So weeks ago, he defeated the Red Sorcerer in a battle of words and earned a favour.
Tonight, he was collecting it.
He found the sorcerer outside an old smithy right across Xander’s mansion. Apparently, the smith was phenonal at combining tal trinkets with Xander’s pottery. The Scottish male sat on a stack of broken crates. The torchlight flickered against his wild red hair, giving him an almost demonic glow. Dressed in a worn kilt and tunic, Alastair looked every bit the warrior-poet, though his lips curled into sothing between a grin and a sneer when he saw Myth approach.
"Ah, Myth," Alastair drawled, stretching his arms as though preparing for a brawl. "Here I was, hopin’ ye ca to challenge again. Or perhaps drink with ? Or...you’ve co lookin’ for yer favor."
"I do," Myth replied smoothly. His voice was a gentle lody, neither urgent nor pleading. "You haven’t forgotten, I hope?"
"’Course not," the sorcerer huffed. "A favor is a favor. Na it."
Dasha tilted his head slightly, considering how best to word it. "I need you to repair the Sukhothai. The stalls, the shops—too many are falling apart. You’re the greatest Transmuter in the Underground. Fix them."
Alastair blinked. He was not expecting that.
He folded his arms, studying Myth with those glowing crimson eyes. "Repairin’ stalls, aye? I thought ye’d ask to enchant yer mask, give ye riches, or maybe teach ye a spell or two. But this? Ye want to use up my favor to help a bunch of rchants who don’t even know yer na?"
Myth only nodded. "It’s what I want."
For a long mont, Alastair just stared at him. Then, with a bark of laughter, he shook his head. "Ye are a strange one, Myth. Aye, fine. Let’s fix the bloody Bazaar."
And so they did.
Alistair would walk, talk, and then raise his arms. Eyes closed, crimson tendrils of light snaked through the wooden beams of stalls, reinforcing them. The faded cloth canopies regained their color, vibrant reds and golds stretching over shops once more. Where rchants had patched up broken doors with scraps of fabric, Alastair replaced them with strong oak, the knots and imperfections smoothed away.
People watched in awed silence. So whispered prayers, others simply stared, uncertain whether to trust the sorcerer’s work. But none of them knew Myth. None of them even realized he was behind it.
That was the point.
Dasha didn’t need their gratitude. What mattered was control—and he had it. Because what no one knew was that these were the stalls sponsored by the Professor. He promised the people he would not only repair but improve. The professor was making full on that promise.
The owners didn’t know Myth was the Professor. The owners were told in advance that fortune would co this way and that the best would co to repair them.
Here he was—the Red Sorcerer.
By rebuilding it, Dasha Pang was increasing his own wealth and power under the guise of selflessness.
The Red Sorcerer continued for hours. By the end, sweat lined his brow, and his breathing had grown heavier. The last thing he repaired was a small apothecary, the shattered windows reforming like water turning into ice. When he finally stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck, he let out a tired sigh.
"That’s it," Alastair muttered. "If I do any more, I’ll collapse."
Dasha nodded. "You did well."
Alastair scoffed, but there was a strange look in his eyes. Sothing between curiosity and disbelief. "Tell , Myth. Who are ye?"
Dasha remained silent.
The sorcerer crossed his arms, gaze sharp. "I’ve been watchin’ ye. Ye play music that brings n to tears, ye speak with the weight of soone who’s seen too much, and now ye give away yer favor for people who don’t even know ye. It doesn’t add up."
"..."
Alastair squinted. "Are ye a prophet? So kind of wanderin’ saint?"
"I am myself. Nothing more."
Alastair studied him for a long mont. Then, voice quiet, he said: "Take off the mask."
Dasha pretended to hesitate. Then, slowly, he reached up and removed the black opera mask.
The candlelight cast shadows across his face, accentuating the scars—thin, deliberate cuts running down his cheeks like knife strokes made with cruel precision. His dark eyes, usually so guarded, softened just enough.
Alastair inhaled sharply. "What happened?"
Dasha did not let emotion cloud him. "I was... unworthy. A disgrace. And for that, they sought to carve the imperfections out of ."
"And?"
"I never saw myself as imperfect. Everything in this world possesses value, no matter how insignificant it may be."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Dasha Pang t his gaze. Beautiful. Wholly pure and without corruption. That was what everyone believed. This quiet, quaint man was perfect. Alastair started laughing.
"Is sothing wrong?"
The sorcerer’s voice was low and oozing with sothing raw. "I don’t care for kings," he said. "I don’t care for generals, nor n like Xander or Alcibiades. I’ve served ’em before, aye, but none of them ever ant a damn thing." His red eyes burned. "But ye? The way ye play, the way ye speak—ye remind of my mother."
"..."
"She played the fiddle," Alastair murmured. "Not like ye, of course. But she had that sa... sothing. The kind of music that makes the world stop." His voice wavered. "She used to sing to sleep with it." Then, softer: "She died before I gained this power. I never got to save her. I’ve been wanderin’ ever since."
Dasha listened.
Alastair’s next words ca with quiet reverence. "I don’t believe in money. Not really. I believe in love. And yer music, yer words—" he exhaled, almost smiling, "ye remind of a good world. Tell , what do you seek?"
"A world that listens to my words," Myth said. "A world where I can live without fault."
The Sorcerer’s mind was made-up. "Do you mind if I follow ya?"
Dasha didn’t have to fake the hesitation in his voice. "Follow?"
Alastair nodded. "I feel you’re the type not to care for what you do. You’re probably holess, ay? I can get you wherever you want. The Dark Tower, the Slums, the Heavens, wherever."
"The Heavens..."
"The Endless Bar—I am sure you have heard of it. It is the dream of every bard to play at Dionysus’s Theater. To be basked in the presence of the god...do you wish for that?"
"I would enjoy that very much. The figures of the Dark Tower, I admit, I would like to see their opinion on my music."
"Ha, going straight for the big boys." The Red Sorcerer grinned. "If you were any other man, that might be suicide. Don’t worry, I’ll protect ya."
’I know you will.’
With the Red Sorcerer by his side, Dasha Pang could officially traverse the Dark Tower up to the seventieth floor. Frankly, even he didn’t expect things to go this smoothly. Although the Red Sorcerer had not yet bent to his will, he was nonetheless an excellent ally of his as Myth.
***
The black opera mask slipped off and was replaced by the white Venetian mask as he went down the basent of the pescheria owned by Savario. His shop was among those that was upgraded by the Red Sorcerer. Seeing the professor, Savario and his own son bowed down to him.
"Thank you, Professor," they chanted. The Professor gave a nod.
"I will be ditating," he said. "Do keep quiet."
Through the store, down the hatch and stairs he went. Tap, tap, tap. One last door till the secret basent room. He opened it—
"Hi."
Grace was there, seated with her arms crossed. So was Xavier.
’Both of them here? Sothing is up, I see.’
Every hour of Dasha’s day was busy. He had to be Myth, he had to sing and praise those at the Symposium. He had to be the Professor and manage the shops and territory he secretly required, on top of planning against Old Rocco and his "La Bocca Vecchia". He had to be Dasha and learn from Grace and Dr. Elise Thornton.
All in twenty-four hours. He took power naps in order throughout the day in order to fit all that in his schedule.
"Be quick." Dasha took off his cloak and hung it over the chair. Grace and Xavier, they had their arms crossed and they hadn’t looked at him. Dasha sat down. Sleep and ditation, this was the ti for that, not conversation. That was when Xavier spoke, still without looking over.
"There are many things we have to inform you of, although one of them, we have yet to confirm with absolute certainty."
The shock, the awe, the fear almost....sothing big happened. Sothing concerning him.
"Sothing happened in a gate?" Dasha guessed.
Grace’s eyes flickered over to him. Not a hint of joy in her.
"It...doesn’t seem possible, so we plan to investigate further. However..."
Grace trailed off for Xavier to finally say it.
"A player defeated Izanami."
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