Morning made itself known, waking him as orange rays of light bled through the window beside his bed. As always, he woke up with a yawn before sliding himself out of bed, lazily sliding the leather pieces of his armor on, as well as his hood.
He placed his boots on each foot before wrapping his belt around his waist, beginning to figure out what he wanted to bring with him. In the drawer beside his bed, he placed his finger in front of the middle shelf, pressing down and doing a circular motion.
A cerulean seal manifested before causing the drawer to open on its own in response to his secretive gesture, revealing an assortment of trinkets and gemstones hidden within.
'The eleventh floor is no joke. Even if I have that mercenary with me, I'm not trusting him with my life,' he thought.
It was an unorganized mess of gadgets that seemed hazardous and most completely of enigma in their purpose; mechanical spheres of steel, pouches of powder and needles, and even a handheld crossbow.
"…Hmm…This'll do…and this…maybe this, too," he mumbled to himself as he picked out what to bring along.
Not much time needed to pass before he filled the pouches on his belt, knowing not to hold out when venturing to a place as dangerous as the eleventh floor.
After completely equipping what he needed, tightening his gloves and boots, adjusting his hood, he made one last stop before setting out:
"Uncle, I'm heading out," he announced quietly, coming into the room as he set down a plate of bread, sausage, and eggs with a glass of fresh milk beside it on the bedside table.
The sickly man sat himself up, having already been awake and reading from a verdant book, "Ah, that smells lovely. Your cooking seems to be the only thing to stoke my appetite anymore. Come, sit for a moment."
The young man obliged as he pulled a chair beside the bed. He watched with a small smile as his uncle ate; though the ill man spoke kindly of his cooking, it was easy enough to tell that in truth, the man bore no appetite at all. Still, he slowly ate, knowing it was for the best.
"I'll be gone all day, maybe not returning until tomorrow," Bastian told him, "I got a new contract–I'm going to the eleventh floor."
Duncan dropped his fork onto the plate, looking straight at his nephew with a stunned expression, "The eleventh? Bastian, you know that…"
"I know. Without a Blessing, it's as good as walking in naked," Bastian said, knowing full well what he was getting into, "but, if I do this job, it'll pay for medicine for the next year–maybe even two years."
"And what if you die up there?" Duncan asked.
Bastian paused for a moment before responding, "I'll be fine. This is what you've wanted me to do, right? To pursue greater heights?"
"The proper way, Bastian, not like this. But…You've already decided you'll do this, haven't you? I waste my breath trying to tell you to do otherwise," Duncan realized with a quiet sigh.
"Yeah, pretty much," Bastian chuckled.
Duncan was silent for a moment, looking down at his arms before rolling up his sleeves, "Very well, then I suppose there is something I must do."
Beneath the sleeves worn by the sickly man were tattoos etched onto his arms, enveloping them in ink that spoke of mysticism. The very sight of the sable tattoos which wrapped around the thin arms of the sickly man like the body of a serpentine, stunned Bastian, invoking memories deeply seeded into his mind.
"Those seals…That's your Bound Magic," Bastian remarked in a whisper.
"It's been many years since I've had the chance to use them. This body of mine no longer has the strength to channel magic, but you…You just may," Duncan said, looking up at his nephew.
Bastian was confused before beginning to shake his head, "No, you can't mean that. Your Bound Magic is invaluable to you–it's not something you can buy. Those spells inscribed on your body–that's your legacy, Uncle. I can't–"
"You can," Duncan assured as he grabbed hold of both of the youthful adventurer's hands, "I have accepted that my journey is over, but yours is just beginning. Let me repay you the only way I can–accept my Bound Magic."
"I…" Bastian tried to speak, but was stifled by the unexpected bestowment.
From the bony hands that held his own, he could feel a mythical warmth infusing itself into his skin. Like ash from the flame, the markings unraveled themselves from the sickly man's arms, placing themselves onto the skin of the recipient of the gift.
"Nnnh—" Bastian winced, feeling as though a hot iron was pressed against his forearms.
The process wasn't long, but felt so through the burning sensation it invoked before finally settling.
"Haah…" Bastian caught his breath, sweating as he slowly rolled up one of his sleeves.
There it was, etched onto his arm: the coiling tattoos of shadows that were once his uncle's own. It was a surreal sensation, feeling a ticklish pulsation on his skin as the new spells laid on his skin.
Duncan released his hold of his nephew's hands, laying back down as he released a prolonged exhale, "It's done. Now, I can finally repay the favor."
The young man was still left stunned as he looked at the magical tattoos bound to his arms, "Are you sure about this? Without these, you…"
"I have long since abandoned the idea of returning to the Tower, Bastian. Don't worry yourself about that. Now, it's more than enough to see where your journey leads you," Duncan assured him gently.
There was no point in attempting to reject what was given to him, leaving only to accept the gift graciously as he nodded his head.
"Thank you. I'll use this gift to ascend the tower—I'll even pass up my old man," Bastian claimed.
Duncan held a small smile, resting his head against his own pillow, "I'm sure he'd like nothing more."
It was with the new, enigmatic gift that he set out into the heart of the city amidst the bright, early morning. As he walked the streets, he couldn't help but continue to check his arms as he slightly pulled up his sleeve, still unsure of how to feel about the magic given to him.
'It's rare enough for people to naturally be capable of using magic, and even rarer for that magic to be respectable. That's why "Bound Magic" was created…a way to give access to magic to those that can't use it,' he thought.
The mornings in Velmusia were as usual; the streets packed with carriages carrying products and adventurers all on their way to the tower, or preparing to do so. Arriving in the busy promenade at the heart of the city, he stood beside the road as carriages were hustled by dutiful steed.
'It said on the document to meet at the Lavender Cafe. That's–right there,' he realized.
It was a small shop, between bustling restaurants, though not without customers of its own, with an outdoor lounge where patrons sipped their drinks and ate their pastries. Though he was still somewhat hesitant about the arrangement, he crossed the street after watching wooden carriages pass, walking over to the fine establishment.
The aroma of herbs and fruit was welcoming; it was the specially brewed tea the cafe was known for. Each table had a lavish, verdant umbrella extending from its center.
He could already see who he was supposed to meet there: a golden-haired man dressed in a luxurious, snow-white suit with a velvet surcoat dropped over his tunic. The person of clear wealth sat there at the table, stirring the cup of warm tea with a spoon.
Standing beside the man was a noticeably tall and sturdily-built man who wore a sleeveless, burgundy tunic. He looked stoic like a statue, not seeming fatigued in the slightest by the abnormally large greatsword strapped to his back.
It was difficult to see the silver eyes of the statuesque man, as they were shrouded by his messy, dark-brown hair.
The young man approached the table, stopping in front of it as he watched the golden-haired man take a prolonged sip from his cup before setting it down with little haste.
"Take a seat," the lavishly dressed man spoke softly, though it didn't seem there was room to deny.
He quietly sat himself in the seat across from the noble, not yet saying a word as he watched the wealthy figure. The head of the Samson family seemed to operate at his own behest, stirring his tea without a word for a moment as he crossed one leg over the other before finally granting his attention to the adventurer.
"I'm pleased to see that you've accepted my contract, Bastian. I knew you would. That girl said you'd have your reservations about going to the eleventh floor, so I made the offer quite enough to ease your doubts, I hope," Frederick said with a smile as he sipped from his porcelain cup.
The way that the noble spoke lacked any sort of respect for anybody else, especially with how he hardly bothered to even look in the adventurer's direction while talking. Still, he knew better than to believe a noble of the man's standing would be a pleasant person to talk with.
"What's the plan?" Bastian asked.
"Straight to the point? Good," Frederick responded, setting his porcelain down, "The item you're to find is on the eleventh floor, yes. From reports of my scouts, it lies in a dungeon on the eastern side of the floor, past a 'field of steam', as they called it."