22nd September 1137

  Acryl.

  He put the pencil back into his pocket as he tried to clean off the pencil lead on his hand. Acryl made sure countless times by asking strangers who looked approachable that he did not mess up the address, that there is one and only one Cambric Street in the entirety of Euth.

  The street was as dark as the secrets. Acryl could not believe that it was afternoon. The colors of the Cambric Street were dull and dark. From afar, the entire section of the Grand Dome resembled a handcrafted project that was falling apart.

  Acryl walked into the dark alleyway of Cambric Street. It was a place with many factions and people who would not be in daylight-cults, criminals, illegal Realm-arts implants, arcane item trading, and all other foul things he heard about.

  Whispers of people discussing remnant tide exploration, Realm-arts implant, and tales of abnormalities crept in as he walked. The flickering neon lights that form letters and words shout in the darkness, trying to get Acryl’s attention.

  His pace was slower than before. Acryl felt as if everyone was looking at him. He put his hand in his pocket and another holding his pouch bag as if he was holding onto a hand pulling him out of the water.

  “Should I even come here?” he thought to himself.

  The sun was covered by the illegal expansions and stretching rooftops, which looked like tapes holding Cambric Street together. The street smelled like oil and blood that was accented by the foul smell of something Acryl could not identify.

  When he was a child, Canvas would intentionally take the longer road just to avoid being here.

  The messengers in their blue jackets may be hiding undercover, yet their impact is like pouring a glass of water onto a burning train. Acryl felt some unfriendly looks towards him as he walked and gazed around the street, looking for the tavern Suiming mentioned.

  “…Is this really the right place?” he muttered to himself as he used his hand to cover his nose, as he moved his legs slowly and looked at every detail of the place.

  He found himself standing before a tavern that looked out of place. Compared to the other buildings, the tavern had great lighting, and the inside of it was visible from outside through the large windows. Through it, he saw people drinking and chatting like every other tavern. It looked more like a place for tired workers to relax after a long week than a place of crime.

  He opened the door as the tiny bell on it chimed lovely.

  As the floor squeaked, the bartender in blue greeted him with a friendly smile. The inside of the tavern smelled like bread and yeast. The face of the bartender and the sapphire eyes of his reminded Acryl of a transfer student from Auderheim.

  He sat down on the soft, cushioned stool, feet barely touching the floor.

  “A new face. What could I get for you today, sir?” the bartender asked nicely as he scooped a scoopful of ice into a glass and poured some bronze colored beverage, and served it to another customer next to Acryl.

  He recognized the bartender, who was his old classmate from middle school.

  “Uhhh, I’ll have a fizzy drink with ice, thanks,” Acryl responded as he rubbed his temple and put a five-pound coin of five pounds on the counter. His head still hurts as it was on the aircraft.

  He took out a small sketchbook from his pouch bag. Between the pages was the invitation letter of Lily’s Brotherhood. Acryl looked around, made sure that no one paid attention to him, and opened the invitation. The ink on it shifted. Cursive letters warped and turned one word into another and built a new sentence. On it was written the date for the next meeting.

  “…Today? I guess I could make it if I return early today,” he muttered to himself as he closed the sketchbook. While he was putting the sketchbook back, he heard the bell chime again like a small bird chirping. Acryl washed the drink down his almost drought throat with whatever-it-was soda. The soda popped in his mouth. It felt refreshing like gushing down a bottle of water after hours of working.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  As the sweetness passed his tongue, a man sat next to him.

  From the corner of his eye, Acryl saw the man. He looked a bit older than him, short, dark violet-ish gray hair stood out as much as his leather jacket, which didn’t look well-cared for. Acryl assumed the man was Auderheimian from his accent when he was greeting the bartender.

  “What is the information you are looking for?” the man spoke up. He was dressed casually yet elegantly at the same time. Sitting comfortably on the stool as he stretched and took up more space. From the slip of his shirt, Acryl saw the tattoos extending from his back. He suspected it to be the tattoos of a Realm-art implant.

  “…I am looking for an artist named Canvas who went missing three years ago,” Acryl said without hesitation. He tried his best to sound confident.

  “I know something about him…but,” the man stopped as he looked into Acryl. His brownish eyes were like two abysses. In it, Acryl saw something familiar. Like the eyes of Suiming, there was something unkind and foul. Like a layer of grease on top of a delicious drink or mold on white gouache.

  “Every war has its victim, everything is a war.”

  Hearing the sentence, Acryl trembled for a second. He had heard of the saying before from Lily’s brotherhood meeting. But the man’s voice was never heard before in the Brotherhood; perhaps the meeting in that place in his dream distorted his memory, but Acryl was sure that he had never heard anyone similar to him.

  “What would be your victim?”

  “What do you want?” Acryl questioned back. He felt a slight sense of Realm-art casting in the tavern; in response, he prepared to cast his Realm-arts. It was a feeling he could compare to observing colors and contours, hearing a musical phrase, and recreating it with an instrument. He noticed that he could feel it after his Realm-art was sharpened. The feeling crawled inside his head, across his skin, and wrapped around his bones. It was a power stronger than his Realm-art; he couldn’t visualize it, but he was sure that the master of such a Realm-art is unimaginably powerful.

  “Have you heard about such a person called ‘The First Mephisto’?” the person answered carelessly as he leaned onto the counter and balanced himself with his arm. Acryl knew ‘The First Mephisto’ from tales and urban legends. Allegedly, he was the one who created the School of Faust in Auderheim, the one who cast the first Realm-arts and conjured the first rituals.

  “Look, you may have lost some trust in me because I say the word Mephisto, but worry not.”

  “I assure you in the names of the sages and sinners. This has nothing to do with Faustus, it is only for my personal curiosity,” he continued. Acryl frowned. He began to feel more suspicious of the man. The School of Faust in Auderheim, the rival of the School of Lantern.

  Acryl has little knowledge of them other than that in their philosophy, the truth and knowledge can be only achieved from the Existences, that knowledge of This World is a projection from the Realm.

  The bartender in blue was nowhere to be seen. As he looked around, he felt the Realm-arts nearer than before, stronger. The man was waiting for his response with a smile as he rhythmically tapped his finger on the counter like a clock ticking.

  “Why do you need me?” he responded with caution.

  “We are tired of noble lies. We are tired of the thorns on our way, if wisdom could not flow like rivers, then why bother sinking ourselves in the ocean of knowledge?” the man responded, almost stuttering. His voice turned quiet and sorrowful as if he were grieving the death of his favorite musician.

  “Tales didn’t say the First Mephisto was a liberator,” the bartender said as he put down the glass he wiped.

  “Indeed, he wasn’t in the eyes of messengers.”

  “But I wonder how he looks at your eye, speaking of which, we don’t even know each other’s names,” the man said, head turned towards Acryl. His fingers tapped on the counters again, gentle yet impatient.

  Acryl knew he shouldn’t trust the man, and he felt unsafe telling his alias in the brotherhood, so he recalled many pseudonyms he had made in his teenage years. Lyre, Whammy, Sepia, Vilheim…Vilheim feels the most normal one. Acryl thought to himself.

  “My name’s…Acryl.”

  Acryl felt utterly stupid after the words slipped out of his mouth.

  “Acyl? Like the color? Strange name. I am Kaspar.” The man said as he stretched his arm to Acryl.

  Frowning, Acryl shook his hand. He was smiling as he looked at Acryl.

  “Back to our deal,” Kaspar said. Letting Acryl go.

  “I want someone to come with me to where the First Mephisto once resided. In there lies his creation, the thing that made the sages tell the noble lies to guard us from the cruel truth.”

  “I’ve heard that it only reveals its secrets to those who never sharpened their Realm-art.”

  Right as Acryl tried to explain himself, Kaspar whispered:

  “Now, Canvas…he had not just been in Euth.”

  “From what I know, he went to the remnant tide with a Siyuenese man. You aren’t the only one looking for him, kid…the Troupe also wants something from him. They returned here very recently, but from what I know, their trip to the remnant tide won’t be long. I speculate that they could be back any second if that’s the case…I can arrange a meeting for you right after we pay a visit to the manor of The First Mephisto.”

  “…When do we meet?”

  “This day next week. By the house where the First Mephisto once lived.”