"So," he began, not looking up from his work. "The Stone Saints. The Fallen Terror. The city-wide monster war." He finally lifted his head, and I could almost see the raised eyebrow beneath his shadowed hood. "Remind me again how this was 'laying low' and 'not making a big impact'?"
He was right, of course. Our little expedition had kicked over the biggest anthill in the neighbourhood. I shrugged, a casual gesture I didn't entirely feel. "The plan was to acquire Saint. We acquired Saint. The rest was just... unavoidable collateral damage." I waved a hand dismissively. "The reshuffling was bound to happen eventually. We just gave it a nudge."
Sasrir let out a soft snort, a clear 'I told you so' he didn't need to voice. He went back to sharpening his blade, the rhythmic sound filling the space between us. "A nudge. You have a gift for understatement."
I ignored the jab. His skepticism was a constant, like the hum of the castle itself. My mind was already miles ahead, fixated on the next problem. The fight with the crystal serpent, and even the minor scrapes before it, had driven a point home. The Unshadowed Crucifix was powerful, but its "blood tax" was a brutal limitation. Every time I pushed its power, it left me weak, drained, vulnerable.
I needed a way to offset that cost. I'd been spending every spare moment I had haunting the Memory Market, my eyes peeled for one specific type of enchantment. I wasn't looking for raw power or flashy attacks. I was searching for something that granted regeneration, or at the very least, a significant boost to my natural recovery rate. If I could heal faster, I could use the Crucifix more freely, turning it from a last-resort weapon into a more regular tool.
The market was a frustrating place. I saw Memories that could summon phantom blades, ones that hardened skin to stone, and even one that let you breathe underwater for ten minutes. But a straightforward healing or regeneration effect? It was incredibly rare. The few I'd heard whispers of were either snapped up instantly by the top brass or priced so astronomically high they might as well not exist.
This brought me to my second, related problem: funds. My gaze drifted across the crowded room, as if I could see through the walls to a specific stall. Stev, the jovial giant, still had the Mantle of the Underworld. It was damaged, yes, but its potential was mouth-watering for the squishy and vulnerable me. It would no doubt save my life countless times in the future, plus the added thrill of stealing another of Sunny's achievements. Yes, after stealing Saint, it turned out I did have a bit of Amon in me after all.
But I'd had to make a choice. Advancing Sasrir to Monster had been the correct strategic move, a massive increase to our overall combat power. It had also drained the majority of our shared pool of Soul Shards. What I had left was enough for necessities and the occasional bribe, but not nearly enough for a major purchase like the Mantle. My funds were, to put it bluntly, tight.
"Still brooding over the armour?" Sasrir's voice cut through my thoughts again. It was unnerving how he did that.
"It's not brooding. It's resource management," I retorted, a little too defensively. "The Mantle is a strategic asset. But so was making you a Monster. We just have to prioritize."
"And your regeneration Memory is the current priority," he stated, finishing my thought. He sheathed his dagger. "A sensible one. A dead manipulator is no use to anyone. The armour will still be there later. If it's meant to be, it will be."
I grimaced. I hated it when he used my own "holy man" language against me, even if he was right. The Mantle was a want. The regeneration was a need. Surviving the next big fight was somewhat important.
"The problem is finding one," I sighed, leaning back against the wall. "The Artisans say true regenerative Memories are often bound close to the Crimson Spire or come from specific, nasty plant-based Corrupted we haven't even seen. The Handmaidens hoard what few trickle in for their critical healers."
"Then we find the source," Sasrir said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We identified the problem. Now we identify the solution. If the Memory isn't in the market, we find the monster that carries it."
He was right, again. The Market was just the middleman. The real treasures were out in the chaotic Dark City, waiting to be taken. Our little "nudge" had created a new, dangerous landscape out there. But danger also meant opportunity. New territories meant new monsters, and new monsters could mean new Memories.
A slow smile spread across my face. The setback with the Mantle was temporary. The search for a regeneration Memory was now a clear, defined objective. Sasrir was stronger than ever. We had Saint in our pocket. The turf wars outside were settling down, opening up new hunting grounds.
"Alright," I said, my mood lifting. "New priority. We start gathering intel. We listen for any rumors about Corrupted with healing abilities or strange, vitalizing energies. Start with the closest obviously, work our way out. Hopefully without having to leave the Dark City-I don't like the Labyrinth."
Sasrir and I made our way out of the castle's main hall, heading for the front gate. The morning air was its usual chilly self, and the routine of it all was almost comforting. We'd only just passed through the main archway, however, when we saw something that broke the daily monotony.
There was a strange altercation happening at the gate itself. The usual guard, the big guy who was normally the picture of lazy arrogance, was standing ramrod straight. His face was pale, and he looked like he was one harsh word away from pissing himself. It was a complete one-eighty from his usual demeanour.
As we got closer, I could see why. He was being stared down by a woman. And not just any woman. She was ridiculously tall, easily a head taller than the guard, with a powerful build. Her hair was a wild mane of hazel, and her skin was a tanned olive. She wore practical, rugged clothes that, despite their functionality, struggled to conceal a frankly voluptuous and muscular figure.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my brain struggling to process the sight. I was utterly stunned. How could I not be? I had been searching for her, or at least for information about her, for weeks. And now, here she was. The famous Raised by Wolves herself, Athena, also known as Effie. She had appeared before me entirely on her own initiative, though she most likely wasn't here for me, and the sheer force of her presence was enough to turn a lazy guard into a trembling statue.
"Well I'll be damned" Sasrir muttered from beside me, clearly just as caught off-guard. I didn't have time to savour the rarity though, as by now we had approached close enough to hear what they were arguing over. "The hell you mean I have to pay five?! It was always three Soul Shards, not five!"
"Listen, listen, it's not up to me, okay? That damned monster wave or whatever has the boss spooked, and we had to go under lockdown. Resources are scarce the Artisans are being told to focus on new projects, which require materials we don't usually stock up on. Taxes go up, you know how it is."
"Oh I know, but I sure as hell don't like it," Effie growled back, stepping closer threateningly. To my respect, the guard managed to stop himself from falling, though his legs visibly trembled. Even still, he refused to let the bronze Amazon pass, stubbornly holding his ground. "If you don't like the rules, take it up with Gunlaug!" he shouted, his own confidence bolstered when he saw Effie hesitate. After all, even she greatly feared the Lord of the Bright Castle, and who in their right mind wouldn't? She wasn't Nephis after all.
It was at this point that I, being the kind gentleman I am, stepped in to settle the dispute. Seeing me, the guard's eyes widened in recognition and something like relief. "You! The preacher. Maybe you can talk some sense into her." He practically shoved the responsibility onto me. Effie turned her formidable gaze my way, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. Her expression shifted from anger to pure dismissal.
"A kid?" she scoffed, looking me over. "And a pretty one at that. Run along, boy. The adults are talking." Her words were meant to brush me off like a fly. But then, her eyes flickered past me to Sasrir, who had moved to stand silently at my shoulder. Her dismissive posture vanished in an instant.