"Boss! Are you alright?"
Before they even reached the Black Drake Bar, several burly men came running toward them.
They were bar staff.
Former soldiers.
Not supernatural practitioners, but hardened enough to be useful in a crisis.
One of them carried a massive gray-white mechanical pack connected to a rifle of the same color.
A high-pressure steam rifle.
Crude compared to modern firearms, but powerful by this world's standards.
A clean hit to a vital point could kill even a low-tier rampaging practitioner.
Because of its weight and recoil, only trained personnel could use it.
Normally it stayed locked in storage.
They had taken time to retrieve it.
"Everything's fine," Swain said gruffly. "Take Old John back and let him rest. Then clear the private lounge. I'm receiving an honored guest."
"Honored guest?"
The men exchanged confused looks.
They carefully took the weakened Old John, glanced at the elderly Night Church operative and at Rowan, then hurried off.
The old man was familiar to them.
He wasn't the guest.
Which meant…
That cloaked child?
None of them dared ask.
They simply obeyed.
"After you, Mr. Rowan."
Swain stepped forward and pushed open the heavy door of the Black Drake Bar.
Heat and alcohol washed over them.
Shouts.
Laughter.
Roaring cheers.
In the center of the bar stood a square boxing ring.
Two shirtless men were brawling inside it while dozens of patrons screamed encouragement.
When Swain entered, many heads turned.
When they saw him personally escorting a small cloaked figure past the crowd and toward the back, astonishment spread.
They had never seen the notoriously hot-tempered owner treat anyone with such respect.
Much less a child.
Bets quietly started.
Some guessed Rowan was the hidden heir of a noble family.
Others whispered about secret bloodlines.
None came close to the truth.
They passed through the billiards room and into a concealed corridor.
At the end waited a lavish private chamber filled with expensive liquor and plush furnishings.
Swain handed Rowan a thick sheet of paper.
"This is the current list of all materials being sold in the market tonight. If anything interests you, I'll fetch it myself."
Rowan lifted his hood.
He removed the black scarf.
Reached out and took the list.
Swain froze.
The child before him looked unmistakably like an infant.
Not a short adult.
Not a strange species.
A baby.
Not even one year old.
A single thought rose in Swain's mind.
Parasite?
Or reincarnation?
He had heard rumors.
Some high-level beings, after suffering catastrophic damage, could cling to a new body.
Others were reborn entirely.
The details were far beyond his understanding.
He was only a mid-ranking practitioner who had spent his entire career in Tingen.
But one thing was certain.
This "child" was far beyond him.
And regardless of what Rowan truly was…
He had saved Old John.
That was enough.
Rowan skimmed the list.
Then tossed it back.
"Nothing I need."
He had not expected otherwise.
Tingen was small.
Most goods circulating here were entry-level materials.
Occasionally something meant for mid-tier practitioners appeared.
High-grade components almost never did.
Those surfaced only in major cities or in places where dangerous creatures gathered.
Swain nodded.
"If you ever think of something you need, tell me. I'll keep watch and buy it the moment I see it."
Rowan did not hesitate.
He calmly recited a series of rare components.
Swain blinked.
Several of those names were completely unfamiliar.
"I… I'll remember them."
Rowan leaned back and glanced at the wine on the table.
"About the one hundred and fifty pounds," Swain said carefully. "Cash, or—"
"Send it to 256 Howls Street," Rowan replied. "Give it to the Barton couple. Make it look legitimate. No mention of me."
He picked up a glass, poured himself some red wine, and took a sip.
"Average."
"In their eyes, I'm still a baby who can't walk or talk."
Swain nodded slowly.
Rowan had no intention of hiding his address.
The churches could find it easily if they wanted.
What protected his family was not secrecy.
It was him.
Rowan set the glass down.
He had only one real concern.
Not the churches.
Not hidden organizations.
Not monsters.
But the being—or beings—that had created this world.
If they noticed him, things would become complicated.
Everything else?
Manageable.
Even the predators lurking beyond this planet's sky.
If he couldn't win…
He could always leave.