As Dorian trudged through bustling Oasis streets, he realized he needed a friend.

Hmm. He frowned. No. That didn’t sound right. No-one in this plane qualified for anything nearing friendship. In all his lives Dorian had had two friends total. Three, if he was generous. Two of them had later tried to murder him (three, if he was generous), which, naturally, had led to a bit of a falling-out.

Not a friend. Dorian needed an ally. He played with the thought in his mind and found that it sat with him better. The Rat-King was one candidate, but he only had power in the Outskirts. Lin Zhang was another, but there was something off about that girl. Dorian had the unsettling inkling that going down that path meant in the best-case he’d spend a lot of time being forced into frilly dresses. Or worst-case, I might wake up to find myself stuffed and mounted on her bedroom wall…

He shuddered. He’d likely meet the girl again soon; he needed to collect his Tier 2 Artificer’s badge at the Guild before he left today. With luck, he’d also make progress with Martial Elder Kal on the mass-producing Wizard’s Sticks front. Maybe he’d screw around and get himself another few Artificer Tiers—who knew?

Before all that, though, it was time for a quick stop at the most well-regarded Oyster restaurant in the city. It was a low-cost detour en-route to the Artificer’s Guild. This stop served a few purposes.

The first was that Kaya was awfully sad these days. He’d buy her some fresh oysters—she’d love that. He smiled at the thought. Eating always cheered her up. She was a stress-eater, which Dorian found adorable at first. He found it much less adorable when he saw the meat he’d prepped for the month vanish in just two weeks. Just last night he’d stared, incredulous, as she wolfed down an arm-length slab of Vordor wing in eight big bites. “What?” she’d snapped at him, looking very cranky through a mouthful of half-chewed meat. It was then that he realized he was in the amusing (if slightly depressing) position of needing to re-stock premium rations to feed the bottomless pit that was her tummy. How that much meat fit in one girl he had no idea.

He winced. He’d stumbled on the unpleasant realization that he likely wasn’t the first guy from Rust Tribe who’d thought that about her…

Aaaanyways. He was also here because Sinkhole oysters were great boons to cultivation. It’d be a nice boost before he made his final assault on the Profound Realm bottleneck tonight.

Plus, it was lunch-time and he was hungry. It’d be nice to eat something with texture after two weeks of dried Vordor jerky.

Then Dorian halted, frowning. At some point after he’d stepped onto 12th street, he’d picked up a tail.

He figured it out from the little things. A wraith darting into an alley out of the corner of his eye, shadows flitting over rooftops, the prickly, hair-raising feeling he was being watched.

After a few minutes he caught a brief glimpse of her as she leapt between roofs—tall, dirt-smudged, a woman, it seemed, swaddled in the mud-brown cowl of a servant.

This was nothing new. He’d been tailed half his time in the Oasis; there were always heads subtly turning to him, eyes tracking him, bodies trailing him in crowds. But they’d all been subtle about it.

Instead, she was blundering after him with all the finesse of a hollering hunter crashing through bushes. He’d caught onto her almost instantly. Now he felt her slinking along after him, a few steps behind him. Abruptly he whirled around and she flinched like a spooked cat.

The girl’s robes showed little of her body, but her face was visible. Her cheeks were grime-streaked. Her hair was in disarray; a set of thick goggles covered her eyes. None of this strange disguise hid the fact that she might’ve been the prettiest girl Dorian had seen in this Realm.

She was neck-and-neck with Lin in looks, if not in stature; but Lin’s beauty was pixie-like, youthful, almost girlish. This was a woman. She was very comfortable in her own skin.

At his turning around she had a frozen, panicked moment where she realized she might be caught staring, and suddenly found the ground very interesting. She started shuffling her feet, looking nowhere in particular, hands behind her back, acting all nonchalant.

Dorian snorted. Goodness me she’s awful at this…

This couldn’t be an agent of one of the gangs. No. She had all the hallmarks of a novice, a dilettante of stalking who hadn’t put in the effort to master the art. She didn’t look like an Outskirter, either; an agent of an Oasis clan, perhaps, come to scout him?

Speaking of potential friends—could she an agent of Nijo, come to contact him at last? He was wondering when the Ugoc Prince would show his face. The Tournament was a mere two days away. Hmm. Doubt it.

He scratched his head. What was he doing all this speculating for, when she was right there? Shrugging, he walked up to her.

“Hello,” said Dorian with a smile. “Why are you following me?”

She flinched, had a moment of wide-eyed crisis, turned on her heel, still not looking at him, and suddenly found a nearby lamp post very fascinating.

“… Excuse me? Miss?” He snapped his fingers at her. No response. “Miss.”

“…”

“Listen, I’ll keep standing here and staring at you until you answer me,” said Dorian, crossing his arms. “I’m a patient man.”

Her cheeks were two splotches of red. But mortified as she was, she seemed stubbornly determined not to acknowledge him. She stared at the lamp post like an art critic studying a once-in-a-generation masterpiece. She'd found her alibi, and she was sticking to it. “Hmm… yes…” she murmured to herself. “Lamp post…indeed…yes…very… big…” Dorian noticed thin beads of sweat start to form on her brow as he stared at her.

Sighing, Dorian knocked on her forehead like it was a front door. “Hello? Anyone there?”

“Gah!” She jerked up, flushing. “How dare—“ Her voice was deep and breathy.

Then it was like a switch had flicked in her head mid-word. She was suddenly full of wide-eyed bewilderment.

“Err—I—I mean—ouch!” Tears welled up in her eyes as she cringed. Her voice had suddenly shot up an octave to a high, tinkling pitch. “Why have you struck me, sir?”

“Nope,” said Dorian, wagging a finger. “Me first. Why are you stalking me?”

“What?” She said, wide-eyed. “Stalking? You? I’m doing no such thing!”

“Then what are you doing?”

For a second she spluttered at him. Then— “I am…a lamp post enthusiast!” she proclaimed, puffing out her chest. “I am simply out and about, observing my lamp-posts. How dare you accost me, sir! Some nerve you’ve got!”

Dorian was speechless. “…Really.” He was almost impressed. It was a rare skill to be able to blather nonsense with utter confidence.

“That’s right. I love… lamp post!” she said, chin held high.

“…Whatever.” Rolling his eyes, he turned and left. He’d be out of the city soon anyways. A city filled with strange, strange people.

He stopped at last in front of a two-story pagoda painted bright-red, with jade tiles for the roof: Chef Gao’s House of Oysters, at last. Dorian tapped his Interspatial Ring and threw on a thick direwolf fur coat, lined with gold; he made sure to stuff a few extra coins into his pockets so each step was accented by a soft, pleasing jingle. It was important to dress for the occasion. Then he pushed his way through the thick double-doors which made the entrance.

The interior was a picture of quiet ostentation. The floors were all deep-brown, rich wooden paneling, a statement in a land where wood was scarcer than silver. Blue bamboo walls leafed up, hemming in a vast dining room and giving it a touch of nature, as though they were sitting in the glades of some lush mountain rather than a roasting desert. The temperature was kept to a perfect chill; it must’ve been the work of artifacts. And it was packed: a huge chattering crowd was spread out among a grid of stone tables. Diners decked out in lavish robes lifted steaming prawns with chopsticks from thick, boiling cauldrons. Steam twined together from a hundred hot pots, blending to a mouthwatering seafood scent which drifted over the place like an early-morning mist.

“Greetings,” said the elderly server with a practiced smile. Then he caught sight of Dorian’s swarthy face, and his smile shriveled. But a quick glance at Dorian’s swanky clothes had him looking uncertain. Dorian smirked. Ah, the power of dressing well.

“Table for one, please,” said Dorian.

The server looked torn. “Humblest apologies, sir, but we don’t serve those without the appropriate IT.”

“Will this do?” Dorian flashed his Tournament token with a smile. “I’m a traveler—I run my own merchant company, in fact. I had the good fortune of qualifying for your Tournament. It’s given me a splendid excuse travel here and sample all the Oasis’s best offerings. Gao’s, I hear, is the best Oyster house in all of Azcan. Why, I said to myself, I simply can’t leave without sampling all your most sumptuous dishes!”

Sumptuous, of course, was code for expensive.

“If you like,” said Dorian, sliding a stack of glimmering Lira across the table. “Have a show of my goodwill.”

The server blinked. Then a wide smile of his own broke out across his face. It seems not everyone in the city’s a bigot—at least, not when you dangle some gold in front of them.

“A guest of the Oasis! What a pleasant surprise,” he said, deftly pocketing the coins. “I do hope you’ve found our city comely. Right this way.”

He led Dorian through tufts of steam to a row of tiny tables, bunched together against a wall. “You’ll be pleased to know, sir, that you’ve arrived at a most apt time. This is one of only two tables remaining.”

“Is it, now?” said Dorian with a grin. “Lucky me.”

“Please, peruse our menu at your leisure. I’ll return shortly.” Bowing, the man left.

Dorian settled into the seat, lounging against its plush back, and let out a happy sigh. He picked up the menu—a little leaflet, hand-written, and started to browse. These were some of his favorite moments in these runs; these lulls in-between the major action points, when he had an excuse to take a breath. To rest and unwind by his lonesome.

Not two minutes later, his server came back.

But not to take his order. A corner of Dorian’s lips twitched. You’re kidding.

It was spy-girl, hunched-in and making a show of looking small and helpless. Un-threatening.

“Oh, my!” she said in a fake, high, sing-songy voice. Her whole face was one bright-red blush. “It’s you again. What a…pleasant coincidence.”

The server had an air of reluctance to him as he gestured to the table beside Dorian’s. “Miss, it must be said that Chef Gao’s does not normally serve mere servants…”

“I serve the Tao clan, sir—we manufacture all the ear-rings and nose-rings in the Oasis, sir!” She protested. She looked at him with doe-eyes. “Please, sir. Will you show our clan some face?”

Still he looked uncertain, but at that moment there was a thud, a crash of stone on wood, and a piercing squeal. He cursed. One of the diners had managed to up-end a whole boiling pot all over himself; it scalded his white suit yellow. “Very well. This once. Do not make a scene!” He scurried off.

Dorian stared at the girl as she sidled into her seat. She stared at the floor.

“…”

“…”

“So,” said Dorian. “I see you’re an oyster enthusiast too.”

“Oh, shut up,” she hissed. Her face snapped up, still red. Her voice had gone breathy and deep again—her natural voice, he guessed. “Fine. You’ve caught me. I’m actually…” She paused. “A serving-girl. I’ve been sent to scout you.”

“Mm. I gathered that. A servant of the Tao clan, or so you say.”

“Yes. That’s right.” Somehow I doubt it. She had a master's bearing, not a servant's. Her clothes might've been a servant's, bearing a two-ringed crest (earrings and nose-rings, maybe?), but he wasn't fooled.

He had a hunch he was speaking to Young Mistress Tao. He’d barely heard the Tao name over the few days he’d been eavesdropping—it was, as far as he could tell, a mildly prosperous mid-sized clan.

So why scout him? He was no threat to them. He supposed he might as well figure out; it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, sitting and waiting.

“So, miss scout,” said Dorian with a lazy grin. “What are your observations?”

"One moment..." She let down her cowl. Out flowed a luscious mane of auburn hair; it was as though the most gorgeous colors of the sunset had been woven together in shimmering locks, drifting around her in a saintly corona. Dorian’s mind went blank.

Not Dorian’s mind. Io’s mind. Saints, was this embarrassing. First Lin, now this? He wrestled back control in an instant, but the damage was done. There was a smug grin on her face, her full, pretty lips curved up just so. Only then did he realize his mouth still hung slightly open. He snapped it shut. This blasted body!

"Ah…That's better." She smirked, leaning across the table, and spoke in a low purr.

“I think you, Io Rust, are most impressive. I think you may be just the man my clan needs. Just the man I need.”

Dorian blinked. Then a sardonic grin slid across his face. Imagine that. “Miss, are you asking to be my friend?”