The mercenaries must have woken up recently. But what did the armed passengers want from them?

  Anzu strode forward with Itani close behind. The armed men turned at his approach, but their hands were still gripping the daggers. The mercenaries looked a little groggy, a reasonable side-effect from incapacitation, and stood beside their horses like cornered animals.

  "What's going on here?" asked Anzu and jumped off his horse.

  "These buggers thought they could just wake up and stroll out of here like nothing ever happened," one of the men spat on the ground with fury.

  "But that's what we agreed on, didn't we?"

  "Aye, but we said nothin' about the horses. The cheeky buggers thought they could just reclaim them and ride off," the man spat again.

  Right, it was about horses. The ruffian passengers thought they could make some easy money from this without lifting a finger.

  Closing his eyes, Anzu touched the temples of his head with his left hand and gave them a quick rub.

  "Let them go," Anzu said flatly without looking up.

  One of the armed men opened his mouth, but Anzu cut him off.

  "You already took their weapons. These are tier 9 weapons at the very least, which is enough for you to make a profit. Alright?"

  The three men exchanged glances, then fixed neutral stares on Anzu. He recognized the look. It was wariness born from watching him drop four mercenaries without breaking a sweat. They were smart enough not to push.

  Anzu turned to the mercenaries.

  "Take your horses. Leave."

  The tallest one hesitated.

  "What about..."

  "Just go."

  They didn't need telling twice.

  "Except the grey," Anzu added, nodding toward the sturdy horse the dead mercenary had ridden. "That one stays."

  Nobody argued. The mercenaries mounted quickly, urged their horses around, and galloped south without looking back, leaving a trail of dust in the wind.

  Anzu tethered the grey to the front of the carriage alongside the four horses that were already hitched there, while Itani rolled the replacement wheel forward to the coachman, who dropped to his knees beside the damaged axle.

  "Nice. A four-footer with a bronze rim. That'll do very nicely."

  "Happy to help," Itani responded while checking Anzu fiddling with the horses at the front.

  "Everyone off the carriage, and I need hands," the coachman called to the crowd of passengers that were slowly gathering around them.

  Two dwarves and one of the merchants stepped up. They positioned themselves around the vehicle's edge, gripped the frame, and lifted on the coachman's count, the veins on their arms and necks popping out. It was a heavy carriage.

  The new wheel slid into place with a satisfying thunk, and the metal pins drove through. The coachman tested it with a firm kick, nodded, and stood.

  Anzu watched from a few paces back. A telekinesis spell could've lifted the whole thing effortlessly and saved their backs. It would've been a crowd pleaser, but a pointless one. Mana wasted on theatrics when muscle worked just fine.

  The coachman clapped dust from his hands.

  "It's gonna be eight hours to Larsa, folks. Maybe seven if we hit compact soil."

  Everyone climbed aboard. The interior smelled of sweat, leather, and stale bread. Anzu and Itani were better off than the others in this respect: they'd had freshly baked butter bread just recently and not the stale stuff that everyone else had to contend with.

  They claimed their spot at the back again, finally being able to relax after the journey to Girsu.

  The carriage lurched forward, making wheels creak as the horses strained into motion. The landscape blurred past with ease now. It was mainly golden plains dotted with scrub and distant irrigation channels glinting in the sun. Conversation died after the first hour, as passengers dozed off or simply stared out the windows in exhausted silence.

  Anzu pulled his hood low over his face, leaned back, and let the rhythmic sway of the carriage lull him. Sleep came easier than he expected.

  For once, nothing interrupted it.

  The carriage jolted to a lower speed as the horses segued their gallop into a gentle trot. Anzu blinked awake, disoriented for a moment before recognizing the smell of evening air and distant cooking fires.

  "Larsa," the coachman announced, "we're nearly there."

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  Anzu straightened as his heart lifted at the familiar name. He leaned through the side window and allowed the evening breeze to lift his hood.

  They were at the outskirts of the town now.

  The sun hung low on the horizon, casting amber light across the urban landscape. Larsa spread before him, appearing compact, warm, and alive. Even from afar, you could see the mud-brick walls of buildings painted in ochre and white, with flat rooftops that bore drying dates and bundled reeds.

  The structures clustered organically around narrow streets. This place wasn't built on a rigid grid like the more modern ones, and hence, there was no planned symmetry. Instead, you were met with just the natural sprawl of shops, homes, and workshops that had grown around the central ziggurat over centuries.

  The Temple of Utu rose above it all in the very center. Its terraced silhouette was unmistakable against the dimming sky. As Anzu stared at it, relief flooded through him. It was still standing, still Sumerian, and as such still a part of this world he recognized. In an odd way, he could call it home?

  The carriage finally ground to a complete halt.

  Anzu pushed aside the canvas flap and stepped down onto packed earth with Itani following close behind.

  "You all right?" Itani asked.

  "Perfect." Anzu couldn't stop the grin. "This is exactly how I remember it."

  They walked through the outer district, passing vendors that were already packing up for the night, offering the usual necessities, such as baskets of figs, clay pots, and bronze tools. Anzu caught fragments of conversations that were all in Sumerian, just as he knew it. And the signs above doorways were equally familiar, all carved in the oldest form of the wedge-shaped script.

  The town was smaller than Lagash, but larger than Girsu. It was just right.

  The first order of business was to find a temporary stable for the grey stallion Anzu had decided to adopt. It wasn't a good idea to walk around Larsa with a horse. The streets weren't as wide as in Lagash and they'd need to leave it in front of every shop they entered.

  Luckily, there was a mule stable right next to the stagecoach station where their carriage stopped. Anzu was able to leave it there for five silver coins for two nights, which wasn't a bad deal, and it was a safe location. Five silver was all the money he had left at this point, but that was about to change.

  "Where to next?'"Itani adjusted her quiver.

  "The bank." Anzu gestured toward the eastern quarter. "I need coin before anything else."

  The bank sat near the temple district. Its entrance was marked by twin pillars and a bronze door engraved with cuneiform symbols. Inside, oil lamps flickered along the walls, illuminating rows of wooden desks staffed by clerks hunched over scrolls and clay tablets.

  One desk stood empty. Anzu headed for it, while Itani followed casually. The clerk looked up as they approached, revealing the face of a young dark elf, barely out of his twenties, with nervous eyes and ink-stained fingers.

  "Good evening," the clerk stammered, shuffling parchment unnecessarily. "How may I, uh, assist you?"

  "Withdrawal,'"Anzu said simply.

  "Of course, of course." The clerk fumbled for a fresh scroll, nearly knocked over an inkwell, and caught it. "Are you, uh, new to Larsa?"

  "No. I've just been away a long time."

  "Oh!" The clerk brightened. "Well, you've returned at a good time, then. Larsa is regaining its strength, you see. The good old times are returning."

  Anzu paused. Something about the phrasing felt rehearsed, like a slogan.

  "Is that so?"

  "Yes, yes." The clerk nodded eagerly. "Now, if you'd place your hand here..."

  He slid a recognition scroll across the desk, its surface inscribed with verification symbols. Anzu pressed his palm against it. The cuneiform symbols flared green, reading his identity, confirming his account.

  The clerk's eyes widened slightly. "Ah. I see. How much would you like to..."

  "One thousand silver."

  "Right away."

  As the clerk disappeared into the back room in a hurried and clumsy way, Anzu drummed his fingers on the desk, the clerk's words still nagging at him. The good old times are returning. What did that mean? Was it some kind of political propaganda?

  The clerk returned with a leather pouch, counted out the coins with shaking hands, and recounted twice to be sure. Anzu took the pouch, dematerialized it into his inventory, nodded, and turned to leave without another word.

  Outside, the evening air felt cooler. He breathed deeply, pushing the clerk's odd comment aside. It was just gossip. Nothing worth worrying about.

  He fished through the leather pouch again, counted out one hundred silver coins, and held them out to Itani.

  "For everything. The drinks, the food, the carriage ticket."

  She waved her hands.

  "That's way too much. I didn't spend more than sixty."

  "Call it interest, then."

  "Interest on what?"

  "Well, I'm repaying you late, and it's my way of saying how grateful I am," Anzu pressed the coins into her palm, closing her fingers around them. "Take it. I insist."

  Itani looked down at the silver, then back at him, mouth opening as if to argue further. Instead, she sighed and tucked the coins into her belt pouch.

  "You're stubborn, you know that?"

  "So I've been told."

  She adjusted her quiver strap, glancing around at the darkening streets.

  "Where to now?"

  Anzu breathed a long sigh, but it was one of relief.

  "My tower. Finally. It's on the other side of the city, right at the outskirts." Anzu oriented himself by the ziggurat's silhouette. "We could go straight there, but... let's cut through the bazaar first. Just to see if everything's still the same."

  They walked east through winding streets that grew narrower and more familiar with each turn. Anzu found himself smiling at small details, such as the carved doorway of a scribe's shop, the fountain shaped like a lion's head, not to mention the alley where he'd once ambushed a rival player during a guild war.

  The bazaar opened before them, but it was mostly empty now. Vendors were packing away their wares, stacking wooden crates, and closing their stalls. A few of them remained open, lit by oil lamps that cast warm pools of light across the grainy ground.

  It was the same layout. Anzu couldn't judge the smells, but they felt right: scents of dates, spices, and leather.

  "It looks about right."

  He nodded, already moving past a closed textile stall when something caught his eye. It was a smaller booth, tucked between a bread vendor and a closed pottery stand. Bronze trinkets hung from hooks, and several clay tablets were stacked haphazardly on the counter.

  Importantly, there were also obsidian daggers. They looked cheap, though, with rough-cut edges and unpolished sides, but they were there.

  Anzu veered toward it, unable to help himself. A weathered Sumerian merchant with grey in his beard looked up.

  "Looking for something specific?" the merchant asked.

  Anzu picked up one of the daggers and turned it over. The obsidian blade caught the lamplight, black and sharp despite its crude finish. It wasn't particularly well-made. But legal.

  "You have no idea how good it is to see these again," Anzu said. "In Lagash, it's impossible to buy anything like this now. They've banned all the ritual supplies."

  The merchant grunted.

  "I've heard about that. Madness, if you ask me. Those Mardukist bastards don't belong in our cities."

  "No, they don't."

  "Well, you've come to the right place." The merchant gestured at his stall with obvious pride. "These things aren't going away any time soon. Not now that the Hero of Larsa is back."

  Anzu froze, the dagger still in his hand.

  He looked up slowly.

  "Excuse me?"