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If anything in this land had sparked the prince’s curiosity, it wasn’t the Sant’Angelo Sanctuarium—the grand headquarters of the Church—or its cathedral. Rather, it had been the lively chaos of the lower districts, where a certain dwarf chef served rare and eccentric cuisine. That experience had felt far fresher, far more stimulating.

(…And it brought with it an unexpected encounter, too.)

Just thinking of that face—of that memory—Corrad Simon Aulanthia felt an itch deep inside him, a fluttering emotion he couldn’t quite explain. Lost in it, he cast his gaze out the window and let slip a sighing complaint.

“Good grief… By now, Emil is probably out in the lower districts investigating with Lady Clara. I would’ve liked to join them, if it were at all possible…”

““Absolutely not, Your Highness! Please show some regard for your own safety!!””

His valet and royal guard, stationed beside him, both replied at once with courteous yet forcefully firm voices that slammed the notion down without leaving any room for argument.

“There are reports that some sort of incident occurred last night. Your Highness, we are prepared to overlook the occasional indulgence—but anything that might call your worth as heir into question… no, even more than that—though it chills us to even say it aloud—any reckless act that could open the door for Sir Ernest to take advantage must be strictly avoided.”

Incidentally, said Ernest was nine years older, the illegitimate child between Corrad’s father and a castle maid, and therefore officially regarded not as a sibling but merely a subordinate. However, due to his seniority and his deeply ingrained belief in the absolute supremacy of the Aulanthia royal line, there remained persistent voices—especially in the troubled northern regions—whispering that perhaps it was Ernest, the military man, and not Corrad, the civilian, who was better suited to sit on the throne.

Corrad’s current visit to the Eunice Theocracy had a strategic purpose: to test how much influence the House of Aulanthia could wield in the soon-to-be-formed “Northern United Federation” (tentatively called the Livitium Kingdom), a political union slated to take shape in a few years under loud and grand fanfare.

In truth, the framework had already been drawn up among the region’s three great powers, Cilento, Eunice, and Aulanthia. But the question now was: if this “Livitium” were a pie, how large a slice could Corrad carve out for himself? His presence here was, essentially, part of a rigged performance meant to solidify his position—both at home and abroad—as the unshakable next monarch.

Responding to his fussy retainers’ advice, Corrad shrugged his shoulders and replied, “I know, I know. That’s why I sent Emil in my place today, and I’ll settle for just hearing the report later.”

Though his usual nonchalant attitude remained unchanged, there was a distinct weariness woven into his tone.

His gaze drifted toward the elegant birdcage, where a tropical bird from the southern lands fluttered, and a faint, self-mocking smirk twisted the corner of his lips…

Then, as he thought of that fragile yet pure-hearted girl who must still be flying freely under this same sky, his smile shifted—into something like yearning, or perhaps delight.

♢♦♢♦♢

“Places with slave markets always end up looking the same, don’t they?”

The filthy alleys tangled together like animal trails, winding between mismatched street stalls packed tightly along pathways barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Most of the wares, displayed directly on the ground, appeared scavenged from a garbage heap: chipped tableware, torn clothing, chairs with broken legs clumsily patched together, slabs of suspiciously purple meat, and pitch-black “bread of the poor.” Originally intended as horse feed after long journeys or exhausting labor, this bread—made from bran and rye and costing a third of the price of even the cheapest human black bread—was eaten by the destitute solely for its filling quality.

“Have you been here before, Lady Clara?”

The one who asked, Kaisa, walked on my right side, keeping a sharp eye on our surroundings. She was the leader of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks, a group of female adventurers flanking me front and back, guarding me tightly from beggars and pickpockets alike.

“Not this exact place, no, but I did once visit a similar area when searching for someone—through a friend, or rather, an acquaintance. That place was tucked away in some dismal alley as well, overflowing with shady and vulgar stalls.”

“Hehh. I thought as much from how you moved last night—you’re not exactly some sheltered noble’s flower, huh?”

“Guh…!”

At the front of the group, Daniella faltered for a moment, seemingly recalling her misstep the night before.

“Quite so. I remember seeing stalls with those creepy, squirming dolls, or merchants selling obvious scam raffles with no real prizes—”

“Step right up, step right up! How about a magic puppet crafted with superempire-level super technology? Or maybe a raffle filled with treasure straight from the labyrinth! No blanks! At the very least, every ticket comes with a free noodle refill at our newly opened pork-bone ramen shop, Charge-ken! Only five copper coins per ticket, what a deal!”

“The more I look, the more my… or rather, my master’s old acquaintance comes to mind. A swindler of a merchant who looked exactly like that. Well—he does have a pretty generic face. Must just be someone with a coincidentally similar look.”

It couldn’t possibly be the same person, the time periods don’t even match.

Then again, shady merchants like him probably pop up in every era and every place.

I made my peace with that thought and kept walking, only to hear a loud sneeze and what sounded suspiciously like a voice muttering behind me: “Oh myyy? Could it be that somewhere out there, a beautiful young lady is talking about me again? Tch tch, such a sinful man I am…”

A white, winged cat darted back and forth at my feet—Sechs, supposedly Luke’s pet(?) who’d also been flung into this era—turned to look at me and let out a single meow, as if to say, “Quit getting distracted by pointless stuff and hurry up already.”

There’s a saying, “like a cat in a stranger’s house,” but this one? He never breaks stride from his own rhythm.

Even this morning, without me noticing, he had shown up out of nowhere and was now strutting beside me with a dignified look, as if he’d been watching the commotion unfold from the very start.

“—Oh? Might that be it, Lady Clara? The estate belonging to that slaver in question?”

Sir Simon’s attendant, Emil—who was, for some reason, tagging along with us on this trip—pointed to a building that rose a good two heads taller than the others nearby.

“It would appear so. If only we can find some clue about Maria Lou there.”

“Hmm… if I recall correctly, the current adoptive father took her in from there three years ago, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Anything before that is a complete blank. I’m sure the higher-ups in the Church must know something, but they remain tight-lipped. Given how disconnected they seem from the present situation, I doubt we can rely on them. Which means we’ll just have to gather information ourselves, the old-fashioned way.”

“I see, I see.”

Nodding, Emil pulled a small notebook and pen from his coat and began scribbling something down.

“And what are you doing, exactly?”
“Just work. Please don’t mind me.”

…This man really is full of mysteries.

Tilting my head slightly in confusion, I took out the letter of introduction written by the hobbit who apparently led the local Adventurers’ Guild. With the letter firmly in hand, I approached the estate’s entrance, where two rough-looking guards—both centaur hybrids armed with spears and bows—stood watch.

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