Amidst the stretching fields of dry grass, still lingering sights of the desert, Louis laid, his hands on his knees, panting loudly, barely able to catch his breath. His muscles, joints, and ligaments burned with excruciating pain, as if they were on fire, and his shoes were completely destroyed.
His head pounded with torturous aches from the harsh heat along with his hyperactivity, and he found himself dizzy, barely able to stand up straight.
The effects of Soul Lapsing had caught hold of him, the price he had to pay for his impatience.
He grabbed some pain-numbing pills from his coat pockets and ingested them all at once before reaching for a pouch of water. As he drank from the pouch, he felt immediately nourished and energized, and the pills began to take effect almost instantaneously. His destination, which would have taken half an hour on foot, took him half the time with Soul Lapsing, at the cost of physical deterioration.
He looked around him, taking in the ever-so-green and beautiful scenery—the lush tall grasses, the towering trees, and mountains—and finally the towering gates to the Estate.
He chuckled quietly with a husky and drained voice, "T-To think they're using Spirit Beasts and residual Soul Energies from Spirit Stones to maintain this whole ecosystem—We're all quite mad, aren't we?"
He then continued limping forward at nearly a turtle's pace. Slowly and steadily, he found himself beside a path of stone. As he looked ahead, the stone path eventually stopped before towering stone walls and large front gates.
There lay his destination. He continued forward, each step controlled, though each one resounded a rhythm of pain throughout his limbs—his self-inflicted burden, the cost of his impatience, lingered with him and walked with him.
As he approached the large front gates, two peculiar figures with towering lances stepped forward from both directions, now standing directly in front of his designated pathway.
They wore strange clothes around their faces, concealing their identities completely. They stood at the same height, indistinguishable from one another, wearing thick black armor.
He reached into his pockets, pulling out a card of authentication, and handed it to one of the concealed men.
"This is my Transcendent License."
"There is no need, Louis Amirage. Your abilities are needed at this instant, in preparation for the restabilization of Mr. St. Hill's Soul. You are required in District 3, at the St. Hill Manor."
"All right, at least you weirdly clothed bunch don't waste time like the rest," Louis sighed in relief.
They then facilitated the opening of the massive front gates. As he entered, they bowed their heads, muttering, "Let your character be a mirage to your skills."
He looked back with pure disgust as old memories, ones he had buried in the grave, resurfaced. His entire body trembled with pure anger and contempt. He balled his fists and restrained himself. He thought, If the Syndicate didn't require me to be here—I would've already slaughtered you both.
He staggered toward the front gates, step by step, feeling the wind brush against his luscious jet-black strands, the air smooth against his skin.
There was still a burning sensation channeling through every muscle fiber as he walked. His heart raced, each breath a struggle. The giant metal bars of the gates, like a heavenly host, towered to the skies, and around them were thick stone walls, limiting his vision to only above. From outside the walls, one could not see anything—only the birds. A truly impenetrable fortress.
The rich, wealthy, and distinguished residents locked themselves away from the outside world, joining one another in their splendor. The poor assumed that they would, at every given moment, be tasting the finest wine and enjoying the finest women—this was a common stereotype among desert-dwellers of those who lived in the Green Lands.
As he approached, an air of familiarity wrapped its reins around his neck like a tightrope, with faint traces of nostalgia. He sniffed the air, taking in the familiar scent—the scent of luxurious perfumes and fragrances.
The entire Province had an eerie air to it, one that bothered him. As he moved past the gates, he became even more agitated, even more vexed. His body trembled with anger, and his lips stretched into a frown. He thought, his frown stretching even more. The arrogant entitled fools.
Every inch of the ground was paved with concrete, and the walls circulating around the gates were made of thick, impenetrable stone. Atop those walls were mini-structures, a multitude of them, housed around every corner of the walls, each with stationed guards. As Louis looked up at the walls, his vision obscured by the blinding rays of Eos, the guards all peered down. Upon sighting him, they, in synchronization, saluted, their palms strangely facing the opposite direction. It seemed to be a way they greeted Transcenders.
Louis did not do the same. Instead, he sucked his teeth and looked away, pretending as though he had not seen them. His face scrunched up in disgust and contempt, a glare of hatred in his eyes. Who knew where it stemmed from?
He looked forward, pacing slowly. What revealed itself was a place unlike anywhere in the desert, like an entirely different world—a much more advanced one.
The paved concrete ground stretched on beyond what his eyes could see, and around him were a dozen caravans, men, women, and children all roaming the streets. They wore distinguished dress with luxurious and fashionable aesthetics—complimentary dark and sometimes colorful garments, chic suits, and long dresses.
They all stopped in their tracks and stared at him with traces of curiosity.
"My my, what's a Transcender doing all the way out here? Indeed, a rare find."
"He's a bit too," a woman with flushed cheeks said, "a little too fine and youthful to be in such a barbarous profession, don't you think?"
"What's a Transcender, Mother?" asked the voice of a child.
The folk all muttered to themselves upon sighting Louis. Noticing the attention, he continued pacing forward.
The entire area was a town out of a book—stone structures stretched all about, some of them stores, restaurants, taverns, and some, though ridiculously large, were just homes belonging to those of high class, nobility.
There were many stalls selling fruits and greens not seen in the desert, selling ores and minerals, unique materials that would also be considered alien to desert-folk. Some housed beautifully crafted jewelry and accessories made of the purest quality.
The streets were bustling but quiet. The people here were much more restrained and delighted in self-discipline, compared to desert and underground folk, who were loud and conducted their affairs with a lack of privacy at any given opportunity.
Louis was reminded that this was a world of aristocrats at every corner of his pupil. He walked forward, each street separated into two—one for caravans and horses, the other for transport on foot.
The low-concrete ground slowly ascended uphill, with large concrete stairs going upward, structures that stretched to the skies at every corner. As he paced up the stairs, he looked up at the balconies. Men and women, with the number of women exceeding the men, wore excessive makeup and questionable revealed costumes. They could be seen drinking and partying.
"Tch!" He turned away. Pigs.
He trudged up the stairs, his knees and calves weighing down on him. Out of breath, he reached for his pouch and brought it to his lips, feeling the water stream down his body—a remedy for his parched throat, one that immediately brought nourishment.
Above him was a sign, "District 3," he thought, sighing in relief. It's good that it was only a short walk.
As he finally made his way up the stairs, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his face, panting loudly, someone approached him. He looked up—an aged man, with a long, light-brown leather coat, a top hat, and a monocle frame. He had a dark, thick goatee. He looked down at Louis with an umbrella in one hand to shield him from the sun. He wore leather gloves.
"Greetings, Mr. Amirage. As my master concluded, it would seem as though you truly are exhausted from your journey." He then bowed, his palm facing behind him. "Shall I accompany you on this caravan?"
"That'd be great, Mr… Mr…" Louis smiled.
"It's Mr. Lotus," the man said as he handed Louis a handkerchief.
Wiping his sweat-drenched face with it, Louis replied, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lotus. As for the caravan, how about we save pleasantries and introductions—the buddy-buddy stuff—for later, and get going this moment to the St. Hill Manor."
"Your requests perfectly aligns with my wish—after all, Mr. St. Hill's condition is deteriorating even at this moment," Mr. Lotus remarked.
The two then moved forward. Just a few moments away was a large, luxurious, and richly designed caravan, with uniquely intricate patterns and large, healthy, muscular horses at the front.
Louis entered, ducking his head, and slouched down on the right chair of the caravan. "Well then, let's get kicking, shall we, Mr. Lotus?"
"Truly," Lotus replied, taking a seat next to Louis.