BIA Team 24 quickly goes around looking for magic items that I could practice on.

“This humble cultivator apologizes,” Ji says, “for he can only offer consumable cultivation aids to the cause. Perhaps Lady Thompson could offer her storage ring?”

Liv shakes her head. “If I let her touch my storage ring the Health and Safety people would have my head. Heather?”

“Auditors for me,” Heather says. “No enchanted daggers, really?”

“Couldn’t find any that I wouldn’t lose immediately. What about your tablet?”

“In use. Agnes, anything?”

“I had not expected such from you, hah. A lady should be wined and dined before she is asked to remove her underwear!”

“So that’s how your back is still intact!”

“Maybe we should just buy her some trinkets,” Heather decides. “It’s market day, after all.”

I am entirely happy with this plan. Magic items for me!

Unfortunately, bureaucratic reality seems to come crashing down on Heather when I mention that I should probably also pick up a toothbrush and a change of clothes. She sets aside the stack of paper she was searching through, grabs her slate, clears it off with a swiping motion, and starts scribbling.

“We’ll have to file your papers and get you on the books as soon as we can,” Heather says. “However, as a supervisory special agent I’m empowered to sign the basic paperwork on the spot, then we can turn them in to any post or Republic office.”

The mention of basic paperwork reminds me that there may be advanced paperwork, some of which I really don’t want. “Liv mentioned that you had to have a license for mind control,” I say. I hesitate. “Did reading that grimoire sign me up for six years of med school?”

Agnes laughs.

“No,” Heather says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Your Gift has trouble with biology and psychology. It is, however, good at other things. BIA assumes Hard Wizards with your Gift can blow up buildings at will.” She stops writing and gives me a serious look. “I’m skirting the rules because we need utility magic urgently. When we’re done you will be getting a destructive effects license or discarding that Gift.”

“Ah.” I guess I have a rocket launcher strapped to my brain now. One that’s big enough to require an intimidating-sounding license in a world where any random warehouse employee could probably put their fist through a metal plate. Probably the intersection of a concealed carry permit, an NFA license, an explosives license. “Well,” I say, “We’ll see how things go.”

She nods. “Fill and sign this.”

She hands me the result of her scribbling, which is the weirdest government form I’ve ever seen. For one, it’s rendered in weird glowy lines on a dark grey slate tablet. Not totally unlike fancy e-ink tablet of some kind, but still distinctly fantastic. For two, it starts by politely asking if I’d level the building if I sneezed and if so directs me to immediately leave and return with form BIA-346. For three, the signature box at the end takes up an entire page, and there are instructions for an auxiliary form for “proofs of identity and intent” that don’t fit on a piece of paper, giving exotic examples like imbued soul fragments and autographical enchantments.

I settle for my normal, boring, everyday signature.

I also get my first information about how much variation there is in developmental psychology among the Republic’s notable demographics. Or, at least, how much variation the Bureau of Health and Safety is prepared to tolerate. I have to ask Heather for help and get some wild answers back. Instead of a date of birth, for example, I’m asked to append form BHS-3 to declare a biological species and associated information regarding my expected or past date of legal maturity, BHS-4 to define a new biological species, or BHS-5 to declare that I’m a special case with a medical evaluation that I am (or am not) of sound mind. Apparently Heather’s Inspect-equivalent says I’m a normal human and she assumes that I haven’t experienced any dramatic excursions in subjective experience or neurology, so she’s already added BHS-3 to my stack.

BHS-3 also introduces me to the Republic’s calendar. Apparently they’ve just given up on larger divisions of time in favor of counting days from a reference epoch. I make a note to figure out what horrible things happened to time to make all of this necessary. Also to figure out how weather, the sun, day and night, and the seasons work around here, if they exist at all!

I ask about BHS-1 and BHS-2 and learn that they’re fantasy birth and death certificates, extended to deal with situations like serial reincarnators, psionic hive minds, guardian automata that slowly gained sentience over the course of millennia of boredom, and Visitors.

Thankfully I don’t have to descend too far into the weeds. The forms are only weird, not long, and disregarding my curiosity they only take a couple minutes. I hand the tablet back to Heather, who surveys it quickly, adds a couple of her own signatures, and does something that clears the screen off again. I presume she saved it somehow.

Heather also informs me that I’m currently classified as some form of skilled civilian contractor for the BIA. I don’t have any authority, and certainly not arrest authority. It sounds like they’ve had problems with past Visitors in my position making assumptions.

And then Liv and I are off to the magic item store!

I’ve only been inside for a couple minutes, so it’s not a surprise that things haven’t changed since I gained the Gift. The townsfolk look like they’re entirely back to their normal routines, albeit still wary of the patrolling cultivator and associated SWAT team. The weather is still wonderfully clear and sunny. It’s perfect t-shirt weather for me, not too hot, not too cold. I could get used to this.

Liv whistles happily as she walks. I just stare at everything.

The stone streets aren’t quite as good as asphalt, but they’re somehow better than the average concrete sidewalk. There’s not much of a division of traffic; Liv and I just make sure to stay out of the way of people that’re moving quickly or lugging particularly bulky items. Now that I’m out in the street I can see all the way to the end of the town in either direction, clearly delineated by low walls. The gates are open and I don’t see any restrictions on traffic through the gates. As we walk, the occasional side street reveals that the town is slightly longer than it is wide. Almost every building I pass looks commercial. Maybe everyone lives above their storefront or workshop? Maybe people mostly live outside the walls? Or maybe I’m just in a “downtown” area and the houses are elsewhere in the city.

Fashion is interesting. Normal-looking fabrics in simple cuts dominate, mostly dresses and knee-length shirt-things over pants. The colors, however, are riotous. Liv’s eye-searing green outfit isn’t unique, and violent reds, deep blues and purples, and bright yellows are common. Even the people carrying crates and logs are wearing vibrant colors. The vibrance and profusion of colors, coupled with the purple, tells me that this economy has much better access to dyes than pre-modern Earth did. Monster-hunting economy?

I don’t see a lot of weapons or armor. Agnes is by far the most heavily-equipped person I’ve seen. Heather comes in second with her bow and knives. Nearly everyone has a knife on their belt, but I know that that was common in Europe up to the seventeen hundreds because forks were too much of a pain; everyone just carried a knife around and skewered stuff. Supporting this, the knives I see are clearly fashion statements. They’re universally well-made and sized for the wearer’s hand, often decorated, and splashes of color aren’t uncommon on either scabbard or hilt. Even teenagers carry knives. One person hurries out of a bar gnawing on something from a knife with a blade that roils with iridescent colors, which I’m not sure I’d know how to duplicate with any physical metallurgy or surface treatment. I take this as more confirmation that magical materials are common.

The town changes subtly as we get further from the walls. Blank-walled administrative buildings, some with lines stretching out the front, are replaced by bars, taverns, and restaurants. These destinations advertise themselves with carved and painted signs and sometimes open windows wafting delicious smells into the street.

I also start to see shops showing off their wares in window displays, rather than just having signs up saying “apothecary” or “carpentry”.

And then see the next shop and I finally feel like I’m in a high fantasy world.

“Yes, Whitney, we can stop to stare at the blacksmith’s shop,” Liv says with a tone of amused exasperation. “What are you looking at me like that for, I could have figured that out even if I wasn’t a perception build, it’s all over your face.”

I huff at her and quickly cross the road, looking out for crate-carrying laborers to make sure I don’t get clobbered.

The smith’s building is divided, working area on one side and shop on the other. The smith isn’t working, otherwise I suspect I’d have heard it a long way away, but the forge is still so hot that I can feel it on my face from the sidewalk. I can’t tell what the heat source is, but given that it’s completely untended and unused despite being at forging heat, I’d guess there’s probably some kind of magic involved. If nothing else, I bet it’s enchanted to keep the untended fire from spreading.

The front of the blacksmith’s shop displays only a few items. One is a huge sword that almost seems fake. It’s not impossibly broad or heavy. It’s just that the blade is purple, about eight feet long, and thin and flat like a dinner knife, and despite the length the sword’s handle is only big enough for one hand. It’s also displayed like it’s the sword in the stone, stabbed entirely through the horn of an ancient, cracked anvil. Another item looks like a simple plate of metal until I get closer and realize that it’s a sheet of text, characters from a busy logographic writing system precisely engraved and inlaid with some blue-black metal. The third display piece, hanging from a wire above a barrel of water, would be a perfectly normal pair of heavy blacksmith’s tongs except that it’s on fire. The metal of the jaws glows red-hot, I suppose to keep the smith’s work hot while it’s being hammered?

“What’s the purple metal?”

“I can’t tell,” Liv says. “It’s not any of the common ones, I had to make sure I could identify all of those.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m not sure if I’m going to be excited or disappointed about that!”

Liv laughs. “Before you ask,” she says, “the engravings are in Nightlead. It’s good for inlays, malleable and absorbs energy, so it’s incredibly durable but useless for weapons or armor.” She pauses. “The smith probably chose it because it’s also extremely difficult to work with.”

“Hard to heat up and shape?”

“And more,” Liv answers. “Okay, questions answered, off we go!”

I take a second to wave my fingers through the air near the sword, but I don’t feel anything but the same fluid turbulence that I felt when I was doing the exercises.

We pass another building whose display is wall-to-wall glassware. Literally - the most impressive item is the shop’s front window, a single sheet of glass almost twenty feet long and eight feet tall, interrupted only by a cutout for the shop’s front door. Arrayed on shelves within are a rainbow of drinking glasses, sculptures, bottles, jars, vials, decanters, beads, marbles, flasks, trays, dishes, jewelry, even a full suit of armor, all made out of expertly shaped glass. I wonder who’s buying all this glass. Daily wear and tear on tableware in a city this size would be… one broken glass per household per year, say, so about a thousand glasses a year, three per working day? That doesn’t seem right. Maybe restaurants break more glassware than I do? Maybe the adventurers chug potions mid-fight and discard the empty bottles to save time?

“How big is this town, by the way? In relative terms.”

“Four thousand people if you count the outlying farmers and woodsmen, so somewhere in the middle,” she muses. “It’s not on any major trade routes or rivers so it can’t grow any more, but the local geography and climate make it a reliable supplier of wood and food to Stonehill up the road.”

That’s about in line with a late pre-industrial European town, I think? “How many of adventuring-types are there? Or are they not their own demographic?” I explain my thinking. “I presume that a decent chunk of the economy runs on something like monster guts, based on how colorful everyone’s clothes are, so I’m wondering if there are dedicated monster-hunters or if woodcutters just also murder dangerous wildlife while they’re out cutting down trees.”

“It varies,” Liv laughs, “But you’re right that there’re some particularly dangerous things out there that combat-oriented Gifted need to put down occasionally. The people that do that make a living off both the rewards and by gathering stuff from the corpses.” She thinks. “The last census was almost a thousand days ago, but as of then there were fifty-seven people living in Calfort that listed bounty hunting as their primary source of income.”

“Huh, impressive recall,” I say while doing some quick math in my head. “A bit more than one percent of the population? That’s actually not too far out of line with the military where I’m from. Do they handle things like guarding caravans and gates too? Is there a standing army?”

I follow Liv around a corner and find the street suddenly full, a riot of color and movement starting less than a block away.

“The Bureau of the Guard handles routine tasks and the military, though very few stand at arms,” Liv says proudly. “Many Gift licenses come with training and reservist status.”

“Ah,” I say. “If you’re dangerous enough to need a license you’re dangerous enough to be up for conscription?”

“Exactly,” Liv confirms.

We’re rapidly coming up to the market and it’s starting to get loud, so I quickly ask about the other thing that’d been bothering me.

“…Was that suit of armor real or decorative?”

“Totally decorative!” Liv laughs. “Maybe if they’d collaborated with a smith, but it was just plain glass.”

I laugh too.

The market’s clientele differ only slightly from the people that were walking in the street when I was learning magic. I can’t, for example, pick anyone out as being definitely working-class or the opposite, which says relatively good things about inequality in the Republic’s economy. I do notice one person wearing more jewelry than usual and another person who clearly has an assistant or secretary following them, but that’s the worst of it. Most people are standing around stalls, looking at items or haggling with the sellers. Some people just lounge around and enjoy the ambiance.

The most different thing about the market’s population is that there are kids here. Quite a lot of them, actually, chasing each other through the crowd and dodging people left and right. They do a pretty good job not running into anyone, especially since most people around here seem to have excellent reflexes.

Honestly, judging by the way I occasionally catch people looking at me, I probably stand out more than anyone else in this crowd does. The children are especially curious. When I walk into the market a small cluster of them slams to a halt instead of dodging around me, the rearmost members of the game piling into the frontrunners and peeking around to see what’s stopped them. I smile at them and they all turn and run away, shouting incoherently. I can’t help but laugh.

A bard sits on a tavern roof midway through the market, plucking at something fiddle-like and singing a song that I can’t quite hear the words of. It’s bright and catchy, definitely something to fit the mood.

Liv obviously notices my wide-eyed curiosity. “Let’s take a walk around before we start buying things,” she allows. It’s not really much trouble, as the market must only cover a few streets.

Most of the stalls we walk past are manned by farmers selling unidentifiable vegetables. Well, vegetables that I can’t identify, at least. The farmers and the people bartering with them certainly seem to know what they are! We also pass by some stalls selling snacks, and I have to give the delicious aroma of meat pies and pastries a pass for now. I’m a touch hungry, but not enough to pester Liv yet. I finally think to check the sun’s angle and make a rough guess that it’s mid-morning, so I can wait for whenever the team has lunch.

As we walk past a cluster of stalls draped with colorfully-dyed fabrics, the chattering crowd surrounding it subtly turns their attention to me. Presumably I and my outlandish Visitor accouterments have been spotted by the local clothiers and fashionistas and have become the talk of the local fashion world. I only notice because I’m giving their stalls extra attention myself; my Princess Phase may have had an unusually nerdy direction but I still appreciate a nice dress, and the examples displayed here are certainly nice! They aren’t any real-world fashion that I recognize, though I admit that my knowledge is spotty and biased toward European history. For all I know, these dresses are exactly what you’d see a Chinese imperial princess wearing. I also note that this means that every person I’ve seen has been in informal or “working-day” dress.

Mostly I’m just relieved by the display’s implication that I’m not going to have to stuff myself into a corset even if I’m invited to a fancy party for some reason. Very much not my style. I’d guess I can thank Adventurers for that, them and their enchanted equipment that they couldn’t possibly change out of.

The next set of sellers is much less restrained in their attention. Specifically, a wildly diverse group of alchemists starts clamoring to attract Liv’s attention to their equally diverse wares.

“Stamina potions,” one shouts, “two hundred and fifty percent standard, Identify guaranteed! Hit point regeneration, two hundred percent standard over thirty seconds!”

“Distilled elemental mana,” yells another. “Supercharge your martial techniques! Super safe cultivation aid!”

“Stat potions! Get your stat potions here! Resilience! Intensity! Continuity! Munificence! All the stats you never knew you needed!”

“Divine blessings in a bottle! Become lucky!”

One alchemist doesn’t even bother. When I look at his stall I realize why; the guy is a stereotypical xianxia drug dealer and it’s pretty obvious that neither of us are cultivators.

I also realize that every one of these Alchemists must have taken a completely different Gift so they aren’t competing with each other too much. Liv ignores all of them and we get past with a minimum of pandemonium.

They stop rather suddenly, in fact, as if we’d stepped over an invisible line on the crosswalk.

I look forward and realize that they’re probably avoiding the real adventurers, the only other group of Gifted I’ve seen so far. They’re set up just ahead of us, by far the smallest market section so far, but identifiable by their variety of armor, weapons, and monster parts. And they are obviously monster parts! At one stall, an adventurer whose outfit includes more knives than I can count haggles with a townsperson who shakes a skewered lump of flaming meat at her. At the next stall over, a woman with a giant book instead of a backpack argues with a hugely muscled man wearing a full-length ball gown over a bodybuilder physique. The final adventurers all sit at a table between their two stalls, taking turns playing five-finger fillet with a knife that leaves a glowing green trail behind it in the air. Several of the adventurers are so fast that their turns are nothing but lethal aurora, green curtains draped over their hands. One of them gives Liv a nod of acknowledgment as we pass, a nod that she returns.

We complete our circuit, passing a wild variety of miscellaneous other craftspeople. A basketmaker sits among a pile of baskets of every size and shape. A potter has pretty much anything that might have once been radially symmetric. A woodcarver demonstrates that they can make just about anything; they’re busily carving away as I walk past, leaving a pleasant woody scent in the air. A mason or tilemaker of some kind displays arrays of patterned tiles, including one interesting irregular arrangement of five-sided polygons. A woodburner shows off what I presume to be charcoals from different kinds of wood, discussing them with a blacksmith with a hammer hanging from her belt.

We finally circle back around to the vegetable and pastries where we started. It didn’t take very long; the market isn’t all that big in absolute terms.

Then Liv goes hunting.