Chapter 2: Survival in the Streets

Before the first light of dawn, Musa stood alone in the center of the hall. The fragment of the Golden Seal pulsed with a faint heat in his palm, like a seed planted deep in his bone and blood, quietly taking root. He closed his eyes, his fingertips tracing the intricate grooves of the shard—it was a piece of a treasure map, a remnant of the ancient nautical routes left behind by his ancestors. The pre-dawn darkness pressed down on him, suffocating and heavy. News that his assets had been frozen had already rippled through the streets; at this moment, he was nothing more than a displaced wanderer with no one to protect him.

With his coin purse stolen and his phone dead, Musa had become easy prey for the street thugs. On the fringes of the spice market, three bruisers cornered him, demanding his gold chain and rings. The leader barked in a coarse voice, "Hand over everything valuable, or you aren't leaving this street alive." Musa’s gaze remained heavy. Instead of retreating, he stepped forward, slipping past them and diving into the narrow alleys of the Old City. The fragment grew warm, and an instinctual current surged within him; he could sense the forks between the sewers and the dead ends, and he didn't stop running.

The footsteps of his pursuers closed in. Musa grabbed a hanging camel-hair blanket and flung it against a rusted copper pot. A loud crash echoed through the alley, and the thugs lunged toward the noise. Taking advantage of the chaos, he vanished behind a spice stall, holding his breath. From the end of the alley came the sound of extortion: two thugs were forcing a young clerk to hand over a dossier, threatening to smash her father's shop. "Hand it over, or your old man's little shop won't exist by tomorrow." The clerk trembled, clutching the dossier to her chest, refusing to let go.

Guided by the sensation from the fragment, Musa sensed iron bars and hidden pouches tucked into the thugs' belts. He leaned down, snatched up a copper pot, and hurled it with all his might while they were distracted. The pot slammed into one man's ankle, sending him screaming to the ground. The other spun around in a rage. The clerk seized the moment to reclaim her dossier, and Musa lured the thugs toward the scrap heaps, taking a shortcut to rendezvous with her.

At the mouth of the alley, the clerk eyed him warily. "Who are you? Why help me?" Musa lied, claiming to be a broker of old archives who possessed the appeal files from her father's time. She didn't believe him, pressing further: "Do you carry a fragment of the Golden Seal?" Musa kept quiet on that, saying only, "I know your father's old superior. I can help you recover the seized files." A temporary alliance was struck: the clerk would provide leads, and Musa promised to help her reclaim the family archives held by the conglomerate.

She led him through the spice market, dodging patrol squads until they reached a weathered old café. As two glasses of mint tea were served, she asked for his true identity. Musa evaded the question. "The desert holds no secrets," he said, "but some secrets are carved into the bone." She stared at his wrist and suddenly spotted the mark of the Golden Seal. A flash of shock crossed her eyes—she recognized the royal emblem—and her fingertips trembled. Noticing her reaction, Musa calmly set down his tea and asked in a low voice, "You recognize this pattern?"

Samira didn't answer immediately. Her finger lingered on the rim of her glass, her gaze locked on the mark for a long time before she slowly withdrew her hand. She pushed the mint tea toward her lips and took a sip, as if using the heat to suppress something.

"I don't," she said, her voice lower than before.

Musa didn't press her. He simply placed his glass back on the saucer, tapping the rim twice with his finger, his eyes never leaving her face. The oil lamp in the café flickered, stretching their shadows across the mottled wall.

The silence stretched on. It lasted until the tea had gone half-cold and the street cries outside had shifted to a new set of vendors.

Samira finally spoke, her tone carrying a bone-deep exhaustion, the sound of someone with nothing left to lose. "My father was an archivist for the old royalty."

Musa stopped tapping.

"Fifteen years ago, the old dynasty collapsed, and the conglomerate took over the Royal City." She looked down at the tea leaves in her cup. "My father refused to hand over the keys to the archives. They branded him with the crime of 'concealing national treasures.' The archives were sealed, his leg was broken, and he was sent back to the countryside. I stayed in the city because I wanted to get those files back for him."

She looked up, her gaze sharp. "But among those archives is something the conglomerate has spent fifteen years searching for. My father said it was a treasure map of the old royalty, drawn on the back of the Golden Seal. And the Seal has long been missing."

Musa felt the mark on his wrist grow warm. He didn't look down, asking only, "How long have you been looking for the Seal?"

"Three years," Samira said. "In three years, I've met countless people claiming to have leads. Liars, brokers, spies. You're the first one who actually has it on him."

She paused. "So, are you a remnant of the old royalty, or just a little thief who stole it?"

Musa remained silent for a moment before answering, "Neither. I didn't even know what it was. All I know is that it's been on my wrist for as long as I can remember."

Samira stared at him, as if trying to weigh the truth of his words. After a long while, she let out a soft breath. "You said you knew my father's old superior. Who?"

"Abdullah Rashid," Musa said. "Your father's direct superior back then. Now the deputy director of the South City Archives."

Samira's hand suddenly gripped the edge of the table. "Rashid... he died three years ago. Silenced by the conglomerate, three days after he promised to help me access the files."

The café suddenly became so quiet that the crackle of the oil lamp's wick was audible.

Musa didn't look away. He knew he had stepped into a trap—a name he had made up on the fly had collided with Samira's deepest wound. He couldn't explain how he knew the name, nor why he seemed so aware of her past. He could only remain silent, and that silence was an answer in itself.

"Who the hell are you?" Samira's voice trembled slightly. "How do you know Rashid? How do you know about the archives? And why do you have the mark of the old royalty on your wrist?"

Musa looked at her and finally decided to reveal a portion of the truth. "I have amnesia. My memory begins five years ago, after a sandstorm. I woke up lying in the ruins, clutching a fragment of a map, with this mark already on my wrist. I don't know who I am or what this mark means. I only know that the map is guiding me toward something."

"What something?"

"A royal treasury, buried beneath the Royal City."

Samira's face went pale. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. After a long moment, she whispered, "I'm looking for it, too."

She rolled up her left sleeve, revealing her forearm. There was a faint, old scar there—a branded shape that was almost identical to the Golden Seal on Musa's wrist.

"My father said this mark only appears in the royal bloodline." She looked at him, her expression complex. "He said that whoever bears this mark is the last heir of the old royalty."

Musa was stunned.

Just then, the wind chime at the café door jingled. A figure wrapped in a dark robe entered, took a seat by the door, and ordered a strong tea. The stranger didn't look at them, but Musa noticed that as the man entered, his gaze lingered for a split second on Samira's exposed arm.

Samira saw it too. She quickly lowered her sleeve and whispered, "We have to go. That's a conglomerate spy."

Musa didn't hesitate. He tossed a few copper coins on the table and, as he stood, grabbed the oil lamp and blew it out. The light vanished, plunging the shop into darkness. While the stranger was blinded by the sudden gloom, the two of them slipped out the back door.

In the narrow alley, the night wind rushed in, carrying the scent of spices. Samira followed closely behind him, suddenly grabbing the hem of his clothes at a corner. "Wait."

Musa stopped.

"You said you have amnesia." She stared at him, her eyes strikingly bright in the dark. "But when you gave Rashid's name, your tone was too calm. Too calm, as if you already knew he was dead."

Musa neither denied nor admitted it. He simply said, "Perhaps I lost more than just my memories."

Samira looked at him for a long time before finally letting go. "Then we'll find them together," she said. "No matter who you are, as long as you have that mark, the conglomerate won't let you go. And I won't let them go, either."

Beyond the alley, the rhythmic footsteps of a patrol squad echoed in the distance. The two of them pressed against the wall, holding their breath. The footsteps drew closer, then gradually faded. Once it was completely silent, Samira whispered, "Tomorrow, I'll take you to the South City Archives. That's where the conglomerate is holding my father's files. Maybe the answers you want are in there."

Musa nodded. He didn't tell her that back in the café, when the spy had walked in, the half-visible token at the man's waist had been engraved with a pattern identical to the outline of the Golden Seal.

He wasn't sure if it was a coincidence or a far more dangerous signal.

The night wind swept through the alley, brushing against the mark on his wrist. Under the moonlight, the mark shimmered with a faint, dark gold luster, like something that had slept for years and was now slowly waking up.

Samira's gaze fell on the mark, and she suddenly froze.

The dark gold glow made the intricate lines appear as clear as if they were new.

"Musa," her voice dropped, as if afraid to disturb something. "That mark on your wrist... where did you get it?"

Musa's heart stirred. After a moment of silence, he said, "I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Samira stared at the mark, her suspicion gradually shifting into a complex, heavy intensity. "I've seen these lines before. In my father's study, on a half-burned parchment scroll. That is—the mark of the Royal High Priest."

The night wind swept past, leaving the alley in sudden silence.

Musa didn't speak. He felt the mark on his wrist grow warm, as if responding to her gaze.

Samira took a deep breath and stepped back. She studied him again, trying to discern if the man before her was truly an amnesiac wanderer or a member of the old elite deliberately hiding his identity.

In the end, she simply said, "Tomorrow, South City Archives. You'd better have a plausible answer for me."

Her footsteps faded. She turned and vanished into the depths of the alley.

Musa stood where he was, looking down at the mark. Moonlight flowed through the grooves like an ancient language, silently telling a story.

He clenched his fist, hiding the mark.

In the distance, the night bell tolled. It was time to find that spy.