What, exactly, were they supposed to be looking for?

That question lingered between them as they began walking through Salca, unspoken but persistent. They knew the name of the city. They knew it mattered. Beyond that, the notebooks had offered nothing concrete. No symbols to follow, no landmarks marked in ink, no instructions carved into certainty.

Salca unfolded around them without ceremony.

The streets were alive with movement, filled with a mix of races that made the city feel familiar rather than strange. Humans passed by carrying crates or chatting casually, elves moved with their usual quiet grace, a pair of vampires walked together near a side street, and beastfolk weaved through the crowd without drawing a second glance. It wasn't isolated or secretive. If anything, it felt open, lived-in.

The atmosphere reminded Trafalgar of Velkaris in its calmer hours. Busy, but not tense. Active, but not guarded. Shops were open, voices overlapped naturally, and nothing about the city suggested it was hiding something ancient or dangerous beneath its surface.

He watched carefully as they moved, half-expecting some kind of reaction. A pull. A resonance. Even a faint response from the mark etched into his skin, the proof of what he was.

Nothing happened.

Bartholomew noticed it too. He slowed his pace slightly, eyes scanning buildings, streets, faces, searching for something that refused to stand out.

"This place…" Bartholomew muttered, more to himself than to Trafalgar.

"Feels ordinary," Trafalgar finished.

Salca was remote, yes. Tucked away enough to avoid constant attention. But standing there now, surrounded by everyday life, it was hard to believe this was the destination the notebooks had pointed them toward.

There was a trace of frustration in that realization. Not disappointment. Just the quiet unease of standing in the right place and feeling nothing at all.

They began moving through the city on foot, letting Salca reveal itself piece by piece. Trafalgar walked a step ahead, attention turned inward as much as outward, searching for something he couldn't quite name. He focused on his breathing, on the mark etched into his skin, waiting for any kind of reaction. A pull. A faint sense of recognition. Even the slightest shift that might tell him they were close to something meant for him.

There was nothing.

No resonance answered him. The tattoo remained inert, as silent as it had been since they arrived. Street after street passed beneath their feet, time slipping by unnoticed as the city continued on around them, indifferent to their search.

They tried anyway. More streets, more turns, more glances exchanged when another dead end revealed itself. Eventually, with no better ideas left, they headed toward the cathedral rising near the center of Salca. If anything in this city carried weight or history, it had to be that.

Inside, the space was clean and well kept, light filtering through stained glass that looked impressive but oddly hollow. Bartholomew's eyes moved quickly, curiosity giving way to cautious hope as he took it in.

"Is this… something tied to the Primordials?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Do you know who built it?"

A human worker nearby glanced at them and answered without hesitation. The cathedral, he explained, had been commissioned by a wealthy citizen of Salca. It wasn't ancient. It wasn't sacred in any deeper sense. It was a tourist attraction, meant to draw visitors and make the city more appealing.

That was all.

Bartholomew's shoulders sank slightly as the words settled. He had thought, just for a moment, that this might be it. That the place they were looking for would announce itself with stone and silence, with history carved into its walls.

Instead, it felt staged. Carefully designed. Beautiful on the surface, but empty underneath.

They left the cathedral soon after, stepping back into the streets with the same unanswered question they'd started with.

With little else to guide them, they made their way toward the castle overlooking the city. Its walls were impressive from the outside, stone polished and banners hanging neatly along its towers, but once inside it became clear that this, too, was not what they were looking for. They paid the fee at the entrance and were ushered in along with a steady stream of visitors, most of them chatting excitedly as if they already knew what awaited them.

Whatever history the castle once had had been reshaped into something else.

It wasn't ancient or mysterious. It was curated. Another attraction meant to be seen rather than understood.

They followed the noise to a wide arena set within the castle grounds, where a crowd had already gathered. The atmosphere was lively, voices overlapping as people found their seats. At the center, a flat combat ground waited, clean and well maintained, with attendants moving about to prepare for the next bout.

"One-on-one fights," Bartholomew said quietly, eyes wide as he took it all in. There was a spark there now, unmistakable. "They're really going to fight?"

"Looks like it," Trafalgar replied. "One wins. One loses."

Bartholomew nodded slowly, still staring ahead. He had never seen anything like this before, not up close. Things like this had always been out of reach for him, something other people enjoyed while he watched from a distance, if at all. Since meeting Trafalgar, his world had expanded in ways he still hadn't fully adjusted to.

"How is this, Trafalgar?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Before Trafalgar could answer further, an elderly human standing just behind them let out a small chuckle.

"That's about right," the man said. "Just as your friend said. A proper one-on-one. Real combat, but not to the death." He gestured toward the arena. "It's a show. One of the castle's main attractions."

The crowd around them was proof enough of that. Seats were filled, people leaning forward in anticipation, conversations buzzing with familiarity. Whatever else Salca lacked, this spectacle had no shortage of attention.

It was unexpected.

And for the first time since arriving, something here had managed to pull them in.

"Is it always this crowded?" Trafalgar asked, eyes moving over the packed seats and the people standing wherever they could find space.

The elderly man glanced at the arena, then smiled faintly. "Crowded, yes. But it used to be much more than this." He paused, as if measuring how far back his memory went. "Up until about a year ago."

Bartholomew leaned in slightly, listening.

"There was a woman," the old man continued. "Extraordinary. The way she moved… people couldn't look away. It wasn't just skill, it was something else. No one ever matched her. Not once." His voice softened, tinged with something close to nostalgia. "Because of her, people came from far away. Paid Gate fees just to see these fights. Some couldn't even get inside, so they watched from outside, climbed walls, found any angle they could."

He shook his head. "Then she stopped appearing. No one knows why."

Trafalgar's attention sharpened.

Before he could ask more, the announcer's voice echoed across the arena, and the crowd shifted as two figures stepped onto the combat ground. One was a vampire, crimson mana already gathering around his hands, blood magic weaving itself into thin, floating threads. Across from him stood an elf holding a long spear, posture calm, eyes fixed forward.

The fight began without ceremony.

The vampire struck first, blood lashing out in sharp arcs, forcing the elf back. For a moment it looked overwhelming, the magic aggressive and relentless. Then the elf moved. One step to the side, another forward, the spear flashing as he slipped past the blood magic's reach. The exchange was brief, precise. A clean thrust ended it, the spear stopping short as the vampire stumbled back, defeated.

The crowd erupted.

Bartholomew exhaled slowly, eyes wide. "Th-that was… incredible."

The old man nodded, though his smile didn't quite return. "Good. Very good. But still not like her."

Trafalgar didn't respond immediately.

'A woman?' he thought.

The noise of the arena slowly settled as attendants moved in and the crowd began to disperse, conversations overlapping as people stood from their seats. Whatever excitement the fight had stirred, it faded quickly into routine.

Trafalgar turned back to the elderly man. "About that woman," he said. "What happened to her?"

The man scratched his chin, thinking. "Can't say much. She kept to herself." He shrugged lightly. "She didn't live in the city proper. Stayed outside, not far from here. There's a small café along the road that leads out, a place travelers stop at sometimes. That's where she was last known to spend time."

"A café," Trafalgar repeated.

"That's right," the man said. "Still open, last I heard. Whether she's there anymore, though… no one knows."

"That's enough," Trafalgar replied. "Thank you."

They left the castle grounds soon after, the noise and movement of the arena giving way to quieter streets as they walked. Bartholomew stayed close, his thoughts clearly racing, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

"D-does she… interest you?" he asked after a moment, hesitant but curious.

Trafalgar considered the question as he looked ahead. "A little," he said honestly.

Bartholomew nodded, understanding more than the words alone conveyed.

They didn't hesitate after that.

For the first time since arriving in Salca, they had something concrete.

A café, just outside the city.

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