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Kaniel rumpled his carefully folded attire. The trousers were of fine fabric, charcoal-colored, while the fabric itself was sturdy, comfortable, tailored close to his frame yet easy for movement, small silver buttons running along the sides of each leg.

“So,” he said as he stepped into the trousers and adjusted the waistband. “I made it clear not to disturb me, didn’t I? Why would you barge into my room?”

“Are-are you-yu seriously asking that?!” Zara said in a high pitch, flustered, her back turned to the room, every line of her posture tense, straight as an arrow. “There was no news from you for hours! Marisa sent me here to remind you of dinner and bring you a new set of clean clothes.”

“Marisa?” he asked.

“The headmaid! All the important people are gathered! Priestess Vera, blacksmith Stanley, and even that fat guy looking after food and stuff,” she said, her hands clasped before her, fingers fiddling as she stared down the wall. “I knock on the door, nothing. I wait, nothing—only weird argh-urgh noises. I thought, urgh, you know, you’re doing ‘that’. Aggressively.”

“That?”

She shifted from one foot to the other. A faint blush flushed her cheeks. “Then, then you went silent. A minute—two—three— then I opened the door. Then… BAM! You’re completely covered in blood. And burn. And naked! The bed is a complete mess, and the room smells like… like—”

“It smells like shit,” Kaniel finished for her. Once the trousers were on, next came the shirt, crisp white linen, smooth against his skin, cut generously yet tailored enough to hint at beneath, the collar high, sharp, with a fold that he fastened with a silver emblem shaped like a horse’s head. The buttons of his long sleeves tightened at his wrists.

“Exactly! Wait. No. No! It’s way worse than shit! It’s indescribably shittier than shit! It’s like you marinate a rotten fish inside a corpse with shit— Wait. That’s not important right now!” Her shoulders rose. “What in the world happened?! No. More importantly. How are you fine? I-I-I swear you didn’t have a pulse when I checked!”

How was he supposed to answer that? Fairly simple. He had been through far worse, and he could always find a perfect excuse, no matter how ridiculous the situation initially appeared.

“I—” he choked.

The very moment the thought of deception crossed his mind, a sudden constriction sharpened in his throat as though invisible hands were tightening around it.

“I—” The muscles in his neck tensed as a metallic taste seeped into his mouth to reject the lie before it could escape.

Silence followed.

“You?” Zara prompted him to continue.

“I—” He coughed. He didn’t even try to lie this time! Or did he? Well, it was a half-lie.

Pain stabbed up his throat whenever he tried to force the words. The gnaw burned more with every second of resistance until he was forced to abandon the lie altogether.

“I have a weak heart.”

“...”

What did he just say? He didn’t know. Why did he say it? He knew not. Why was it so hard to talk without lies? He knew no better.

“My heart rejects mana. It’s a little challenging to live. Things sometimes happen. Bleedings, burnouts, physical and mental instabilities. A rare disease you probably haven’t heard of before. The long two-week-long journey had especially affected me in a bad way. Sorry you had to see it. I’d really appreciate it if you don’t pry further.”

There it was! So what if he couldn’t lie? He was a genius!

Use partial truth and exaggerate to make it sound more dire than it is, appeal to their empathy by sharing something that seems vulnerable, create a smokescreen of complexity where the listener instead of digging deeper feels it’s beyond their expertise and accepts the words at face value, create a sense of intimacy and trust to frame any further questions as invasive and disrespectful and it would definitely—

“Still,” Zara said. “I'm dying from curiosity. What kind of disease is this? And how are you completely fine regardless of it?”

—not work.

Kaniel nodded. He himself had almost died from curiosity a few hours ago. He could relate.

What was wrong with the people in the north? Why did none of them have some bare minimum tact?

Kaniel clenched his jaw to force himself into silence. He could feel the pressure building in his throat and coil around his vocal cords. First, a dull ache, then, an insistent sting. He pressed his lips to resist the urge to speak, hoping the sensation would fade, but it only worsened, searing up his throat like hot coals. His voice demanded release and finally cracked against his will. “I…”

The single word eased the torment in his throat but triggered an exasperated sigh as he realized he couldn’t evade this compulsion. “I don’t entirely know what it was myself. This kind of thing had never happened to me before. How am I fine? I don’t know. Do you think I’m going to die?”

“It’s still weird—”

“Why are you talking from your beautiful back? Are you ashamed to look at my face? Have you already fallen for me, Zara?” he showered her in ridiculous questions as pompously as he could.

“You!” Zara stomped her foot down and spun on her heel to face him, eyes blazing, her cheeks as red as cherries. Kaniel couldn’t tell whether the red was of anger or embarrassment or both.

“Didn’t you say I’m ugly, huh?! Just how perverted can a man be to change their whole perspective based on that alone?” she snapped in disgust, fuming. Apparently it was red anger.

Huh? Kaniel had no idea what had just happened, but it seemed he had escaped the perilous situation. Perhaps he was indeed a genius. This last question, he could answer easily.

“What do you mean by ugly? You are beautiful, Zara, very. Your hair is like the night. Dark, yet somehow holding an elusive luster that teases at starlight and shadows at once. Each strand falls like silk woven from midnight, brushing against your delicate shoulders. It’s the kind of hair you imagine poets write about, something mystical, meant to be tangled in desperate fingers.” He draped a dark tunic over his shirt with hints of armor lining along the shoulders and forearms. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his collar. “Your eyes. Oh, those beautiful eyes. Those deep pools of molten amber hold secrets and storms beneath their calm like a forest shaded but alive and vibrant with what words can never capture and drawing you in to lose yourself without a trace.”

“Do you also have problems with your head?” Zara slowly stepped back, her face aghast.

Kaniel began to walk toward her, making frantic gestures with his hands. “Your skin pale yet flush with warmth reminds me of moonlight brushing across untouched snow. Porcelain and lively all the same,” he mused, closing his eyes, falling into deep imagination. “Your shoulders are delicate and proud like the crest of a hill under soft twilight that slopes into arms slender and strong under the layers of elegance benign—”

The door shut with an explosive force. Kaniel looked back. Finally, he was alone.

“System,” he whispered. Yet no blue holograms appeared. Instead, a sudden thud broke the silence. He looked down, and there, beside his foot, lay a small, rectangular object. It was sleek, dark, and gleaming. A strange box.

As his fingers brushed over its smooth surface, lines and symbols etched onto it. On a whim, he pressed one of them. It came to life. A bright screen reflected his face. The images and symbols on the screen shifted with every slight movement of his finger, revealing time and date, icons, and a small circle at the bottom.

“A phone…” he realized. Recognition hit him.

Four apps were on it: Status, Flame Tower, Dimensional Store, and The Internet. Besides the additional function of looking at one’s status, the smartphone worked like a computer.

He heard footsteps from the corridor. Who would it be but Zara?

Kaniel willed for the phone to disappear, and it did so. He greeted her with a warm smile as soon as she entered. “Why leave if you return to me, my love?”

“Shut up,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Just come. People are waiting.”

Kaniel followed her.

Hopefully, the wet towels did their job and stirred away the smell. Otherwise, it’d have been awkward to go to the meeting smelling like death.

***

Seated at the heavy oak table lit by glimmering candlelight were four key figures with the highest authority in Nashdome.

“The rascal’s making us busy people wait so long,” the man muttered as he chewed at the meat. Gerbert, the head of the local Adventurer's Guild, sat on the right side of the table. His reddish-brown hair and full, wild beard framed a face that bore the scars of battles and, the fat that had accumulated since the day he’d left his active duty. Under the shining barrage of jewelry covering his body was a dark tunic with the guild's insignia embroidered over his heart, a treasure chest.

To his left, there was Vera, the priestess, in humble and clean robes of light gray. Her bare head shone in the candlelight, her expression peaceful, her eyes detached from the world. Sitting with a statuesque poise, she clasped her hands in her lap, her posture upright.

“Patience,” Gora said, seated to the left of the head seat. He stared at Gerbert, at the lavish chain of red gemstones on his neck, barely holding himself together. If he could simply dispose of the corrupt official without repercussions, he’d have long done so.

“I wonder what the youngster looks like,” Gerbert said as he reached for another piece of meat.

“What’s there to look for? They’re all the same,” Stanley, the man at Gora's left, voiced. The blacksmith’s skin was bronzed from years at the forge, and his build was muscular due to the hard labor he had endured. The white hair on his head and the beard were messy, going right and left and up and down. He wore a durable tunic with a leather apron thrown over his chest, its many pockets filled with small tools and pieces of metal. “This is such a waste of time.”

“Indeed,” Gerbert agreed. “Time is of the essence.”

“Time is money,” a voice came from the other side of the hallway. “You can’t be more right.” Steps followed.

Thick silence. Their gazes shifted toward a young man, sizing him up. The torchlight draped shadows across his disheveled hair. Beside him stood a maid with a sly grin, guiding him to the feast.

Gerbert rested his thick hands on the table as he eyed the man with scrutiny. His rugged face softened.

Kaniel, too, looked at him. He smiled, at him, at his jewelry. So much gold. It’d probably hatch him a point or two.

Still, even when Kaniel got to the table and sat in the head seat, nobody spoke.

He waited, and waited, yet silence remained. Up until the priestess made a silent squelch and covered her nose.

The truth dawned on him.

He smelled like shit, didn’t he?