I Refused To Be Reincarnated

Adam pointed at the sailors unloading boxes and barrels in front of the commercial centers. A man dressed in a flowing long coat nodded each time a sailor reported the contents. White hair, curled in a peculiar way, fluttered with the movement and a moustache almost as big as Yann's twitched each time he spoke, prompting Adam to snort. "This man looks... ridiculous."

He turned toward Yann, his lips pursed. "Don't tell me that's trendy in the archipelago."

Yann passed a hand through his brown hair, his lips snapping into a thin line. He clicked his tongue after a moment of silence. Eventually, he said, "Now that I look at it after so long... It indeed looks ridiculous." He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as if to forget a shameful memory. "Most nobles, their stewards, and trusted aids wear this aberration. To distinguish ourselves from commoners, they said. They only look more stupid."

Adam glanced at Yann, his lips curling into a smirk, clearly imagining the arcanist with large curls down to his back. And indeed, Yann would have lost at least fifty points of style with that haircut. Well, he surely had the same in the past.

Feeling Adam's heavy gaze linger on his short hair, Yann face-palmed, hissing through his teeth. "All right! It's useless to deny it. I had the same, like everyone in my circle back then." His voice dropped to a mutter. "Five hundred years, and they still changed nothing."

Eager to change the subject, he pointed at the commercial centers, starting to answer Adam's question by the one emblazoned with a crowned pouch. "That building over there belongs to the barter throne, a powerful guild born from the union of the capital's noblest houses. They focus on selling manufactured items and the transportation of people and goods."

He pointed at the ships moored by the calm river. "Most civilian ships are theirs, and we'll buy our ticket to the next city from them. The guild with the fish leaping over the ocean focuses on maritime products. It's actually the oldest guild around. Strangely, no one owns it or perceives a share of its revenues. Instead, they serve to repair their armada of warships and fund the enforcers and their sea-mongering divisions."

Adam leaned forward, absorbing Yann's explanation.

"They're called the Deepwake Syndicate. Not people you want to mess with, lad..." Yann paused, his eyes narrowing as if remembering something. He tucked his fingers around his chin. "I've once read that this guild is as ancient as the college, perhaps even more." He shrugged, his voice dripping with noble contempt. "It seems some people are ready to write any nonsense as long as it earns them a few more Prestige."

Adam's eyes narrowed. This was indeed a syndicate he didn't want to upset. The less interaction he had with it, the better it would be.

"Noted. The last one covers weaponry, right? Quite hard to mistake with the helmet and crossed blades."

Yann nodded. "The Crystal Quill Consortium deals with magical equipment. The best enchanters work for it, and civilians need a permit to purchase goods of the fourth tier or above." He glanced at Adam's exquisite coat, sighing. "In your case, you'll need a permit to sell your products... not that it matters. Follow me."

Adam followed through the maze of boxes, wondering why they wouldn't need the permit, yet knowing he'd get the answer soon enough.

They crossed the guild centers without stopping, Yann adding a few comments about the less prominent or local ones. But Adam didn't need Yann's explanations to understand how outmatched they were—the proof sat in the uneven towers of crates. While the big three guilds' shipments rose in orderly pyramids beneath canopied docks, the smaller operations made do with whatever space remained, their goods piled haphazardly against warehouse walls.

After a brief walk to the edges of the bay, Yann pushed a swing door open, gesturing inside. "We should find what we seek here."

With the creak of the door and his first steps inside, the stench of alcohol and tobacco burned Adam's nostrils. An entrancing melody came from a flute, a harp, and a violin played by men draped in capes, on which patches of different colors were sewn in chaotic yet strangely patterned mosaics.

Seated at tables filled with half-empty bottles and mugs of ale, sailors and civilians roared in laughter at the last jokes or frowned in silence at two cards, while subtly glancing at their adversaries, as if to guess the hand they got.

"A bar?" He rubbed his temples, as if staving off a headache. "I know you enjoy drinking, but that's not what we came for. Earning Prestige, remember? I mean, how are you even going to pay since we have the modest sum of zero?"

Of course, he remembered Julius's strategy of searching for crooks or pirates in disreputable bars. The last part was key. They were in the center of Port Vaelora, right beside the Deepwake Syndicate's main building—the very same one that funded enforcers. If someone was foolish enough to operate a shady business literally across the street, he might as well just turn himself in to save time.

"We're where we should be." Yann pointed at the musicians, his face darkening and his voice turning solemn. "Let me do the talking, and don't answer their questions. And you're too noticeable."

Before he could ask why, he felt Yann's hand lower his hood over his sky-blue hair. Then, the arcanist stepped toward them, and he followed, wondering what was so special about these musicians dressed like jesters.

"How about a short break, friends?" Yann bowed with the grace of a noble the moment he reached the corner they were performing in. "You won't regret those few minutes, I guarantee it."

The three men exchange a glance, their fingers still dancing on the strings of their instruments. Then, the one playing the flute nodded and pulled his instrument away from his lips. "You have ten seconds. Make them count."

"Look at this lad's coat," Yann instantly answered by gripping Adam's coat and shoving the stylish behemoth to the man. "Finest stitching this side of the Archipelago—fit for nobles, but priced for friends. We have many more, and what I offer you is an opportunity to share the profit."

Frowning, the flutist reached for the coat, feeling the smooth texture and acknowledging the behemoth's lifelike design. The snow-white fur also made for a striking contrast with the dark-brown fabric, and the patterned leather around the chest and shoulders added both style and comfort.

"A piece young nobles would want in their wardrobes without a doubt." The man eyed his companions before his cape fluttered, and he whispered, "Too much noise, ears, and eyes. Follow me to the first floor."