When the sky was just beginning to lighten, Boka was already up.

Aisha’s room was right next door, beyond the wooden partition. He could still hear her soft snores.

Boka dressed quickly and slipped downstairs. He had to leave before Cynthia woke up—otherwise, she’d start questioning him. He couldn’t handle those big, pleading eyes.

Mire Street was deserted. Only a few breakfast stalls had opened; the rest would wait until dawn. Though Boka usually went to bed early, he still struggled with mornings. He trudged down the road, half-asleep. Only after splashing seawater on his face at the harbor did he finally feel awake.

Boka wasn’t familiar with Albion’s capital yet. Yesterday, a nearby fruit vendor had sketched him a rough map—without it, he’d be bumbling around like a headless fly. These days, planning his route before heading out alone was non-negotiable.

The job center was farther than expected, and Boka was impatient. He practically jogged the whole way.

But when he arrived, it was still too early. The gates were shut. He was the only one waiting on the steps. Boka had forgotten government offices kept strict hours—Cynthia had even warned him about this during his last legal hearing.

His stomach growled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since waking, and the run had drained him. Sitting alone on the steps, he looked utterly foolish.

Soon, others trickled in—people dressed plainly, here for the same reason. They exchanged glances but no words.

Nearby, a vendor called out, selling freshly baked dark rye bread. The warm, yeasty scent filled the air. But Boka’s pockets were nearly empty—Aisha had swiped most of his coins. And the job center required a fee. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the hunger pangs.

*If only Cynthia were here. She’d buy me food.*

The thought made him feel pathetic. Living with Cynthia had made him dependent. He rapped his knuckles twice against his skull, shaking off the weakness. Life in Albion was different. In the mountains, food came from hunting and farming. Here, in this hub of culture and commerce, there was no spare land, no wild rabbits darting about. Survival meant hard work.

Lost in these tangled thoughts, Boka leaned against a stone statue by the gate and dozed off.

He woke to the sun blazing overhead, his face burning. The job center was now packed.

Yawning and scratching his head, Boka squeezed inside. After paying the fee, he received a wooden token and joined the long queue.

The heat was suffocating. Crowded bodies were worse than the midday sun. Everyone endured it silently for a chance at work. Even the clerk behind the counter was drenched in sweat, the air thick around him. It was a grueling job—but as a government employee, his pay was generous.

By the time Boka reached the counter, it was noon. The crowd still pressed in, making him queasy.

The clerk asked mechanically:

“Educated?”

“I… don’t think so.” Boka searched his memory.

“Any skills?”

“None.”

“High or low pay?”

“I—I need money.”

“Can you do manual labor?”

“Yes.” Boka’s physique wasn’t bad.

“The docks need porters. Ten Nier a day.”

Ten Nier sounded like a fortune. Boka agreed instantly.

“I’ll take it.”

The clerk scribbled a note with his quill, shoved it at Boka, and flicked his eyes toward the exit.

Boka didn’t need telling twice. He hated the stifling atmosphere. Bad with people, he read the dismissal clearly and bolted outside.

He gasped for air, finally free.

The note should’ve listed his worksite and credentials. Official documents like this rarely got rejected—they proved you were legit.

After drinking from a nearby well, Boka unfolded the paper.

He froze.

*Gardener.* Not porter.

And the address wasn’t the docks—it was 113 Lisen Street.

*They gave me the wrong slip.*

Worse—he had no idea what a gardener even did.

*Go back?*

The steps were now jammed with people spilling out the door. Boka lacked the energy—or courage—to fight his way back in.

*Whatever.* He sighed. An official document should still get him in. Lisen Street… Cynthia had mentioned it. Near the palace. Where nobles and merchants lived. He didn’t understand that world.

*It’s close. I’ll check it out today.*

But afternoon was creeping in. Boka hadn’t eaten all day. His coins were gone. In this vast city of Albion, only Cynthia would feed him…

Then he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd.

*Albert!*

That ash-gray outfit, the steady stride, the short red hair—he recognized him instantly.

“Albert!” Boka caught up and clapped his shoulder.

Albert flinched, a few unnatural beads of sweat on his neck.

“Oh. Boka.” He turned, forcing calm.

His momentary unease slipped past Boka.

“Ha! I just saw you. Where’s Trena?”

“She’s with the caravan in the Lower East District. What about you? And that little drinker?”

“Aisha’s at Cynthia’s. We’re staying on Mire Street now.” Boka grinned sheepishly. “I’m job hunting today.”

“Tough break. But I’ve got supplies to buy—I’m leaving.” Albert started walking. “We won’t depart until next month. Visit sometime. Trena… likes you.”

As Albert turned to go, Boka grabbed his arm.

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

“So?”

“I have no money.”

……

Silence. Albert’s face twisted like he’d bitten into a lemon.

“Take this.” He thrust a few coins into Boka’s palm. “You’ve really hit rock bottom, huh?”

Boka said nothing. If Albert knew he was living off a married woman… he couldn’t bear that look of contempt.

“Sorry. I’ll pay you back.”

“…Hah. Forget it. Trena would kill me.”

Albert waved wearily over his shoulder and vanished into the crowd.

“Say hi to Trena for me!” Boka called after him.

“Boka.” Albert paused without turning. “Just… watch out for her temper.”

Watching Albert disappear, Boka clutched the coins and hunted for a cheap eatery. Eating alone meant he could skip the taverns—no wine-guzzling little girl to feed.

He’d smelled fried rice with onions earlier. Following his nose, he ordered a large plate. At this no-frills spot, customers ate standing outside. Boka didn’t mind. He crouched by the door with the others, shoveling in the fragrant, oil-glistening rice. It was bliss.

He even learned Lisen Street’s location from a fellow diner. Just as Cynthia said—it was close.

After returning his plate and gulping down a cup of water, Boka headed uphill.

Lisen Street was easy to find. Albion’s capital rose like a hill, sloping toward the palace at its peak—a design for defense, impervious to floods. Lisen Street lay just below the royal grounds.

The houses here were nothing like the slums below. Grand, historic mansions lined the street, radiating old wealth.

At 113 Lisen Street, Boka stopped.

*Huge.* That was his first thought. Guards stood at the gate. A sprawling garden stretched before him—emerald-green lawns, a marble fountain, meticulously trimmed hedges. This wasn’t just a house; it was a statement of power.

A crowd had gathered near the entrance, surrounded by potted plants. People were being tested—*this* was gardening? Boka mused. *Just snipping branches with big scissors? Easy.*

Reassured, he joined the queue.

When his turn came, he handed his document to the overseer. The other candidates had left—had something happened?

An elderly steward examined Boka’s paper, his expression pleased. Government-issued credentials. A clean background.

Then Boka lifted the pruning shears.

*Snip-snip.*

He hacked two deep gashes into a vibrant purple shrub—*not* the test plant, but the mansion’s prized ornamental bush.

“You—you…” The steward’s jaw dropped. “That’s the young mistress’s favorite—!”

“Isn’t this how it’s done?” Boka asked. “Sorry. First time.”

“GUARDS!” the steward shrieked. “Seize this brute!”

Before Boka could react, his arms were wrenched backward, pinned in an iron grip.