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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