As the figure of Azrael faded into the London fog, Lucian let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. The crushing pressure in the air vanished with him.
Lucian looked down at the black card in his hand. It was sleek, cold, and deceptively simple.
[Guild of Preservation]
[Azrael Aziz – Branch Master]
[Bond Street, Central Plaza]
"Nothing to see here," Lucian muttered with a wary smile, flipping the card over. "Just an invitation from the Reaper."
His instincts told him to run. Joining a Guild led by a man who could snap his soul out of his body sounded like a death sentence. But then, his stomach gave a violent, painful twist.
Growl.
The reality was simple: He couldn't beg. He couldn't work menial labor without his Pride punishing him. The Guild offered money, status, and power.
"I can't live like a rat forever," Lucian thought, pocketing the card. "And I certainly can't starve to death with a System in my head."
He decided to leave the decision for tomorrow. Right now, he had a more pressing mission.
He had ten pounds in his pocket. For the first time in his life, he wasn't destitute.
Lucian began walking toward the main thoroughfare of Bond Street. His destination was the Westminster Market District, located near the river. By foot, it was a grueling hour-long trek through the slush and smog. By carriage, it was a forty-five-minute ride in relative comfort.
He stopped near a transport station where several steam-carriages and horse-drawn wagons were lined up. He spotted a sign: [Bond Street to Westminster Bridge].
The carriage was about to depart. Lucian climbed up the step, ignoring the sudden silence that fell over the other passengers. There were three of them—middle-class citizens in wool coats. They stared at his ragged, bloodstained clothes with open disdain, wondering how a beggar dared to sit among them.
Lucian ignored them. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the vibrating wood of the cabin. He had no desire to look at the passing city—he knew it well enough. Just endless rows of gray brick, rusted pipes, and steam vents.
Time passed in a blur of motion and rattling wheels.
"Westminster Bridge! Last stop!"
The driver's voice jolted Lucian awake.
"Fifty pence each, please!"
Lucian stepped down onto the pavement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crisp ten-pound note he had extorted from Alric. He handed it to the driver.
The driver, a gruff man with soot on his face, looked at Lucian with disgust, then at the note with suspicion.
He thinks I stole it, Lucian thought, seeing the judgment in the man's eyes. Let him think what he wants. My money spends the same.
The driver grunted, snatched the note, and began counting out change. He handed back a five-pound note, two two-pound coins, and a fifty-pence coin.
[Current Funds: £9.50]
Lucian pocketed the change and finally looked up.
The view took his breath away. It was beautiful and melancholy all at once.
The weather was dreary—gray clouds hung low and heavy, looking as if the gods themselves were weeping over the city. But beneath that sky flowed the Thames. It was a massive, churning gray river that cut through the heart of the city, flowing outward toward the distant Sapphire Expanse.
Spanning the river was the Great Bridge. It wasn't just a crossing; it was a fortress. Massive stone towers rose from the water, connected by iron suspension cables as thick as tree trunks. Market stalls lined both sides of the bridge, a chaotic tunnel of commerce and noise.
Merchants shouted prices, steam-carts rattled by, and the smell of the river mixed with the scent of spices and coal.
Lucian merged into the crowd, keeping a hand on his pocket. He wasn't here to sightsee. He was here to hunt.
He stopped at a large butcher's stall. The owner was a bear of a man with a thick brown beard, his apron stained with the day's work. Despite Lucian's filthy appearance, the man didn't sneer. He wiped his hands on a rag and offered a tired but genuine smile.
"What can I get for you, lad?" the butcher asked. "We've got everything. Fresh from the farms inside the Wall."
He pointed a thick finger at the display. "Goat, sheep, chicken. Even got some Salmon from the coast, though that'll cost you five pounds a fish."
Lucian stared at the meat. It had been years since he'd tasted real animal protein. He usually survived on moldy bread and rat skewers.
"The chicken," Lucian said, his voice hoarse. "Can I have the chicken, please?"
"Sure thing. That'll be twenty pence." The butcher grabbed a bird. "Want me to chop it up for you?"
"Yes. Please."
The butcher wielded his cleaver with delicate elegance, chopping the bird into neat, manageable pieces in seconds. He wrapped it in brown paper and handed it over.
Lucian paid the man and walked away, clutching the warm package like it was a gold bar.
He spent the next hour moving from stall to stall. He bought a small bag of mixed spices from an old lady who took pity on him and explained how to use them. He bought onions, oil, and a loaf of mana-enriched bread.
By the time he caught the carriage back to the slums, his wallet was lighter, but his spirit felt strangely heavy.
[Current Funds: £8.80]
Back at the Broken Home Orphanage.
The building was silent. Most of the other orphans were out begging or hiding. Lucian made his way to the communal kitchen—a room that had been abandoned years ago due to the rusted pipes and lack of food.
"Hmm," Lucian hummed, setting his groceries down on the rotting table. "Let's see if I can make this work."
First, he cleaned. He spent forty minutes scrubbing the grime off the stove, clearing spiderwebs, and washing a rusted pot in the singular working sink.
"Now it looks like a place where humans eat," he muttered.
He turned the knob on the stove. Click. Whoosh. A blue mana-flame sputtered to life.
Lucian chopped the onions. His knife skills were rough, the pieces uneven, but it didn't matter. He poured the oil into the hot pan, waiting until it shimmered. Then, he tossed in the onions.
Sizzle.
The sound was music. The smell of frying onions filled the desolate kitchen, masking the scent of mold. When they turned golden, he added the chicken. He stirred it until the meat browned, then added the spices the old woman had given him.
He covered the pot and sat at the table, waiting.
He stared at the steam rising from the lid.
Tomorrow, I meet the Reaper, he thought. Tomorrow, my life changes. I'll either rise, or I'll be destroyed in the war.
But for tonight... tonight, he ate.
He took the pot off the stove. The aroma was overwhelming—rich, savory, and spicy. His stomach roared in anticipation.
He tore off a chunk of bread and scooped up a piece of chicken. He didn't know how to use a fork and knife properly—orphans didn't get etiquette lessons—so he used his hands.
He took a bite.
Flavor exploded in his mouth. The salt, the heat of the spices, the tenderness of the meat. It was slightly over-salted, and the onions were a bit burnt, but to Lucian, it was a masterpiece.
It was the first proper meal he had eaten in nineteen years.
He chewed slowly, expecting to feel tears prick his eyes. He expected to feel overwhelming joy, or gratitude, or something.
But his eyes remained dry.
[Constraint Active: Emotion Suppressed.]
He couldn't cry. He couldn't feel the giddy happiness of a starving boy finally being fed. He just felt... satisfied.
He finished the meal in silence. He cleaned the pot. He wiped the table.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to the empty room.
He walked back to his cramped bed, the taste of spices still lingering on his tongue. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, he slept without hunger gnawing at his belly.