The Primary Coverts was never a pleasant place to be in. But to Ridge, it was better than the Secondaries, packed with malls, restaurants, and other trite facilities. Seriously, why wasn't there a facility to pay to take a jaunt to Nevah in a securely made vehicle? A vehicle that could be a steam-powered tunnel borer. Ridge wanted to invent something of the likes, but that idea changed once he realized how childish it was. Besides, the "Never visit Nevah" rule was prominent. And permanent. If he could have, he would have. It could be designed with copper fittings, steam vents, and a large drill mechanism at the front powered by engines with rotating blades and a pneumatic hammer for breaking through. How perfect it could be for going on outings, especially since Haven is underground. He always knew Haven was a sphere-walled place underground, draped over the core of Thear, even though its exact placement was never identified. He figured it out himself the more he observed the walls and "sky." Now that Ridge thought of it, his childhood wish to unify Haven and Nevah would be impossible. It would be challenging to unify the Indoors and Outdoors as one world, even if there was a way to excavate an opening between Haven and Nevah—or somehow bring Haven up to the surface after getting rid of the basalt rocks with the Riskometer.

   And about vehicles, the hearse was indeed bearing a coffin that "had Yulek's body." The automatons kept professing that they found Yulek dead in his classroom in the morning. No one pressed on. Everyone continued mourning and following the hearse with stoic faces.

   Death was a closed prospect in the closed place that was Haven. It was always covered in a sense of understanding. Everyone knew that death was important for the balance of the Havenian population. Nevertheless, it was barely brought up and still feared by Havenians. The idea of corpses lying in the safe and strict place that was Haven was unsettling. There was a time when inventors tried creating automatons to act as long-lived power cells for everyone after they die, but it was discontinued. No one knew why, and Ridge was none the wiser. He had a hypothesis that the corpses were sent to the Outdoors through chutes in coffins. If Nevah made the perfect place for anything other than tourism, it would be a depository.

   The atmosphere of the Primary Coverts was, as per usual, lower than other ambiences in Haven. Sounds of murmurs and very gentle lamentations filled the air. The sky seemed more drab despite being lit by the usual avant-garde Edison bulbs and streetlights. It all felt like there was a noose above instead of the Diurnal Bridge.

   Feet grated against the ground, and black-covered bodies trailed behind the hearse. Only Ridge was given a black cloak by a clerk. He didn't wear appropriate black clothes like the rest—not to stand out from the crowd. Rather, he found it stupid to do so for mourning a false dead man. The dead man was in his Sensing Snowglobe. The one he'd carry around with faux pride like everyone else. Unbeknownst to them, it was a weapon he claimed as the Riskometer, a tool that measured the riskiness of objects and sucked in those with high levels.

   As the hearse made its way to the Primary Coverts, Ridge couldn't help but wonder what the governors had placed inside the coffin. He knew it wasn't Yulek's body. That much he was certain of. He smirked inwardly. Sneakily, he stole a hairpin from Mavis as she had lowered her head with a dull expression. He then poked it through the hearse and felt something. That was when he knew all too well that the coffin contained a dummy. It was all part of the elaborate ruse they orchestrated.

   When they arrived at the tombstone with a clockwork, other automatons pressed a button to open the place of burial, letting the other automatons set down the coffin. Everyone gathered around it in a knot. Shades of yellow, brown, and gray illuminated from the coffin. Polly Yulek was sobbing the most.

   Ridge stood by the tombstone, his boot lightly touching it. He looked down at it. The hypothesis  shapes started swimming around in his vision. The vertices of those two- to five-dimensional shapes were pointing at the base of the tombstone. By itself, an epitaph appeared, reflecting warm light as the deceased's name, date, and occupation were displayed.

   Ridge felt his Aptem pocketwatch under his jacket, under the cloak. He smirked as he felt it pulsate. His hypothesis shapes were not there for his own amusement. They said something about the tombstone. Something risky about it. He would see to it later. Perhaps it was the key to bring Haven up. But that was not his interest for now. He just had a hypothesis he wanted to test out.

   Slowly but surely, the shapes massed until they clouded Ridge's vision. His eyes were suffocated by them. They cleared away like atoms undergoing expansion, until...

   Ridge's now shapeless eyes were looking at the rugged landscape of Nevah. He was on his second outing, wearing Roderick's clothes along with the shoulder plates. The Riskomifiers were stuffed in a pocket Ridge had to create for the patched shirt. The only thing he was not wearing was the skull lower jaw piece. It felt weary to wear.

   The Riskometer was securely placed on the ballless ball clicker. He held it as he wandered around the space. The two pocket watches hanging from the vest tapped against each other. He shushed and caught them in his other hand. Where he was, he did not know. All he knew was that it was a rocky valley. All he did was follow the reservoir from where he left off. The waters got bluer, but the landscape was still reddish-brown. The cracks and ridges suggested some geological activity or erosion over time, so Ridge kept his Riskometer in his hand while placing the ball clicker over one of the latch plates. The snow particles inside suddenly levitated.   

   The pocketwatch struck 51 riskons. (LI r-kons)

   Ridge extended the Riskometer to the side and shook it. The beam out of the sphere shone on leaves passing by. Except those were not just any normal leaves. They were risky leaves, sharp like knives as the edges had several microscopic blades. The Riskometer vacuumed all of the leaves in the wind. They weren't the only objects Ridge had absorbed on his current outing. He had gotten rid of windswept trees that would fall. He also got rid of some snare traps he found along the path embedded with trees and holes. He surprisingly also managed to get rid of those holes, leaving flat spots of ground.

   Ridge sighed and looked around. He did not know how to act like Roderick- hell, he did not know how to act like a Nevanese. So far, the valley was free of people. Nevertheless, anyone could see Ridge act as an outsider. Or an insider. He had to act like an outdoorsman.

   To Ridge, being a seasoned outdoorsman meant speaking loudly and in a gravelly voice while looking all ragged and rash, carrying barrels with little of his might. He supposed that would be for pirates, but his exterior did not represent a pirate. He was Roderick Sutoh, except that he really did not take his identity. As mentioned before, Nevanese did not carry IDs, Sensing Snowglobes, or Aptems around like Havenians. He was more so of a fisher- or a hunter, or whatever Rod was.

   Ridge was not worried about being caught by someone seeing him wield the Riskometer. To a non-Havenian, it would be a hunter's gear to keep the prey inside the round glass ball. Even Rod did not ask or bat an eye at the Riskometer Ridge was clearly holding.

   Ridge looked down at the sandals as he trodded through the valley with the Riskometer in hand. Unlike his boots with flat undersides, the sandals were leaving footprints behind. He looked over his shoulder down at the marks on the sandy ground. He made sure there were none from where he exited the basalt rocks territory. Still, he could not shake off the unease he felt. He had a hypothesis that when harvesting season came, the governors would suspect that a citizen has indeed been to more than two outings given how the same footprints roamed the territory of the Diurnal Bridge. From what Ridge has seen so far, the Nevanese did not dare to near where Haven is. It was not like they were not allowed to. They just had busy lives and many things they had to attend to. Did they even know where Haven was? Probably not, but that would be for another time. Walking through the rocks was viable, so he was wondering why was it that there was not a foot set on the area. If the governors were to notice the footprints, they would definitively claim them to be coming from a Havenian whose shoes were taken from the Nevanese. Ridge probably had to start wearing his own boots. That is what he was to do on his third outing.

   The wind picked up, drawing more leaves further from Ridge and closer to the other ridges of the mountains. Like the snow particles in his Riskometer, they flitted upwards to the crevices of the mountains. Some fell down and created foliages on the other side. Just then, the foliages were heard cracking. The cracking caused a web of echoes through the valley.

   Ridge felt his heart flutter with worry. He looked up at the rocky mountain and adjusted the Riskometer so that it was aimed at the ridges. If it weren't for the Riskometer being within a ten-mile radius of whatever risk lay on the other side, the snow particles would have zoomed out of the sphere.

   "Someone... something... maybe even some things." Ridge kept his guard up and his snowglobe steady. The longer he waited, the more anxious he became. He had never been anxious when handling risks before. Could it be ogres who snack on leaves? Or leprechauns who collect leaves instead of gold? It sounded more like something was being stomped. Stomped...

   Here and there, rounded boulders appeared in view. They were massive, coated in fine and clotted red grains mixed together. They were rounded like spheres because they had been smoothed by rolling. First two appeared, then a deep, rumbling growl as more broke loose and began their descent. This was followed by an intensifying noise. It turned into a thunderous roar as the boulders gained momentum. There were about five of them. All of them were tumbling down the mountain at an alarmingly fast speed.

   Ridge piped up. His shoulders went rigid. He looked down at his pocketwatch.

   The pocketwatch struck 55 riskons. (LV r-kons)

   Ridge was even more disoriented. That was the highest reading he had ever received. Was each boulder worth 11 riskons, adding up to a net risk of 55, or was each boulder 55 riskons on its own? The confusion only deepened. "How am I going to absorb five risks all at once?"

   Then Ridge remembered the huge holes he had absorbed with the Riskometer. He rotated the hand of the Aptem pocketwatch until it pointed to 51 riskons. He started shaking the Riskometer counter-clockwise.

   The cacophony of the boulders was punctuated by the resounding sounds of larger rocks crashing into other rocks, slowing them down before they continued their murderous journey toward Ridge. They didn't know about the Riskometer or his plan to stop them all. Smaller rock fragments were sent skittering in every direction. They were getting closer.

   Ridge didn't miss a beat, bracing himself for impact. His copper shoulder plates kept him steady. Then, a massive hole emerged from the light beam of the Riskometer. It settled into the ground right in front of Ridge, whose eyes tracked its motion as it wormed around the closest boulder targeting him.

   With a loud thud, the boulder rolled until it was caught by the hole. It didn't fall through because of its massive size. It stayed there, its lower part dug into the ground that was now penetrated thanks to the Riskometer.

   Bringing up the Riskometer, Ridge looked around at the remaining boulders passing by. He gritted his teeth as he pointed the Riskometer at the one on his right, absorbing it in little time. Then he aimed it at the one on his left. "Good riddance to rolling risks!" The exclamation only steeled his resolve to absorb all of them before they could roll further up the mountain.

   Ridge would only use the ejection function when subjected to a situation like this one. He had to keep his workarounds pure. He was there to visit Nevah. The Riskometer was there to protect him. Remember.

   After observing the boulder up close—now dazed—Ridge stepped back. It was a curious rounded boulder. It looked like it had been through all the places he was longing to visit. It was coated in sand, so smoothened that the setting sun's rays from afar bathed its bald head in a shining beam. Just like the one from the Riskometer.

   Ridge felt a smile spread across his face. He outstretched his free hand and touched the boulder. It felt natural, yet new. The tremendous amount of sand grains pricked his palm gently. He looked down at the pocketwatch, noticing it had struck 4 riskons. What a relief it was to be free of the sweat and trepidation. It wasn't risky anymore.

   Just then, the hand moved to 5, then 7, and finally to 15 riskons. Ridge heard shuffling from the mountains. He turned toward the mountain opposite him, his expression heavy. Not dread—why dread when he had the Riskometer?

   What Ridge saw then pushed a trampoline under his sweat-drenched brow. There were more than a dozen people—Nevanese tribesmen—wearing cassocks with animal flaps and oriental accessories, swarming around Ridge—around the ridges of the mountain. Not Ridge, thankfully. The ridges of the mountain. Shaima would have made that joke. And the "Ridge on a Bridge" joke. Her Sensing Snowglobe was still missing, but at least her Aptem—the whistle—was with her. She and Ridge were the only ones who had objects before the Sensing Snowglobe Decree Day that were the same as the Aptem.

   Ridge dropped into a defensive stance and raised the Riskometer, pointing it squarely at the man with the harmonica standing on the ridge in the middle. The harmonica was attached to a rope around his burly neck. Just like Roderick but shorter and younger, he had a muscular figure. His dark brown hair was slicked back and embellished with red and orange jewels. His arms were covered in facial artistry and rocks trailing down them.

   Seeing the snowglobe aimed at him took him aback—literally. He let out a startled, choked-up gasp and fell backward. The tribesmen beside him casually scooped him up as though their chief losing his balance was a normal part of life. Ridge blinked and straightened up, placing the Riskometer back in the ball-clicker with a click. "I think it's time I stop pointing my Riskometer at anyone."

   "To what do we owe this visit?" he said between hoarse chuckles, regaining his composure by placing his hands on his harmonica. His voice sent a string of ripples throughout the valley and river.

   Ridge opened his mouth, soundlessly so.  He closed it and wagged his finger. "I should be careful of what I say."

   The harmonica man folded his arms and grunted. "Hm, hm? Moi darju' croschi sanvenepna?"

   Ridge wagged his finger more slowly while making a dumbfounded face. He blinked slightly and scratched his cheek with his wagging finger. "What was that? Another language?" He raised his brows as he thought of something. Ridge, being ignorant about people's conveniences, thought that the man with the harmonica would instantly detect his vocal cords being fashioned in Havenian roots. He had a harmonica, his logic told him. Thus, the harmonica man had the certain flair for recognizing various voices and sounds, and the different octaves and waves. Not only did he have to be careful of his words, but he also had to change his voice.

   Ridge straightened and dipped his finger in the air as a gesture of requiring patience from the other party. He was about to clear his throat when another person from the tribesmen spoke with a frown, "He has shiny shoulder plates, chief. That must mean he's one of those gladiators."

   "Argh, our enemies!" Another whooped while getting in a battle stance.

   The harmonica man scornfully growled and let the harmonica slide across his mouth as he played a distorted tune. He squinted at Ridge, "He doesn'tt even understtand a single word, nott even in Schutbi. Those people who surpass our sttrength, and whatt we have leftt is a bitt of wisdom tto beatt them. Wisdom, seriously!" He blowed aggressively through the tubes of the harmonica.

   "Yeah, the gladiators and swindlers. And swindlers. Hate music. Tone deaf. All crap." Another confessed while drumming his fingers on a drum tucked underneath his armpit. Though, he spoke with more wariness than contempt.

   "At least they're not in Rocking Rolls Valley." One woman spoke up and nodded towards the river and the other mountain.

   The harmonica man played the harmonica more wistfully and propped his foot on a nearby rock, "Sure they're nott. They're busy swindling like they have tto. Good for them."

   Ridge looked down as he thought, "Rocking Rolls Valley, huh? I'm sure they meant Rolling Rocks Valley...ah, but why should I be surprised? They're Nevanese. They are illiterate and stupid. They did not notice the rolling rocks being absorbed in the Riskometer. And my clothes are what a hunter or fisher wear, right? They even live in a valley beset by rock avalanches, for riddance's sake! But, what's with the talk about gladiators and swindlers? I have a hypothesis that people in Nevah strive to be strong and hostile rather than brilliant and level-headed. These tribesmen are definitely one of the tryhard strong and hostile ones, but their attempts go in vain. It seems that they don't stand a chance against the gladiators and swindlers. Those two groups in Nevah are cuts above everyone else."

   If only Ridge was people smart, he'd know by now that the tribesmen were enemies with the gladiators and on neutral grounds with the swindlers. He only picked it up when two of the tribesmen mumbled, "You think chief would take a swindler for terrorizing our valley?" "No way."

   Ridge thought of something else and smirked complacently. He placed the Riskometer in the ball clicker and got his hands in the ready as he clenched and unclenched them. He bent down a little and made a sound to attract the tribe's attention. And sure enough, they all looked down at him intently.

   Ridge started flourishing his hands towards himself, whistling as he bonked his own head with his head. He then patted the boulder stuck on the hole and clicked his tongue while shaking his head. Mimitically, he was showing how he had stolen the shoulder plates from the gladiators and was able to dig up a hole due to his strength to hide from them, and the rounded boulder just so happened to be stuck in it.

   The harmonica man, or the chief, laughed through his harmonica and lowered it. His eyes crinkled a lot as he did so. "Ah, fellow swindler. Can'tt speak yett can understtand us. Sure you can hide from those gladiattors!

   The chief motioned between Ridge and the boulder, smiling at him expectantly with his eyes crinkling, "Go ahead. Hoistt the rock."

   This is when Ridge frowned and started humming and hawing. He tapped on his chin as he looked at the boulder and the tribesmen back and forth. The tribesmen really believed that he was a strong swindler. Any Nevanese could pry a boulder off a hole let alone lift it, which is why the chief said it really casually as if it was another easy chore. His brow twitched, "Darn it, I shouldn't have done that!"

   Ridge was lost in thought until the sound of an explosion from above sobered him up. He craned his neck upwards to see a cloud of gas expand until it dissipated like dreams slipping through the tubes of waking, or shapes slipping through the optic nerves of hypothesis making. Some pieces were sent flying here and there, and they had an opaque green and a shiny white. It faded into the vastness of the already dark dusk sky. He turned to look at the tribesmen curiously. They exchanged wary glances before one spoke while waving his hand in front of his face as if to ward off smoke, "All we know is that they're gas bombs that was sent by what we think are a steampunk gang. They mean no harm, as far as we know."

   Ridge raised his brows and looked up at the spot the gas bomb detonated by itself. "So that was an oxygen gas bomb sent by Haven. They were definitely extracted from oxygen cylinders. My dad used to work on those. The pieces that sprinkled right from there when it imploded were green and white aluminum, the ones marked for anything that is oxygenic. And steampunk gang...hah, how imaginative. Though they're not off the mark. They surely meant Haven. At least this puts my hypothesis about the Nevanese people's knowledge about Haven to the rest. They don't know a single bit. Good riddance..."

   Ridge filed those thoughts away for now as he thought of something else to get out of the situation he mired himself in. He frowned at the tribesmen and sniffled while waving his hand in front of his face. He feigned a cough, which sounded realistic enough, though he was still worried about the musically astute chief. He shook his head and looked up at the air. He was acting like he was out of sorts.

   The chief nodded and blowed through his harmonica, "Rightt, you have an allergy. Then..." He looked around the air in search of a feasible solution. The other tribesmen were already having their brains flayed by the blade that is thinking as some scratched their scalps. The chief, discounting the idea of Ridge even lifting the boulder, said gesturally, "Then no need to sttay here. We'll give you something tto cover your ttracks so the gladiattors don'tt catch you." They all nodded or made sounds of approval, and it was unanimous.

   "Yes! The Nevanese are not even thinkers nor problem solvers. What would one have thought? They're not completely dense, but they don't have the wits Havenians have. I won't need to worry about outsmarting anyone in Nevah! My outings henceforth will be very easygoing, and easy while I'm going. Good riddance to outsmarting."

   Ridge grinned and nodded as he looked up at the chief expectantly while holding his hands up. His eyes looked on, almost hungrily. The chief stuck out a thumbs up before producing a straw bag. Small rounded forms were bulging out, and if Ridge looked closely enough, they were moving. Ridge's grin faltered and he wagged his finger. "What now, small rounded boulders? Play fire with fire?"

   The chief took a while to throw the bag down to Ridge, ordering two of the tribesmen to hold him while doing so, in which Ridge's hand caught ahold of it firmly. He shook the bag a bit, and was surprised to see fluorescent auburn light enhancing the poorly made bag. At least they made up for the material, Ridge would've thought if he didn't open it too soon. As soon as he did, a multitude of fireflies flew out and into the nightsky. They skidded to a stop and flew there, midair, with their glows altogether replacing the sun's.

   Ridge blinked in utter disbelief. He looked back at where the tribesmen where only to notice the mountain being eerily empty. They left him with the bag of unexpectant fireflies, just like that, without even explaining how they'd help him. Ridge scoffed and stared off the distance, "The real question to be asked is not if I will unite both halves Thear, rather how did those dumbards leave when their chief has reflex problems?"

   Ridge wagged his finger at the fireflies and placed his other hand under his chin. He scratches the bag against his chin, leaving a tingling prick from the sharp straw material. He winced as he lowered his hand and thought, "Did they outsmart me or what? Those fireflies will attract the attention of those gladiators, if anything! Maybe I could use them for something else? Perhaps they are a blessing in disguise."

   Just then, Ridge's brows shot upwards and his finger wagging stopped. He grabbed his Riskometer and hoisted it in the air just beneath the knot of fireflies. He smirked and said, "No, they had nothing but good and unspoken intentions. Intentions so good and unspoken that they don't know what they did. Even telling them how I'm going to use the fireflies would split their heads into two. Their assistance won't go unrewarded. I'll get rid of everything risky here in this valley, even if it meant getting more risks for myself."