Rowan had learned something else from the memories of the masked killer.
Certain advanced paths possessed strange survival methods.
Some allowed parasitic rebirth.
Others allowed true reincarnation.
Either explanation could conveniently account for Rowan's current situation.
Even though Rowan himself followed neither of those paths.
That hardly mattered.
People always invented explanations when faced with the unexplainable.
As long as Rowan remained useful to the churches, caused no large-scale disasters, and showed no signs of worshipping forbidden entities, no one would dig too deeply.
They would prefer comforting assumptions over terrifying truths.
"Mr. Rowan… may I ask you something?"
Old Neil, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.
His voice trembled with restrained hope.
"Do you think… someone who has already died could ever come back?"
Swain's expression hardened instantly.
"Neil. Watch what you're saying."
Such questions were dangerous.
Promises of resurrection were the favorite bait of cultists.
Countless tragedies had begun with those exact words.
"I was just curious," Old Neil said quickly, forcing a smile. "By the way, don't forget to reimburse the materials for those two sleep charms."
"I'll double it," Swain snorted.
Rowan gave a simple answer.
"Resurrection isn't something you should place faith in."
Not here.
Not in this world.
Even Rowan himself would tread carefully with such matters.
Souls, after death, followed rules.
Breaking those rules tended to attract attention.
And attention was expensive.
Old Neil's gaze dimmed, but something stubborn still burned behind his eyes.
"There must be a way…"
Rowan studied him.
Briefly.
Subtly.
A faint distortion rippled around the man's spirit.
Not physical illness.
Mental erosion.
A crack.
This world chewed on its supernatural practitioners.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
Before Rowan could dwell further, the door opened.
Two middle-aged men in long coats entered.
One was the Night Watchers' captain Rowan had seen before.
The other, judging by bearing alone, could only be the current Punisher captain.
Behind them followed two younger men.
Klein.
And one of Swain's subordinates.
They stopped the moment they saw Rowan sitting on the sofa, wine glass in hand.
A baby.
Not a short adult.
Not a deformed figure.
A baby.
After a heartbeat of shock, both captains recovered and stepped forward.
"Dunn Smith. Night Watchers captain."
"Jane Ivan. Punishers captain."
Rowan stood atop the sofa cushion and gave a small, proper bow.
"Rowan Mercer. Independent practitioner. Specializing in illusion and transposition."
"Mid-tier rank."
Silence.
Dunn and Jane exchanged looks.
They had expected a high-ranking monster in human skin.
Not a mid-tier specialist.
Yet neither challenged him.
Results spoke louder than classifications.
Rowan's explanation was simple.
"I modified a transposition technique. It allows me to isolate corrupted essence and remove it directly. That's why the subject survived."
It was true.
From a certain point of view.
Conversation shifted into polite, careful probing.
No interrogations.
No hostility.
Only quiet information gathering.
After a while, both captains rose.
"If you need anything in Tingen," Jane said, "contact Swain. The Punishers owe you."
Dunn added, "Your residence falls within our protection zone. You can also find me at Blackthorn Security, second floor, 36 Zortland Street."
They left soon after.
They had reports to write.
Questions to send upward.
Once they were gone, Rowan pulled his hood back up and retied the black scarf.
"Let's take a look at the market."
Since he was already here, he might as well browse.
"If you find anything you like," Swain said, handing him a small token engraved with a black dragon, "just take it. I'll settle the bill."
Rowan accepted it.
Klein hesitated, then spoke.
"I was planning to visit the market too. Mind if I tag along?"
Rowan glanced at him and smiled faintly.
"Sure."
Then, casually:
"You haven't been a practitioner for very long, have you?"
Klein stiffened.
Just a little.
...
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