13 Mink Street

“Simon, is this the report you intend to submit to the Regional Administrative Office?”

“Yes, Lord Rasma. The report was already submitted, but the Administrative Office took no action. I then forwarded it to Order’s Whip, but there was still no response.”

Rasma flipped through the report in his hands with a faint smile. “So you used this opportunity to deliver it directly to me?”

“Yes, Lord Rasma. I believe that there are signs that Inquisitor Tiz is abusing the Code of Order. Judging by the post-incident handling report he submitted, there was barely any attempt at concealment. It’s clear that he deliberately expanded the scope of his crackdown, causing significant disruption to the social order within Roja City and directly interfering with the mayoral election.

“A local financial leader died. A journalist died. A legislator died. A mayoral candidate died. Four deaths, all within one night. And there was also a mid-ranking member of the Berai Church. Of course, that one deserved it.”

“They were conspiring together?”

“Yes. According to Inquisitor Tiz’s report and my own verification, that point is beyond doubt. They were indeed plotting together, using the abilities of that Berai Church official.”

Rasma nodded. “Then what’s the problem?”

“My view is that Inquisitor Tiz could have handled the matter in a more measured manner, reducing the negative impact. He chose not to.”

“People have bad moods sometimes. It’s understandable.”

“But—”

“There is no ‘but’ here. Even if you hand this report to me, it won’t change anything. Would you accuse someone of mass murder because he crushed a few ants while walking down the street?”

“I don’t think that comparison is appropriate.”

“Of course it isn’t. It’s unfair to him. Simply walking as he normally does already preserves Order better than most. He doesn’t resist Order, he recites the statutes before acting, and even submits a report afterward. That alone is enough to move officials at the regional level or even the Central Church to tears.”

“...Yes.”

“You’ve met Tiz, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve been responsible for circulating documents throughout this region recently. I’ve met Inquisitor Tiz several times, and I even received a replica Wellspring of Sin copper coin from him for transfer.”

“Then what kind of person do you think he is, ignoring this report?”

“A very rigorous and serious inquisitor. Aside from this handling decision, Inquisitor Tiz’s professional competence and sense of responsibility surpass that of the average level of other regional Inquisitors I’m familiar with.”

“Good.” Rasma handed the report back to Simon, a squad leader of Order’s Whip.

“Lord Rasma, should this report be destroyed?”

“No. Keep it. Archive it for now. Errors this small, so small they barely count as errors, can’t bring down an elephant. But should that elephant ever fall, they can still be used to splash a bit of mud on the corpse.

“That’s all. You may go. Attend to your duties.”

“Yes.” Simon withdrew respectfully, leaving the hotel rooftop.

Rasma, a High Priest with a close-cropped haircut and neatly trimmed stubble, remained standing alone for a long while.

...Sigh. He spread his hands and rubbed his face hard enough for it to flush red. “I’m trying my best to restrain myself, but I really can’t help it, Tiz. Every time I hear your name, my emotions stir. Especially when I come to your city. The feeling just won’t leave me alone.”

From his sleeve, Rasma drew a small knife. One end of the handle was attached to a beaded cord. He gently swung the cord as he walked down from the building.

By the time he exited the ground-floor lobby, the solemn figure dressed in black had become an old man in a worn leather jacket. With the dangling dagger and the crooked grin on his face, he looked every bit like a shameless street rogue.

He strolled through the city at an unhurried pace, slower than even the women lost in window-shopping and not buying anything.

And yet the man’s figure overlapped in a strange manner, as if he were at the end of a street one moment, only to appear at the other end the next.

He was taking a walk. Clearing his head. A distance that normally cost nearly thirty rupi by cab, he crossed in no time.

His rubber boots stepped into puddles, splashing filthy water. Ahead of him lay Miner Street, and the most famous flea market in Roja City. Crowded, chaotic, and complex, it was the liveliest place in the city, yet entirely divorced from the idea of prosperity.

Rasma took a deep breath. Yes. This was the place. He needed somewhere like this. Here, he could recall his childhood. Here, he could find inner calm.

He stopped in front of a pastry shop. Miner Street was full of these tiny storefronts. Each shop was little more than a door beneath a low awning. Behind a glass display case usually sat a single tray holding the cheapest egg cakes. Some shops didn’t even bother with a full tray, displaying only two or three cakes, visibly moldy from long neglect.

They never sold, and no one bothered replacing them. Those few egg cakes performed their duty with quiet dedication, serving as the most steadfast old actors in the display.

Roja City prohibited the sex trade. More precisely, all of Swillen did, but prohibition existed only in law. The social customs, long influenced by Veyn, remained relatively open, and demand had never vanished.

Thus, a new business had emerged throughout Swillen: pastry shops.

From cramped workshops lining Miner Street to lavish storefronts downtown, all of them held “food service” licenses. Customers entered to buy pastries, infused with the seller’s “affection” and “craftsmanship,” which were used to explain the inflated prices.

A willing buyer, a willing seller.

After buying pastries, the clerk and customer would become acquainted. A few words were exchanged, feelings warmed rapidly, and a new relationship was instantly confirmed, leading to something naturally happening between lovers.

Afterward, the relationship would collapse just as quickly, and they parted ways.

But love is never cleanly severed. Lingering ties are normal. So when an ex reappeared in the shop, all it took was buying another pastry for old flames to rekindle.

One of Roja’s greatest poets, Dalot, once wrote in his middle-aged years:

My youth has long been stored away in the pastry shops of my hometown. I know that even when I am old, I can return there and taste my lost youth once more.

Rasma stopped at a small pastry shop. The egg cakes inside looked relatively fresh.

A woman sat on a small stool, knitting. She looked up and saw Rasma at the door. She set aside her needles, stood, and opened her coat, showing her body.

Rasma glanced, smiled, and placed five one-hundred-rupi notes on the counter.

The woman frowned slightly. “All day?”

Rasma sighed. “It’s gotten that expensive?”

“You misunderstand,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s too much. I have to go home tonight to help my kid with homework.”

“Just the afternoon.”

“Alright. Come in, but take some back. Even with a tip, that’s too much.”

“No need.” Rasma pulled out the tray of egg cakes. There were exactly five. He picked one up, took a bite, and walked inside.

The woman lowered the shop’s wooden shutter. Inside, it was dark. She turned on the light.

Sparse furnishings: a bed, a battered sofa, a squat toilet and a length of pipe, but not even a showerhead.

Rasma lay down on the bed. The woman sat beside him and began massaging his leg. “A drink?”

He shook his head.

She relaxed, yet as she prepared to continue, she suddenly froze.

Rasma placed the small knife in front of him, only for something strange to happen; The beaded cord above the knife hung in midair, unsupported, seemingly fixed in place.

He flicked the blade with a finger. It began to sway back and forth beneath the beads. The woman’s eyes lit up. “Are you a magician?”

Rasma nodded, then gestured beside him. “I’m going to lie down. You just stand there. Don’t do anything. When the time’s up, I’ll leave.”

“...That’s it?”

“Yes.”

She stood up, collected her knitting, leaned against the wall, and continued working. She had seen stranger clients. This wasn’t the strangest.

Lying on the bed, Rasma watched the knife sway. He was trying to return his heart to Order, to suppress the unnecessary emotional turbulence caused by that person’s presence in Roja.

It was like trimming a beard, it required precision and maintenance, and that knife was his razor.

His vision gradually drained of color, fading into black and white.

As he watched the blade’s movement, sounds began to reach his ears: there was the rhythmic creaking of a neighboring bed, heavy breathing, real or perhaps fake moans, and hollow praise.

His nose caught harsh smells: ointment, filth, disinfectant, coldness, and a damp saltiness.

Gradually, his senses spread outward. He heard street vendors calling out, men discussing other men’s wives, and women gossiping about men’s endowments.

He heard antique dealers in the flea market, hawking their wares. He could even sense their thoughts about their customers.

Looks like a connoisseur.

Heh. A fat sheep.

He smelled the dampness of the street, the rot of old age inside houses, and the fragrance of cheap soap pods.

As his vision settled into monochrome, his other senses sharpened dramatically. Like a spider, he cast his web of perception out wider and wider.

He searched. He searched for his childhood self, sitting among puddles in a daze, watching passersby. Back then, the world had been strange and confusing, yet also objective.

From time to time, he returned to this state to realign his perspective. It was how he refined his faith. Again and again, he called to his younger self, borrowing those eyes to examine the present world.

His vision expanded further. He saw black-and-white figures living and working here, their paths following a certain order.

Theft was common, gang fights broke out, and security was worse than downtown. Yet even so, order still existed here. People gathered, believing in the order they needed, and arranging their lives within that framework.

They walked, but they also hopped from square to square.

Thieves and victims alike simply occupied their respective squares.

“Three rupi to fix your shoes. Three rupi, and I’ll make them good as new. Add two more, and I’ll reinforce the sole.” A voice drew Rasma’s attention. On a street corner, a man missing part of one leg sat behind a stall, haggling with a customer.

“Ask around. On this street, who doesn’t know Crippled Lot?”

Rasma lay on the pastry shop bed, yet his presence appeared before Lot. The man couldn’t see Rasma, and the passersby walked straight through his form.

Lot’s gray-white hue was lighter than most, and even had a faint tinge of color. The color was fading, yet Rasma reached out and seized them.

In the next moment, while the real Lot continued bargaining, a bluish-faced Lot stood before Rasma, who spoke. “He should have died from poisoning.”

“What?” the woman asked, still knitting.

The negotiations concluded with a bargain. Lot’s wife arrived, supporting his mother.

“What did the doctor say?” Lot asked.

“Just a stomach upset. He prescribed some medicine.”

Lot scolded his mother. “You’re old now, and you can’t just eat everything anymore.”

She retorted, “If I eat more, you eat less. You’re the ones who need your strength. This is nothing, and clinic visits cost money.”

“That’s what we earn money for,” Lot gently rebuked her. “Take Mom home and make her some milk tea.”

Rasma saw color on the wife as well. He pulled it free, revealing a face that should have been shattered.

The grandmother had color too. He pulled it free, revealing a grotesque visage whose tongue lolled out.

“She should have fallen face-first.

“Hm? She should have hanged himself.”

The woman commented, “Oh, you mean the Sisso family? Terrible news. The husband poisoned himself, his mother hanged herself, and his wife jumped with their daughter. All in the same night. It was a big story. Protests erupted in the East District.”

A little girl ran up. “Daddy!”

Lot handed her five rupi.

“I’m going on a picnic with Mina and Brother Karon.”

“Take it, buy some sweets. You can’t be friends without spending anything.”

She kissed the man’s forehead.

Rasma saw color on the girl as well. He pulled it free, revealing a ruined face.

She ran to a handsome young man. “Brother Karon!”

Lot apologized. “Sorry we made you wait.”

“Elders come first.”

Rasma looked at the young man. He was handsome, even in monochrome, he looked refined.

But there was nothing else, so he moved on.

Back in the pastry shop, Rasma sat up, grabbing the knife. “That girl also died from a fall.”

“She did. The whole family committed suicide.”

Rasma stared at his blade. “It shouldn’t have been them.”