As Ryan turned to follow the path indicated by the courier's summons, a frantic, ink-stained proprietor from a nearby, steam-venting tea-house sidled out from beneath the paper-lanterned eaves. Clutching a frayed, ribbon-tied clan scroll to his chest with trembling fingers, the desperate shopkeeper intercepted Ryan, his voice pitching into a panicked whisper reminiscent of an over-budgeted caterer facing a catastrophic last-minute cancellation. He begged Ryan—whose stiff white collar and analytical posture clearly marked him as someone accustomed to bureaucratic audits—to quickly authenticate the parchment's official seals and verify its asset lineage before the stern magistrate made his inevitable loop back through the market square.
Ryan let out a long, bone-weary sigh, the exact cadence of a marketing coordinator cornered by a jittery venue partner five minutes before a major product launch. Adjusting the heavy canvas strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, he cast a wary glance toward the empty street corner where the imperial guard had vanished, then reluctantly accepted the frayed scroll. With the practiced exhaustion of a man perpetually stuck cleaning up everyone else's administrative oversights, Ryan unrolled the yellowed paper across a spare wooden crate, his fingers hovering over the archaic calligraphy as if ready to log a frantic inventory discrepancy before his afternoon commute finally dissolved entirely.