Damn The Author
Chapter 8: The Art[3]

Chapter 8 - The Art[3]

The city gates stood tall and rusty, barely holding themselves together against the morning wind.

Beyond the gates, the city was already awake.

The streets buzzed with life. A fruit seller shouted over the crowd, "Three for one silver! Sweetest berries this side of the market!" His voice was almost drowned out by the sounds of boots on cobblestone, spirit beasts grunting, and wheels clattering over the road.

Everyone had somewhere to be.

"Busy morning," I muttered under my breath.

But it wasn't the people that caught my attention, it was what walked beside them.

A massive six-legged horse trotted proudly through the crowd, steam rising from its nostrils. It pulled a heavy cart filled with steel barrels.

Floating above the rider's head were two glowing rings symbolizing his strength, while his grimoire hovered by his side.

"Make way! Heavy load coming through!" he called, and the crowd parted with practiced ease.

Not far away was a small, blocky golem waddling along with two full buckets of water.

Its clay feet squelched with every step. Its master, a weary old man with a two-star grimoire chained to his belt, walked behind it, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Don't spill this time, Muck!" he scolded.

"Gurrrk," the golem replied. Probably meant "yes."

Then there were the odd ones. People who didn't summon beasts but merged with them instead.

A young man dashed past me, his legs replaced by long, feathered ostrich limbs. He delivered rolled-up newspapers in one fluid motion, barely slowing down.

"Morning news! Delivery on time or your money back!" he called, tossing a paper expertly through an open window of the third floor.

High above, another figure flapped in the air. He had green wings and a curved beak. A ring floated behind him as he dropped a bottle of milk into a balcony crate with the casual accuracy of someone who had done it a thousand times.

"Catch!" he called cheerfully.

A tired voice responded from inside, "Don't forget the eggs next time, Beaky!"

"Already in the crate!" he shouted back mid-flight.

Everywhere I turned, there were more arcanists.

The street was full of stories.

Blacksmiths stood outside their forges, with muscles shining with sweat and their hammers rising and falling in rhythm.

Some had fire spirits dancing around them, heating the metal. Others had their grimoires open, hovering in the air and glowing softly while an enchanted hammer beat the hot iron.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

"One more blade and I'm done!" a burly man shouted over the noise.

"You've still got the royal order, dumbass!" another called back.

A woman with soot on her face rolled her eyes. "You lot never shut up."

Grimoires were everywhere. Bound in leather, etched with metal, glowing faintly. Always at their owner's side like silent witnesses.

In this world, everything revolved around grimoires.

From the tiniest errand boy with a one-ringed spirit to the Empress with her nine-ring celestial book, everyone was an Arcanist.

But the truth?

Most of them weren't warriors or mages. They were workers. Ordinary people who had bonded with low-tier spirits or trained with simple grimoires to make a living.

They didn't fight in grand duels or save kingdoms. They delivered milk, fetched water, shaped steel, and cooked food.

Still, each one of them carried power, small or great, at their side. Because in this world, power wasn't just for heroes.

It was a tool, a partner, and a necessity.

And as I walked out of the market, passing all these people, I understood something:

This world didn't run on legends.

It ran on the people who never made the history books.

People who used their grimoires not to conquer, but to survive.

And me?

I was going to survive too. Long enough to reach the end of this story.

Tap. Tap.

My boots clicked softly against the gravel as I moved through the edge of the city with a bag over one shoulder and my summoning grimoire at my hip.

The other one? It was inside my spirit space, waiting to be called. I could not show it to anyone.

In the novel, there was a group of certain people.

An infamous one with two hearts and two grimoires.

Let's say their reputation wasn't the best.

If word got out that I had two hearts or two grimoires, getting killed would be the least of my worries.

Two weeks.

That's all the time I had before the entrance exam for the Imperial Academy.

Two weeks to deal with this second heart... or I would be dead before the first arc even started.

Currently, I was in a backwater town on the edges of the Western Dukedom—one of four outer territories surrounding the Imperial center.

The world of Aetheryn was vast, spanning six continents of varying sizes.

And the Pendragon Empire?

It wasn't just big. It was a monolithic landmass bigger than China, Russia, and the Indian subcontinent combined.

An empire ruled not by laws, but by legacy. Bloodline was king.

Most of the first half of the novel took place here in the Pendragon Empire.

The empire was divided into five grand regions: North, South, East, West, and the Imperial Center.

The Center belonged to the Pendragons themselves—gods in human skin, at least in their own minds.

True Blood Supremacists.

The remaining four quadrants were ruled by the Archdukes.

They weren't just nobles; they were titans. The Pillars of the Empire. Each with their own armies and vassals.

In theory, they answered to the Emperor.

In practice? They answered to no one.

Further out, beyond the lush heartlands and paved roads, were the borders, filled with chaos.

These were overseen by the Margraves—the March Lords.

They held the line at rift zones, forbidden ruins, haunted valleys, and monster-filled mountain passes.

Next came the Counts, the governors of provinces.

Then the Viscounts, the managers of castles, towns, and crucial infrastructure.

Barons sat at the bottom of the noble ladder, ruling over villages, knightly orders, and forgotten corners of the world.

And beneath all of that, were the commonfolk.

(Map of Aetherwyn in this paragraph's comments)

Technically, anyone could rise by awakening a powerful enough grimoire.

But the noble houses ran the game, owned the board, and made sure the dice always landed in their favour.

Nyx walked beside me, tail swaying casually.

"You sure about this?" he asked, hopping up on the low stone wall at the corner of the road. "We could always fake your death to that author. Start a fake farm. Raise fake cows. That's a future."

"Can't fake death if he's watching," I muttered while glancing at the sky. "And no."

He gave me a wounded sniff. "Well, I would make a great cow."

I didn't smile, but the corner of my mouth twitched slightly.

"So where are we going?" he asked, ears perking.

I didn't hesitate and replied, my face turning into a smirk.

"To the Forgotten Temple of Oath."

Nyx paused. Then blinked.

"...Ah," he said slowly, like someone trying to act casual after sitting on a spike. "So. Death it is."

I kept walking.

That temple held what I needed.

Step. Step.

And as I was about to pass the city gate, a merchant brushed past me, too busy yelling at his spirit owl to notice me.

'Perfect.'

My fingers moved on their own. Years of surviving on the streets had taught me a trick or two.

Tap!

I gave him a light tap on the shoulder with my left hand.

"Hey—!"

He turned his head around slightly on the feeling of the sensation, just enough.

That was all I needed.

My right hand slipped into his coat as smoothly as a shadow. I felt a leather pouch in his pocket. Warm and full of money.

I waited for the exact moment for the merchant's foot to hit the ground.

Step.

And as soon as he did, I pulled.

The pouch slid out without a sound, and I spun away in one smooth motion, melting back into the crowd. The entire thing took less than a breath.

He didn't even notice.

"You should listen to me, you dumb owl!" he shouted, still arguing with his flapping, clueless bird.

Behind me, Nyx made a surprising sound. "Did you just—?"

"Borrowed," I said casually, tossing the pouch once and catching it. "He'll live."

I peeked inside. It was filled with silver and gold to the brim.

Enough for a bribe. A map and the basic needs, if I haggled hard.

Nyx hopped beside me, grumbling. "You're a walking crime."

"And you're a talking cat. Life's weird," I replied, sliding the pouch into my coat.

I didn't feel guilty.

Not even a little.

Not when I was walking toward the Forgotten Temple of Oath.

Not when I only had two weeks to live.

The wind caught my coat as I walked.

I glanced at the pouch one more time, felt the clean weight of a perfect job, and smiled just a little.

"This is my art," I whispered and vanished into the morning crowd like I had never been there at all.

***

Join Discord for images of characters, spirit cards, and grimoires: .gg/59UqUTSZbt

If you aren't able to copy from here, the link is also at the end of the synopsis.