CHAPTER 89: INTERVIEWER (1)

[EXP Gained: 48 (Social Weight)]

[Trait Triggered: Intimidation Field — Passive Reputation Increased]

[City Markers Updated — Noticed by Local Trackers]

Lucen sighed.

’Great. Now they’re watching again.’

—

Lucen walked three steps past Halren before the second problem caught up.

He saw it in reflection first.

Not in the stone.

Not in his system.

In the curve of a street kiosk window, silver-plated, old frame, glass warped just enough to show the outline of three different camera lenses aimed at his back.

Phones.

People.

Recording.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t turn.

Just kept walking.

But his mind locked in.

Far right, tall girl, streetwear coat, half-eaten mana wrap in one hand, phone raised at shoulder-height like it was casual. It wasn’t. Her thumb hovered near the record glyph.

Middle distance, two younger teens, drift school badges, one whispering excitedly while holding up a cracked device with a fractured lens and a glowing timestamp hovering just above it. Livecast.

Closer, man near the vendor stall, not filming, just watching. No badge. No expression.

Lucen clocked all of it in three seconds.

—

Lucen kept walking.

He didn’t break stride. Didn’t run. Didn’t bolt for a corner like someone trying to avoid heat.

Just kept walking.

Calm.

Measured.

Right boot brushing against loose gravel near the edge of the mana-tiled curb. Left heel catching slightly on a section of raised city-plate where the concrete hadn’t re-set properly after a drift rift closed last week. Every step slow enough to register, fast enough to not look rehearsed.

He didn’t check over his shoulder.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel the angle of the phones. The hum of a lens trying to focus.

One of the newer models made a faint shift in air pressure when its zoom core adjusted, enough for someone like Lucen, who’d trained his sense threads to pick up on spell movement, to notice.

He cut left at the edge of the plaza.

No announcement. No big move. Just a shift between awnings, away from the drift café, away from the benches where two guild kids in half-armor were arguing about sigil design, and toward the side corridor that led between two vendors.

One sold fried root oil bars. The other printed low-rank glyph cards that probably didn’t even work.

The alley was cooler.

Less light. Less ambient spellheat.

Lucen let himself breathe here.

Not deeply.

Just enough.

The footsteps followed. Not in sync. Not all three.

But one.

Lucen turned his head slightly, nothing dramatic. Just a glance through a dusty display window, mirrored on the inside from a poorly placed anti-theft sigil.

The tall girl.

Still following.

Phone still half-up. Closer now.

She was maybe nineteen. Long coat, spellboots with too-clean soles, and the kind of expression people wore when they thought they were catching something before it blew up.

Lucen exhaled through his nose. Turned another corner.

She sped up.

"Hey!" she called.

Lucen didn’t answer.

"I saw what you did back there."

Still no response.

She jogged up beside him, a little breathless now, but eager.

"I got the whole thing. The flare, the A-rank guy backing down, the crowd—everything."

Lucen looked at her.

Not angry.

Just tired.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

Lucen raised a brow. "Why?"

She grinned. "I’m tagging the vid. If I drop it on circuit feeds, it’ll hit hard."

He paused, then asked, dry, "Is that a threat or a compliment?"

She blinked.

Then laughed once. "Compliment. Duh. You’re what, B-rank? C-class playing higher?"

Lucen didn’t answer.

She kept pace.

"I’m Zey. I stream for minor drift recaps—student reels, mid-tier stuff. Nothing crazy. But this? You’d trend."

Lucen stopped walking.

Turned toward her fully.

"Delete it."

She raised her brows. "You serious?"

"Very."

Zey frowned. "Dude, come on. You flared clean. You looked—no offense—you looked like you were ready to eat that guy alive. People want to see that. That kind of presence? It’s rare."

Lucen’s tone didn’t change.

"Delete it."

She hesitated.

Then narrowed her eyes, squinting like she just started seeing a new angle.

"Wait. Are you hiding your class?"

Lucen didn’t blink.

Zey lowered her phone slightly. The smile faded.

"You’re not a support, are you."

Lucen turned without answering.

Kept walking.

She didn’t follow this time.

Just stood there, still clutching the phone, thumbs twitching over it, uncertain whether she was filming a rising star or a walking violation of the city system transparency charter.

He didn’t care.

Let her wrestle with it.

Let her wonder.

Lucen muttered under his breath, "Fan-fucking-tastic."

—

He made it to the lower lanes before his breath evened out. Not because he was winded, but because the weight of being seen hadn’t worn off yet.

Down here, the streets weren’t lit by drift-signboards. No ads. No AI-driven interface walls.

Just rusted conduit, overhead piping, and the quiet buzz of vendor booths trying to sell knockoff elixirs to low-rankers on break from side-hustle combat drills.

Lucen found a corner bench near a broken vending frame.

No one sat nearby.

He dropped onto the edge, elbows on knees, and rubbed a hand through his hair.

Then finally opened the system tab again.

No system messages.

Not really.

No warnings about viral exposure.

No notes on pending fame.

Just raw data.

[Mana: 36 / 148]

[Recovery: 2.6/sec]

[Spells Available: 11]

[Open Slots: 3]

[Suggested Action: None]

He stared at that last line.

’Useless.’

Lucen slid the interface closed and leaned back.

Not relaxed.

Just... off-center.

This was what he didn’t want.

Not attention.

Fame.

It was messy. Loud. Full of other people’s opinions.

The kind that drew recruiters and rivals alike.

And with three spell slots open, Lucen didn’t have time to dodge questions and redesign his archive.

His hands itched.

He wanted to start now.

Right here. Right on this bench.

Thread the logic, trace the shapes, fill the blanks before his body recovered and before another curious smart-ass tried to film him having coffee with a grenade in his back pocket.

He pulled his gloves off slowly, cracked his fingers once, then reached into his inner coat pocket.

Small notebook.

Plain.

Unmarked.

Not digital.

He flipped to a blank page and started drawing.

No flourish.

No glamour.

Just work.