Two days had passed. The aftermath of the Viper incident had settled into a quiet, watchful waiting, but inside Café LeBlanc, the atmosphere was anything but tense. For Soma, it was a day of celebration.
"What's this, Soma?" the gruff dwarf regular asked, pointing a thick finger at a handsome wooden box placed beside the cash register. A neatly lettered sign was propped against it, reading: "VOTE FOR THE FIXED MENU!"
Soma, beaming with the pride of a restaurateur launching his magnum opus, leaned over the counter. "That," he announced to the whole café, "is for our one-month anniversary!"
Zero, standing behind the bar, sighed audibly but didn't contradict him.
"Today, and for today only," Soma continued, his voice full of passion, "the kitchen is open! You can order anything I've made in the past month. The Soufflé Pancakes, the Tonkotsu Ramen, the Oyakodon, the Katsu Curry—anything you've missed or heard about and wanted to try again! The dishes with the most votes in that box by the end of the day will earn a permanent spot on our first-ever fixed menu!"
The small crowd of loyal customers erupted in excited chatter. It was a brilliant idea, and they knew it. Everyone had a favorite dish, and everyone had heard whispers of legendary meals served on days they hadn't been able to visit.
"I'll take the Pho from the other night!" the tailor from down the street called out.
"The Katsu Curry for me!" the dwarf rumbled. "I missed that one."
"But I want to try both!" a young university student lamented.
"Then you're in luck!" Soma said, unveiling the core of his plan. "Today, we're also offering 'tasting plates.' Small, appetizer-sized portions of any dish, so you can try as many as you like!"
The effect was instantaneous. The customers, freed from the tyranny of choosing just one meal, began ordering with abandon. Small, artful plates of various dishes began to fly out of the kitchen, each one a perfect miniature of Soma's culinary creations. The tables were soon covered in a vibrant mosaic of different foods, and the air was filled with the happy sounds of people sharing, tasting, and debating which dish deserved their precious vote.
It was a perfect win-win. The customers were ecstatic, getting to experience a wide range of Master Chef-level cooking. Soma was in his element, smiling from ear to ear as he watched people fall in love with his food all over again.
And Zero, standing calmly behind his veil, smiled for a different reason. With every new order, with every tasting plate that left the kitchen, he could hear the soft, satisfying ding of the old cash register. He glanced at the holographic display. The Gacha points, which had been slowly trickling in, were now flooding in. The counter was already at 1647, climbing steadily toward the 2000-point mark. It seemed his chef's ridiculous "month anniversary" was a stroke of business genius after all.
…
Far from the bustling café, in a grand office overlooking a windswept cliff and the vast, grey ocean, the political gears of the kingdom were turning. This was the palace of the Evercrest Duchy, the heart of the Granite Cape. Duke Orion Evercrest, a man in his prime with sun-kissed skin that spoke of a life spent on the coast, sat behind a massive desk carved from the hull of an ancient warship. Behind him stood his two most trusted advisors: his right-hand man and his ever-silent butler.
Kneeling on the fine rug before the desk was a formidable white tiger beastman, his uniform crisp and adorned with the medals of a celebrated naval commander. It was the same beastman who frequented Café LeBlanc, though his relaxed demeanor from the café was replaced by a soldier's rigid formality. Lately, his duties had kept him far from the city.
The Duke sighed, a sound that was more weary than commanding. "Rise, Fleet Admiral Lauvel."
The white tiger beastman stood, his posture ramrod straight. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Lauvel, how many times do I have to tell you to relax when it's just us?" Orion said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I was under your command once when I was a boy, remember?"
A rare, genuine smile broke through Lauvel's stern expression. "And a terrible underling you were, I might add. The knots you tied on the rigging still haunt my nightmares."
The Duke let out a real, hearty laugh that filled the office. The formality of the court vanished, replaced by the easy rapport of old friends. He leaned back in his chair. "So," he said, his tone shifting back to business. "How was the sail?"
Lauvel's smile faded. "Two of our ships were lost, Your Grace. Several of our men have gone down to Davy Jones' Locker. But," he added, a grim satisfaction in his voice, "we sank nine of The Sentinel Coast's vessels. Those Argent fanatics are not much of a navy."
"But from what my reports say, they kept attacking, right up to the end. Why is that?" Orion asked.
"They are full of a terrible vigor," Lauvel explained, his voice a low growl. "Even I could see their men were barely getting enough nutrition to stand, but their Abbot-Commander kept blessing them, whipping them into a frenzy. They fought like rabid beasts. I am convinced they will never stop until every last one of them is at the bottom of the sea. So that's why I sank them all."
The Duke sighed again, rubbing his temples. "Alright. So we can breathe for another year, then?"
"I am not confident of that, Your Grace," Lauvel said gravely. "I've seen progress in their shipbuilding. I don't know where those zealots found a proper shipwright all of a sudden, but they are learning. They will be back, and sooner than we anticipate."
The Duke frowned, a deep worry creasing his brow. His right-hand man stepped forward. "Fleet Admiral, is there any way for us to extend our breathing room? We need the northern shipping lanes to be absolutely secure for at least the next nine months. Our allies from The Watchtower of Edda will be arriving in that window of time."
Lauvel looked at the advisor. "Can't those mages from Edda just use their Divination and Rune-work to avoid any trouble at sea?"
It was the Duke who answered. "This is about our kingdom's image, Lauvel. The First Prince himself has given me the order to welcome our soon-to-be allies personally. The Watchtower of Edda is notoriously difficult to deal with. Their pragmatic nature can make them… challenging." He leaned forward, his expression serious. "But the First Prince somehow managed to get them to agree to a formal visit. Now we need to ensure they arrive safely. A show of strength and reliability."
Lauvel let out a long, weary sigh. The weight of the entire duchy's naval security rested on his broad shoulders. "Okay," he rumbled. "I can increase the patrols. No Argent cultist or opportunistic pirate will touch their ships. Not while they're in my waters."
A look of genuine relief washed over the Duke's face. "Thank you, Lauvel. I mean that."
"Yeah, yeah," the old beastman grumbled. "Just approve my retirement papers next time I submit them."
Orion grinned. "I'll employ you until the day I step down as Duke myself, old man."
"Is this payback?" Lauvel shot back. "For all those times I made you swim beside the ship for tying a bad knot?"
The Duke rolled his shoulders and laughed again. "I still get a sore shoulder just thinking about it."
…
Far to the north, in the heartland of the Argent Theocracy, the Hallowed See of Argenta, a different kind of power was being exercised. Inside the Grand Temple of Luminous, the air was cool and solemn. There were no gaudy statues or colorful frescoes here; the vast, vaulted chamber was a masterpiece of stark, white marble and grey stone, designed to draw the eye upwards to the single, massive crystal in the dome that refracted the pale northern sunlight into a thousand beams of pure, white light. The clothing of the massive congregation was simple, in muted shades of white, grey, and blue, a reflection of a society where public displays of wealth were frowned upon.
At the head of the silent, kneeling masses was the newly risen Hierophant, Theron Varrus. He was a man in his late 60s, tall and gaunt, his posture as rigid as a winter pine. His head was shaved, and his face was a mask of serene piety, rarely showing emotion. He knelt before the great altar, dressed in the simple white robes of his office, adorned only with a single, unadorned silver emblem of the Silent Light. His voice, amplified by the temple's perfect acoustics, was not loud, but it resonated with a chilling, absolute authority.
He led the congregation in a final psalm from the Canticles of the Long Night.
"The Great Darkness is eternal," he chanted, his voice a low hum. "And so our endurance must be eternal," the congregation responded in unison, their voices a wave of sound. "The Wild Spark is temptation," Theron continued. "And so our purity must be our shield," they answered. "We are the children of the Silent Light. In its cold, pure radiance, we are tested. In its stillness, we find strength."
He rose, turning to face them. His most striking features were his eyes; they were a pale, icy blue and possessed a piercing clarity that seemed to weigh the soul of every person he looked at. He raised his hands. "May the Silent Light preserve you in your hardship and find you worthy. Go in peace and endurance."
After the blessing, the congregation filed out in disciplined silence. As the last of them departed, one of the senior bishops approached, bowing his head low. "Hierophant," he said, his voice a respectful whisper. "We have news from the Evercrest front. The Sentinel Coast fleet was… unsuccessful."
Theron's serene expression did not change. He walked slowly from the main hall into a private, spartan office, the bishop following a respectful distance behind. He stood before a simple stone hearth, his back to the fire.
First, he closed his eyes. "Let us pray for the souls of the faithful sailors who have returned to the Light's embrace," he said softly. "Their sacrifice in the crucible of the sea will not be forgotten." He remained silent for a full minute, a leader genuinely mourning the loss of his people.
Then, he opened his eyes, and the shepherd's brief warmth was gone, replaced by the chilling intensity of the fanatic. "The Duke of Evercrest is decadent, his people tainted by the selfish spark of individualism and the chaotic culture of Averidane," he said, his voice flat and cold. "That they could repel our blessed fleet is not a sign of their strength, but of the depths of their impurity. It is a spiritual cancer we must be prepared to cut out."
Finally, he gave his orders, and the detached conviction of the man who rose through the Inquisition was on full display. "See to it that the families of the fallen receive double rations for the winter. It is our duty to care for them," he commanded, the benevolent administrator ensuring the welfare of his nation.
He then added, his voice dropping, "Also, dispatch an Inquisitor from the Eyes of Light to the Sentinel Coast. I want the surviving captains and the Abbot-Commander questioned. This defeat was born of either tactical failure or a failure of faith. I will know which." To him, this was not a cruel act, but a necessary surgery to protect the soul of his nation.
The bishop bowed. "It will be done, Hierophant."
As the bishop turned to leave, Theron added one final thought, his icy eyes staring into the fire. "I have heard whispers that the Kingdom of Averidane seeks an alliance with the mages of the Athenean Concord. Keep watch. If the chaos of the south allies itself with the arrogance of the west, our great work of purification may need to begin sooner than anticipated."
…
Erwin was building a reputation. It started as whispers in taverns and marketplaces, the story of the foreign "Sentinel" who had single-handedly taken down two armed Viper thugs in that strange little café. The whispers grew into a small, localized legend. He wasn't famous, not yet, but the name "Erwin" was becoming synonymous with a kind of swift, uncompromising justice the city hadn't seen in a long time.
He was now operating out of a small, rented room in a respectable boarding house, taking on private cases. Today's case had found him. A distraught couple, a baker and his wife, stood in his spartan room, their faces etched with grief.
"Please, sir," the woman wept, clutching a small, worn teddy bear. "Our daughter, Elisa... she's been gone for two days. The Watchers... they won't even file a missing persons report until she's been gone for a week."
"They told us to 'be patient'," the baker added, his voice thick with a rage born of helplessness. "They said children run off all the time. But Elisa would never... she's a good girl."
Erwin, playing his part, listened with a stern but sympathetic expression. "I understand your grief," he said, his foreign accent lending his words a certain gravity. "But I am a private citizen. I hold no official jurisdiction. I cannot compel the Watchers to act, nor can I conduct an official investigation."
It was the final, devastating blow for the couple. The woman's sobs grew louder. The baker's face crumpled, the last of his hope draining away.
"So that's it, then?" the man said, his voice cracking. "There's no justice for people like us in this city? We don't have enough money to grease the palms of the Watchers, so our daughter is just... gone? Left to the whims of whatever monster took her?" His voice rose, filled with the righteous fury of a powerless man. "Is this the kind of kingdom we live in?"
Erwin let the man's desperate, angry words hang in the air for a long, heavy moment. Then, he let out a slow, deliberate sigh, as if a great internal struggle had just concluded. His voice now filled with a reluctant, steely resolve, "A kingdom that does not protect its most innocent citizens is a kingdom that has failed. I will help you."
The relief that washed over the couple was so profound it was almost painful to watch. They offered him a small pouch of coins, all they had. Erwin took only a nominal fee, just enough to make the transaction legitimate. His performance was flawless.
Later that day, Erwin began to piece together the last known hours of Elisa's life. He started with her friends, a group of small, frightened children. He knelt down to their level, his imposing height replaced by a gentle, reassuring presence.
The detective in him knew that children were the best and worst witnesses; their honesty was absolute, but their perception was filtered through a lens of imagination and fear. He didn't ask them what they saw; he asked them what they played. He learned about their favorite hiding spots, about the "scary old man" who lived in the alley (who turned out to be a harmless recluse), and about the "shiny carriage" that Elisa had been admiring the day she disappeared.
He then moved on to her school. The teachers spoke of Elisa in glowing terms, but their words were rehearsed, their grief a little too performative. The headmaster, a man with shifty eyes and an overly lavish office for such a humble school, was particularly evasive. He seemed more concerned with the school's reputation than with the missing child.
Erwin's mind, a finely tuned instrument of deduction, began to sift through the data. The children's testimony was pure, unfiltered truth. The adults, however... the adults were hiding something. It was too early to judge, too soon to form a conclusion. For now, he just needed to gather more data.
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**