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The slave trader’s mansion in the lower town of the Holy City Thera Maryth wasn’t technically a private residence. (Though I should add a big “technically” there.) In reality, it functioned more like an upscale adult entertainment venue, complete with legal drugs, alcohol, and male and female slaves used for hosting clients.

It looked like we had come in through the back entrance (probably because it would’ve been awkward for a Shrine Maiden to stroll right in through the front door. I imagine Kaisa took care to arrange that). After taking a long detour around the building, we were finally guided to the main entrance, where we were greeted by a bold relief depicting liquor and Stigma collars. Next to the plaque bearing the establishment’s name—Cervantes—there was, displayed with utmost pride, a certificate issued by the Church declaring the place a “respectable establishment not in violation of public morals.”

Just so you know, the certification is granted to businesses that fulfill the following three conditions:
1) The owner must be a first-class citizen or higher.
2) They must have no criminal record.
3) They must be recognized as a devout follower of the Church (typically meaning they’ve made generous donations).

While the first two criteria are absolute, the third is more flexible—it’s evaluated relatively, and with a recommendation from a high-ranking cleric, it’s possible to fudge the first two a little. So for those with money and ties to the authorities, it’s not exactly a high hurdle to clear.

As a result, nearly every large establishment on the main streets of the Holy City, regardless of industry, proudly displays one of these certificates. (Think of it like the Monde Selection awards, but limited to the Eunice Theocracy.)

Still, seeing this kind of place, a brothel that also engages in human trafficking, to hang such a certificate like it’s a badge of honor or a holy pardon… is hard to stomach. No—more than that, it lays bare the corruption and moral decay of the Church for all the world to see. I couldn’t help but question their integrity.

(What part of this place is supposed to be a “Holy City”…? Sure, on the surface it’s a peaceful town upheld by the Church’s laws and order, but really, it’s just a sham. They’re simply pretending the injustices and corrupt customs don’t exist.)

With those bitter thoughts in mind, we followed the silent young man Dan deeper into the building. Maybe because it was still early in the day, the shop was nearly deserted and eerily quiet.

From what little I could see as we walked, the first floor was laid out like an ordinary tavern, while the second floor and above seemed to contain private rooms.

As for the slaves…apparently, they were kept underground. Judging by the mana vibrations I could feel through the floor and walls, there were about fifty people down there, mostly teens to those in their early twenties.

The gender ratio seemed roughly equal. Their health wasn’t terrible…though slightly undernourished, they weren’t malnourished per se, and there were no signs of serious injuries or illness for now. Still, crammed into tiny four-and-a-half tatami-mat rooms with four to five people each, they all looked gloomy and drained, completely devoid of spirit or vitality.

“…Phew.”

It wasn’t quite as bad as I had feared, but even so, compared to the lively, bright-eyed slave children I’d seen later (well, thirty years from now) in the Central Capital, the difference was staggering.

An overwhelming urge rose in me to break them all out by force, consequences be damned, but I clenched my fists and held myself back.

Just ahead, Luke’s pet cat turned to look at me with heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to say, “What are you waiting for? Hurry up already.”

With a quiet sigh, I turned away from the underground presence, dragging my lingering guilt behind me as I moved on.

Eventually, we arrived at the destination, a particularly large private room at the very back of the second floor.

It was probably reserved for high-ranking clients or shady dealings, some sort of VIP room.

(Ughhh… so tasteless…)

It was an ostentatiously luxurious room.

In terms of sheer cost, it was on par with—or perhaps even surpassed—the VIP lounges of the Adventurers’ Guild or top-class hotels. However, the direction of that extravagance was entirely different.

Where the guild’s lounges and fine hotels aimed to create a restful space for both body and mind, combining carefully selected furnishings and materials with a restrained sense of harmony, this room was a gaudy mess of excessive decorations. From the walls to the ceiling, everything was slathered in gold and garish embellishments, laid on thick with no concern for taste.

And toward the back of the room stood what were likely slaves. Judging by their Stigma collars, they belonged to various races, all beautiful boys between the ages of twelve and seventeen, each one nearly indistinguishable in charm. There were about six of them, lined up in silence, clad in nothing more than cloths wrapped around their waists, standing in vulnerable display.

While I was inwardly cringing at the vulgarity of this nouveau riche display and the tasteless theatrics of it all, a massive slab of flesh—no, a portly middle-aged man—emerged between the line of boys, his entire body decked out in an eye-burning riot of brightly colored garments and ornaments. He walked toward us with an exaggerated, almost theatrical gait.

“Welcome, Lady Clara! To think the shrine maiden herself would grace such a back-alley corner of the city—what an extraordinary honor! I, Cipriano Cervantes, president of the Cervantes Trading Company, welcome you with all my heart!”

Stopping in front of us, Mr. Cervantes bent forward with great effort, his protruding belly heaving, his triple chin jiggling as he flashed us a broad smile of greeting.

Then, as if a spring had popped, he suddenly threw his torso back in an overly dramatic flourish.

“But still…! My word, the rumors did not do you justice! ‘Fish sink, geese fall, the moon hides, flowers blush’—such beauty defies description! A true peerless beauty, surely those words were meant for you! Why, even a goddess descended to earth would pale in comparison! Good heavens…! We’ve always taken pride in the exceptional quality of our ‘products,’ but it seems we must take down our sign. I am thoroughly humbled!”

“Fish sink, geese fall…?” “A peerless beauty”…??

I immediately turned around and looked over at the women of the adventuring party, Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks—each and every one of them striking and charming in their own way.

They were the very image of a garden in full bloom, a hundred flowers blooming in harmony. Truly, the phrase “one cannot tell the iris from the orchid” fits them perfectly. Compared to them, I was more like some weed sprouting in the cracks.

“—Please don’t look around like that, Lady Clara.” At once, I was gently chided by Kaisa, sounding exasperated.

“She’s talking about you, you know! You!” For some reason, Daniella snapped at me, rather combatively.

“Tch…! To think I have to play second fiddle here…” Even Margit, who I had thought of as one of the more mild-mannered and sensible ones, ground her teeth in frustration.

“Jealousy’s not a good look, you two. Don’t you agree, Nora?”

“Totally. Daniella and Margit always act like they’re surrounded by suitors and lords, playing the reverse harem game. Honestly, I think it’s kind of fun watching them squirm, right, Natalie?”

“Mhm. Standing next to Lady Clara, the rest of us are just ‘miscellaneous extras’ in the presence of the lovely shrine maiden.”

The twins, Natalie and Nora, exchanged devilish grins and nodded at each other knowingly.

“Grrr…!!”

Margit and Daniela glared daggers at me, faces full of jealousy.

“Eh…???”

Having no idea what was going on, I tilted my head in confusion.

“It’s not ‘eh?’… Pardon me, Lady Clara, but… have you ever actually looked at yourself in the mirror?”
“—? Well, yes, I have a vanity in my room at the church, so…”
“And? What do you see?”
“I always think the same thing—what a plain, unremarkable face I have.”

A face with no particularly striking features, simply balanced and subdued. Nothing interesting about it.

“…That mirror is probably broken.”

Kaisa let out a long, heartfelt sigh and muttered a baffling comment that left me tilting my head even further in confusion.

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That said, the reality here was a far cry from the villainous picture that I had imagined based on that title. We’d pictured a tasteless room dripping in nouveau riche excess, a life of depravity: drinking from noon, gnawing on meat bones, puffing cigars, surrounded by half-dressed women in a dimly lit den of indulgence. A textbook villain.

Instead, what we encountered was a refined room more befitting a nobleman’s office, tasteful furnishings, and disciplined staff—everything about this place was completely at odds with our expectations, leaving us thoroughly perplexed.

The man appeared before us, accompanied by a female secretary in her late thirties who looked like she could handle absolutely anything. Dressed in a sharp black suit, she gave off an aura of crisp competence.

He paused briefly upon seeing us.

Suddenly, I felt his gaze settle on me. For just a moment, his expression shifted, as if something familiar had stirred within him. It was fleeting, a strange mix of nostalgia and sorrow that crumbled almost into a tearful smile… only to vanish a heartbeat later, his face returning to its composed state.

Then, with a slightly theatrical gesture, he spread his arms wide to welcome us.

“Welcome to the Gingerbread House. I was informed by the Boss and have been expecting you. I am the master of this establishment and a merchant, Daniel Oliver. I thank the gods for bringing us together.”

“Heya! Long time no see, nya!”

Among our group, which had been momentarily thrown off by his refined welcome, only Chaton had clearly anticipated this development. With the casual air of someone visiting a relative’s house, she strode right into the room.

“My, my… It’s been a while, Lady Chaton. Is the Boss in good health?”

“’Course he is, nya. Though he’s off visiting his hometown now, so he won’t be back for a while. But then, you never really know whether he’s around or not anyway, so nothin’s changed, nya.”

“As elusive as ever, I see.”

Daniel chuckled heartily, his shoulders shaking with laughter. After a moment, his gaze drifted past us—toward Lana, who was clutching my hand and hiding behind me.

“My, what an adorable child. This girl and her sister were the reason for your visit, yes? Considering it happened three years ago, it took us a little bit of digging, but I did find a relevant record. Seems like one of my grunts was involved in the ordeal.”

“ “ “————!!!” ” ”

The bluntness of his statement snapped us out of the mood we had started to fall into. We were reminded, all at once, that this place was a slave trader’s mansion, and the man before us was someone who handled young children as commodities. Our expressions stiffened once more.

“…Please, there’s no need to be so tense. In her case, it seems someone from a subsidiary branch conducted an unauthorized under-the-table deal out of greed for petty cash. I was not personally involved. That said… I do acknowledge that, as her suffering stems from the failure of our oversight, your anger is justified. Ordinarily, we are quite careful in choosing our trading partners.”

Daniel’s gaze shifted toward the large glass window, where the sounds of children laughing echoed in from outside.

“In truth, most of the children here were sold by their parents, abandoned in poverty, or fled after being abused. It may sound presumptuous, but if we had not taken them in, many would have died by the roadside, turned to crime, or met even worse fates. Of course, we’re not a charity—we are running a business—but we do take pride in contributing, in some measure, to these children’s futures. …If I may be frank, I believe what’s truly broken is this world itself.”

As he spoke in an even, matter-of-fact tone, gently brushing the scar beneath his eye and shrugging, none of us could find the words to respond.

♢♦♢♦♢

—In Jill’s subjective present. Thirty years ago, in the slums of the Holy City Thera Maryth—

After handing the centaur gatekeeper a letter of introduction from the Guildmaster, we waited for over an hour.

If Coppelia, whose boiling point was lower than that of liquid nitrogen, had been here, she probably would have exploded with: “How dare they keep Lady Clara waiting! If they’re not ready in forty seconds, I’ll destroy this shack and drown the whole city in flames!”

…And she very well might have followed through.

(Good thing I didn’t bring her…)

Relieved that she and Cestlavie were reluctantly off investigating elsewhere this time, I was just about to succumb to boredom when a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed like a textbook thug, came walking up from the mansion.

At first glance, he looked pretty average, but the sharpness in his eyes and the build visible even beneath his clothes made it clear: this was a man who made his living through violence.

“How’d it go, Dan? What’s the boss say?”

One of the centaur guards standing in our way asked. The young man, called Dan, gave us—a group consisting of myself, Emil, the members of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks, and the winged cat Sechs—a cursory glance. Then, scratching his cheek as if annoyed, he replied:

“All good. Said we can’t go disrespectin’ the Shrine Maiden. We’re to welcome her properly.”

At his words, both centaur guards visibly relaxed and lowered their weapons. The Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks also let out quiet sighs of relief and loosened their shoulders.

“Then, Your Holiness, please follow me. I’ll take you inside—”

He bowed with a passably polite manner, but as he raised his head, I noticed him glance at me as if he were about to say something.

“Is something the matter?”
“…No. It’s nothing.”
“?”

He turned away from me with a vague, tight-lipped expression, like he had something stuck between his back teeth.

“Well then, shall we go, Lady Clara?”
“Everyone, don’t let your guard down.”
“ “ “Yes, ma’am!” ” ”

Pushing aside the odd exchange, we all passed through the gates and made our way toward the mansion’s entrance.

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And when they approached the little house, they saw it was built of bread and covered with cakes, but the windows were of clear sugar. “We will set too work on that,” said Hansel, “and have a good meal. I will eat a bit of the roof, and you Gretel, can eat some of the window, it will taste sweet.” Hansel reached up above, and broke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and Gretel leant against the window and nibbled at the panes. Then, a soft voice cried from the parlour.

(omitted)

The old woman, however, nodded her head, and said: “Oh, you dear children, who has brought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen to you.” She took them both by the hand and led them into her little house. Then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with sugar, apples, and nuts.

— Grimm’s Fairy Tales “Hansel and Gretel”

♢♦♢♦♢

—One year ago from Jill’s perspective. At the slave dealership “Candy House” in Cilento Central Capital—

Children around the age of ten, from different backgrounds and races, were playing freely in the courtyard of a tasteful white-brick mansion, kicking balls, chasing one another, or drawing on the ground.

From the covered corridor, the scene looked like something you’d see anywhere—ordinary, even cheerful—but it was so unexpected to see it in such a place that Luke, Emilia, Pryui, and I all stood frozen in disbelief.

Lana shrank behind me, clinging to the hem of my skirt, unable to raise her face. Then, as if puzzled by our behavior, Chaton turned to us, twitching her little nose.

“Nyanyanya. Don’t just stand there with your mouths hanging open like fools. Prince Charming looks cool doing it, but the rest of you look like your faces collapsed in a mudslide. It’s hilarious, nya.”

Naturally skilled at getting under people’s skin, Chaton’s comment made us scowl and scramble to fix our expressions.

Even so, we couldn’t quite shake off the shock. Still dazed, we turned questioning eyes toward Chaton.

“Surprised, nya? Here, the children are taught reading, writing, math, and basic knowledge. Starting at ten, they’re trained in specialized skills suited to their aptitudes so they can choose a profession, nya.”

“That’s… just like a mix of Sunday school and vocational training…! If that’s true, then they’d receive the treatment you’d expect from a middle-class household. Is this really a slave dealership? Are those children actually slaves!?”

Luke demanded confirmation, incredulous.

“Of course they are, nya. See they all got Stigma collars around their necks? But those aren’t for preventing escape or rebellion, they’re used in place of ID papers for unregistered children, nya.”

Now that she mentioned it, all the children wore the same type of collar as Lana.

Wearing one of those technically classifies you not as a ‘slave,’ but as a ‘free laborer.’ Unlike exiles or orphaned slum children who can’t even enter cities, these collars serve as an effective way to certify a minimum social status.

With that in mind, I began to think, maybe the master of this mansion is actually a decent person… only for the briefest moment, however.

“Hmph. I believe there’s a saying amongst you Beans—‘Fatten the pig before you slaughter it.’ I suppose this place is a pig farm for slaves, then.”

Pryui, who had snapped back to reality, scowled bitterly as she watched the elf-mixed children on the far end of the garden practicing with toy bows.

“Yeah… They’re trying to raise their market value to sell them for a higher price,” Emilia said softly, turning her pained gaze from the innocent children to the shrinking Lana, who definitely didn’t get terrified of me who had gone completely silent and was quietly switching into combat mode at the mention of “pig” and “pig farm.”

“Well, that side of it is true too, nya. The master is a merchant who turns a profit, after all. But you’ll get the full story faster if you ask him yourself. Come on, let’s go already, nya.”

Chaton pointed ahead down the corridor and began walking off briskly. Reluctantly, we tore ourselves away from the scene and followed her.

♢♦♢♦♢

The mahogany door opened silently, as if it had been meticulously maintained, revealing a tastefully furnished reception room beyond.

In the center of the room, which was fully carpeted in red, sat a set of black leather sofas and an oakwood table. Along the walls stood shelves decorated with wine bottles and intricate Eastern vases, as well as a row of bookshelves.

“Welcome.”

As soon as the door opened, a line of women dressed in apron dresses bowed their heads in unison and spoke in perfect chorus.

We all instinctively hesitated at the threshold. No matter how you looked at them, these were well-trained, properly mannered maids.

As the maids parted to either side, a man in his mid-fifties stepped forward, dressed with refined elegance. His hair had probably once been black, but now had turned a striking shade of silver-gray. He had an average build, but his shoulders hinted at a well-trained physique from his younger days, noticeably more developed than the average person.

Though his expression was gentle, an old, twisted scar ran from beneath his left eye down to his cheek, lending him a silent, imposing air that marked him as someone not to be underestimated. There was no mistaking it, this man was the master of the mansion, the one who ran a child-focused slave trade operation in the central capital of Cilento.

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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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—One year ago, from Jill’s perspective of time, during her studies abroad in Cilento Central Capital—

The row of open-air stalls was cluttered with all sorts of wares: vegetables still caked with dirt as if freshly stolen from a field; bloodstained clothing that looked like it had been stripped off muggers’ victims (or corpses); jars filled with sticky substances apparently intended for eating.

Surrounding them were candlemakers, barber-surgeons, tooth-pullers, not to mention a “butcher” whose wares were more accurately described as offal, and then, of course, the ever-present street taverns. The people weaving between these stalls were almost indistinguishable from vagrants. Most were day laborers dressed in rags or shady types with the look of someone involved in less-than-legal work.

A notable feature of this area was the abundance of beastkin, demi-humans, and drifters—folk rarely seen on the city’s main streets.

“The ‘merchandise’ handled by the trading house up ahead mostly consists of children thirteen and under, nyaah. Usually, slaves with skills or adult males in their prime fetch higher prices, so this sort of operation is rare, nyaah. At least in the Central Capital, it’s only done here—otherwise, you’d have to assume some illegal group is involved, nyaah.”

This place was more dangerous than a slum—something like a thieves’ market, where the phrase “cutthroat competition” might be taken quite literally.

The white cat beastkin named Chaton walked ahead with practiced ease, nattering on in her nyan-inflected chatter. As we listened, all of us furrowed our brows—but what we really couldn’t let slide was how casually she referred to trafficked children as “merchandise.”

“Legal or not, slavery is banned across the entire continent. So this trading house we’re heading to—this isn’t in any shade of gray. This is pitch black evil.”

“Well, if we had to choose between black and white, I’d say… It’s an extremely dark shade of gray. Or maybe white, if you squint hard enough. Maybe it fluctuates depending on the mood of the day—like, usually hanging out in the black, but with just the very tip of the tail sort of brushing into white territory, nyaah.”

…Wasn’t that basically saying it’s 100% black?

“They’ve got tails, these slave traders?”

Luke, walking beside me, latched onto the weirdest part of the conversation, tilting his head as he stared at the white tip of Chaton’s tail swaying from beneath her short pants.

“Well, since they’re collecting children to sell into slavery, I’d say the tip of that tail probably ends in a sharp spade shape, don’t you say?”

When it came time for negotiations—since neither Luke nor I knew anything about the workings of the underworld—we had Emilia accompany us to offer advice. Formerly a pickpocket, she was now working as a maid at the third branch of Letindüte. Scanning the surroundings with a sharp gaze, she spat the words out like a curse.

To someone like her, raised in an orphanage, slavers who trafficked in children were undoubtedly the vilest kind of scum.

“Slave traders, huh… If things had gone differently, I could’ve ended up sold to people like that myself.”

Pryui, my elven friend, muttered bitterly, perhaps recalling our first meeting.

“……”

Caught between the tense atmosphere of our group and the wary stares from strangers around us, a small fox beastkin girl named Lana—walking beside me in a simple dress today instead of her usual maid uniform—pressed herself close and clung to my arm.

“…It’s okay, Lana. More importantly, do you remember this area at all? I thought you might have passed through here when you were brought in with that woman.”

At my question, Lana cautiously glanced around. But with a timid look, she gave a small shake of her head.

“Well, for a young child brought into a strange city, it’d be pretty difficult to calmly take in their surroundings, nyaah. That said, the place we’re heading to—commonly known as the ‘Candy House’—might be ethically shady by society’s standards, but as long as you’re upfront and show good faith, they’ll deal with you fairly, nyaah.”

“Good faith?”

I tilted my head, unsure what kind of “sincerity” would apply when dealing with people in the underworld. Emilia stepped in smoothly with an explanation.

“In this case, ‘faith’ means money.”

““Ah…””

Luke and I responded in unison. So it was that euphemistic way of saying “hand over the cash,” then.

Catching our glance, Chaton nodded approvingly. “Correct, nyaah. Glad you catch on quick, makes things easier, nyaah.”

♢♦♢♦♢

—Present time, from Jill’s perspective. In the Holy City Thera Maryth, thirty years ago—

The room was filled with opulence that skirted just shy of being gaudy, and a heaviness that stopped just short of feeling imposing.

At its center stood a massive table carved from a single slab of fragrant wood, harvested from a five-hundred-year-old tree found only within the Sky Labyrinth of the Ottavia Mountain Range, a sacred peak renowned throughout the northern region.

Beneath it lay a luxurious carpet from the southern nations, said to take years for skilled weavers to complete. A pendulum clock from the Graviol Empire, celebrated as a moving piece of jewelry, marked time solemnly. Exotic birds chirped in rhythm from gilded cages. Potted plants throughout the room bloomed in vibrant profusion, each one a rare specimen imported from the far-flung Island Federation.

Statues and landscape paintings lined the walls, each the work of famed artists from the United Kingdom of Déra-Amítia. And then there were the furnishings that clearly defied classification—objects of geometric metal flowing like liquid, suits of silver armor that gleamed iridescently, seamless and unadorned by even a single rivet—clearly relics of some ancient civilization, far beyond the reach of modern alchemy or magical technology (OOParts).

Even a single ivory ashtray, carelessly set off to the side, was worth several years’ income for a member of the upper-middle class. Much of the furniture and decorations were so extravagantly expensive that one could ruin their fortune trying to afford even one piece.

That said, considering the wealth and social status of those who visited this room, this level of splendor—while not quite “expected”—was certainly nothing unusual.

To those born into opulence, such as the people who frequented this space, it was merely a fragment of the mundane, a scene that would barely qualify as “upper-middle” or “lower-upper” in their daily lives.

As Eliza would put it, this was not the domain of the poor with borrowed coins, but of those born with silver spoons in their mouths, raised on silk sheets and gourmet meals, surrounded from birth by the genuine treasures of the world. Only those who truly possessed such things could set foot in a place like this.

Still, no matter how extravagant a room, they all began to resemble one another after a while. Sitting leisurely in a chair upholstered with the velvet-like fur of a great snow leopard—a mythical beast—Corrad Simon Aulanthia, first in line to the throne of the Kingdom of Aulanthia, gave his dry, indifferent impression: “Every luxury suite in every hotel always ends up looking the same.”

The building had once been the manor of a high-ranking noble and had been converted into what was now the most prestigious hotel in the Holy Capital of Thera Maryth. Yet, compared to Corrad—a man born into the royal house of Aulanthia, a dynasty that had refined imperial culture for over four centuries—it clearly fell short.

He had once been awestruck by other breathtaking sights: the Lily-of-the-Valley Palace in the imperial capital of the Graviol Empire; the lake city of Ruxsolus, ruled by the Safiras royal family of the United Kingdom of Déra-Amítia; and even the airborne gardens of the Cardinal Rose Super-Empire, glimpsed only once in his early childhood…

Compared to those, this might as well have been a glorified shack.

Author’s Note:

• Slum = a narrow, scruffy town.
  Chaton’s moe endings are a change of specification in anticipation of the publication of the book in the future (`・ω・´) clink

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“—There once was a hopeless man who asked a notorious womanizer:
‘How do you manage to be so popular with women? What’s your secret?’

The womanizer replied,
‘Well, first, be honest with women. And second, be clever.’

‘What do you mean by being honest?’ the hopeless man asked.

‘It means always keeping your promises.’

That made sense to the hopeless man. Then he asked,
‘And what about being clever?’

The womanizer grinned and said,
‘Don’t make any promises.’ …HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Okay, enough of you. The atmosphere is delicate enough as is; you don’t have to try to lighten the mood with your corny jokes.”

With the collar of her shirt in one hand, I forcibly dragged Coppelia—tea wagon and all—away from the especially grief-stricken and regret-heavy group of templar knights and the members of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks.

“…Lady Clara, isn’t this treatment a bit too cruel? I was merely trying to lighten the mood for everyone.”
“You really think a little joke is going to fix anything? In the end, we let the intruder escape, and now Eliza’s whereabouts are unknown. I don’t have any comforting words to offer the guards who are crushed by guilt over their failure.”
“Is that so~? But isn’t it pointless to dwell on things that are already over? We should focus on moving forward.”

By the time we’d reached the corner of the room—the main reception lobby on the first floor was already starting to gear up for business, and since we couldn’t let the visiting adventurers realize anything unusual had happened last night, all involved parties were currently gathered in the large conference room on the third floor—I released Coppelia, poured myself a cup of tea from the wagon, took a sip to wet my throat, and answered with a sigh:

“That’s logically sound, but people don’t work that way, especially not in this case. We lost track of Eighette—no, I mean Maria Lou—who took my form and infiltrated the VIP room. Because of that, Eliza was abducted, and then the enemy exploited the resulting confusion to escape. No wonder the guards are overcome with guilt.”

I never would have imagined that, on her way out, she’d go after Eliza too.

Right now, the church and the city guards have set up a perimeter, but we haven’t received any encouraging reports.

“…If there’s anything optimistic to be taken from this, it’s that she was abducted without being harmed on the spot. That gives me hope she’s not in immediate danger… at least, I want to believe so.”
“Exactly! Let’s stay positive! Thanks to some nobody faceplanting all on their own, Lady Clara, you have now become the top shrine maiden of the Church with nothing standing in your way! You should be skipping for joy!”
“Stop shouting such ominous and inappropriate things, would you! Besides, I’ve never thought of my position in the Church or as a shrine maiden as anything more than a matter of convenience. I’ve always believed that someone like Eliza, who’s genuinely motivated, should be the one leading from the front.”

The truth is, the fact that I’m called ‘Clara’ and working as a high shrine maiden here in the first place is… fundamentally wrong.

It all started around eight months ago—¹

After we had somehow recovered from our wounds, we began trying various methods to find a way back to our original time. This included sneaking into Professor Victor’s alchemy workshop (with Coppelia, who knew the place inside out, guiding us through a teleportation circle that also served as an emergency exit). Of course, I made sure the circle couldn’t be activated without me. And after all our efforts, we finally arrived at the conclusion that it wasn’t spatial magic we needed, but a tier above that—temporal magic.

“That kind of thing is mythical! There’s no way we can pull that off!!” Faced with that revelation, I couldn’t help but hold my head in my hands.

“Jill, you could probably pull it off without breaking a sweat, though.” Said Cestlavie, placing completely unreasonable expectations on me.

“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine, Lady Clara. Just give it about thirty years of training!” Coppelia added cheerfully.

“That’s completely meaningless, isn’t it!?”

Training for thirty years just to return to a time thirty years in the future? That’s more absurd and grueling than tunneling the Ao-no-Domon²!

“Then I guess we’ll need a different approach. Oh, right—there was that time Master Victor accidentally summoned a spirit of time. If we can make good use of that spirit, we might be able to return to our original era.”

Following Coppelia’s words, clinging to even the slimmest hope, we made our way to the headquarters of the Saintess Church—where, according to her, the summoned time spirit had been left unattended. Somehow, I ended up getting swept along by circumstances and was installed as a shrine maiden… but even now, we haven’t found any solid leads.

Apparently, spirits of time naturally dwell in rifts between dimensions, and the number of mages or witches throughout history who’ve managed to summon one can be counted on a single hand.

“Why would anyone leave behind something that rare!? I hate to say it, but please develop some awareness that your sloppy management habits are causing massive trouble for everyone around you, every single time!”

I’m aware that I was half just taking my frustration out on her, but at the time, I couldn’t help scolding Coppelia like that.

Her rebuttal, however, was rather lacking in substance.

“Well~ yeah, that spirit is definitely rare, but it’s the kind of thing you show off, not something you actually use, y’know?”

“???”

And just as that unresolved issue lingered on, another headache-inducing problem came to entangle itself in the mess. It never ends.

“Come to think of it—this might be late to mention—but Maria Lou managed to transform into me with uncanny precision. Even Eliza and everyone else in the VIP room were completely fooled.”

“Seems like it. Well, I could spot the difference instantly, of course.”

Coppelia puffed out her chest with pride. Sure, she did instantly identify Maria Lou’s true identity, so her sensors are undeniably overpowered… but the fact that they’re never properly utilized makes me wonder if the issue isn’t with the hardware, but the software?

“According to Father Lawrence, it wasn’t any sort of illusion magic—so she really did alter her appearance. Which means that aside from her ‘Talent Eater’ power, she must also have a unique ability for transformation?”

Normally, the rule is that a person can only have one unique ability. But as an “artificial saint” created by the Church’s secret society, maybe she’s exempt from that limitation… or so I thought.

“Nope, I think both of those powers probably stem from the same single ability.”

Coppelia shut me down without hesitation.

But even if she says they’re the same ability… “Talent Eater” and “Transformation” feel like they’re pointing in completely different directions.

“Are there really powers like that…?”

“There sure are. Actually, all the artificial saints are equipped with the same core ability. —To be precise, it’s the ability of Reincarnation.”

That unexpected—and eerily familiar—word made me tilt my head in confusion.

“Lady Clara, come to think of it—we don’t use furigana in the main text, but I still think it’s kind of questionable to pronounce 『転生 (Reincarnation)』 as tensei. Technically, the correct reading is tenshō.”

“…Really? Isn’t tensei the more common reading?”

“The term technically originates from the 輪廻転生 Rinne Tenshō concept, so the accurate reading is tenshō.”

Cue smug face.

“Ehhh? Uhh, according to good ol’ Google-sensei… looks like either reading is acceptable?”

“Hmph, that kind of attitude—‘it’s fine just because the majority does it’—is exactly like jumping down a cliff just because everyone else is. And I’m telling you, if Yamada (beep)taro-sensei heard this, he’d scoff through his nose!”

…There was an even more dangerous topic that followed after this, but I’ll skip it—because I value my life.

Translator’s Note:

輪廻転生 (Rinne Tensho) is the circle of transmigration, or how all things being in flux of through the endless circle of birth, death, and rebirth.

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Though spring is just around the corner, the mornings and nights are still bitterly cold this time of year. Yet, perhaps considering her fighting style, Daniella was dressed for ease of movement: a short-sleeved tunic with a leather breastplate on top and short pants below.

In contrast, I was wearing a shrine maiden outfit that was both decorative and somewhat problematic—complete with a skirt that barely reached mid-thigh.

(I mean, if I counter her kick with one of my own, my underwear is going to show.)

Ordinarily, shrine maidens wear skirts that reach from below the knee down to the ankles, but for some reason, the outfits issued to me are always just a little too revealing. For whatever reason.

Frankly, isn’t it a bit improper for a holy shrine maiden—someone who’s supposed to be sacred and untouchable—to constantly be showing her bare legs? I once brought this question to Lady Teressa, but…

With a long, deep sigh, Lady Teressa said:

“I, too, feel a certain… discomfort about it. But the reality is, when you’re stationed at the church in that outfit, the number of visitors and the amount of donations literally doubles.”

She told me this as she sipped hot water instead of tea, stuffing rags into the broken glass window of her office. I had no further argument after that.

Even so, it makes me wonder—was I really brought into the church as a proper member of the clergy? Or was I just sold off as some kind of glorified promotional mascot? The doubts only continue to grow.

Naturally, Daniella paid no mind to the bitter musings swirling in my head. In an instant, she let out a sharp cry and sprang from the floor, her kick flying toward me.

I deflected it with my magic staff and tried to step into her guard—but before I could, she spun her body, delivering a swift combination of left and right kicks with just enough variation to throw me off.

“…Looks like she’s reinforcing her body with qi. I’ll admit the strength is impressive. But at this rate, my staff won’t last much longer.”

Magic staffs aren’t meant for blocking or striking. I tossed mine behind me so it wouldn’t get in the way, and with both hands now free, I curled them lightly into fists and took a relaxed fighting stance.

“From here on, I’ll face you with fists and magic.”

Seeing my stance, something must have clicked in Daniella’s mind. Her gaze sharpened, and she silently took a step back, heightening her caution.

“What’s the matter? You’re acting the opposite of your bold attacks.”

At my light provocation—

“Haahhh!”

Daniella launched a spinning kick aimed right at my neck.

I didn’t dodge. I caught it with my right hand and lightly redirected it.

“Tch!”

Clicking her tongue, Daniella immediately used the recoil to follow up with a powerful back kick. I crossed my arms and caught it—

And in that instant, where her foot met my forearms, there was a thunderous crack, like two logs colliding, and a shockwave burst out.

“Wha—?!”

Stunned by the sound and the impact, Daniella’s eyes widened.

I responded with the most confident smile I could manage.

“Trying to blow me away with qi, were you? Too bad for you—I can use it too, at least to this extent. And honestly, your qi is still quite unrefined. The Zoan Rex could pulverize the head of a twenty-mertes tall monster from over ten mertes away with a single burst.”

It’s unfair to compare her to one of the five strongest martial artists on the continent, of course. But even under mind control, Daniella’s pride was clearly stung by my words. Her expression twisted with rage, and she began gathering qi into every inch of her body—far more densely than ever before.

Just as Daniella, brimming with energy like a volcano on the verge of eruption, was about to unleash her full power and spring—

“Ah, watch out, behind you.”

She scoffed at my warning, kicked off the floor with a bam, and leapt into the air—

KABOOOOOM!!!

With a sound that could only suggest immense pain, she collapsed to the ground like a squashed frog, eyes rolled back in their sockets.

“Alright—! Got her, Lady Clara!! Holding position in the rear really paid off! As expected of your keen judgment!”

Behind her, Coppelia struck a triumphant pose, still holding her massive halberd after having slammed Daniella down with its flat side.

“That’s… not quite what I meant.”

Technically, she did save me, so I couldn’t really complain.

I looked back down at Daniella, now sprawled out with a huge bump swelling on her head, and murmured with a sigh, “I told you to watch out…” That would have killed anyone, but thanks to her qi reinforcement, she probably survived… probably.

Sighing again, I knelt beside her to start the healing process.

Hopefully, when she wakes up, her mind will have cleared as well.

♢♦♢♦♢

As the dawn bell echoed across the holy capital of Thera Maryth, the city slowly began to stir. In the morning mist, the clatter of wagons heading to market and the voices of newspaper vendors shouting their first calls of the day brought life back to the streets.

“This morning’s paper’s got a huge scoop! Lady Clara devoured a giant slug in one gulp!”
“I’ll take a copy!!”
“Ooh, it’s got a portrait too! I’ll take four—one to admire, one to display, one to archive, and one to spread the word!”
“Take my whole wallet! Give me everything you’ve got—!!”

…It felt like I just heard something, but it must’ve been my imagination. That, or I’m just feeling a bit delirious after staying up all night. Yes, that must be it. I’m just… tired. That’s all.

Holding my aching head, I glanced around the room.

After the unexpected attack—or rather, last night’s “Trojan Horse” incident, where we effectively invited the culprit right into our midst—the Adventurer’s Guild Headquarters remained cloaked in a heavy atmosphere. Even though the chaos had finally subsided, everyone still sat slumped in their chairs, silent. Coppelia, unusually thoughtful for once, was serving tea from a cart, and the room was filled with quiet sighs.

Thankfully, the effect of the Evil Eye hadn’t been too strong and could be broken with a sharp blow to the head. But even so, the temporary confusion had left deep marks. No lives were lost, but the emotional toll it took on everyone was undeniable.

It was only natural the mood had grown so somber.