2412, Xavem 20, Velpa

He rested his arm over his eyes, his back slouching against the back of the tavern's stool. A painful creak ripped through his ears, reminding him of what transpired just this morning. It's another dud, another failed quest to obtain his next meal. This wasn't his life, but for some reason, he felt the desperation and frustration rippling underneath this nameless thief's skin.

After rising so early in the morning, he went to stalk an unfortunate soul from the public market towards the random alley they go home to. Then, with the knife he was suddenly good at using, he slashed at the woman's woven basket, aiming to let some of the produce rain down bounty on him. Instead, what happened was his blade caught in the dried strands and stayed there, alerting the woman of his presence. A strong slam of her other basket against his temple later, he was wrestled off the poor damsel and thrown off the street. The only thing he could do was turn tail and retreat into a decrepit pub in the middle of a busy town.

The thief got guts, being able to withstand the dagger-like stares the other patrons and the tenders behind the counter kept throwing at him. Perhaps it's common etiquette to buy something in exchange for hanging out in this place, but with the thief's current financial situation, it's more than impossible.

A loud rumble echoed from the depths of his stomach. If not for the loud clatter of cups against tables or the clangs of metal ripping through the space, everyone would have heard it. His teeth ground against each other. It's another day of starving, then.

A shadow fell over him, and he removed his arm over his face in time to watch a man drop into the opposite chair which remained empty. He frowned. "What? Are you here to throw me out as well?" he asked, eyeing the newcomer's garb. Simple, yet somewhat stately. His tunic was free of scratches and frayed threads. His boots remained in pristine condition despite the dark splotches of something that could have been mud. Or blood. Or both.

This man was a soldier, that much the thief was sure of. The newcomer smirked and scratched his scalp. Bright orange curls stirred against his prodding. "Consider me a friend, then," he said to the thief. "I came with a proposition."

The thief could have scoffed at the man's face but held it in. Anyone who used the word "proposition" in a conversation happening in some backwater tavern betrayed their lineage. Perhaps, the thief would be better off stealing that alluring bag of versallis tied at the man's belt than hear what he had to say.

"If it's about cleaning dagrine crap, count me out," the thief waved a dismissive hand in the air. He'd had enough of patronizing businessmen looking down on him. "I don't have all day, so get on with it."

A strange twinkle gleamed in the man's eyes. "Seeing as you've been withering away in here for the last four hours tells me otherwise," he said before jerking his chin at the thief. "Have you eaten?"

"N—"

Another loud growl tore from his gut—a clear protest against its current state.

The man's smirk widened. "Thought so," he stood up and sauntered to the counter, much to the thief's horror. After exchanging a few words, the man went back to the table, bearing a steaming bowl. He set the bowl in front of the thief and pushed it closer. "Go on. This one's on me."

The thief eyed the bowl, then the man. He went on another round of eyeing, just to be sure. "You didn't put poison on this?" he asked.

At that, a boisterous laugh ripped off the man, startling the patrons lounging on the tables in their immediate radius. Instead of shooting him death-glares, they simply went back to their drinks. That's...

This man got influence or wealth, and these people knew it.

A sneaky plan rolled around in the thief's mind, something that hadn't happened in a while. Well, look who's back in business.

"Why would I poison someone I just met, and someone whom I want to have a dialogue with?" the man asked. "No, I want you to calm your dagrine hooves down so we can have a civil discussion."

The thief brought the bowl to his lips and took a tentative sip. The tangy and savory taste of the huiye washed over his tongue. His stomach growled in jubilation as he finished the entire thing in a matter of a few gulps. Then, he picked on the small pieces of meat left by the drought of soup with his fingers. He chewed on the tender flesh, even if it distantly reminded him of the cleret he caught and roasted in the recesses of Jatoma, when push came to shove.

He burped as soon as he finished his meal, aware that the man's gaze never left him since he started on the huiye. "Okay," he said after he washed down the taste and bits of meat down his throat with a well-timed cup of ale. Again, courtesy of the man. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I have a job for you—one that pays well," the man said. "From sneak to sneak, this job's not for the ordinary."

The thief rolled his eyes. "What made you pick me out from the rest of the crowd?" he asked. "It's not because of my hair, was it?"

If anything, the man looked more exotic with his orange hair. It's a trait of those damned keijuis, those monsters who kept bombing them night and day, making life hard for everyone involved.

The man snorted. "It's because we are in need of your skillset."

"Which skills?" the thief asked.

"Thievery."

Silence reigned for a beat. Two.

When the thief found his voice again, his words came out as a sardonic remark. "Let me get this straight. You," he jabbed a finger in the man's direction. "Want me to steal something for you?"

He leaned away from the table and collapsed against the backrest of his chair. Another creak rang in the air as a passing noise. "Why would a statesman sink so low?" he ventured aloud.

The man's eyebrows crept up. "That's because I'm no statesman."

"Then what are you?" the thief demanded.

"I'm a general in the human resistance," he said. "Since the keijuis' attack on Jatoma's borders, I, including a bunch of this territory's youth and able-bodied citizens, joined together to form the army. I've been leading counterattacks and espionage missions for years."

The thief blew a short gust of wind through his nose. "So...this object you want me to steal," he tapped a finger to his chin. "Does it have something to do with the war and all that chaos? Because I don't want to be a part of that. I became a thief so I can avoid being a soldier."

The man crossed his arms over the table, resting part of his weight against it. "Rest assured fighting is the last resort," he said. "This is outside the Human-Keiju conflict. Trust me."

"You said it pays well," the thief said, bringing the conversation to the point where it matters. "How much?"

"A thousand versallis," the man answered. "More, if it's a job well done."

The thief's eyes bugged. A thousand...

That's more than what his current life was worth. And if he could get more, then...

"Fine," the thief said, locking his gaze with the man's unwavering kind. "Give me half now, and the other half, later."

The man extended a hand to the thief's direction. "It's a deal."

They shook on it.

That's how the thief ended up in the hidden camps in Jatoma, buried deep within the lush forest of a town with no name. Tents and fires glinted against the meager sunlight bursting through the gaps in the canopies. As the thief and the general wandered into the maze, the thief observed all kinds of humans loitering around the warmth provided by the fire or lost in their own obsessive tasks of sharpening swords, oiling the moving parts of their armors, or engaging a fellow warrior in a waste of time called spars.

Shouts and laughter echoed in the air, rivaling the distant clicks and calls of the disturbed forest life. It's a miracle this stronghold, no matter how flimsy it was, still wasn't uncovered by the keijuis. Or were they even trying? Maybe not. If they wanted to, the keijuis could flatten the entirety of Jatoma without trying.

He followed the general, but one tent caught the corner of his eye. Slowly, he turned to the one with a golden fowl stuck on the pinion. With its wings spread open and claws hooked, it looked as if it was descending on its prey. Still, it's stuck in its place, unable to move or be of any use. Who would live in a tent like this? All the others were bland and carried no character. What's so different with this one?

His legs left the designated path, and immediately, the same strong force wrapped around his form, dragging him back to the way things were. It reminded him of the truth to this new but old world. Everything has already happened. There's no way the thief went into that mysterious tent, and there's no way to go back to it, not when the general was already signaling for the thief to catch up.

Together, they ducked into another one of the plain tents. It's a miracle they were able to tell each one apart from each other. It'd be awkward to walk in on someone changing clothes on a daily basis. The general noticed none of those thoughts running through the thief's head, gesturing instead on the parchments scattered over the tables. Instead of inviting the thief to look at the crude, hand-drawn map of what looked like Jatoma against the vast lands of Umazure, the general shuffled the sheets out of the way until he held one in his hands.

"This is what you have to give me at the appointed time and place," the general said in a tone so low it could almost be mistaken for the wind. "I'll say to everyone you're a new recruit, but by nightfall, search the entire camp for it. Bring it to me in the city, by the fountain in the square. Do so by the first hour of the third quarter."

"First or second set?" the thief asked.

The general's lips pressed into a thin line. "First."

The thief flipped the parchment by the crease, opening it up like a letter. On it was a crest, scrawled in a hurry by a graphite stick. It bore squiggles that should have been unrecognizable to him, but he understood them to spell pride, freedom, and justice. A coronet filled with thorns and red blossoms sat atop the crest, and the shield below it was divided into four quadrants, each colored differently—blood-red, ocean blue, white, and purple. A characteristic flower with pad-like leaves took most of the middle. It's...

"What in Pidmena's name is this?" the thief shook the parchment in the air to prove his point. "I'm not stealing some noble's private fantasy!"

But...he knew what it was. Why would he demand it of the general?

It became clear then, that no matter how hard he tried to move his mouth to spout the words he wanted to say, it didn't follow. He was a guest in this form and at this time. He was only supposed to watch how it played out. Then again, the experience had been too real for him to forget that's the case.

So, he let the course of the events lead him back to the crest's drawing printed on a parchment before him. He found himself staring at none other than the Warseeker.

When night fell, the thief hefted the hood of his cloak up. He didn't need to change his clothes. No one would know he had been in and out of this camp come morning. He made sure of that. His magic sitting in frayed trails in his nerves was enough of an evidence.

He and the general parted ways inside the tent, with the latter going out to do other general things. The thief stayed inside, at least until the sun vanished behind the canvas of the tent and was replaced by the distant and glum glow of the flickering lanterns around the camp. When shadows danced against the impromptu theater sheet, the thief figured it's time to act.

His stomach slammed against the ground when he threw himself down. His hands braced the compact soil, noting the absence of grass blades jutting out from it. Did they uproot those systems one by one just to build their camp? Rude.Then, he summoned his magic to the surface—a foreign feeling to the soul stuck inside his form and his timeline. After a quick sigh, he released it to the rest of the camp with a word.

Sleep.

It was a weak spell, but it's enough to let him do whatever he wanted inside the camp. The general advised him to look at the other generals' tents first, since it's fairly an important item in the history of humans. Why the general couldn't get it for himself by simply asking nicely, it was beyond the thief's care.

Yawns and grumbles of being sleepy rumbled around him, signaling the effect of his spell. A few more minutes of quiet shuffling, a thick cloud of silence descended on the entire spot. Perfect.

Tamping his smile to a focused frown, he edged out of the tent and with practiced steps, crept to the tents the general marked for him. The first general had collapsed over his war table, snoring and drooling all over his maps. The thief tiptoed to the rest of his belongings, sifting through them without disturbing anything. Don't leave a trace—it's what he lived by. So far, it proved to be the only thing helping him survive.

When he reached the final trace with no sign of the item, he moved to the second general's tent. On the way, he passed the fowl pinion again. It was one of the tents the friendly general marked, but maybe he'd get to that if he didn't find the item in the second general's.

He slipped through the unguarded flap and came across a man curled in a cot, having had the time to pull it out and make it there when the spell took effect. Must be a strong soul. The thief might need to hurry, then. The camp wouldn't stay dead for long.

His fingers pilfered through the mess of crates inside. He checked each keg, drawer, and niche in the shelves. He even tapped his boot against the ground to spot any hollow points to signal something had been buried. When he found nothing, he was resolved to try the final tent. It was a shared tent, so maybe he had better chances.

He almost made it out when his periphery caught a sliver of a glint. That's...strange. He looked back to the entire tent, searching for its source, and his gaze landed on the general's sleeping form on the cot. In the general's tossing and turning in his sleep, he had dislodged something tucked in the recesses of his vest. And that something could only be...

With excitement curling at the base of his gut, the thief crept forward with feather-like steps. Then, he fished the glinting thing from the general's vest, and it came into full view. He reached for the crumpled parchment from his trouser pocket, and flattening it with one hand, he compared it to the actual thing in his other hand. They're one and the same.

Ha. That's all it took? He expected a challenge.

Loud thumps of footsteps jogged from outside the tent. There's the challenge. Someone other than the thief's contractor remained outside of the spell's radius, and has now sensed something was wrong in the camp.

"Malxis?" a feminine voice called from behind the flap. "What's going on? Why is everyone asleep?"

The thief cleared his throat, and since he didn't hear the second general speak at all, made do with his natural voice. "All good!" he said through the flap. "The soldiers probably drank a bottle of mirasatra without knowing it. They're knocked out good."

The footsteps crunched and brushed against the soil, as if the woman outside oscillated between checking and walking away. "What's wrong with your voice?" she asked.

"Oh! I'm actually coming up with something," he coughed into his fist to prove a point. "It's best if you don't approach. You might catch it too."

As if spooked by the notion, the woman's shadow drew away a fraction. "I-If you say so," she said. "I'll be in my tent if you need me."

The thief made no effort to reply, blowing a quiet sigh when the footsteps receded. That was close. He stalked out of the tent and slipped out, watching his left and right. No one came out of their magic-induced sleep, which was good. Maybe he's getting the hang of this spellcasting thing. He might try using them in his future heists. The keyword was might.

On his way out of the camp, he passed by a woman with the blandest shade of brown hair stuck in a rigid bun. She leaned against a trunk, seemingly lying in wait for him. The thief could feel her dark gaze burning at the back of his head even as he gave her a quick bow and hurried out of the camp's boundary. It never left him even after the entire camp vanished behind the thick undergrowth and the darkness of the night swallowed the blobs of light shining from their lanterns and fires.

Who the hell was that woman? And why did she look at the thief as if she knew everything, and as if she could see through the facade. Did she know it was a memory, and that the thief wasn't really a thief, but rather a person from the distant future?

Maybe. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

But he could be certain of one thing. As the sun started creeping past the moons' rays, the thief reached the city proper, away from the forest and that accursed camp. He'd give this thing to his contractor, get his pay, and live his life in complete luxury, at least until the thousand versallis ran out. Then, he's probably going to go back to the streets to continue in the illegal venture of thieving. It's more fun that way, anyway.

He pulled the item from the deep pocket of his trousers just to check. When he found it there still, he didn't stop the smile of greed peeling off his lips. Easiest grena he made. Ever.