Micah’s anxiety was interrupted when the carriage’s constant clopping finally ceased. He was shackled once more and led outside, alongside Ezra and his bodyguards.

  A massive gate reinforced with iron plates abruptly marked the end of the bridge’s path. In contrast to its cold surface, the gate reflected a warm light cast by two large braziers installed on either side. The illumination allowed Micah to notice something that had gone unnoticed at first glance: extremely fine silvery patterns spread across the plates’ surface like a meticulous web of metallic veins. They didn’t look like mere decoration — their lines interwove into perfect fractals, vaguely reminiscent of the functional geometry of thermal stress marks on modern car windshields, as if they existed to disperse something energetic.

  And despite their technical precision, there was something far too organic about those markings, as though the metal had grown across the surface like a fungus — not been engraved by human hands.

  For a single instant, Micah even thought he saw movement in the patterns, as if they were breathing, like a living being.

  However, he quickly dismissed it as imagination — surely just another hallucination brought on by exhaustion.

  In front of the braziers stood two pairs of guards side by side, all carrying halberds. However, there was a fifth guard who truly stood out. He was stationed directly before the gate, resting a long sword against the stone floor. His face, stiffened and wrinkled by time, was partially concealed by a thick beard. His black hair, reaching his shoulders, together with his kettle helm, cast a shadow over his deep-set eyes, making it even harder to discern any expression. Unlike the other soldiers, he wore a bronze-colored uniform, matching Ezra’s half-cape. Additionally, he bore a bronze armband on his right arm, distinguished by a strange symbol: an eye crossed by a horizontal line.

  His posture was completely different from the others’. While his comrades chatted amongst themselves, he remained perfectly still — as immobile as a statue nailed to the ground.

  His presence was uncomfortable. Almost threatening.

  As soon as everyone exited the carriage, a young guard — bronze-skinned, with Iberian features — grabbed a thick book from the bridge’s parapet and approached:

  — Good evening, Royal Alchemist. — he greeted, lowering his head briefly. — I must say, you’re quite lucky. Curfew is about to begin. Had you arrived a few minutes later, our superior likely wouldn’t have permitted your entry. — he commented while writing down the names of Ezra and his attendants. The motion had become automatic after knowing them for so long.

  The guard closed the book and raised his right hand near his mouth, whispering conspiratorially:

  — You already know how Eastmund is… I bet he wouldn’t turn a blind eye even for his own father.

  The alchemist let out a short chuckle.

  — Yes, Gunther, you’re right. I really should start being more responsible with my schedule. Especially when dealing with such… good-humored men. — he added sarcastically, casting a brief glance at the guardian. — How’s the family bakery going?

  Gunther sighed tiredly, scratching his head as he searched for an appropriate answer.

  — We’re managing… Our father keeps hopping from tavern to tavern. My brothers and I keep things running. Today I even had to pay compensation because he decided to pick a fight with a red-haired slave. — He massaged his temples with his free hand. The topic always gave him a mild headache. — But I don’t blame him. Grief really is complicated. I believe Axis will knock some sense into him eventually…

  While Ezra and Gunther caught up, Micah noticed a strange reflection on the lake’s surface. When he looked up, he was both awestruck and mesmerized by the sight.

  Instead of the night sky he was used to — a black plane hiding the stars behind metropolitan pollution — he saw thousands of cracks as bright as the stars of his home world. It was like an endless canvas, every corner of the sky laced with that omnipresent web. It looked fragile, as though a single stone could shatter everything, yet eternal all the same. It was beautiful — more beautiful than anything he had ever seen — and Micah couldn’t stop staring.

  Hah… hah… hah… haaah…

  You should’ve seen his face.

  He looked like a brain-dead idiot staring up with his mouth hanging open!

  Hilarious.

  Anyways…

  That view — even without knowing what it meant — unlocked something in his mind.

  It was unsettling. He felt farther from home than ever before. And yet, it made Micah think that perhaps being in a new world wasn’t as terrible as he’d imagined.

  His life now had a vast new portfolio of miseries — but also a renewed catalog of wonders waiting to be discovered.

  His reverie was interrupted by the sound of wood scraping against stone, followed by the shrill protest of multiple poorly lubricated hinges as the massive gate began to move.

  The guttural groan of the gate wasn’t just the sound of ancient hinges — it was something deeper, fuller, as though the metal itself were retreating by its own will, not merely through human or mechanical force.

  Micah realized this when he noticed the silvery patterns vibrating like taut strings. For an instant, he felt the sound more in his chest than his ears — an internal pressure — and a tingling ran through his teeth. He couldn’t describe the sensation precisely, but it was as if the gate were… anxious.

  Gunther gestured to Eastmund, who promptly raised two fingers to his mouth and blew a short, sharp whistle.

  Micah expected to hear something.

  But nothing came.

  Nothing — except an almost nauseating vibration, as if the air itself had twisted around them.

  The bronze guardian before the gate didn’t move. But the gate did.

  The silver veins contracted like tendons. He saw it — clearly — one of the metallic lines narrowing and stiffening, like a muscle at the exact moment of contraction. Then the metal relaxed, flowing back as if it were solid mercury.

  It was like watching an organism obeying a reflex.

  — What was that…? — he whispered, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.

  Ezra merely scratched his stubble beard with disinterest:

  — Psychoid Silver. Or, as the common folk call it, “Living Silver.” Much older than this city. — he replied casually, adjusting his gloves like someone describing mustard on a hot dog. — Technically, it’s not a living being. But it responds to specific sounds.

  — Sounds?… Sounds… that I didn’t hear?

  Ezra raised an eyebrow, smirking.

  — Of course you didn’t hear them. You’re not a gate.

  Eastmund blew the whistle again, this time in a longer, rhythmic sequence.

  Micah felt the sound this time — a sharp stab at the base of his neck — an echo inside his skull, as if the vibration pressed inward against his mind.

  The gate responded.

  All the silver lines pulsed at once, as though a single heart beating beneath the iron commanded a full opening. The heavy panels withdrew with a wet jolt — not mechanical, but almost organic, like a mouth opening.

  Micah instinctively stepped back.

  Still distressed, yet hypnotized, he watched as the gate fully opened — and as the mechanism worked, the metallic veins synchronized and contracted in perfect coordination.

  Like muscles obeying a rhythm.

  A rhythm only the metal recognized.

  And only the whistle revealed.

  — Is that… is that really alive? — he murmured.

  Ezra blinked, almost offended by the obviousness.

  — Well… alive enough to obey. Not alive enough to think. A perfect balance, if you ask me.

  The alchemist said this while reverently running his finger along one of the metallic fractals.

  The living silver recoiled from his touch, shrinking back like gooseflesh.

  — It resembles a creature responding to stimuli. — Ezra added. — Or a machine. Or… both.

  He sighed briefly.

  — It was Edgarl Samkov himself who grafted and trained this masterpiece of alchemical engineering… But since his canonization, I can’t retrain it without the supervision of one of those meddling bishops. As if simple research were sacrilege! Ignorant retrogrades. — he muttered bitterly to himself.

  — Those sounds… — Micah ventured. — They’re like… dog whistles?

  Ezra smiled, amused, immediately shifting his demeanor:

  — Hm. Yes, that’s a good comparison. The only difference is that if you whistle those sounds near the living silver… it tries to kill you for the insolence of imitating its superiors.

  Micah went pale.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Ezra patted his back like congratulating a recruit.

  — Relax. You’re not important enough for it to try crushing yet. Let’s go.

  The group passed through the gate, while Eastmund — his face as immobile as a sacred statue — stepped aside for the carriage, following them only with empty eyes.

  Behind them, the living silver pulsed once more, like a metallic sigh.

  As the gate closed, the veins intertwined again, forming perfectly symmetrical patterns — so precise they didn’t seem meant to be seen, but read.

  As if they were words in a language no human possessed the organs to pronounce.

  Even in the dark, the difference between the Central Island and the rest of Edel-Füllhorn was clear as day. The first thing to stand out was sanitation. There were multiple storm drains along the curbs, installed due to the island’s enclosed nature to prevent flooding during heavy storms — unlike the outer Rings, which relied on Veédras’ goodwill. Aqueducts connected the lake to the various houses and mansions dotting the island, while common peasants carried water to their homes and gardens by bucket. The streets bore not a single trace of filth, and even the houses of the lesser nobility displayed sparse gardens — some even boasting fountains and marble sculptures.

  It truly was another world.

  Using one of his few strengths, Micah observed that all the lampposts had their candles lit, yet the sidewalks were completely deserted:

  — Why is there curfew? — he asked out of pure curiosity, gazing out the cabin window at the many exotic flowers present in noble gardens.

  — Hm? — Ezra lifted his head from the shoulder of one of his guards, rousing from near-sleep.

  — You ask a lot of questions, don’t you? — he commented, mildly irritated. — But as a scholar, I must respect that curiosity.

  The alchemist stretched lazily for a moment, then crossed his legs.

  — Let’s say there have been many… crimes lately. A serial killer has been brutally murdering nobles across the Kingdom — including one of my apprentices in the capital. — His face tightened in a way Micah had never seen before. It was almost bizarrely out of character. — The bastard left his face unrecognizable…

  He took a deep breath, returning to his calm expression and continuing:

  — Well, no one truly knows the motivation behind the murders, but many believe there are rebellious roots.

  “His actions led to the founding of a terrorist group in his name, and that same group has carried out several attacks in recent months, further inciting rebellion.”

  “With that, the King implemented this curfew as a safety measure, and also severely escalated punishment for traitors. What used to be punishable by death through hanging now results in the traitor and their entire family being sent to the Charbon mines for forced labor — and trust me, even slavery is better than that.”

  A chill ran down Micah’s spine. The situation he was already in felt like hell itself — according to his self-pity, at least. What could possibly be worse than this?

  The corners of Ezra’s mouth lifted subtly as he looked at Micah. It was as if he took slight pleasure in his reaction.

  Soon the carriage stopped in front of a modest manor. The property stood out effortlessly among the surrounding mansions — but not in the usual way. It felt like a foreign body embedded in the heart of nobility.

  While the other residences displayed tall fa?ades with columns, arches, ornamental pediments, and gardens competing in extravagance, Ezra’s house was… lacking.

  Micah felt that absence before fully understanding it.

  There were no statues.

  No fountains.

  No stained-glass windows glowing beneath exterior lanterns.

  Not even a single ornate fence.

  The house was a rectangular block of gray stone — solid and austere — with a discreet roof and small windows, almost stingy with light. The garden, if that barren patch of land could even be called such, held only two plants: a twisted shrub that looked like it had grown there by accident, and a single pale flower, nearly wilted, as if even it had given up competing with the neighborhood.

  The contrast was so stark Micah nearly laughed.

  It felt like someone had ripped a house out of a rural village and, by mistake or stubbornness, planted it in the city’s wealthiest district.

  But there was more.

  After a few seconds, he realized the minimalism wasn’t due to poverty — far from it. It was intentional.

  The house conveyed the same feeling as the psychoid markings on the island gate: absolute functionality.

  It was a mask — just like Ezra himself seemed to be a walking mask.

  Among all the mansions lit like altars, this was a dark hole — and ironically, it was precisely where Ezra chose to live.

  — Welcome to my home. — the alchemist said, with almost childlike satisfaction, stepping out of the carriage as if presenting a masterpiece. — It’s simple, but… efficient.

  Micah hesitated before stepping out.

  There was something about the house — something too silent, too clean, too empty — that triggered a small knot of warning inside him.

  Not outright fear, but that sensation that precedes a chill: the impression of entering a place not meant for people like him.

  Ezra turned back, his smile slowly returning — this time with a different nuance. Something almost intimate, but equally dangerous.

  — Don’t worry, Micah. — he said. — I don’t usually bring guests.

  Then the front door creaked open on its own, as if responding to a silent command Micah hadn’t perceived. For a brief instant, he thought it might be living silver again — but the true cause was far less intimidating.

  A short red-haired girl with a freckled face peeked out from behind the door. She looked no older than sixteen, wore a simple maid’s uniform, and the flickering light of her lantern revealed a few stains on her white apron.

  — Good evening, Master Ezra… — she greeted softly, stepping aside and avoiding eye contact.

  The interior of the manor was almost as minimalist as the exterior, furnished sparsely. No grand paintings. No detailed sculptures. At most, an iron chandelier and several iron candlesticks provided light for the main hall and the rest of the house, along with a few decorative vases placed in emptier corners.

  Ezra clearly wasn’t a man obsessed with ostentation like the other nobles in the area.

  A grand staircase at the end of the hall connected the ground floor to the upper level, accompanied by a discreet door leading directly to the servants’ quarters.

  To the left of the entrance was the dining room with an opening into the kitchen; to the right, a reading room. Its shelves were filled with books, mostly on alchemical practices and information on mineral and botanical materials, along with several grimoires on Karma and biographies of great alchemical figures.

  — Master Ezra, would you like me to prepare a cup of tea, or perhaps a bath for you…? — the girl asked hesitantly, glancing briefly at Micah but not giving him attention.

  — A bath would be wonderful, but first, I’d like to introduce you to someone…

  Ezra stepped aside, enthusiastically bringing the two closer together.

  — Andora, this is Micah, your new colleague. Micah, this is Andora, one of my servants. — he finished with a wide smile, pushing them even closer.

  Both were visibly uncomfortable. It was as if Ezra made a point of making the encounter awkward.

  Andora forced a stiff smile, trying to seem friendly:

  — Um… h-hi, n-nice to meet you.

  — The pleasure’s all mine… — Micah replied, finishing the formality with an awkward handshake.

  The alchemist placed his hands on their shoulders. He seemed… strangely impatient.

  — Wonderful. Lovely. Now come, Micah. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.

  Soon after, Ezra picked up one of the candlesticks and went upstairs with Micah, while Andora and the bodyguards remained on the ground floor.

  Before going up, Micah glanced back at the maid once more — and something was off. Under the light of her lantern, Andora seemed to feel deep pity for him, as if she knew something he didn’t even begin to suspect.

  The redhead was led down a dark corridor until they stopped before a door, which Ezra opened to reveal a simple yet cozy bedroom. The room had two beds, an oak dresser — doubling as a nightstand — a mirror, and a window overlooking the street.

  Micah was genuinely impressed. Why would Ezra give such a comfortable, furnished room to a mere slave?

  The alchemist opened the first drawer of the dresser, taking out a brass candlestick and a candle. He lit it with the other candle he held and set it atop the furniture, the scent of beeswax quickly filling the room.

  — I know what you’re thinking: — Ezra turned to Micah. — “Why a room like this for a slave like me?” Well, this room was originally meant for guests, but you’re injured, and I don’t want my newest acquisition catching an infection on the first day.

  He leaned against the headboard of one of the beds, resuming his habit of gesturing mid-explanation.

  — I’ll leave you here until your wounds close and you’re fit to work. In the meantime, rest, familiarize yourself with your new home, and do whatever it is idle people do. — He stepped out of the room, holding the doorknob. — Good night, Micah. Enjoy your idleness while it lasts. Oh — there are clean clothes in the second drawer.

  The door closed, and Micah was finally alone. He sat on one of the beds, releasing a long sigh — equal parts relief and exhaustion. He finally had time to process everything that had happened over the last two days, and unfortunately, to remember the bodily pain he’d forgotten.

  His priority now was figuring out a plan of action. He wanted to return to his world, of course — but how? He didn’t even know why he’d been brought here, or what the hell this place even was.

  As he mulled over his options, he changed clothes, putting on a beige tunic and dark trousers. The rough linen fabric made his skin itch and constantly snagged on the stitches on his back — but between that and wearing his torn clothes soaked in sweat and reeking of blood, this was the better option.

  He vaguely remembered the moment he’d been transported to this world. He recalled speaking to someone he couldn’t see. However, the content of that interaction remained a blur no matter how hard he tried. He also knew the Moon had something to do with it all — after all, during his transport, he’d seen the Moon’s light consume him before he lost consciousness.

  With no other guidance, Micah concluded he should seek more information about the Moon. However, based on everything he’d observed, this world didn’t seem to have one — or perhaps that belt hovering across the sky was this world’s Moon?

  He had also learned about Karma. This world had magic — or something like it — so perhaps something or someone had sent him here using some kind of spell? But all of that was speculation. He had no idea what the limits of Karma were, or whether that magic could even influence his home world.

  With all that in mind, Micah stood up and looked out the window, admiring that strange sky — partially obscured by the two megalomaniacal structures at the city’s center, along with that debris belt faintly glowing like the moonlight he knew, yet always accompanied by that breathtaking vision: something that resembled millions of cosmic neurons connected together more than stars.

  With that view, he decided the best course of action was to gather more information — about Karma, about what might be this world’s Moon — and, of course, to become a free man.

  Hrm…

  As if you had the intelligence — or even the determination — for that.

  When he grew tired of the view, he closed the window and turned toward the mirror. He ran his fingers over the cut on his face, checking the stitches Ezra had made. Then he removed bits of dirt and straw tangled in his fiery red hair.

  Micah had never understood why his hair was naturally so intensely colored. Everyone who asked always assumed he dyed it — and when he denied it, they simply didn’t believe him. The strangest part was that his mother was brunette, and no one in his family even came close to being red-haired.

  Whenever he asked about his biological father — not her ex-fiancé, since they’d never had sexual relations due to his evangelical doctrine — she always told the same strange story. Micah wanted to believe her, truly, but it was impossible. So he connected the dots and concluded she’d been assaulted and invented that story to cope with the trauma, never bringing up the subject again.

  His memories were interrupted by a soft, almost timid knock at the door. When he opened it, no one was there — only a tray with a vegetable stew, a roasted red-meat fish he’d never seen before, some day-old bread, and a glass of water.

  He glanced down both sides of the empty corridor before taking the tray. It was probably delivered by the maid he’d met earlier. He didn’t know her origins, but he hadn’t eaten in two days, and his stomach ached with hunger.

  After eating — and nearly choking to death on a fish bone — he placed the tray by the foot of his bed, blew out the candle, and lay down on one of the beds. He stared at the ceiling for a while, until his eyes grew heavy and he finally drifted off, content and at peace.

  But not for long.

  …

  The cold came first.

  A frozen blade sliding down his spine, slowly infiltrating between his ribs. Micah curled up — or tried to — before even opening his eyes. He inhaled deeply and felt the air thick, stagnant, as if he were breathing inside a box sealed for years.

  Then came the sound.

  Tec… tec… clink.

  Glass fragments tapping against one another. Vials being aligned. Something dense dropped into a metal tray, producing a muffled echo, as if the room swallowed any noise before it could spread.

  Micah frowned. Still caught between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he was hearing someone handling dishes in his mother’s kitchen. But something was wrong: the silence around him felt too vast, too dense — as if the air itself were padded. As if the walls had been designed to hide secrets.

  He finally opened his eyes.

  The darkness barely receded. The only light came from a wall-mounted torch near a bench covered with vials, blades, and metallic instruments whose shine wavered in the flickering glow.

  The room was narrow. Windowless. Seamless. The walls were thick, lined with layers of compressed wood and dark leather — soundproofing. The floor was cold stone.

  And with his back to him, completely absorbed in his work, stood Ezra.

  The alchemist wore a lab coat and black gloves, holding a small bluish, faintly luminescent vial between two fingers with the delicacy of someone handling a rare insect. He poured a minuscule drop of that liquid into another solution, heard the metallic ping, and poured the mixture into a beaker. He didn’t seem to notice Micah had awakened.

  Micah tried to lift his right arm.

  Nothing.

  He tried the left.

  Nothing.

  A tremor traveled up his throat and turned into a short sob. He lifted his head — as much as he could — and only then realized: he was lying on a metal table, completely restrained by wide gray leather straps, tightened enough to bite into his skin.

  The air vanished.

  A hot, primal panic erased all rational thought. Micah began pulling against the restraints, feeling them creak — but not give. The cold metal beneath his back felt like an ice slab pinning his heart in place.

  — N-no… — escaped him, barely audible. — Ezra? Ezra?!

  The straps tightened further as he moved, as if they’d been adjusted precisely to prevent impulsive escape. The sound of his struggle echoed dully, swallowed by the walls.

  Ezra finally stopped what he was doing.

  — Ah. — he said, unsurprised. — You’re awake.

  He turned.

  His face was calm, but there was no empathy in his eyes — only the meticulous composure of someone watching a phenomenon react exactly as predicted.

  — Good morning, Micah. I hope you slept well. — he greeted, as if nothing were wrong, his face upside-down from Micah’s perspective.

  Micah sucked in air through his mouth, but it felt like trying to drink through a clogged funnel. Desperation burned in his chest.

  — W-what the fuck is this, Ezra?! L-let me go! Please… please…

  Ezra tilted his head slightly, like a doctor assessing a patient who didn’t understand their own treatment.

  — Calm down, Micah. Shh… — His tone was gentle, gentle like a father soothing a child, even as he stroked Micah’s hair. — If you keep struggling, you’ll tear your skin. And honestly… I’d rather that didn’t happen right now.

  The torch crackled in the background.

  The shadows shifted.

  Ezra lowered his head to Micah’s ear, lowering his voice — not gently, but like a murderer pressing a blade to a victim’s throat:

  — You really thought I wouldn’t notice, didn’t you?

  — W-what are you talking about? — Micah stammered, sweat running down his neck despite the cold.

  — Don’t play dumb, Micah…

  “I know your secret…”

  “I know that you…”

  “…came from another world.”