Chapter Eight: A Troubled Era

Anya spoke smoothly, her tone shifting completely. Ethan could tell she was relaying someone else’s words—most likely his father, Alberto’s. He didn’t interrupt, listening quietly.

“True names are an essence of nothingness. The Old Continent commonly believes true names are a gift from the gods, a divine power bestowed, a grant of authority. The New Continent, however, believes true names arise from all things; true names are the manifestation of the world’s truth, concrete and tangible. That is my true name,” Anya paused and explained, “I am Al. These are all things Al told me.”

“So what is my father’s true name?” Ethan’s own true name seemed to combine the two views—indeed, it came from the divine, or rather, he was the god himself. His authority was also a concrete embodiment of the world’s truth.

Anya recited a phrase in an extremely obscure tone, which Ethan did not understand. She quickly switched to words he could grasp: “Translated into common language, it means ‘unifier of violence,’ that is, leader.”

“And what about Joan and the others? Are they also leaders?”

“I’m not sure about Joan, but Fred was once a thug, a user of violence, that is...” Anya repeated another phrase in the same arcane tone.

“From what you say, a thug ranks below a leader?”

“Correct.”

“Then what true name is above the leader?”

“Supposedly, it’s the ‘Saint of the Underworld.’” This time Anya did not utter the obscure true name that the ‘Saint of the Underworld’ represented. It was merely Alberto’s conjecture.

Saint of the Underworld—could it be Sandro?

“Why would my father tell you all this?” Ethan wondered. It couldn’t be that he foresaw this day when Ethan would ask.

“Al believed I had the chance to become a true name bearer, to see the world’s truth...” Anya’s tone shifted back to the earlier narrative style.

“Anya, you are a simple person, with only one thing on your mind. That’s good. My grandfather was such a man—he walked single-mindedly through mud and thorns, and thus the Boretta family came to be. Do not change yourself. Someday, if you hear a voice calling you, you will see the world’s reality and achieve your true name.”

Anya said no more, clearly Alberto had spoken enough. Judging by these words, acquiring a true name was profoundly mysterious. Yet Alberto said his grandfather had obtained his true name that way, not himself. Combined with what Emilio had said when killing Joan tonight, Ethan could infer that true names might be inheritable.

The conversation ended there. The car passed through the revelry of the night and finally stopped before a residential area.

This was the southern district of Winst, a middle-class residential zone in the city. Cabrea had not risen much over the years—not yet fully affluent, unable like the Borettas to buy villas in the eastern district. The money earned so far only barely afforded a single detached house with a garden in the south.

That house now lay in the darkness like a crouching beast.

Because the south district was merely a middle-class gathering place, streetlights were poorly maintained. Nearby streetlamps were broken and unrepaired, leaving the area pitch black. Their car blended perfectly into the shadows.

The only light came from the Cabrea house itself, faint and yellowish—perhaps lanterns—where armed guards stood watch at the door, reinforced with iron chains to block any vehicle’s entry or exit.

Ethan sensed malicious intent flickering in the darkness. Clearly, the place was heavily guarded.

Among that malice, a force shone like a firefly in the night—Fred.

Ethan perceived him more clearly now than before, even better than at the Northern Star. He vaguely felt he had grown stronger.

At the same moment.

Inside the Cabrea family’s detached house.

The living room.

The main lights were deliberately left off. A man with a weary face sat before several lanterns, smoking.

From the shadows, another person emerged and took a seat beside him. He looked at a young man reeking of alcohol sitting in the main seat and said, “Latest news: tomorrow he’ll meet all the family heads at the Boretta company.”

Hearing this, the young man, who had been tense as if holding his breath, relaxed completely and chuckled: “So nothing will happen tonight, right, Fred?”

“In theory, yes. Even if he killed Joan, he was previously uninvolved in family business, so few can be used against us. Even if he holds a meeting tomorrow, not many will attend. I’ll make a few more calls. Things aren’t too bad yet.”

Fred sat in the darkness, unsure if he was comforting the young man or himself.

“That’s great, Fred. It’s good to have you here, really. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’d do.”

The young man was, of course, Joan’s only brother, Paren.

In fact, just over an hour ago, he had been drinking in a bar with a few flashy newcomers from Great Lake City, planning how to take advantage of them tonight.

Then a phone call nearly made him soil himself.

His brother was dead.

In an instant, he felt like dying himself. He knew too well the many dirty deals he’d done. With his brother gone, he dared not imagine what their enemies would do to him.

He returned home to the south district nearly broken, downed three more shots of gin, and barely managed to sit there smoking.

Fortunately, Fred was here.

His brother’s most trusted man.

Fred had brought a troop of gunmen, turning the house’s defense into a fortress.

“Listen, Paren, you must pull yourself together. This is the critical moment. Stop drinking. Go wash your face. I’ll make some calls. Then we need to discuss tomorrow’s succession ceremony. You have to take over everything your brother had as quickly as possible, then we strike back.”

“No, Fred, please leave me be, just for a while. My mind’s a mess. I need a drink and a good sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll talk tomorrow. You said it yourself—he lacks power. It’ll take him a long time to gather strength.”

Paren clutched his head, begging.

“Fine, go rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. But no drinking then.”

Fred sighed and waved someone over to escort Paren to rest. He stood up to make calls himself.

Yet as he rose, a strange unease gripped him. Nervously, he approached the window and glanced outside.

Outside was pitch black. Nothing stirred.

It must be a hallucination.

That kid Ethan suddenly killing Joan was probably driven to desperation. He wouldn’t have the nerve to launch an attack tonight, right?

“What a terrible era.”