One name in the history books refused to leave Rowan's mind.
Roselle Gustav.
Not because he had been Emperor of the Intis Republic a century and a half ago.
But because of what he had done.
He had designed the first practical steam engine.
He had refined sailing ships and naval artillery.
He had pioneered modern newspapers.
He had improved papermaking and printing.
He had authored stage plays and novels that were unmistakably familiar to Rowan.
Stories that should not exist in this world.
Phrases that should not exist in this world.
To Rowan, the pattern was obvious.
"Another outsider?"
Either Roselle Gustav had been pulled here from a technologically modern civilization, just like Rowan.
Or he had been deliberately created by something far greater.
A being capable of shaping a soul that carried echoes of another reality.
Rowan had seen worlds built that way before.
Creators who seeded their universes with borrowed ideas.
Creators who sculpted beings carrying memories of stories that had never happened in that reality.
It was entirely possible.
Unfortunately, Roselle Gustav had been assassinated in his later years.
Dead for over one hundred and fifty years.
"Shame," Rowan thought. "Would've been interesting to talk."
He had just settled into his crib and pulled the blanket over himself when a faint pressure brushed against his perception.
Something was looking for him.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
"Divination."
Rowan recognized the sensation immediately.
The clown's disappearance had been noticed.
The upper ranks of the hidden order were searching for answers.
And since Rowan had been the one to kill him, his existence naturally appeared within their scope.
Rowan felt no alarm.
"Go ahead," he thought calmly. "Take a look."
If someone strong enough to challenge him showed up, it would save him the trouble of hunting materials later.
He also had little ability to block the attempt right now without drawing on his own higher powers.
Which he preferred to keep sealed.
Divination in this world generally followed three methods.
The first was communion with the spirit realm, using one's own perception to receive impressions and symbolic feedback.
The second relied on deduction, interpreting physical clues, patterns, and probability.
The third involved rituals that petitioned unknown entities directly.
The third path was also how people died.
Many who attempted it went insane.
Many never woke up.
The sensation brushing against Rowan belonged to the first type.
Someone was peering into the spirit realm and catching a distorted reflection of him.
If Rowan had wanted to, he could have followed that thread straight back and erased the diviner from existence.
He did not bother.
Far away, a Faceless of the hidden order opened his eyes.
His subordinate was dead.
That much was certain.
But when he attempted to determine the cause, the divination delivered a ridiculous image.
A baby lying in a crib.
The implication was absurd.
No infant could kill a Magician.
Not in any rational universe.
Especially not in a city like Tingen, where the strongest known practitioners rarely surpassed the Magician stage.
Even the local Night Church's senior operative was only at that level.
The Faceless reached an obvious conclusion.
"The Night Church interfered."
Their protective rituals must have distorted the divination.
The baby was a false result.
A meaningless reflection.
Which meant the notebook had likely fallen into Night Church hands and had already been transferred to their headquarters.
He exhaled slowly.
"Abandon the operation."
The hidden order was ancient, but it was not foolish.
Their leader had vanished more than a century ago.
They could not afford open war with a major church.
Pursuing this further would be suicide.
Because of that single misjudgment, Rowan Mercer was never investigated.
And never hunted.
Half a month later.
Dusk settled over Tingen.
From his crib, Rowan listened to his mother, Chris, quietly sobbing.
His father, Jack, whispered words of comfort beside her.
Rowan flicked his fingers.
Two compressed bursts of air struck with pinpoint precision.
Both adults slumped unconscious.
Rowan slipped out of bed.
During the past two weeks, he had finished nearly every ordinary book he could find.
Tonight, he planned to visit Tingen's underground supernatural market.
The clown had mentioned it.
A small but stable trading ground.
Independent practitioners sold materials.
Occasionally, even church members visited.
It was one of the few semi-legal places where such exchanges occurred.
Rowan wanted information.
Books.
Maybe rare components.
If he could find anything related to becoming a Faceless, even better.
If he could also make some money, that would help.
His family needed it.
Jack and Chris had recently lost a large sum in a failed investment.
A man named Lanerus had convinced several families to pool their savings.
Then vanished.
Over ten thousand pounds gone.
Chris alone had lost one hundred and fifty.
Worse still, Rowan's cousin Megose was carrying Lanerus's child and refused to terminate the pregnancy.
She planned to raise the baby herself.
The family had reported the crime and posted a reward.
Rowan doubted Lanerus would ever be caught.
But that did not matter.
If Rowan wanted money, he could obtain it easily.
If he wanted to find Lanerus later, he could.
Once he fully adapted his abilities to this world's rules, locating a single man would be trivial.
During the past two weeks, Rowan had not been idle.
Every spare moment had been spent studying the essence inside him.
Testing.
Mapping.
Learning how this world's laws bent.
He was making progress.
Slowly.
But steadily.