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Roa strictly prohibited foreign vessels from entering the city directly through the continental bridge's "gate."
While allowing ships to sail straight into town would be convenient for merchants and visiting nobles—enabling leisurely morning tours before catching the afternoon valley winds home—city administrators cared little for efficiency.
The reason was simple: profit.
Outer-river ships operated as commercial ventures, their earnings lining private pockets. Even with taxes, officials seethed at lost revenue.
The solution?
Become the boat operators.
Managing thousands of external vessels was chaos, but controlling inner-city traffic? Child's play.
No manpower? The city's street soldiers already patrolled waterways in boats—ready-made resources!
Thus emerged Roa's unique system:
"Chase the winds! Ride the waves! Make your mark upon life's turbulent currents!"
Or more accurately:
Scam the tourists, kids!
Forget public safety—profit reigned supreme.
This explained why all vessels docked beneath the bridge.
Roa's "public transport" was just a fleet of police boats moonlighting as taxis.
Unemployed Thailand.
With complimentary rides.
Dockside – Present Time
The street soldiers had already dismissed the crowd, hauling away the two "accidental" corpses after confirming they were mere southern adventurers. No noble connections meant no investigations.
Efficient.
Though notably, no organ harvesting occurred—a small mercy in this sword-and-magic world, where healing magic's "blessings" shone exclusively on nobility.
"Stop staring," Allen drawled, examining the bridge's underbelly without a murderer's guilt. "Even Sylphy's healing magic can't make corpses talk."
Beneath the shadowed arch, ropes dangled an eerie assortment:
Living: Craftsmen dangling mid-air, tools clinking as they repaired the bridge's water-worn stones.
Dead: Faded effigies swaying beside them like cheerleaders for human oxen.
Rudeus and Sylphy—raised in Buena Village's peaceful order—flinched at Allen's casual homicide. In their eyes, he'd transitioned from "law enforcer" to something far more unsettling.
Eris, however, remained unbothered.
My brother IS the law.
His sword defines justice.
Understand?
Her attention soon diverted to nearby stalls hawking peculiar wooden figurines—fish-tailed women with colorful scales and unsettling black eyes.
"Want!" She thrust a red-scaled one at Allen, eyes sparkling.
The scholarly vendor smiled. "Fifteen copper for the common redscale, thirty for rarer hues like this pink-white."
Allen handed the latter to Sylphy, who studied its proportions with academic interest. "These 'divine attendants' seem popular. Local tradition?"
"Tomorrow's the Waterbirth Festival," the vendor explained. "They're modeled after the River God's handmaidens—"
"The Stellan Sect."
Isolte's voice cut in as she knelt beside Allen, skirts arranged with practiced grace. Her fingers traced the figurine's obsidian eyes.
"Also called the River God Cult."
Her onyx gaze locked onto Allen's.
Meanwhile – Royal Barge
Plink.
A delicate porcelain cup released tendrils of steam as Ariel's favorite侍女 poured tea, her bare legs barely concealed by the hastily donned outer robe.
"—historically predates Millis' faith by centuries," droned Dickliff, adjusting his glasses. "Originating from a 7,000-year-old drought myth where—"
Ariel tuned out her overzealous guardian mage, opting instead to tease the blushing maid by tracing circles on her wrist.
Really, she mused, must Dickliff recite every textbook before political functions?
The princess exhaled, watching sunlight fracture through tea vapor.
Some traditions deserved to drown.
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