"Okay, enough of those dark thoughts. Let me whip you up a plate of pasta. You need to fuel up before hitting the road," Freddy said, forcing a smile despite the tension in the air. He adjusted his greasy little white hat and rolled up his sleeves, heading into the kitchen with a determined look.
Freddy, a wizard himself, held a modest rank of 2E. In his former life, he had been the esteemed chef in Europe, where he had even cooked for Italian royalty. But war had brought ruin to the family and his restaurant, and he'd found himself tricked into a promise new life in Phoenix, far from his culinary glory.But war had brought ruin to the family and his restaurant, and he'd found himself tricked into a promise of new life in Phoenix, far from his culinary glory.
Though he had fallen on hard times, his cooking skills remained sharp. With just a pair of iron pots and spoons, he could transform simple vegetable scraps into culinary masterpieces, a talent undoubtedly enhanced by his unique [Witchcraft].
Before long, steaming fried pancakes emerged from the kitchen, the portion noticeably larger than usual. Ivan picked up his chopsticks and dug in, savoring each bite as Freddy settled beside him, lighting a cigarette.
"Melor was too ambitious for his own good," Freddy mused, shaking his head. "He's new here, yet he decides to target his own people. It's a foolish move, if you ask me."
In the Zoit district, the immigrant community was tight-knit; everyone knew each other. Ivan could see the sadness in Freddy's eyes as he spoke of Malor, a regular at the local offal shop.
"If I had his strength," Freddy continued with a fire in his voice, "I'd join the army! Start as a private and work my way up to platoon leader in no time. Win a few battles, and I'd be a regiment commander!" He slammed his fist on the table. "You wouldn't believe it, but back when I was at Italy, soldiers never paid for their meals. And here I am in the U.S., and it's the same story!"
Ivan chuckled, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Then why not become a cook for the army? With your skills, they'd be lucky to have you!"
Freddy waved his hand dismissively. "No way! I'd be running myself ragged trying to cook for a hundred soldiers every day. Let's drop that. What are you planning to do next?"
Ivan's expression turned serious. Once the gang had marked him, he felt like a rabbit with a discovered burrow. More wizards would soon come hunting for him. He could only see two paths ahead:
1. Eliminate all the gang members.
2. Join a gang.
The first option was laughably unrealistic. While he had dispatched Malor in a moment of surprise, he wasn't strong enough to take down wizards like chopping vegetables. Joining a gang, on the other hand, didn't appeal to him either. It came with heavy costs and risks, potentially turning him into a pawn for the leaders.
So, Ivan resolved to flee. "I'm out of here. I don't plan to stay in Bridgewick any longer. Maybe I can find some luck in the south," he said, lifting another pancake with his chopsticks. "By the way, Freddy, where's the gathering today? I hope it's a safe one, no gangs involved."
Wizards often held gatherings to trade items and share knowledge, but invitations weren't casually extended. Instead, established contacts like Freddy served as vital links to these clandestine meetings.
With a sigh, Freddy leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "You know I'm the go-to for that. It's just a small gathering, but I'll make sure it's low-key; no gang business this time."
"Thanks, Freddy," Ivan replied, a hint of relief washing over him as he took another bite, the food grounding him amidst the chaos.
Freddy paused, the cigarette hanging from his mouth as he contemplated the situation. "Alright, it looks like we're heading for a parting of ways. Just remember to drop me a line when you settle down, okay?"
Ivan nodded, knowing the weight of those words. "Six o'clock this afternoon, at Hamptonian Cafe on 14 Quak Street. The code word is 'five bottles of Highland wine.'"
"Got it. Stay safe out there, Ivan," Freddy replied, his voice laced with concern. He gave a slight nod, a silent farewell as Ivan stepped out of the chop suey shop.
As he exited, Ivan let out a contented burp, the taste of fried pancakes lingering on his tongue. He had paid a mere five cents for the meal but had kept the truth from the landlord. With six dollars and sixty-six cents still in his pocket, he felt a small sense of relief.
In this world, the dollar and its cents operated on a system where one cent could buy a loaf of bread without butter. However, that money wouldn't get him far. His immediate priority was clear: he needed to make more.
Ivan made his way to the construction site, intending to bypass the foreman and speak directly to the project manager at Powell Construction Company.
Just as he reached the tram station, a vehicle pulled up. After a moment's thought, he decided to indulge himself and hopped on board. He dropped three coins into the cash box, finding a seat in the nearly empty carriage. As he settled in, he closed his eyes, attempting to catch a brief respite from the chaos of the day.
Suddenly, he recalled he hadn't yet checked the recipe dropped by Malor.
"Check the rooster blood," he murmured to himself.
An ethereal voice echoed in his mind.
[Searching...]
[Retrieved: Blazing Fire Rooster Blood]
[Rating: 5D]
[Required materials: Alchemical matrix x1, red animal blood x1, flammable and explosive drug x1]
[Description: A formula left behind by the spirit of a bear (beast) wizard.]
[Can be taken orally or injected; this red potion stimulates the blood, enhancing physical strength and tolerance while diminishing sanity.]
Ivan frowned, realization dawning. "So it's like going berserk." He tucked that thought away for now, feeling it wasn't immediately useful.
Instead, he decided to review the recipe illustrations he had accumulated over the years.
[Recipe illustration: Alchemical matrix, spiritual salt, whisperer bone cone, cool and clear calm water, numb and numbing paralytic agent, blazing rooster blood.]
Reflecting on his journey, Ivan remembered when he first arrived in this world with a meager 2E rating. Over the past two years, he had encountered various monsters and wizards, engaging in fights that had forged him into the person he was today. Each formula he collected served as a testament to those battles.
He closed the panel and gazed out the window. It was eight in the morning, and the sun was beginning to break through the horizon, casting a golden hue over everything.
Sophora trees lined the sides of the asphalt road, their green leaves swaying gently in the morning breeze. Meanwhile, the fortunate senior workers and even luckier white-collar employees made their way to work, their faces a mix of determination and routine.
In the distance loomed the trading center, along with the skeletal frame of a new securities building still under construction. Darker buildings surrounded them, forming a maze of asphalt streets crisscrossing through the urban landscape.
The sunlight illuminated everything, giving the scene a surreal quality, as if countless spotlights were searching for hidden heroes in this sprawling concrete jungle.
In 1920, USA was basking in the afterglow of victory from what had been known as World War I. In this vibrant era, anyone with the will to start anew was striving to make their mark amidst the towering structures.
But for Ivan, the priority was simple: survival came first.