— I’ll take him. But for two and a half soldos — Ezra declared solemnly.

  — W-what? Two and a half soldos? — the old man repeated, brow furrowed, as if afraid his hearing had betrayed him.

  — Exactly. I’ll only take him for two and a half. He’s riddled with bruises, whip wounds, and frankly, he’s skin and bone. Five soldos is the price of a strong, healthy kaleorine. This one… falls far short of those requirements.

  Ezra spoke in his usual melodic voice, punctuating his reasoning with elegant hand gestures — as if describing a recipe or selecting a fine wine.

  — Hm… what do you say to three soldos? It’s the best price I can offer. — the old man said, drawing on his pipe with an air of resignation.

  — Very well. That seems fair enough. Victor!

  The alchemist made a subtle gesture with his fingers, and one of his guards climbed into the carriage and returned with a jingling leather pouch. Ezra opened it and withdrew three silver coins, each slightly dodecagonal in shape, with a small circular hole at the center.

  Even from a distance, Micah could see the clean shine of the silver reflecting the afternoon sun. On the obverse of the coin, just below the hole, was the number “12,” and above it, the letters “C.O.B.” engraved in deep, firm strokes. The reverse bore some kind of flower resembling a chalice or a trumpet, surrounded by inscriptions unreadable at that distance.

  Ezra placed the three coins directly into the old man’s hands, who examined them as if they were relics, then nodded, satisfied. And just like that, the redhead was officially purchased.

  — It was an honor doing business with you, Royal Alchemist. — the old man extended his hand, and Ezra shook it firmly, maintaining the same solemn smile that never seemed to leave his face.

  Micah was then chained at the neck and wrists, and the key to the chains was handed to the alchemist.

  — Take him to the Servile Registry. — the same slaver who had brought Micah was ordered.

  — That won’t be necessary. — Ezra interrupted.

  — Huh? You’re… not registering him? — the old man asked in a low voice, as if discussing a crime.

  — Let’s keep this between us, gentlemen. Shall we? — Ezra said quietly and firmly, holding calm eye contact while discreetly slipping a few coins into the man’s pocket.

  For a moment, the old man squeezed his eyes shut. Then his pupils dilated as he felt the new weight in his pocket. He traced the engravings of the soldos with his fingers and replied:

  — You’re absolutely right. Our transaction will remain between us.

  — Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are other matters that require my attention before the day ends. Have a good evening. Farewell. — Ezra concluded, leading the redhead back toward the carriage.

  Dozens of questions flooded Micah’s mind as he entered the vehicle. He was completely dazed after witnessing a transaction in which the object of purchase had been himself.

  “Who is the man who just bought me? What is a ‘Royal Alchemist’? And why wasn’t I registered at that ‘Servile Registry’? On top of that… I’m almost certain I just witnessed a bribe…”

  Unable to answer the questions crushing his chest, he took a deep breath to steady himself and focused on the only thing he could do now: observe, and absorb as much information as possible.

  The interior of the carriage was small but comfortable. The seats were upholstered and soft as silk. Small slatted curtains covered the left window, allowing the orange light of the setting sun to enter only from the right, making the space easy on the eyes. An unlit oil lamp hung from the ceiling.

  — Sit. — Ezra ordered. Micah obeyed.

  — I think we can agree you don’t need these anymore, yes? — the alchemist added in his elegant voice, before removing a key from his pocket and freeing the slave from his shackles.

  — W-what…?

  Micah flexed his freed wrists, staring at them for a moment before looking at Ezra with a gaze that was half confused, half wary. Then he glanced at the guards seated beside him, both maintaining unwavering watch, as if even their blinking was synchronized beneath the slits of their helmets — ensuring he was never unobserved for even a millisecond. Only then did he understand the disregard for the chains. The carriage began to move.

  Ezra suddenly sat down on the bench beside Micah. He opened a compartment beneath the seat and removed a wooden case. When he unlocked it, the sound of the clasps echoed like the snap of a verdict. Inside were no coins, no documents, no visible torture tools — but surgical instruments: forceps, suturing thread, glass vials filled with various liquids, long sharp needles, gleaming scalpels, and carefully folded rolls of gauze. The case exuded the strong, piercing smell of alcohol, camphor, and old iron.

  Micah’s eyes widened. His body stiffened instinctively.

  — Relax — Ezra said gently, switching his white gloves for darker leather ones. — I only want to make sure you don’t rot before your time. Turn around.

  He took a small amber vial containing a colorless liquid and poured it onto a white linen cloth.

  — This will sting. But only on the outside. — he murmured, almost like a father soothing a child before a vaccination.

  Micah opened his mouth to say something, but bit his lip as the cloth pressed against his back. A surge of pain shot through him like liquid fire — he shuddered. Ezra, meanwhile, watched with a gaze far too curious for someone who was merely “helping.”

  — Interesting… the pattern of the scars is irregular. This was done for pleasure, not discipline. — he commented with the calm of a botanist describing rare leaves. — Combined with malnutrition, this weakens the resistance of the Image and the Soul. Tsk. These bumpkins truly don’t know how to care for good merchandise.

  Micah shrank in on himself.

  — Do you always talk like that to slaves?

  Ezra smiled, never taking his eyes off the stitch he began placing over a deeper cut.

  — No. Only the interesting ones.

  He pulled the thread tight with a small, dry snap of skin closing. Then he wiped the blood away with another cloth, now crimson at the edges.

  — Now… your face.

  Micah hesitated, but Ezra already held a small mirror, showing him the cut above his left eyebrow — a painful souvenir from the gauntlet that struck him yesterday.

  — This one needs three stitches. Two, if you want a charming scar. Four, if you want it to disappear. Which do you prefer?

  — I’d rather go home. — Micah muttered impulsively.

  Ezra didn’t answer right away. He simply cleaned the wound with disconcerting delicacy, as if restoring rare porcelain.

  — Very well… we’ll start with three stitches. The scar may remind you that you’re still whole.

  The needle glinted in the lamplight as the carriage rocked gently over the cobblestones. Micah felt the first prick. Soon after, the alchemist placed the final stitch with expert speed.

  — There. We’re done. You can put your shirt back on now. — Ezra concluded, donning his white gloves again and packing away the instruments.

  Micah touched his forehead for a moment, feeling the stitches, before pulling his shirt from his shorts and slipping it on. He didn’t know whether to thank the man or try his luck jumping out the window.

  The case was locked once more and returned to its compartment. The same hand that had treated him moments earlier, now gloved in white, extended toward Micah. His gaze returned to Ezra, who smiled solemnly.

  — I believe I haven’t introduced myself yet. Forgive my lack of manners. I am Ezra Velliphisto, Royal Alchemist of the Kingdom of Luther. — Micah hesitated briefly before taking his hand, but felt the guards’ gazes tighten. In the end, he shook it.

  — Micah… Micah Alcantara do Espírito-Santo…

  — What a peculiar name. I’ve encountered many kaleorines in my life, but never one with such a unique name. Take that as a compliment. — Ezra remarked, his smile widening briefly, though never reaching his eyes. — Do you know what it means?

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  An old memory surfaced in Micah’s mind — one he had long forgotten, yet somehow remembered now.

  …

  Fourteen years earlier

  The old television crackled in the background, broadcasting some evangelical program the antenna could barely catch. The yellowish light of a crooked lamp made everything in the living room look like an old dream. The house was simple — peeling walls, a stained sofa, and a cramped shelf where self-help, spiritualist, and philosophy books piled up beside an image of Saint Mary.

  I must’ve been about ten. I wore my battered Spider-hero T-shirt and dragged my noisy flip-flops across the floor. I held a notebook — one of those cheap ones from the supermarket sale — its corners all chewed up. You could see anxiety gnawed into it.

  I stopped in front of my mother. She sat on the couch, focused, sewing a pair of my shorts. Her hair was tied into a slightly crooked bun, her eyes tired with the dark circles only single mothers have. But even so… even so she was beautiful. In a calm way. Young. Strong.

  — Mom… — I called softly, like someone afraid to ask.

  — Yes, son — she replied, without looking up from the thread.

  — Why… why did you give me this name? Micah? Everyone at school says it’s weird.

  She stopped. The TV suddenly seemed louder, as if the world itself had gone quiet. Then she looked at me. A look full of things I didn’t quite understand back then — it looked like longing, like faith, like pain.

  — Because… — she took a deep breath — Micah means “He who is like God.”

  My eyes widened.

  — Like… Jesus?

  She laughed softly and shook her head.

  — No, silly. It’s not that you are God. It’s that… you were an answer. When everyone told me I should get rid of you, that you’d ruin my life, that it was impossible… all I could hear in here — she pointed to her chest — was that you were a gift. A gift from heaven… or from somewhere beyond.

  I stayed quiet. It moved something inside me. I didn’t know what to say.

  — But… if Dad left… why choose that name anyway?

  She lowered her eyes, thought for a moment.

  — Because I didn’t choose it for him. I chose it for you. Your name is a reminder. A reminder that you are not a mistake. No matter what anyone says.

  She reached out and messed up my hair. Her touch was light, but it said far more than any words.

  — You are a miracle, Micah. One day… the world will understand that.

  …

  Back to the present.

  Micah blinked. His distant gaze wandered along the folds of the carriage. Slowly, his eyes returned to Ezra’s face, still wearing that overly polite smile.

  — “He who is like God”… — he murmured, almost without thinking.

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. His smile tightened slightly, as if something had piqued his curiosity.

  — Hm. Bold. Almost blasphemous. — he said enigmatically. Then his smile widened again. — Best not say that to anyone else around here, unless you’re willing to be turned into a skewer.

  Then, as if sensing something… Ezra looked away for a moment and murmured something to himself, inaudible, before changing the subject.

  — And this… shirt? — he asked, tilting his head slightly as his lilac eyes examined the fabric with almost childlike curiosity. — It’s not linen. Nor silk. It has a… strange feel. Almost like a fabric that shouldn’t exist.

  Ezra extended his hand and delicately pinched the sleeve, rubbing it between his fingers with the precision of an obsessed tailor or an experienced taxidermist.

  — And this symbol… three letters, a crest…? A tribal war emblem? Or some ritualistic sports guild? Fascinating. The colors are well chosen. Red, black, and white. Three contrasts. Three forces in tension. — he murmured, more to himself than to Micah. — Is it a uniform?

  Micah blinked, briefly confused. It was the first time in a long while anyone had spoken about the shirt. He looked down at the crest of his favorite team on his chest — worn, torn, stained with blood and dirt, but still there. Still his.

  — It’s… from a team. A football team.

  Ezra stared at him as if the word were an enigma from some dead language.

  — Fute-bol. Foot and ball… a combat dance, perhaps? Or a simulation of group warfare? — He smiled. — It doesn’t matter. This material… it isn’t natural. It repels heat but doesn’t absorb moisture. It stretches. A synthetic fabric… yet without visible alchemy. No threads impregnated with karma. — He noticed the tag on the collar — Polyester…?

  He released the sleeve and leaned back slowly. His eyes widened for a brief moment as he looked at Micah, as if he had realized something. Still, he remained silent.

  Only then did Micah notice something he would have seen long ago if he weren’t so inattentive — strapped to the guards’ belts, and to Ezra’s as well.

  Small leather pouches, reinforced with silver rings and hand-engraved runes, rested firmly at their waists. Each carried at least three or four gleaming crystals, about the size of broken fingers. They didn’t shine like ordinary gemstones; no… this was another kind of light. An inner light, as if each crystal carried a piece of domesticated thunder, caged in solid form.

  Micah blinked, intrigued. The crystals came in different colors and shapes:

  Some were dark red, like wine mixed with rust. They were jagged and sharp, like shards of obsidian.

  Others, translucent blue, pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Composed of cubic microstructures, resembling pyrite.

  — That is… — Micah began, but Ezra was already watching him, as if he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

  — Karma crystals. — the alchemist replied casually, almost distractedly as he adjusted a fold of his bronze cape. — High-level alchemical reagents. Still in testing phases… but effective enough to keep my companions alive. And obedient.

  One of the guards crossed his arms and dipped his head slightly in respect, as though the comment were, in fact, a compliment.

  Ezra then removed two crystals — one blue and one red — from the pouch and held them up to the amber lamplight. Their glow intensified upon contact with his hand.

  — This one can sustain a protective barrier for up to five minutes, or significantly accelerate recovery from ailments. — he commented, displaying the blue crystal. Then he extended the red one. — This one, on the other hand, can set an entire tavern ablaze, or exponentially enhance physical capabilities — for a limited time, of course, depending on how you choose to release the energy. — He returned the crystals to the pouch. — And this is only an unstable version. Imagine when I complete the purification stages… it will be possible to destroy entire districts, or even fully regenerate limbs with a single crystal… exciting, isn’t it?

  Micah swallowed hard as he listened to the alchemist’s impassioned speech. He didn’t know what frightened him more: the idea of someone carrying explosive power in their pocket like a keychain, or the feverish gleam in Ezra’s eyes as he spoke of it like a child gifted a soul-dissection laboratory for his birthday.

  Micah kept his eyes on the crystals for a few more seconds before whispering:

  — Karma…?

  Ezra slowly turned to him, as though he had been waiting precisely for that question. The smile returned to his lips, but something new flickered there — genuine excitement, almost… academic.

  — Ah, finally. — he said, with the restrained enthusiasm of a professor about to deliver his favorite lecture. — You are quite ignorant, even for a kaleorine, but I knew you’d ask. Karma, my dear Micah, is my life’s work. It is the invisible currency that governs the entire world. And I don’t mean only this world, by the way.

  He crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the cuffs of his half-cape, and continued:

  — Everything you do — everything — from the moment you were in your mother’s womb, leaves a trail. A kind of spiritual echo. A resonance. Whether a good deed or a vile act, it imprints a mark upon your soul, and that mark… vibrates. Reacts. Accumulates. Karma is that substance. Invisible to most. But with awakening, with training, with knowledge… — he lightly touched the crystal pouch — it can be manipulated. Solidified. Used.

  Micah blinked slowly. His gaze jumped between the crystals, the guards, and Ezra’s overly polite smile.

  — So… it’s like… energy? Like… chakra? Ki? Mana? — Micah guessed, drawing on his otaku knowledge.

  Ezra laughed — a short, musical, almost charming laugh. But cold.

  — No. Karma is more than energy. It is condensed intention. The juice of the soul reconstituted as a tool. These crystals — he tapped the pouch — weren’t merely “charged.” They are fragments of that juice. Of past actions. Of pain. Of memories. Of sins. And virtues too, sometimes.

  Micah leaned back against the seat, feeling a faint chill. It was as if each crystal whispered — not in words, but in trapped, lingering emotions.

  — And… how did you make these crystals…?

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. He gave another cold chuckle before looking out the window, the bourgeois district — once crowded with people — now slowly isolating itself, growing dim, cold, and dark.

  — Let’s just say that information is a matter of state secrecy. — He paused, then added casually: — Micah, have you already awakened your Image? Or do you at least have some notion of its name?

  Micah’s eyes widened.

  — Image…?

  Ezra smiled. This time, genuinely.

  — Hm. Then we’ll start from the basics.

  The carriage continued gliding through the night of Edel-Füllhorn, and Micah felt — even within that cozy carriage — a knot form in his stomach. He couldn’t explain why, but a dreadful premonition crept over him, the same sensation he had felt… that night. Something would happen soon, and it wouldn’t be good.

  — Look, we’re already crossing the North Bridge. — Ezra remarked, reopening the curtain on the left window so Micah could see.

  Micah cautiously leaned closer, the stitches on his forehead still throbbing. When he looked out, the sight struck him like a silent blow.

  The North Bridge was colossal — wide enough for four carriages side by side, plus two walkways. It was built entirely of polished limestone, with carvings along the railings resembling spiraled, thorned… strangely organic patterns. At its center, columns rose like fingers pointed at the sky, each crowned with a black marble statue depicting hooded figures holding spears or books — the ancient Bishops of Edel-Füllhorn, as Ezra explained casually.

  The structure connected the bourgeois district to the Central Isle, a landmass in the middle of Lake Vasselir so perfectly circular it seemed drawn with a compass by an obsessive god. Micah could see the reflection of the Duke’s Citadel in the dark, still waters — a fortress of pale towers resembling a Gothic castle fused with a temple — and farther on, the sacred and monstrous silhouette of Füllhorn Cathedral, with its immense spiraling central tower and stained-glass windows glowing like open eyes in the darkness.

  The lake below was calm, but deep. Its waters were so still they looked like black ink, and only the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves broke the heavy silence hanging there. The reflection of lights from the Inner Wall shimmered as the carriage passed, as though the world itself were suspicious of the crossing.

  Ezra followed Micah’s gaze for a moment in silence, then said:

  — Beautiful, isn’t it? But… deceptive. The North Bridge was built to unite, yet today it separates more than any wall. On one side, the noisy bourgeoisie… on the other, the eyes of power. Nobility, faith, secrecy. It’s like “crossing from the stage into the backstage,” as the infamous Charbonpierre would say. — He smiled sideways, as if sharing a joke Micah wouldn’t understand.

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances for a moment, as if speaking that name — especially so casually — offended the very air they breathed, tightening their lungs.

  Micah watched in silence. The bridge was beautiful, yes, but there was no warmth in it. It felt as though it were… judging him as he passed.

  Ezra then added:

  — After we cross… things begin to change. Be doubly careful, Micah. And watch what you say. Not every soul on that island is made of flesh.

  Micah looked away from the bridge and leaned back against the seat, a growing knot in his stomach. The bad feeling worsened. Crossing that bridge wasn’t just crossing a lake.

  It was entering the territory of gods.

  And of monsters pretending to be saints.