He paused mid-step, mind racing through possibilities before he even turned around. Despite his best attempt to place the voice, it was totally unfamiliar. Not someone he knew, then. But who—?

It's not me they're calling. He realized as he turned and saw the same family he had seen earlier at the gate. It was the wife, calling out to their little kid — whose name, Arros remembered hearing, was also Arros.

The boy was darting through the crowd like a menace. Weaving between pedestrians' legs, dodging merchants' carts, all while clutching his figurines in both hands.

The child skidded to a stop at Arros's feet, staring up with wide, gleaming eyes full of imagination and excitement. He stammered a quick apology for bumping into the tall stranger.

The father jogged up behind him, carefully navigating the crowd. He scooped his son up with a friendly growl into his ears then noticed Arros standing there.

"Haha! It's you again!" The man's face broke into a warm smile. "Now this must be fate, running into you twice in such a short time."

His mention of fate made something stir in Arros's mind.

Almost unconsciously, his hand moved to touch his eyes, as if adjusting them or cleaning away dust in a natural and casual way.

But the moment his fingers brushed his eyelids, everything changed.

The world took on a different quality. Things like threads — or rather, distortions, shimmering patterns that wrapped around every object and person — appeared in his vision. A jumbled chaos of information that would drive most people mad trying to parse it.

Arros blinked, and the chaotic jumble stabilized into something cleaner. More interpretable.

Numbers appeared above everyone's heads.

Two separate values, hovering in space that only he could see.

The first number was nearly identical for most people in his field of view. A 1 or a 2, occasionally a 3 for the rare Arcanist in the crowd. There were the rare 4s and 5s at most, barely worth noting.

The second number varied wildly. From as low as 1 to as high as 10 for normal people, seemingly random.

But Arros knew exactly what they meant.

The first number indicated raw power. Magical strength. How far above a baseline human someone was. A 1 meant ordinary. A 2 meant slightly above average, in good health, with a strong constitution, but still fundamentally mundane.

The second number indicated deviation from the norm. How much chaos, excitement, danger, and significance would mark a person's life path. Low numbers meant ordinary lives — predictable, safe, unremarkable. High numbers meant tumultuous fates — adventure, conflict, moments that would ripple outward and affect many others.

The boy's father — whose name Arros had come to realize was Ben after he'd introduced himself — had a 2 above his head. And a 7 for the second value.

A healthy farmer. Strong for a mundane human. And a life that would be more interesting than most, but still within normal bounds. Local conflicts, perhaps. Small adventures. But nothing that would, say, shake the world.

But little Arros...

The child staring up at him with those wide, eager eyes had a 3 for his magical value…

And a 28 for his life path.

This one is going to cause a ruckus, Arros thought, suppressing a smile. Even within just a few years.

A 3 for magical value at such a young age meant the child was already beyond the threshold of human, and into Arcanist territory. Rare for someone so young in a town like this. Good by any reasonable standard — town-level, certainly. Even city or country-level talent.

Still not enough to interest Arros normally. Even continental-level geniuses were not worth his attention, let alone regional ones.

But that second number...

A 28 meant this child's fate was already tangled with major events. Conflicts that would draw the attention of powerful forces. Moments that would change the course of history for countless others.

He has room for growth, Arros mused. That first number will climb. And with a fate value that high, he'll be forced into situations that accelerate his development.

Ben was still smiling, clearly hoping Arros would engage in conversation about his son. About fate, about the celebration, about whatever small talk filled the space between strangers.

But Arros instead raised his hand in a fluid motion, and a necklace materialized from nothing like a magic trick.

It was a simple-looking necklace with a simple-looking pendant — a small crystal wrapped in silver wire, unremarkable to most observers. But Ben's eyes flickered with instinctive awareness. Some deep survival instinct recognizing that the object was significant, even if he couldn't articulate why.

He shifted subtly, moving his son slightly away, preparing to politely decline the gift from the young man who he'd only known for less than an hour.

But little Arros's hand shot out, grabbing the necklace before his father could stop him.

A small smile played on Arros's lips.

Good. He's decisive… Takes what he wants without hesitation…

Ben saw what happened and reluctantly stayed silent, his polite refusal was left unspoken as Arros clasped the necklace around the young boy's neck.

With a tone that suddenly took on an ancient air, Arros spoke to the father without looking at him directly:

"When the time eventually comes for a sun to shine, you cannot hide it behind your palm."

He met Ben's eyes, and the farmer felt something cold settle in his chest.

"If you try to, you'll only burn yourself as it shines nonetheless."

Ben's gaze went distant for a second, unfocused, as if Arros' words had struck deeper than he thought it would, laced with meaning. When clarity returned moments later, Arros was already gone.

Vanished into the crowd like he'd never been there.

.

.

.

Arros walked between market stalls now, perusing goods with mild interest. Carved wooden boxes. Hand-blown glass. Woven tapestries depicting local legends — most of which were historically inaccurate, but charmingly so.

He passed into the "Special Arcanist" section of the market — a segregated area where those with magical talent could browse goods normal humans weren't permitted to see.

Pompous frogs in a well, Arros thought with faint disdain. Feeling special because they can manipulate a bit of mana.

They had the sense not to question his presence as he entered at least. Their survival instinct recognized him as something above their pay grade, even if they didn't know exactly what he was.

But not all of them had keen perception.

A huge, bulky man with the look of a sellsword began striding toward Arros as the young man held a particular herb up to the light for examination like it was very interesting.

Arros analyzed the specimen with more intrigue while also briefly considering how to deal with the approaching nuisance in the least commotion-drawing way possible.

Then a sharp trumpet blast split the air.

The sound came from the town walls — a specially-tamed beast whose call could be heard for miles. Used only for emergencies.

One blast. Two. Three.

People began to pause, looking around nervously.

Four. Five. Six.

Conversations died. Merchants stopped mid-transaction.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Everyone stilled, and now their faces were drained of color.

Ten.

Absolute horror settled over the marketplace.

Ten trumpet blasts meant a Calamity-class magical beast.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then without knowing who started it, someone broke out of the shock and ran.

Like a chain reaction, panic exploded through the crowd. Mothers scooped up children and fled toward their homes, knowing intellectually that wooden walls and thatched roofs wouldn't save them from a Calamity-class threat, but desperately craving the psychological shelter of being inside.

The bulky sellsword who'd been approaching Arros vanished into the stampede without a backward glance.

Arros didn't even bother tracking where he went. He wasn't worth the attention in the least.

He continued examining the herb with curiosity, mentally cataloguing its properties and wondering if it truly was what he suspected.

The stall owner, meanwhile, had been abandoned by his assistants who'd fled with everyone else. The man stood shaking, fear-struck, trying to save his most expensive specimens but barely able to keep his hands steady enough to grab anything.

"Stall owner," Arros said calmly, not looking up from the herb. "How much do you want for this plant?"

The question was so utterly out of place, so completely wrong given the circumstances, that even through his terror, the man turned his head robotically toward the speaker.

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