Demon of Knowledge (CoTE x LoTM)

The outside greeted him with a gust of cold morning air that seemed almost excited to remind him how miserable life could be. The cobblestone street stretched ahead, uneven and speckled with grime that sparkled like little betrayals under the weak sunlight. Kael blended in with the sea of equally downtrodden townsfolk bustling about.

Ahead lay the marketplace, a raucous chaos of voices shouting, bartering, and occasionally arguing over what could only be described as underwhelming produce. Stalls were packed closely together, selling everything from wilting vegetables to questionably fresh meat. It reeked of desperation and, faintly, of fermented something—Kael didn't want to linger too long on guessing what.

Barely with any money, foods, and patience... It's about time you improvise your lifestyle, Kael. Fortunately, I was the one who took control your body.

He stepped carefully into the fray. His tattered appearance didn't warrant a second glance, which was the normal treatment. Blending in was the easiest skill to master when no one expected anything from you.

Pausing by a bread stall, Kael eyed the wares—flat, dense loaves that barely looked edible but promised to keep starvation at bay. The vendor, an old woman whose wrinkled face rivaled the bread's texture, was busy berating a scrawny boy for "touching things he couldn't afford."

Kael let his gaze drift casually, noting the slight angle of the stall, the arrangement of loaves, the unbalanced stack of crates on the side—perfectly poised for an "accidental" disruption.

—if you can't afford them, you can just steal them, he thought, rationalizing his actions. Watching a nearby pigeon peck aggressively at a crumb-laden corner, he added, And if birds can do it and everyone calls it "nature," then surely I can as well—it's just evolution at work.

With the precision of someone born to the art, he crouched slightly, just enough to loosen the rope on his poorly worn shoe. His foot slid out of the oversized footwear, and with a subtle but purposeful sway, he let his bare toes knock the closest crate ever so slightly.

"Hey! Watch it!" the old woman snapped, whipping her head toward the sound as the crates toppled, sending a modest clatter echoing through the market.

Kael didn't even look. His hand shot out as the woman's attention wavered, snatching a loaf with a clean, practiced motion. The bread disappeared under his cloak in an instant, and with his shoe now properly "secured" again, he shuffled a few steps away, feigning a somewhat startled expression.

"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't careful there," Kael stammered, slapping on a thoroughly convincing stammer and bowing in the most harmless fashion imaginable.

Kiyotaka's influence was subtle here, of course—the steady efficiency of action, the meticulous eye for opportunity. The pathetic (which is normal) stammer and the apologetic was all from Kael.

Kael as a person had emotions. It wasn't as though Kiyotaka was emotionless. Rather, his emotions were sealed behind so many locks, chains, and complicated access codes that even he wasn't entirely sure they existed—at least not consciously.The old woman waved him off, her irritation now fully focused on restacking her goods.

Kael repeated his routine twice more, collecting an apple from one stall and a small wedge of cheese from another. He moved without urgency, never taking the most direct path or even looking at his newly acquired prizes. To any outsider, he was just another down-on-his-luck local, walking aimlessly and trying not to get trampled.

Once he reached the edge of the market, Kael ducked into a narrow alley, leaning back against the cold stone wall to inspect his spoils.

"This is how you stretch what little is left in the budget..." he said to himself, nodding with a satisfied expression— which is just a blank look.

Kael and Kiyotaka were, in the end, like oil and water—the former is somewhat still present inside him.

Kael pulled the items from under his cloak and lay them out neatly before him. The bread looked like it could double as a blunt weapon, the cheese was faintly green around the edges, and the apple bore more bruises than actual fruit.

Tearing off a small piece of bread, Kael bit into it, ignoring its chalky texture—honestly, chalk might be better in this case. He didn't think he would miss the White Room meals.

With his bounty stashed away, Kael emerged from the alley, fully aware that it wasn't exactly a "loot haul of the century." He made his way to an unimpressive wooden structure sandwiched between two taller buildings—looking, in its own quiet way, like a lazy dog sprawled in the shadow of wolves.

The docks—an unglamorous beacon of employment for men with no other options, and women, too, Kael supposed, though he hadn't seen many here. The air was thick with the brine of saltwater and the earthy musk of rotting wood. It was inspiring— in the way a dead fish might inspire poetry about life's fleeting joys.

Sliding through the creaky side entrance rather than the main door, Kael slipped into the wide storage area. Workers were already bustling about, lugging crates, coiling ropes, and generally trying to make their misery look productive. His eyes scanned the room, careful not to let his gaze linger on anyone for too long.

His lateness wasn't especially egregious today, but Kiyotaka knew that lateness combined with eye contact often inspired remarks, and remarks had a way of snowballing into unhelpful attention—not today, thank you.

He spotted a familiar face near one of the racks, Horace, a man perpetually covered in grime but still somehow chipper enough to be unbearable for Kael.He sidled up to the man, letting his posture relax as he leaned against a post, looking like he'd been stationed here for hours.

"Morning," he greeted him without the hint of urgency.

"Ah, Montclair!" Horace beamed, already looking too pleased to see him. "Finally graced us with your presence, have ya?"

Kael gave a noncommittal shrug. "I'd never deprive you of the chance to bask in my aura of mediocrity."

Horace laughed—a genuine laugh, annoyingly loud—and slapped Kael on the back hard enough to make him wince slightly. He quickly waved the moment off, his face neutral once again.

"Speaking of that," Kael began, his tone perfectly even while looking to his surroundings, "Benson isn't here yet?"

Benson was the closest thing to competence this operation had—something Kael wasn't used to encountering in anyone above him. Sadly, though, he's not a permanent member here.

"Benson?" Horace's face fell slightly, and for a moment, Kael wondered if the man would decide not to answer. "Nah, not today. He's... taking the day off. Personal reasons, you know."

Kael nodded slowly. "Hmm. Unfortunate timing. He keeps things running smoothly around here."

Horace gave him a look—one Kael returned with the polite detachment of a man too busy to care too deeply.

"Yeah, he's a good guy, that one," Horace muttered, his enthusiasm dimmed, though he didn't elaborate. Kael tilted his head slightly, offering a curious frown that bordered on innocent inquiry but didn't push further.

Personal reasons... Unexplained absence... Kael tucked the thought away, a neat little note for later, even as he offered Horace a faint gesture of acknowledgment. "Well, I suppose we'll manage somehow."

Horace grunted, turning back to his crate-lifting duties, leaving Kael to his own devices once more. He drifted to an unclaimed corner, leaning against a splintering beam as he surveyed the chaotic motions of the dock's daily grind.

For now, his priority is to be nothing, to blend in, to keep his head down.

Kael's gaze swept across the dock as his mind turned inward, dissecting the grim practicality of his existence in this place.To the untrained eye, his work here might look simple: moving crates, repairing nets, logging inventory. A laborer's life, nothing more.

In reality, however, the dock was a microcosm of inefficiency dressed up as industry. It wasn't just about lifting things and setting them down elsewhere—no, that would've been too logical. There were layers of absurdity, invisible to those who didn't care to look closely enough. Unfortunately for Kael, observation came to Kiyotaka as naturally as breathing.

Officially, his job title didn't exist. Workers were assigned by necessity rather than skill, their roles as mutable as the tides. He might be hauling salted fish barrels in the morning, hammering splintered planks into the dock at midday, and recording incoming shipments before the sun dipped below the horizon. All for the grand wage of being utterly expendable.

His day nominally began at sunrise, though the foreman didn't particularly care for punctuality unless it gave him an excuse to yell. And yell he did, often and with great vigor, though Kael had swiftly learned how to avoid becoming the target. Show just enough effort to keep from standing out as a slacker, but never so much that anyone could accuse you of ambition—basically unambitious.

Work wasn't broken into neat shifts, either. Hours bled together in an endless cycle of "just one more thing," dictated by the whim of whoever happened to be barking orders at the time. Meals were improvised affairs, hastily eaten in spare moments, often consisting of whatever scraps workers could barter or, in Kael's case, discreetly acquire.

The tasks themselves varied wildly in complexity, though most were simple enough that even a blindfolded man could complete them. The difficulty came not in the work, but in navigating the social labyrinth that surrounded it. Who owed who a favor? Which foreman was the least likely to notice if you disappeared for half an hour? Whose temper could you defuse with a well-timed comment about the weather?

Kiyotaka had acquired these dynamics from Kael's memories, piecing together an understanding of who mattered and who didn't. By now, he'd established a rhythm: quiet competence, minimal interaction, and just enough charm to be forgettable. If someone remembered him at the end of the day, it was because he'd been useful, not because he'd caused a stir—again, it was an unambitious of Kael.

However, in this environment of hard, thankless labor, all the workers here were driven by little more than survival and comfort, not ambition. It was a sobering reality—most of them couldn't imagine more. But Kiyotaka would move forward, not out of necessity for fame or wealth, but because of his inherent need for control. To understand the game and have everything fall into place without a hitch—without appearing as anything other than "just another worker" in the cycle—was the next phase in his slow, methodical rise to control at minimum over his own fate.

For now, though, he'd play his part. He'd lift the crates, patch the boards, and count the barrels. Not because it mattered, but because it was the most efficient way to bide his time while seeking the right opportunities.