Three hours.
That was how long it took for his circuits to stabilize, and even then, it required three hours of grueling, unbroken meditation.
He probably shouldn't use magic again until the damage was fully repaired. Every time he donned the "Flyn" mask, every time he used his magic, he was essentially using a functional but unstable engine. One wrong move, and all his pathways would shatter.
A flare of bitterness rose in his chest as he stared at his trembling hands. If only he'd thought to bring along a physical artifact for this purpose. An external tool could have handled the burden of the disguise, sparing his internal circuits the strain.
There was nothing to do but wait and let time do what magic could not.
Kirias turned his attention to the spoils he'd stolen the previous day and a few items he took the opportunity to snatch in the marketplace. He emptied the stolen pouches onto the rough wooden table. A shower of bronze Scales and silver Shards clattered across the surface, but among the coins, a few unexpected items tumbled out.
One pouch, lifted from a merchant who had been draped in expensive furs, contained more than just currency. Kirias pulled out a small, leather-bound ledger and a heavy, hexagonal coin made of a dull, dark metal he didn't recognize.
He ignored the ledger for a moment, turning the dull metal over in his palm. It was heavier than any of the Scales or Shards he'd lifted earlier. The hum it emitted against his skin suggested it wasn't just decorative. It was probably either some sort of magical item or an emblem for some kind of guild.
With a flick of his wrist, the ring on his hand glowed slightly, and a tiny, shimmering rift in the air opened. He tucked the coin inside, giving himself a mental note to study it when he fully heals.
He turned his attention to the ledger, flipping it open. His fingers traced the fine vellum pages. The merchant's handwriting was confusing at first, but thanks to the linguistic patterns he'd absorbed from Maya, he began to make sense of what it said.
The book wasn't just a record of coin, it was a window into the economy of this world.
He spent the next hour meticulously sifting through the entries. This merchant had been a middleman for various regional guilds, acting as a bridge between the resource-heavy lizardman territories and the magically inclined Nix enclaves.
Through the dry lists of cargo, Kirias began to reconstruct the skeleton of Kallithra's economy.
He noted how the prices fluctuated based on the "mana-density" of the season, a concept entirely foreign to his home world's static markets. He studied the formal honorifics used in the correspondence logs, realizing that social hierarchy here was as rigid as the laws of physics.
It was more than just a list of goods; it was a map of social expectations. By the time he reached the final pages, his eyes were burning, but he felt confident in reading and writing that language now. The grammar was becoming intuitive, and the strange, base-twelve calculations were starting to make more and more sense.
Closing the ledger, he leaned back and rubbed his tired temples before turning his attention to the rest of the hoard. There were various notebooks, mundane personal trinkets, and a handful of clearly magical items that hummed with a low, ambient light. He didn't have the strength to dismantle their enchantments yet, so he swept them into his subspace rift for later study.
These fragments of a stranger's life had given him exactly what he needed: a foundation. He was no longer just an interloper stumbling through the dark; he was beginning to understand the flow of the world he was now forced to call home.
By the time he finished his study, the golden light of afternoon had long since bled into a deep, purple outside his window. The hunger he'd been ignoring had sharpened into a hollow ache.
Resolving to give his strained circuits a total reprieve, he decided against the energy-taxing Nix illusion. Instead, he reached for his mage robes, these were the heavy, charcoal-colored fabric that was a relic of his own world. He pulled the deep hood low, letting the shadows swallow his features. In a world of diverse races and eccentric travelers, a hooded figure in scholar's robes was a common enough sight to be invisible.
He descended the stairs, the wood creaking under his boots. The common room was just as loud as before, though the air was thicker now with the smell of heavy stews and cheap ale. He kept his head down, moving toward the counter.
The innkeeper, a lizardman with dull green scales, paused as he wiped down the bar. He squinted at the hooded figure, his slitted eyes moving over the high-quality fabric of Kirias's robes.
"New face?" the innkeeper grunted, though his voice lacked the usual roughness. He lowered his voice, as if speaking to someone of higher standing. "I don't recall seeing one of the Tree-Folk check in today. Or did you arrive with that Nix traveler, Flyn?"
Kirias realized the innkeeper had mistaken his silhouette for an Elf, a race often associated with ancient magic and their reclusive habits. It was a lucky assumption, and it granted him a level of respect (and distance) that a common traveler usually wouldn't receive.
He kept his voice low and melodic, leaning into the role of a weary scholar. "I arrived while the sun was high. Flyn handles most things. I prefer the quiet of the room."
"Understood, Master Scholar," the innkeeper replied, his frill dipping in a slight, respectful nod. "I've got pork and root mash left, the best in the district. Three Scales.""
Kirias paid the coins with a steady, graceful hand. He noted that while the patrons weren't staring as aggressively as before, there was a new air of hushed curiosity. Excited whispers sounded from the guests, aimed in his direction.
He took his plate and retreated to the dimmest corner of the room. He had intended to hide, but by choosing these robes, he had accidentally stepped into the shoes of the elite. Every movement he made now would be scrutinized for the "grace" they expected from his supposed race.
Kirias ate in measured, quiet bites, keeping his gaze mostly fixed on the rustic wooden table. The "High-Folk" persona worked better than he had anticipated, its inherent air of superiority acted as a natural barrier.
Occasionally, a curious guest, perhaps a merchant looking for a blessing or a bold beastfolk traveler would begin to drift toward his corner, their eyes wide with the intent to strike up a conversation. Each time, Kirias would pause, tilt his head just enough for the edge of a calm, knowing smile to peek out from the shadows of his hood, and offer a silent, graceful nod.
It was a masterful use of social distance. To the patrons, the gesture was the polite, distant acknowledgment of a scholar deep in thought. They would falter, offer a clumsy bow or a respectful dip of the head, and retreat to their own tables, whispering about the "mysterious master" in the corner.
Beneath the robes, Kirias felt a flicker of grim amusement. He was essentially weaponizing their own cultural stereotypes against them. Every minute he spent in silence was a minute his mind could rest and his fractured mana circuits could settle further into their forced stabilization.
Kirias finished the last of his food. Despite the lingering gazes and the hushed whispers of the patrons, he remained calm and graceful. He didn't linger, he didn't want to give anyone enough time to build up the courage for a second attempt at conversation.
He rose with a fluid, deliberate grace, nodding once more to the innkeeper. The lizardman watched him with a mix of reverence and curiosity, likely already crafting a story for the morning about the mysterious high-born scholar who graced his common room.
The stairs creaked softly as he ascended. The transition from the warm, smells-heavy atmosphere of the common room to the cool, quiet hallway felt like a physical weight lifting off his shoulders.
Once back inside his room, he reactivated the magitech discs on the doorframe and slid the heavy oak bolt into place. Only then did he allow his posture to slump. He pulled back the hood, exhaling a long, weary breath that seemed to carry the tension of the entire day with it.
He moved to the bed, the "High-Folk" persona falling away as easily as the charcoal robes.
He closed his eyes. For the first time since his arrival, he was beginning to interact with the world, not just survive in it.
And that realization followed him quietly into sleep.