TravelingDreamer
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B6—Chapter 55: And They Call ME Clueless
🕑 Added 2025-07-15 15:15:25 +0000 UTCAfter we left the town with the refugees, we lowered the sails completely and pushed the motor as hard as the river traffic allowed, skimming across the water. We didn’t discuss it or even exchange a glance. There was no need. I personally wanted to escape this world, and it was evident that Mahya and Al shared my sentiment. Maybe it was cold on my part not to stop and help every time we saw injured people, especially after my last raise in mana, but right now I was so disappointed in human nature and so disgusted that I didn’t have the mental strength to deal with them.
It took me a day to cool off, but eventually I did. Yes, some people were assholes, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to ignore the rest. So we did stop along the way here and there when I saw the need. This time, we were smarter about it. Instead of tying up at the docks and offering a tasty-looking boat that might give the wrong impression, we dropped anchor mid-river. I flew to shore, healed the injured as quickly as I could, and we moved on. When there were too many for me alone, Al joined in with potions and took care of the lighter injuries.
This mad dash down the river continued for another six days, and we finally reached the first intersection. A second major river joined from the right, meeting ours at a sharp wedge of land before the combined flow continued north. At the tip of the wedge stood a massive statue, so large we spotted it from half a day away. As we sailed closer, more of it came into view until we could see the whole thing, not just the top. It was a naked man holding an axe over his head.
When we sailed around the bend and the front of the statue came into view, my jaw dropped. I leaned forward, squinting in disbelief. “What the hell?”
Mahya burst out laughing, clutching the railing for balance. “Poor guy.”
Al took a step back, folding his arms tightly as he stared up at the towering figure. “I must say this is highly unsettling,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
The statue’s “male pride” hung past his knees, and his “family jewels” were so oversized that if he’d been wearing underwear, it would’ve looked like he was smuggling two watermelons.
Sometimes, I didn’t get art.
The next stretch of the river looked different. Before, it had been mostly open plains dotted with occasional trees, with towns and villages scattered along the banks. Now, dense forests hugged the river on both sides, their canopies thick enough to block out the sky in some places. Every so often, a roar echoed from within the trees.
The settlements looked different, too. The towns we passed earlier had been open to the fields and the surrounding land, with people walking freely between the docks and the farms. Here, every town was tucked behind high stone walls, with guards pacing along the tops, watching both the forest and the water. Even the docks had their own barriers, stretching out into the river like arms meant to keep something at bay.
Strangely, it felt more peaceful. There was still plenty of traffic on the water. Not as much as the previous stretch, but enough to feel like the route was active. What I didn’t see at all were flying ships. During five more days of sailing, not a single one passed overhead. I figured maybe the forest was home to flying monsters or beasts or whatever else might make aerial travel risky, but I didn’t spot any. And I did look.
After five days, the forests became less dense, and more towns appeared along the shores. Two days later, we reached a city that looked grander than the capital. It had the same over-the-top architecture with layered domes, towering spires, and canals running through wide plazas, but here everything was larger, cleaner, and more polished. The capital was prettier, as it was more colorful and had a greater variety in its architecture. This city was built of sandstone and gold. Lots and lots of gold. The buildings gleamed with fresh gold trim, and the rooftops were tiled in vibrant blues and greens. Waterfalls spilled from platforms high above, feeding into a perfectly regulated canal system below. The walkways were wide and orderly, lined with manicured trees and glowing lamps. Ships moved steadily in and out of the harbor, and everywhere I looked, maintenance crews in matching uniforms kept the city spotless.
It looked like it hadn’t been attacked at all. Everything was intact. The buildings were spotless, the streets were clean, and there wasn’t a single mark of damage anywhere. I had seen what the attack looked like, and this city showed none of it. Not a cracked tile, not a singed wall, nothing. Even with magic, you couldn’t fix everything that fast. They were never hit.
Mahya walked over, her hands in her back pockets as she looked up at the city. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the clean streets and perfect towers.
“We need some time on land,” she said, her voice quieter than usual but firm. “To stretch and rest... and to see what kind of city comes out of all this untouched.”
I watched her for a moment, then turned to look at the docks again, the smooth stone untouched by scorch or grime. After a brief pause, I nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
A low haze of perfume clung to the harbor like fog, sweet and cloying, settling into clothes and hair before we even tied off. Colorful banners fluttered between towers, catching the breeze in ripples of silk. Fountains lined the waterfront, shaped like dancers frozen mid-spin, water arcing from outstretched arms and curling feet.
A sleek patrol boat glided up beside us. A trim man in a lavender uniform stood smoothly, clipboard in hand, white gloves spotless. He looked us over from head to toe, then inspected the hull with a slight wrinkle of his nose, like something smelled off.
“You may proceed,” he said after a moment, voice flat. “You don’t look like downers.”
Mahya stepped forward, arms crossed, one eyebrow rising. “Downers?”
“War folk,” he said with a casual flick of his pen. “Dirty clothes, mopey expressions, bandages, screaming children. You know.”
I opened my mouth to reply, paused, then closed it again. Nothing useful came to mind.
“Welcome to Saa, the fashion and art capital of the Masarwaso Empire,” he added, already turning away. “Please keep your attire tasteful and your energy elevated.”
We docked with no further issues.
There were quite a lot of people in the harbor, and they looked so different from everyone else we had seen in this world that it felt like stepping into an entirely different reality. In the desert, people wore flowing silk clothes that were both practical and elegant, suited to the heat and sand. In the capital, the regular folks dressed in what I would call normal clothes: shirts, pants, skirts, or dresses. The cuts were a little sharper, the fabrics more layered, and the collars often stood too high or sat too wide, but nothing that made me stare. Just different. Stylish, maybe, but still grounded. Some of the rich wore more elaborate outfits with gems or mana crystals worked into the design, and the dresses had far more layers, but even that stayed within the bounds of what I would still call normal.
Here was something else entirely.
Everyone looked like they were on their way to either a fashion show or an absurdly themed masquerade ball. A man strolled past in a skintight red suit that glittered in the sunlight, with translucent panels running down his sides and sleeves puffed out like inflated tubes. A woman nearby wore a structured dress made entirely of shimmering hexagonal plates that shifted colors when she moved. Her hair was sculpted into a five-pointed crown that had to be held in place with magic; no way any kind of spray or potion could hold up that. One person had an outfit made entirely of feathers that reminded me of peacock feathers, but they were bigger and had "eyes" not only at the end of the feather, but also along their length. His outfit also had a feather tail that trailed three meters behind them. They wore so much makeup I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Another wore something that looked like a bubble—an actual bubble—that floated around their body and refracted the light into rainbows.
Makeup was just as wild. Painted gold eyebrows, cheek crystals, glowing lips. Even children wore sculpted clothing with jeweled accessories and floating bangles. Nobody looked comfortable. But they all looked delighted with themselves.
A woman with silver hair and a feathered hat passed us, her back straight and her chin tilted just high enough to suggest we were not worth noticing. Her hat alone was a masterpiece, covered in layers of shimmering feathers that shifted from violet to green as she moved, and tipped with a gleaming crystal orb that hovered just above the brim. Her dress was a structured column of pale gold fabric that clung to her like polished armor, with translucent strips that shimmered in the light and a train that required constant adjustment by the servant behind her.
A line of ten men followed her, all dressed in matching uniforms of pink, blue, and white. Their collars were taller than their heads, and their sleeves flared dramatically at the wrists. Each one wore heavy makeup with rouged cheeks, bright lips, highlighted brows, and lashes so thick they looked completely fake. I had no idea how they managed to keep it all on their faces, especially considering the sheer amount of luggage they carried. Each man was hauling at least two oversized trunks or stacked boxes, all while balancing on heels so tall they could probably use them as a launch platform if they ever decided to give up on life.
The woman glanced at us, sniffed once, and continued walking without a word, her entourage flowing behind her like a parade.
“They have a unique sense of fashion,” Al said, his voice low as he scanned the crowd.
“No kidding,” I muttered, eyes fixed on a man in bright red mesh trousers that clung to him like a second skin. It was obvious he didn’t have underwear. His torso was bare, except for a crisscross of colorful ribbons wrapped tightly around his chest in precise geometric patterns, like some living art project. He stood at a fish stall, gesturing wildly with both hands as he argued with the vendor, his voice high-pitched and dramatic enough to draw a small crowd. One of the chest ribbons snapped loose as he threw his arms up, but he didn’t seem to notice. The vendor, meanwhile, held up a fish as if it were a peace offering.
We walked further into the city, and my gaze darted everywhere, trying to take it all in. The deeper we went, the wilder it got. This place was insane.
In most places, Rue usually got wary glances or made people take a step back. Big, white, and the size of a horse tended to do that. Here? Not even close. He got gasps of admiration, compliments on his pristine white fur, and the occasional person reaching out as if they were about to pet royalty. His nose got higher with every passing minute, and his chest puffed so much I was worried he’d float off if we let him.
Then one idiot just had to ruin it. He said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “That fur would look amazing as a cape.”
Rue stopped. Slowly turned. Then bared his teeth and let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the stones under our feet.
The idiot pissed himself on the spot.
I facepalmed.
Al put his hand on my shoulder and led me away, with Mahya laughing her ass off behind us.
Mahya tugged on my sleeve. “Look.”
A group of what had to be fashion influencers—if this world had those—stood on a raised platform just off the promenade, striking dramatic poses in outfits that made absolutely no practical sense. One guy wore a tunic with sleeves so long they trailed behind him like banners, with no openings for his hands. Another strutted around with oversized pillows strapped to his backside, making his pants stick out half a meter, while his shirt was made entirely of woven flowers. Real flowers. I could smell them from where I stood. The crowd gasped and murmured with admiration every time one of them shifted pose, as if they were witnessing divine art.
We kept walking. A few blocks down, we passed what appeared to be a war memorial. At least, it had the structure of one: arched pillars, solemn music playing from somewhere, and metal bowls with fire. But the plaque read:
In Honor of the Great Fashion Week Delay of Year 742
May it never happen again.
We followed the sound of raised voices and reached a square. A young man stood on a platform, arms outstretched, modeling a cloak that looked like it had barely survived a battlefield. The fabric was torn in jagged lines along the hem and shoulders, and red blotches stained the gray cloth in uneven splashes that resembled dried blood.
Two people stood beside him, locked in an animated debate that echoed over the square.
“It clearly captures the anguish of the empire,” said the first, clutching a crystal-tipped cane and gesturing toward the cloak with sweeping flair. He had a single tear painted just below his eye in shimmering black. “The frayed edges symbolize unraveling order, and the red stains are obviously a metaphor for emotional wounds.”
The second scoffed, arms crossed, one boot tapping against the stage. “It’s not anguish, it’s trauma-chic. It’s war-panic repackaged for drama. Real pain doesn’t need artistic direction.”
The crowd clapped and called out in appreciation.
“Please,” the first said, turning in a slow circle to let his velvet cape swirl dramatically. “This piece is a mirror of the collective experience. It is brutal. It is raw. It dares to exist in a space that is emotionally aggressive.”
“Or it’s just opportunism in thread count,” the second snapped, stepping forward and waving a hand sharply at the model. “He didn’t see any fighting. Not in the cities, not on the border, not anywhere.” He waved his arms in several vague directions, as if to cover every war-torn place at once.
“Look at him,” he continued, circling the model with theatrical disdain. “That posture screams back alley, not battlefield. That cloak doesn’t speak to imperial sacrifice. It looks like a tribute to common peasants—useless ones at that—not the true anguish of the emperor himself.”
The crowd let out a collective gasp. A few heads turned to the model, studying him with sudden suspicion, while others nodded in approval like the speaker had finally said what they were all thinking.
A woman in the front row sobbed quietly and applauded. Another sketched frantically, muttering, “Yes. Yes. This is the edge I was missing.”
Al tilted his head. “I believe I am experiencing a dissonance between external stimuli and logical expectation.”
Mahya made a sound somewhere between a snort and a wheeze. “That’s called culture shock.”
I couldn’t tell if it was hilarious or just sad. This place wasn’t ignoring the war. They had edited it out like a bad line in a play. In its place, they put drama, fashion, and a carefully staged illusion that everything was exactly as it should be.
We found an inn near the edge of the district, a quieter place with old wooden beams and big stuffed armchairs in the common room. The kitchen served a very good dinner, but it also came with a pesky musician who tried to serenade us with odd songs about different fabric qualities. Each time we asked him to stop, he switched to another tune, until Mahya finally paid him to leave. He slunk off looking dejected, muttering just loudly enough for us to hear about “heathens who do not understand the true meaning of beauty and art.”
After dinner, we settled on the inn’s shaded balcony. Below, people strolled through the streets, laughing, chatting, and singing.
Mahya swirled a glass of local wine. “You think they’re all just faking it?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe they’re terrified and pretending really hard. Or maybe they’ve just built a world where war can’t reach them.”
“Until it does,” Al said.
That killed the mood and the conversation.
The next morning, we set out to explore further. If yesterday’s stroll through the city had been confusing, today it was a full-blown fever dream. The crowds were even bigger, and somehow everyone had changed clothes. Completely. It was like the entire city woke up each morning and held an emergency fashion summit.
One man wore a sleeveless robe made entirely of translucent squares that shimmered like fish scales. A woman strutted past in a gown of layered paper, each sheet etched with moving illusions of herself walking. Several others wore sculpted outfits that looked like they couldn’t sit down without shattering something. I saw at least three people whose hats had their own gravitational fields—one of them had a small moon orbiting it.
“What happens if it rains?” I asked.
Mahya and Al shrugged in unison. Rue yawned.
We passed a place with live music spilling into the street. The band floated on a low platform, each musician wearing glowing silk that shifted hue with the tempo. Instead of clapping, the audience struck elaborate poses. Every time the rhythm changed, they struck a new position, as if it were an art performance.
Al stared at the crowd with a detachment that was almost scientific. “Do these people have employment?”
Mahya shrugged. “If they do, it’s probably performance-based.”
A guy with glowing teeth smiled at us as we passed. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Nope,” I said, not slowing down.
“Adventurers?” he guessed, following for a few steps. “Love that rugged thing you’ve got going on. It’s raw. Untamed. Makes you look dangerous and underfunded. You could sell that.”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Thanks. We’re not for sale.”
“Oh, shame,” he said, grinning wider. “Everyone is here.”
We left him behind.
We turned onto a side street and found a boutique where two assistants were helping a man try on what looked like a mechanical corset. Every twist of his torso triggered a tiny spray of perfume from hidden nozzles. Another shop offered cloaks enchanted to flutter dramatically even without wind. The owner called it “dynamic presence augmentation.”
“Don't let Rue see that,” I said telepathically to Mahya and Al. “He’ll want one.”
Mahya snorted. “He’d rock it better than most of these people.”
By the time the sun began to set, the city had transformed once more. Gaslamps lit the streets in soft amber, lanterns floated between buildings, and bands took up positions on rooftops and balconies. Music drifted through the alleys, blending into a strange, polished harmony that didn’t quite cover the fact that no one had mentioned the war. Not even once.
We walked slowly back to the inn.
Behind us, the city partied like nothing was wrong.
We hadn’t even made it halfway back to the inn when a woman stopped us on the street. “Oh, sweeties,” she said, frowning. “You can’t walk around like that. You must smile or people will think the war is real.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Your energy,” she said, as if it explained everything. “Your aura’s completely unscripted. No cohesion. No intention. It’s very… drafty.”
Mahya opened her mouth, then closed it. She opened it again, froze, then shut it once more with a quiet exhale. After a long pause, she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.
“You’re welcome to fix it,” the woman added, pulling out a slim crystal wand. “I do aura realignment sessions in the gallery district. First consultation is free, unless your trauma is unflattering, in which case I charge extra.”
“Hard pass,” I said.
She shrugged, unbothered. “Just don’t ruin the ambiance.”
We kept walking.
At a street corner, two people in bird-shaped hats flapped their hands like in the chicken dance and squawked at each other in perfect synchrony, arguing over “plume rights.” A crowd had gathered. A snack vendor was selling candied fruits on the sidelines like it was a theater.
We took a detour to avoid the next performance.
By the time we returned to the main district, another fashion parade was already underway. A line of models drifted on a levitating platform, dressed in outfits made entirely of mirrored tiles. Spotlights bounced rainbows off their surfaces, and the announcer declared each outfit as “the crystallization of vanity and grandeur through light, as a representation of imperial destiny.”
One model tripped and shattered.
The crowd gasped. Someone shouted, “That was intentional!” and they all clapped.
We made it back to the inn just in time for dinner. The lobby was still lit with soft pink lanterns, and a harpist in the corner plucked aimlessly at the strings while balancing a glass of wine on his knee. We went straight to the front desk, ordered the set menu, paid in advance, and specifically requested no serenades with the meal. The innkeeper’s shoulders sagged with theatrical disappointment, but he gave us a stiff nod and didn’t argue.
Dinner was served in a quiet alcove off the main hall. Roasted root vegetables were arranged in perfect spirals on delicate plates, and beside them was something the waiter introduced as “celestial duck foam.” In reality, it was puree with small chunks of meat.
We sat in silence for a long time, poking at the food more than eating it. The forks clinked softly.
Outside, the music picked up again, loud and overcomplicated. Laughter drifted through the walls. A pop sounded in the distance, followed by another, and through the window, I caught the reflection of fireworks shaped like flowers, blooming in slow motion before fading into sparks.
It felt like the whole city was hovering just above reality. Detached and blind.
Al finally broke the silence. He sat back, arms crossed, his plate barely touched. “This place is either genius or insane.”
Mahya snorted and pushed a sliver of purple carrot across her plate. “I can’t decide whether I admire the commitment or want to set something on fire.”
I watched the window glow with soft enchantment. The fireworks outside turned pink for a moment, then shifted to green. “I think they know what’s coming,” I said. “They just don’t want to see it. So they pretend really hard that everything is fine and go completely overboard to prove it.”
Rue put his head on my lap. “Rue want to go.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly, still watching the colored lights dance across the glass. “Me too.”
The next morning, we set sail.
Behind us, Saa sparkled like a dream someone was trying way too hard to keep alive.
Comments
TravelingDreamer
🙃
Obran
Vaguely reminds me of the 10 years I spent working in a high-end art gallery. Vaguely. You've just dialed it up to eleven.
TravelingDreamer
😂😂😂😂
Tenske
Parece muito com um sonho que você teria depois de ficar três dias sem dormir e se afogar no álcool. Com três doses de LSD
