At first, it looked like a delay.
Nothing was breaking, and no one was raising their voice. The movement simply slowed more than usual at one point—and that was enough for attention to catch. People stopped without any obvious reason, stepped back a few paces, exchanged glances. Pauses between words grew longer. Conversations did not end—they lost their direction.
The Wanderer noticed it by the rhythm.
By the way the day suddenly fell out of its accustomed step.
A cart stood near the storage awning. Not overturned, not damaged—simply halted where it was not meant to remain for long. The sacks of grain had already been unloaded and piled beside it in an uneven heap. The wooden axle looked intact, but it bore the weight poorly: add more, and the cart sagged, skewed, as if it had grown tired too soon.
“If we leave it here, it’ll get wet,” one of the workers said.
“If we drag it farther, it’ll fall apart,” another replied.
“We could take it apart and put it back together.”
“That would take half the day.”
The voices were calm. No one was truly arguing. Everyone was saying reasonable things—and that was precisely why the discussion went nowhere. Every solution dragged new complications behind it, and no one wanted to be the one to choose an imperfect option.
The Wanderer stood aside and watched. What interested him was not the grain or the cart, but how long order could tolerate a small disruption before it began to interfere with everything else.
The tavern owner approached the cart—a widow responsible for supplies and reserves. This was evident in the way she looked: not at the people, but at the consequences. She crouched, touched the axle, ran her hand along the wood.
“If we don’t deal with this now, it will be worse by evening,” she said.
“Everyone’s busy right now,” someone answered. “We can come back to it later.”
She did not argue. She simply held her gaze on the cart a moment longer than necessary.
***
The Alchemist appeared without announcement.
He did not approach—he was simply there, as if he had been present all along. The Wanderer did not notice him at once. First came the silence. The conversation did not stop, but it became unnecessary. People fell quiet on their own, as though the question had already received its answer.
The Alchemist was dressed simply, without marks or distinction. His movements were precise and unhurried, like those of a man accustomed to dealing with problems rather than doubts. He crouched, examined the axle, pressed against the wood, checked the fastening.
“Overloaded,” he said quietly. “Not broken. Yet.”
“What should we do?” the tavern owner asked.
“Deliver it,” the Alchemist replied. “But not the way you planned.”
He looked around. Not for advice—for resources. His gaze lingered on the sacks, then on a neighboring cart, then on the people standing idle.
“Unload half,” he said. “Move the rest there.”
“That one’s already full.”
“It won’t be. Today.”
He spoke calmly, without pressure. He did not give orders—he stated facts. There were no objections not because he was in charge, but because it was clear he had already walked the line of reasoning the others were only beginning to approach.
People moved. The sacks were transferred, the axle braced with a temporary clamp, the load redistributed. It all took less time than the discussion that had preceded it.
The cart moved. Slowly, carefully—but it moved.
“It’ll hold until evening,” the Alchemist said. “Tomorrow it needs replacing.”
“And if tomorrow doesn’t work?” someone asked.
“Then tomorrow will bring a different task,” he answered.
It sounded neither like a threat nor a promise. Just a fact.
The Wanderer watched closely. What struck him was not the decision itself—it was logical. What struck him was how quickly the world agreed, as if it had been waiting for precisely this person.
***
The steward approached the Alchemist—a man responsible for order, directives, and the formal recording of decisions. His posture made it clear: he was used to words carrying weight.
“The delivery has been delayed,” the steward said, without reproach.
“No,” the Alchemist replied. “It has been redistributed.”
“That needs to be recorded.”
“Record it,” the Alchemist said calmly. “The work will proceed the same way regardless.”
The steward paused, then nodded.
“Not everyone will like this.”
“Everyone will have enough,” the Alchemist replied. “Dissatisfaction can be formalized later.”
The Wanderer noticed it at once: the action had already taken place, and order was only now catching up to it with words.
The tavern owner returned.
“We’re drawing from the reserve again,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s shrinking.”
“I know.”
The Alchemist did not elaborate. Not because he could not—but because he considered it unnecessary. He knew the cost of the decision, and he chose it anyway.
***
When it was over, people dispersed quickly. The cart departed, the sacks found their places, conversations returned to familiar topics. The square resumed its steady rhythm, as though nothing had happened.
Everyone was satisfied.
The Wanderer remained standing. He felt a strange tension—not anxiety, but a subtle displacement, as though he had glimpsed a place where the world had deceived itself slightly, and done so deliberately.
He stepped closer.
“Do you decide like this often?” he asked.
“I don’t decide,” the Alchemist replied. “I postpone.”
“What?”
“The need to change more.”
The Wanderer nodded. Not because he fully understood—but because he felt the weight of the words.
“You’re right,” he said.
“I know,” the Alchemist answered calmly.
There was no self-satisfaction in it. Only the confidence of someone accustomed to being right not by conviction, but by practice.
The Wanderer watched the Alchemist walk away. People were working again, as if nothing had occurred. The day continued.
And it became clear what unsettled him.
The Alchemist was right.
And that was precisely why he was dangerous.
Not now.
Not to these people.
Not today.