"Today, you did really well in the organ class."

"The solo keyboard and echo keyboard parts were very clear."

"You also used the stops very appropriately."

"I'll reward you when we get home."

Turing said, turning her handsome face towards Merka.

The petite Turing, wrapped in a warm scarf, walked down the street as if covered by a thin blanket, dressed in heavy winter clothes, but only on the upper body, with a long skirt and white stockings on the lower half.

Since becoming a girl, Turing had felt uncomfortable going a day without wearing a skirt. To distance herself from the decadent noble life, she hadn't worn the aristocratic uniform military jacket for a long time.

Turing smiled, her eyes sweetly narrowed as she looked at Merka, even the exhaled white breath seemed fragrantly milky.

It was deep winter, and the moonlight sprinkled in the deep sky seemed to carry a faint hint of snow.

Merka and Turing walked on a quiet, deserted path, where the dim moonlight of the new moon cast a mysterious cold light on the dull slate road.

After waiting at Mrs. Malian's house for Merka to finish her music lesson, Turing reluctantly accepted Mrs. Malian's warm invitation and had dinner at her house. With winter darkening the skies early, they hurried home only when night fell.

"Oh, it was such a challenge."

"I feel like my fingers have gone numb from playing."

"Why are all the teachers I encounter so strict?"

Except for Joan.

Merka's thoughts drifted to deep space, his brows furrowed and his fingers at his mouth exuded warm breath. The bone-chilling cold inadvertently reminded him of the season of farewells in his childhood.

As if thinking of an ex-girlfriend, a figure of an acquaintance flashed through Merka's mind. He glanced guiltily at Turing beside him, only to see her reactionless, which made him breathe a sigh of relief.

"But let me ask, what will you reward me with?"

"How about a kiss~~"

Turing twisted her body, her hands clasping Merka's arm, swaying from side to side vigorously.

"Ahaha..."

Merka smiled somewhat stiffly.

Watching Merka visibly deflate, Turing pouted unhappily.

"What's wrong, not satisfied?"

It's not dissatisfaction, it's just that rewarding something you do every day doesn't really excite me.

Merka scratched his cheek, looking helpless.

"Anyway."

"Do you want to go to another inn today and catch a late show?"

"I actually still feel hungry after what we ate at Mrs. Malian's place."

Feeling Turing's cold skin, Merka tucked her hand, as cold as an ice cube, into his own jacket pocket, warming it up.

"Sure, sure."

Although theoretically Turing's appetite wasn't that big, what they had at Mrs. Malian's should have been enough. But for the current Turing, appetite had lost its meaning.

Rather, Turing's brain had actually lost the boundaries of hunger and fullness perception; no matter how much she ate, there was no end in sight.

Whether to eat or not doesn't matter anyway.

But what about excretion?

Actually, there's no need for excretion either.

It's very strange that everything, including food that enters Turing's body, seems to disappear into a bottomless pit.

This is actually quite similar to the way Turing always retracts his tentacles back into his body multiple times larger than his own, creating an interesting parallel.

"But please, let's not eat at Italian restaurants anymore. I'm really fed up with pasta and spaghetti."

"Oh? So you don't want any of the instant spaghetti you bought for home before?"

"If I don't want it, then I don't want it. It's just a small amount of money anyway—"

"It's not about money or no money, it's about not wasting."

Turing, hanging on Merka like a sloth, or rather, draped over Merka, the two of them playfully walking down the street, adding some liveliness to the dull streets of the commoner district.

Suddenly, Turing noticed something and spoke up:

"Merka, look over there."

Turing pointed to a secluded corner of a side alley off the street. In the depths of the corner, there was a grass hut made of cardboard boxes and straw. Inside lay a pitiful girl curled up in a ball.

From her sunken eyes, it was clear she was a homeless Curseborn.

"Should we go help her?"

Turing raised his head and asked Merka.

"Don't go, you can't help her."

After a moment of hesitation, Merka pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Curseborn who can stand their ground in a big city like this are most likely being protected by someone."

"If she's not choosing to live with other Curseborn in remote suburbs, it means she's capable of supporting herself in the city."

"Maybe she just doesn't have a place to stay for the night now, she might even go help someone with work once day breaks."

Turing thought Merka would be more than willing to help the Curseborn, but to his surprise, Merka refused.

"Most likely... as you've said, 'most likely.'"

"But what if it's the 'unlikely,' what if it's the one or two out of the ten, what usually happens then?"

Frowning, Turing asked Merka with concern.