Albion’s capital never slept. Even at night, Mire Street teemed with people.

Every shop hung kerosene lamps outside—long rows of them glowing like fiery serpents. As one of the continent’s few true night cities, its inns bustled constantly: foreign travelers, merchant caravans like Albert’s, job seekers. Yet entry remained strict. All needed proper documents or state registration.

Boka had no trouble—he’d found his Albion birth certificate in the cabin. For Aisha, a child, he simply acted as guarantor. Two stamps at customs sealed her registration.

They’d asked at nearby taverns for his father’s shop. Now, lost in the maze of streets, they scanned landmarks to orient themselves. Soldiers patrolled the night market frequently. At the tavern, Boka had heard rumors: after a century-long war, Nellos had finally fallen. But the endless slaughter birthed countless exiles—those clinging to vengeance and lost kingdoms, now rumored to lurk within the capital.

Number 26 Mire Street lay south of the harbor.

Boka didn’t know the harbor’s exact location. But his sharp ears caught the ocean’s rhythm.

Trusting his instincts, he found it quickly.

To repel naval invasions, catapults lined the harbor walls. What lurked beneath the waves, no one knew. Legends said Albion’s founders had woven sea-bound magical wards at the empire’s dawn. Three times, enemies attacked from the sea. None were heard from again. This was merely a docking zone anyway. A colossal iron gate sealed the customs checkpoint at night, guarded by dozens of soldiers.

Even inland, sea winds cut through the walls.

Aisha’s raven-black hair whipped wildly. She brushed it aside, revealing a child’s face—but her eyes held a maturity that never quite faded.

“You! Yes, you! Come here!”

A golden-haired, blue-eyed boy strode over.

“What?” Boka blinked.

“Toss this plate into the air.” The boy’s basket overflowed with dishes.

“What?” Utterly confused.

“Now!”

“...Okay.”

Boka obeyed.

As the plate spun in the wind, the boy nocked an arrow. He fired—but the shot lacked power, the arrow drooping mid-flight.

“Hmph. Missed again.” He stamped his foot.

Boka finally saw him clearly: fourteen or fifteen, draped in white silk robes edged with gold-thread belts. Delicate features, almost girlish.

“Done? I’m leaving.” Boka turned.

“No!” The boy grabbed his arm. “You must throw again!”

“I’m busy.”

“Dare you disobey me?!”

“Why should I?” Boka pulled away. “Find someone else. I have no time.”

“My servants aren’t here! I snuck out today!”

A horse was tethered to a harbor post—likely his mount.

“Aisha.”

“Yes?”

“Is he nobility too?”

“With that temper? Probably.”

“Must I obey him?”

“Humor him. For now.”

This loud boy was the same breed as the woman he’d met that afternoon. Boka remembered soldiers pinning him down, nearly dragging him to prison. He sighed deeply.

“How long must I throw?”

“Until I hit a plate!” The boy planted his hands on his hips.

“Give up. You won’t hit one by dawn.” Boka spoke bluntly.

The boy held a fine yew bow—but drawing it required strength his slender shoulders lacked. Simply put: the bow didn’t suit him.

“You—you dare insult me?!” He clenched his fists. “I—I am Percy—”

“Aisha.”

“What?”

“Do nobles consider honesty an insult?”

“Apparently.”

“A commoner! Daring to doubt my skill!” His face flushed crimson.

“Kid,” Boka said, “practice indoors.”

“How dare you—! Even my father doesn’t call me ‘kid’!” His eyes widened.

Boka’s patience frayed. This shrieking brat was shredding his eardrums.

“Watch.”

Boka snatched three plates from the basket and hurled them skyward. In one fluid motion, he drew his own bow from his back. Three arrows flew—*thwip-thwip-thwip*—shattering each plate mid-air. The last arrow grazed the water’s surface, splitting the falling shard at the perfect moment.

Percy stood frozen, jaw slack.

“Incredible...”

“This place isn’t for learning.” Boka slung his bow back.

Percy blocked his path again.

“It’s your bow! Your arrows!” he cried. “No one could do that—not even my teacher!”

Boka’s bow was rough-hewn wood; his arrows, self-made fletchings. Nothing like Percy’s polished gear. Yet the boy clung to this excuse.

“Take it.” Boka handed over his bow and arrows.

Percy dropped his own bow, eager to test the “magic” weapon. But as he drew the string taut—it snapped back with a *crack!*—stinging his hand.

“Ow...” Tears welled in his eyes.

Boka plucked a feathered arrow from Percy’s quiver. With calm strength, he drew the yew bow to full span. He aimed, released—and the arrow struck the distant horse post dead-center. The force ripped the post loose, sending the horse rearing in panic.

Percy’s jaw dropped lower.

“Aisha, let’s go.”

Boka stopped. Arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

“What now? I really must go.”

“Master! Teach me archery!”

“Aisha.” Boka glanced at her. “Are all nobles this troublesome?”

“He’s... exceptional.”

“I have no time. I’m searching for someone.”

“Please accept me!” Percy’s voice cracked. “Mia brags about hitting plates by the sea—I can’t lose to her!”

“I’m busy.”

Boka couldn’t shake him off.

“I’ll work hard! Master!”

“Go away.”

“Teach me your secret technique!”

“There is none.”

Boka didn’t even know how he’d learned archery. Since waking in the Aber Mountains with lost memories, the skill had simply... existed. His vision was poor—dark spots floated before his eyes; distant objects blurred. He aimed by instinct alone. That was his only “secret.”

“Master!” Percy buried his face in Boka’s chest. “From today, you replace my father as the person I respect most!”

“Unnecessary...”

“And—keep it secret from my father!”

Percy heard nothing. Boka realized: refusal meant no escape. Agreement would only invite more chaos.

“Percy.”

“Yes?!”

“You’re my student now.”

“Yes, Master!”

“The key to archery is patience.” Boka intoned gravely. “Understand?”

“I do!”

“Close your eyes.”

“Yes!”

“Count to ten thousand. Don’t open them until then.”

“Yes, Master!” Percy began, “One... two... three...”

Boka seized Aisha’s hand and signaled *run*. They fled until the harbor’s end, slowing only when Percy vanished from sight.

“Finally lost him.” Boka panted.

“The world is vast,” Aisha murmured.

“What?”

“There are creatures dumber than you. Truly, the world is wide.”

“That’s not the point...”

Boka noticed the street signs: *Mire Street*. They’d arrived. House numbers descended from 186. His father’s shop couldn’t be far.

“Let’s go. What are you waiting for?” Aisha urged.

“Right.”

Boka scanned shop numbers, quickening his pace—nearly colliding with patrolling soldiers.

Then he stood before number 26.

The door was shut tight. Unlike neighboring shops ablaze with lantern light, this building lay dark and empty.

“Disappointed?” Aisha asked softly.

“...Yeah.”

A hollow ache filled his chest. He bit his lip, unable to speak. Then he noticed a girl—six or seven—crouched by the door, tossing pebbles.

“Hello.” Boka approached. “Is this your home?”

She shook her head. “My home is here.”

The neighboring general store? She must play here often.

“Do you know a man named Severus Bloomer?”

“Nope.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Boka ruffled her hair and returned to Aisha.

“Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll find lodging tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow... we head back.”

Night deepened. Shops shuttered for the day. From the general store emerged a young woman in an apron—mid-twenties, ponytailed, fair-skinned. Even in the bustling street, her beauty stood out.

“Mama!” The little girl ran to her.

“Dorin, Mama’s busy,” Cynthia said gently. “Go play with Papa.”

“Mama! Mama! Who’s Severus?” Dorin tilted her head.

Cynthia froze. She knelt, voice tender: “Dorin, Severus was your great-great-grandfather’s name. Where did you hear it?”

“That uncle.” Dorin pointed at Boka’s retreating figure.

Cynthia dropped her basket. Lifting her skirts, she sprinted after him.

Voices called behind him.

Boka ignored them—he knew no one here.

“Wait! Please wait!”

Only when the voice’s owner reached him did he turn.

Cynthia gasped for breath, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Whew... Marriage really steals your youth.” She smiled faintly. “You... you’re looking for Severus Bloomer?”

“Yes. How did you—”

“My daughter spoke with you.” Cynthia’s eyes searched his face. “Why do you seek him?”

Her gentle grace left Boka flustered.

“He... he’s my grandfather.”

“Grandfather...”

“That—”

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Boka. That's my name."

"Boka!" Cynthia's eyes lit up. "So you're Boka!"

"Y-yes, that's right. What about it?"

"Great!"

Cynthia rushed forward and hugged him.

"Boka, I've finally met you! You're back!"