Masterdrike. Chapter 7: The Postcard

Having finally made his choice, Kick waited for a sign from his former clan master.

At the first light of dawn, Kick rose. He felt a rare surge of renewed vigor. Dressing quickly, he stepped out into the main hall.

“Stand?”

He found the cooks already at their stations, the air thick with the scent of early prep. Unable to help himself, he wandered over to greet them.

“Good morning, Mr. Slacker,” one of them teased. “Where have you been hiding these last few days?”

Kick’s voice dropped, his tone bordering on sheepish. “I’ve been… enjoying myself, to an extent. I suppose excess is a poison, but sometimes, a necessary one.”

Stand appeared in the doorway, the haze of sleep still clinging to his face. “Bothering my staff again?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Evergreen,” one of the cooks replied with a smile. “He seems pleasant enough.”

Kick basked in the small compliment, tossing a triumphant smirk in Stand’s direction. Stand watched the exchange, maintaining his composure.

“It seems someone is auditioning for a pay cut today,” he remarked dryly.

“Breakfast is ready, sir. Shall we serve?”

“Come on, Kick,” Stand beckoned. “Let’s eat.”

They sat down to a spread of “premium” abundance. Theoretically, Stand came from high pedigree and should have possessed the table manners to match. In practice, both men fell upon the food as if they were rising from the dead.

Contentment settled over them; the meal was superb. With his mouth half-full, Stand turned to Kick. “So, how was the bender? Did it actually clear your head?”

Kick, chewing with equal enthusiasm, winced. “It went worse than I expected. Pass the sauce?”

Stand slid the bottle over, never breaking his rhythm. “Worse, really? After spending years running, leaving a trail of chaos and corpses in your wake, your first instinct is to drink, drug yourself, blow your credits, and sleep with the first person you stumble across. And it didn’t go well? Truly shocking.”

Kick froze. He stopped chewing, the words landing like a physical blow. “That… actually hurt,” he muttered.

Stand remained unfazed. “Sometimes it works, I won’t lie. But in your case, this ending was a mathematical certainty. The worst part is, you knew it too.” He took another bite, adding loudly: “This is incredible… maybe I should give them that raise.”

Kick continued eating, though his pace slowed as his appetite began to wither. “So, is the paperwork done? I don’t see the mountain of parchment anymore.”

Stand nodded. “Finished. It was brutal; I barely slept. What’s left is all digital—much faster. This place is remarkable.”

Kick looked around, curious. “How did you manage to land a place like this?”

Stand took a long sip of juice. “Essentially, these were lands owned by London’s high officials before the Restructuring. After the reform, they neglected to reclaim the legal titles—bureaucratic negligence, I assume. I secured them as part of the deal for handing over Near.”

“You make it sound easier than it probably was,” Kick remarked, stunned by the simplicity of the maneuver. He frowned. “Why doesn’t everyone jump on these properties? And why did you have to trade a captive kid for some documents? That’s illegal—and more than a little strange.”

Stand ate with unnerving serenity. “Remember, you were right there helping me. If I go down, we both go to a cell.” He leaned in slightly. “Those documents are guarded by the most powerful figures in the government. Yes, it’s ‘illegal,’ but the land itself exists in a jurisdictional vacuum. As for Near, he played his own part in his ‘abduction.’ They can’t report us without exposing their own rot.”

Kick watched him in silence, finally grasping the terrifying depth of Stand’s foresight.

Stand stood up, finished. He moved toward the lounge, waiting for Kick’s next move. “Now, what about you? More parties? More self-destruction?”

“I thought it over last night, after a talk with an old acquaintance,” Kick said, his tone turning firm. “I’m going away to train for a while. I need to sharpen my mind.”

Stand’s interest piqued. “Interesting. Where to? And who is this ‘old friend’? Someone from the clan, I presume?”

Kick finished his meal and glanced toward the kitchen with a faint smile. “That was spectacular. Those chefs are world-class.” He walked over to the oversized sofa, sinking into the cushions before answering. “Yes, he was from the clan. He told me how to find a training ground, and he mentioned something else—something that lines up with what you said. Apparently, someone within the government wanted Near dead to prevent a revolution. And from the sounds of it, that revolution is being orchestrated by someone in the government itself.”

Stand relaxed into his seat. “I’d heard whispers, but I didn’t think they’d move so soon. Sabotaging their own foundation?” He trailed off, his gaze drifting as if looking at something far away. “Whatever. It’s no longer my concern.”

“Stand, will you help me send a letter? I need to ensure it reaches the right hands.”

“You really need help with a letter? It can’t be that difficult.”

“The difficult part,” Kick countered, “is making sure the two million credits inside don’t get stolen, and that it actually finds the location.”

Stand let out a short laugh. “I could just steal it myself.”

Kick didn’t laugh back. “I’m serious. I need information, and this is my only shot. The address is somewhere in District Three, out on the fringes near the marshes.”

“Do you want to go yourself?”

“No,” Kick said, his brow furrowing. “I have no desire to see this person.”

Stand nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll start once I’ve finished digesting this masterpiece of a breakfast.”

The letter read as follows:

Hello Fernigan, I hope this finds you well. I regret my behavior before I left the clan, but I am out of options. I need the location and the contact to begin re-induction training. Nothing more to add. I still don’t understand why you’re asking for so much money.

*> — Your student, Kick.

Kick stared at the envelope with blatant skepticism. “Do you really think a letter will reach such a godforsaken place?”

Stand took the letter, his confidence unshaken. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go. It’ll take a few days, though.”

Three days passed. Stand vanished into a whirlwind of meetings, while Kick did the only thing he knew how to do when the world stood still: he ate, he walked, he browsed shops, and he watched films. Occasionally, he chatted with the cooks. Outside, the city maintained its indifferent rhythm.

Nothing happened. There was only that hollow sensation of aimlessness, waiting for a reply that felt like a ghost. He told himself he had no expectations, a lie designed to stave off the sting of disappointment. The hours bled into one another until, finally, on the third night…

The rain was a deluge, and the city’s power grid was flickering. The penthouse had backup power, but the heating system had buckled under the strain. The cold crept in, tightening the atmosphere. Kick lay on the sofa, staring at a ceiling that seemed to get higher and more distant by the minute.

Stand burst in, winded and damp from a corporate summit. “The letter arrived!”

Kick looked at him blankly. He had truly convinced himself it wouldn’t come.

Stand handed it over.

Fernigan’s response read:

Hello, my son. It warms my heart to know you are well. I had heard reports of the ‘passing’ of another of my students; I am glad to see the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated. I shall assume you wish to keep it that way. I am well—better than ever, in fact. As I once told you, I will always be here when you have need of me. The address and contact are as follows: […] I hope this new path treats you well. Remember to tell them I sent you. And bring plenty of coin. See you soon.

*> — Fernigan Cloh.

Kick crumpled the paper in his fist, his jaw tight. “That miserable old man,” he hissed.

Stand looked at him, confused. “Where is the place?”

Kick let out a long, heavy sigh. "Outside the continent of Masterdrike…

…"

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