What he didn't know was that an outside observer, without even seeing this scene or knowing his thoughts, wouldn't trust his judgment. Not in this, not in anything. Oh, sure, the man could be intimidating to most and damned if he didn't have the popularity of the crowd on his side. But in general, unless he could back up his statements with solid proof, no one would believe him.
This wandering man owned a city? Yeah, right. This wandering drunk that could be seen from every corner of Ignas to Aquvy didn't own much more than the clothes on his back. The Ethos was the only legit organization that had Gear parts of any sort. He'd have to be some sort of pirate to back up that claim, and it was quite clear that he was washed up and far too gone out of form to be a better fighter than he was.
Did he care?
Not one iota. He was on a mission. Damned if he knew what the mission was, but as far as he cared, life was worth living. He didn't have time to worry about those who tried to bring him down, there was too much fun he hadn't experienced!
Even so, even he had his limits. Years ago, in a brief moment of clarity, he tried to prove them wrong. The calls of "Freak," the curses, the stammering gibberish and being looked at like he was a Reaper was enough to make sure he kept the area to himself.
Years have passed since then, and those who claimed to see the area were brushed aside as being overwhelmingly drunk at the time. But while they knew, they never managed to convince anyone. And so their knowledge died with them.
In future brief moments, he always wondered what was so weird about the city. Sure, it beared no real resemblance to Aveh or Kislev, but to him, it was more than just architecture. It was more than just location. For four thousand years, Big Joe had one name for it.
Home.