God From The Abyss

Chapter 38: Chapter 038: The Flaming City and the Stranger.

The day of the impossible had opened into the hushed, golden hour when shadows stretched long and the sun began its descent beneath the horizon, spilling dying streaks of amber orange across the rooftops.

The Flaming City hummed with life at twilight, alive with its own rhythm. The stone-paved streets glowed beneath the gentle hum of mana lamps, each orb suspended on slender stems of iron, casting circles of pale silver-blue light that drove shadows away into corners of alleys. Stalls, illuminated by the lamps, lingered with color — dyed silks, trinkets, baskets of fruits that glistened with the last kiss of the day’s sunlight. The air smelled of roasting chestnuts, leather, and damp stone.

Through it all, he walked as though it existed solely for his quiet amusement. He had decided to stroll among the commoners after the wonder of the afternoon. To know how mortals, understand how humans at the lower caste lived.

His steps were unhurried, his posture loose, almost languid, yet every line of his figure drew the eye.

His pale, white skin gleamed beneath the mingling light of dusk and mana-lamps, a slender, lean build that clearly was not born to it.

His wild, unruly hair, and pure white as fallen snow, caught the faint glow of the lamps and turned silver. But it was his eyes, gold, not dulled or pale, but burning, almost like they were molten that captured, unsettled, and entranced in equal measure all who were chanced to look into them. Orbs etched with subtle patterns that flickered like suns caught in human form.

His clothes were simple and refined: a perfectly tailored black trousers, sharp but not ostentatious. A white, open, high-collar shirt beneath, crisp and clean. No jewelry, no gaudy emblems favored by nobles, not even a sword at his hip like knights. Only a long cape, black and shadow-soft, trailing behind him with every step — too simple to be worn by the rich folk, to scream nobility, and yet too refined to be mistaken for a commoner’s wear.

People could not help but stare, whispering until they realized they were actually still staring.

"Did you see the young lad?" asked a baker’s wife, clutching her basket of fresh loaves to her chest.

"Aye.... Like a fucki paintin’ came to life," the baker replied, his aged flour stained hands awkwardly wiping on his apron. "Might be a saint."

By a fountain, a group of children huddled, pointing.

" I bet he’s a hero, like the ones from the old songs" one of them whispered, trying his best to impress his mates.

"That hair, like snow!"

"No! That’s starlight hair! My tutor said so!"

" Pixie, that’s quite."

The argument trailed off, until the object of their admiration met their eyes. He flashed them a warm, casual smile.

Their faces flushed and they ducked their heads, embarrassed, though his gaze had already moved elsewhere. One of the braver children waved wildly.

In response, Mikael raised a hand with his fingers loose, in a playful gesture as he moved on.

Wherever he went, whispers followed.

"Did you see him?" A girl tugged at her sister’s sleeve, her voice hushed yet fervent.

"Yeah," the sister replied. "He sure as hell doesn’t look real."

A blacksmith leaned against his forge, hammer paused in hand, sweat still streaking his arms. "Hmmm, never seen this one before."

’His posture is too relaxed to be a knight. Probably some noble’s stray brat.

"Might be a new generation Saint!"

And so the rumor leapt like sparks across the crowd. A Saint walking the marketplace?

Mikael heard every murmur, his lips curved with an indulgent sort of mischief. "Saints, was it?"

And from the center of the city, towards the walls, he continued.

He paused briefly at a stall somewhere in the not so pleasant parts of the city, where a mage performed simple charms — conjuring little birds of light to the delight of gathered children. Mikael chuckled softly, watching the glowing birds flicker and dissolve into sparks.

A child’s eyes met his, wide and round, and Mikael smiled. The boy promptly flushed, dropped his sweet cake, and mumbled a thanks before bolting as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Mikael chuckled softly to himself and rose, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

And that was when he noticed them.

Two figures in plain cloaks, positioned at different corners of the square, making very little movement. Their attention on him was sharp, a bit too sharp compared to the curious gazes he had been receiving.

"Not humans," Mikael thought instantly on assessing them. And they were watching him.

"Come in, Headquarters," one of the duo muttered into a small crystal, very much unaware that their presence had been noticed.

"I think we found one of the possible targets."

"And what is your verdict?" a voice came from the crystal.

"I’m not sure, but at least not dangerous. He’s been strolling the city all evening, even playing with children. His general disposition did not suggest hostility in the slightest. Then again, no one has violence written across their foreheads so we can’t just write him off entirely."

"Affirmative. Follow him a bit more, see where he stops at. Then rest up and return tomorrow. Use the Teleport spell."

"Yes, sir!"

Mikael turned his head just enough to meet the gaze of one of the cloaked nearest to him.

Then he smiled.

Warm, polite. Almost unarming.

A strangled thought him flared through his trained mind amidst his shock.

’He sees me.’

The other spy shifted beneath her cloak, fingers brushing the dagger hidden under her tunic. The instinct to strike, to silence that smile, surged in her — only for it to die just as quickly.

That warm smile was a ruse, and it changed into something quite sinister and cold.

It meant he knew.

It meant that they still breathed because he willed it. And what prey dared to move when its predator had already seen their throat?

Mikael walked on. His smile lingered as he passed a fruit vendor, who blinked at him in confusion.

’Odd ball,’ the vendor said to no one in particular. "Kid smiles in the world. Ain’t got no worries in the neighbor."

"A noble, may be," his neighbor guessed, stacking melons.

Mikael’s footsteps carried him away, and farther from the heart of the city.

Taverns spilled light and laughter and music onto the streets. The clatter of mugs and the sound of lutes and bards blending with the cry of peddlers selling off the last of their goods. A group of children darted past, chasing each other with wooden swords. One bumped into Mikael’s legs, tumbled back, and froze when Miceel crouched low to meet his gaze.

"Careful, boy," he said gently, his voice laced with warmth. "And your foe might be behind you. Literally."

The boy spun on instinct, only to get smacked lightly by a wooden blade. Laughter erupted, and Mikael rose, smiling as the child scampered off to rejoin the game.

Mikael’s form blitzed before reappearing atop a clock tower that overlooked the the district. Behind him, the moon shone with full splendor.

" You did a wonderful work, Aurora. As much I hate to admit it. Not even I could think up such elaborateness." He stretched, before wiping off his nose.

" Still won’t change my mind. I am coming."

He vanished again, leaving an afterimage that slowly faded into the warm August night air.