
"Shorten the second," Aiden said. "Land earlier. The third will sync without forcing it."
They looked up, saw it was advice, not a challenge, and tried again. Better. Not perfect.
Aiden finished the bread and flicked crumbs into the gutter. A coil of fatigue tugged at his calves. Not pain. Just tallying the day.
A side notice flickered at the periphery of his HUD.
[City Event: Night Watch Rotation]
[Optional: Assist with route checks — 10–15 minutes]
Reward: Small XP, patrol token, +Reputation (Guards)
He accepted. Not for the reward.
Patterns repeat in patrols. Repetition leaves gaps. Useful later.
He met the Watch at a lamplit corner. The sergeant—a square-faced woman with a blunt way of standing—handed him a chalk stick and pointed at a simple map.
"Mark any loose stones, dark-lamp pockets, or new graffiti," she said. "We replace lamps tomorrow. Stones take a week."
Aiden set off on the outer track. He measured each section by breath and stride—sixteen steps to the corner, twelve to the arch, nine to the grate. He marked three loose flagstones and a lamp that flickered then failed, leaving a segment of road shadow-heavy. On a wall near a narrow stair, someone had scrawled a symbol—a triangle with a slit eye.
Not guild. Not official.
He circled back and handed the chalk over. The sergeant grunted thanks and gave him a small metal token stamped with a tower.
"You move quiet," she observed.
"Habit," he said.
He shifted toward the quieter lanes as a cheer rose from the dueling square. A ring had formed—wet stone chalked into a boundary. A recruit in Crimson Edge colors paced the circle, sword drawn. His opponent bent at the knees and bounced, trying to look loose and looking instead like a foot wrapped too tight.
"Next challenger!" the recruiter shouted. "Win and walk away with two silver!"
Aiden turned to leave.
The recruiter saw him and smiled with too many teeth. "You. Quiet boots. Fancy a try?"
"No," Aiden said.
A scattered boo, light and unserious. The recruiter shrugged and waved in a different opponent. The match started, sloppy and fast. Steel clanged. Someone slipped. The crowd hissed at an almost-hit. The recruiter didn't watch the fight; he watched the faces.
Aiden moved away.
In a narrow alley behind a tea-seller's stall, a boy in patched sleeves was stacking crates too high for his reach. The topmost one tilted, then slid. Aiden stepped forward, caught edge and weight with a soft thud, and lowered it to the cobbles.
"Thanks," the boy said, voice small.
"Stack them with heavier on the bottom," Aiden said. "Keep the line under your chin, not above your eyes."
The boy nodded like that was a secret worth guarding. Aiden left him to it.
He drifted toward the east wall where the city met the shallow hills. The breeze was cooler there. Crickets made their thin needle sounds among the weeds. He set a palm against the stone and climbed—not in a showy way, just efficient holds and steady balance. On the parapet, he sat with his back to a crenel and watched the road beyond turn to darkness.
Light dots moved—caravans running late. One paused. One resumed. He traced the pattern of lanterns and counted the gap between wagons.
A flicker brushed the HUD again—barely a tremor in the overlay. He rolled his shoulder. It settled.
A second city notice slid into place without sound:
[Hidden Node: Maintenance Hatch K-17 — Access Restricted]
[Flag: Glitched marker detected]
[Note: Report to City Maintenance Office for token exchange]
He marked the location on his map by habit. Not to report yet. To see it first. He climbed down and cut a diagonal path through the quieter lanes.
The hatch sat in a recessed alcove beside a shuttered laundry. It looked like part of the wall—stone-faced, iron-rimmed, with a bracket that should have held a lock. It didn't. The bracket was clean, like something had chafed it recently.
He listened.
No scraping. No breath. Just the far-away ring of a hammer and the closer whisper of the market.
He tested the edge with his fingers. It didn't give. He stepped back.
No need to force unknowns. Catalog first. Engage when necessary.
Footsteps approached at a casual pace—two sets, deliberately loud. Aiden slid into shadow beside a stack of damp cloth bundles. The pair turned into the alcove and saw the hatch, then stopped short at seeing him. Both wore low-crest leather, no guild insignia, weapons peace-tied but hands a little too ready.
"Late to poke at city property," one said, smile loose, eyes not smiling.
"Just mapping," Aiden said. "You?"
The second shrugged. "Curiosity tax." He gestured at the hatch with his chin. "You open it?"
"No."
They traded a look. The first man took a half-step closer, weight too forward for talk. Hands loose. Shoulders tight.
"Got a token?" he asked.
Aiden didn't answer. He shifted one foot a fraction, finding flat stone.
The first man reached for the hatch ring, more to test Aiden than to move it.
Aiden breathed once.
Switch.
Wrist angle—telegraphs intent. Right knee cocks at ninety. Weight will load on the big toe.
He deflected the reaching hand with a pulse of pressure at the wrist bone. The man's fingers skidded across iron and slapped stone. The second stepped in fast, but Aiden was already inside the angle, elbow tucked. He slid his forearm across the man's biceps and turned his center, guiding momentum into the alcove wall. The contact sounded like a muffled drum.
The first recovered and swung up from low—clumsy, too much arm. Aiden didn't cut. He stepped to the outside line, set knuckles against a tendon above the elbow, and pressed. The arm folded like it had always meant to. He stepped back, let space widen.
Silence. The three of them breathed. The cloth bundles gleamed wet and smelled like steeped herbs.
The second man flexed his hand and laughed once. Not angry—surprised. "You could've broken my arm."
"You kept your shoulder loose," Aiden said. "Made it easy."
The first looked at him carefully now. His smile returned, honest this time. "Didn't mean trouble. Just curious. We thought…" He glanced at the hatch. "Never mind. We'll be elsewhere."
They left at a normal pace.
Aiden watched the lane for a count of ten and noted how their steps eased after the third corner. He marked the hatch location again. The HUD shimmered, then stabilized.
He walked.
In the square, a soft bell rang midnight. Vendors doused lamps. The dueling ring wrapped up. Recruiters packed their banners. The city's volume dropped without going quiet.
He paused near a mural painted on a low wall—Auden the Founder holding a lantern that lit his own feet and nothing else. The paint had flaked along the edges. Someone had drawn a tiny hat on the lantern.
Aiden felt the day settle and took inventory—tightness in the left calf, a whisper in the right wrist that would need stretching, and a faint itch at the nape that meant his awareness had held too high for too long.
He found a spot along the north wall where the stone retained the day's warmth. He sat. He watched the gate guards trade jokes they'd repeated a dozen times. He listened to the rhythm of tired laughter and the slower cadence of boots on patrol.
A notice peeped, small and almost apologetic.
[Passive Skill Progress: Spatial Anticipation +1]
[Note: Your body begins to move before your decision catches up]
He closed his eyes for three breaths. Opened them. The notice was still there. He dismissed it.
Another flicker—different this time.
[Message: Faylen]
If you're moving late, avoid Kingfisher Row. Too many "tests" after dark. The city doesn't call them raids, but they feel like it.
He wrote back with a single word: Noted.
He stood and rolled out his shoulders. His stomach didn't pull toward food anymore. His eyes didn't want sleep yet.
He took a final pass through the plaza. A thin man practiced spear forms alone—thrust, withdraw, guard—smooth until the reset, where his guard dropped an inch.
"Hold the guard through the breath," Aiden said.
The man startled, then nodded, corrected, repeated. This time the guard stayed high. He didn't look at Aiden again. He didn't need to.
On a bench under the Arc pillar, Kael sat with Lynet and Sora, heads bent close. Faron had a strip of cloth around his wrist and a guilty look like he hadn't told anyone how he'd hurt it.
"Stance tomorrow?" Kael asked as Aiden passed, not quite a question, not quite an invitation.
"Tighter," Aiden said. "Shorter steps. Count the breaths between attacks."
Kael grinned. "Breaths I can do."
Sora smirked. "We'll see."
Aiden angled toward the incense-stall alley. The smell of resin and sweet wood hung there, thin and steady. He cataloged the night's changes—a lamp fixed here, chalk scuffed there, a puddle drying slower under a leaky gutter. The city breathed smaller now, but it was still breathing.
He reached the gate and paused. The road beyond ran dark and simple. Shadows layered like cloth over the ditches. Owls hunted low. He traced tomorrow's first steps without committing to them—south toward the riverworks, or west where the hills fold like knuckles.
A final, faint ripple brushed the HUD and passed.
He turned back into the city and walked to the nearest safe-logout glyph—a small circle inlaid at the edge of the plaza, half-hidden between a bench and a planter of ironbloom. The glyph pulsed once as he stepped onto it.
[Safe Zone Verified]
[Arc Terminal: Log Out Available]
[Proceed? Y/N]
He rested a hand on the guard of his blade. The city's sounds thinned into softer lines—hammer echoes, a last laugh from a tavern door, the whisper of banners.
Y.
[Saving State…]
[Anchor set: Eboncrest — North Plaza]
[Log Out Confirmed]
Haptics eased, sound narrowed, light folded down without hurry. His last thought clipped into place, clean and exact:
Morning watched.
Evening answered.
Tomorrow can argue.
He'd hear it out—then cut.
The world went dark.