"What are you doing?"

Boka’s wrist throbbed from the rough grip. He couldn’t help but feel irritated at the treatment.

"Do you have any idea how precious this young lady of a shrub is to her? She prunes it herself every single day—" The steward rambled on, tears welling, oblivious to Boka’s discomfort.

"Let go of me," Boka tried to pull free. "This hurts."

A guard barked at him to shut up.

Fuming but helpless, Boka wondered: *Another noble? Why are they all such trouble? What now?*

Just then, a small figure darted into his view.

"Master!" the boy cried.

Boka’s eyes focused slowly. *Percy.* The annoying kid who’d pestered him for archery lessons that night.

"You’ve got the wrong person," Boka muttered, turning his face away.

"Master! A man of your noble bearing? Percy could never mistake you!" His voice trembled with excitement. "I counted to ten thousand, and you vanished—was it a test of my willpower? Was it? Was it?"

Boka had no reply. His joints ached under the guards’ grip, a flicker of pain crossing his face.

Percy’s gaze snapped to the guards twisting Boka’s arms. His expression turned icy. Just his stare made the two guards flinch.

"What are you doing?" Percy’s voice turned gravelly. "Daring to lay filthy hands on my teacher?"

"Y-Your Highness—" The guards released Boka instantly.

"Master, are you hurt?" Percy rushed over.

"I’m fine," Boka said stiffly. "Thanks."

"Who gave the order?" Percy scanned the crowd. Though young, authority radiated from his brow.

"Him." Boka pointed at the steward before he could speak. "He just had me seized for no reason."

"I see."

Percy nodded, then turned to a gaunt elder behind him. "Great-Uncle Clar, may I behead this man?"

The steward turned ashen, nearly collapsing.

Only now did Boka notice Percy’s companions: the crimson-robed elder, a towering armored knight, and—*her*. Tall, frost-faced. *Aria.* The woman he’d accidentally bumped into days ago.

"Now, now, child," Duke Clar said gently. "He’s served me since he was a boy. Up you get. Go water my sunflowers."

The steward scrambled up, bowed shakily, and fled.

"Guess it can’t be helped," Percy sighed. "Great-Uncle Clar, allow me to introduce my revered master—"

He turned. Boka was already thirty paces away, slipping off silently.

*Every noble I meet brings bad luck. And today? Two disasters in one place. I’m out.*

"MASTER!"

Percy shot after him, latching onto Boka’s leg like sticky candy. "You’re abandoning me again?!"

"Let go! You’re gross," Boka snapped, shaking his leg. "I just came for a job. Why’s this happening?"

"Eh?!" Percy released him. "You’re here for work?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

"Come with me!"

Percy yanked him toward Duke Clar. Boka stumbled, unable to resist.

"Great-Uncle! Are you hiring?"

"Indeed, child. Aria seeks a groundskeeper for her plants."

Percy’s eyes lit up. "Hire him! Please!"

"Oh? May I ask why?"

Duke Clar was puzzled. Percy had never shown such devotion to an outsider.

"He’s my master!" Percy declared proudly. "The world’s greatest archer!"

"You practice archery?"

The question came from the armored knight behind Clar—*Ian*. Silver armor, a court-forged longsword at his hip, cropped hair sharp as his presence.

"Yes. I was a hunter in the mountains," Boka answered honestly.

"Percy," Ian said carefully, "while my archery is passable, it pales beside my master’s! He can hit a plate midair in harbor gales!"

Ian’s jaw tightened. *A hunter compared to a knight?* Yet he recalled Princess Mia’s demand: *Match Percy’s master. Hit a plate in the sea wind.* Something he’d failed to do.

"Great-Uncle," Percy pleaded, "Father forbids commoners as my teachers. If you hire him, I can visit often for lessons!"

"Hmm." Duke Clar’s aged voice softened. "Very well. Stay. Aria cherishes these plants. Be gentle with them."

Percy nearly jumped for joy. "Thank you! Thank you, Great-Uncle!"

"Ian, we must go. They’re waiting."

"At once, Your Grace."

Ian and Clar departed in their carriage. The other applicants had long scattered. Only Boka, Percy, and the silent Aria Egnesis remained.

Boka shifted uncomfortably. Awkwardness thickened the air. A boyish noble clinging to him like an overexcited puppy. A woman radiating glacial disdain. A triangle he desperately wanted to escape. *I just wanted a job. No idea about pay. No port wages? No way I’m staying in this pressure cooker.*

"Uh... how much does this job pay? Daily?"

"Pay, Master?"

"Yeah."

"Five hundred neel enough?"

"*Cough—cough—cough!*" Boka choked violently.

*Enough? This isn’t wages—it’s a king’s ransom!*

"As my teacher, that’s too little," Percy mused, stroking his chin. "If Aria’s offer is low, I’ll top it up from the national treasury."

"O-oh..." Boka forced calm, mind reeling.

"Who."

"Hm?"

"The shrub. Cut."

The whisper was so faint Boka missed it. Only when it came again did he realize—*Aria*. She stood before the damaged plant, murmuring to its long gash. Even Percy paled. This shrub, like every green thing on the estate, had been planted by someone precious. After that person’s death, young Aria had tended them herself—pruning, watering, guarding them fiercely. Only recently, with her social duties, had she hired help.

"Oh. That was me." Boka raised a hand.

"Eh?! EH?!"

Percy froze, finally understanding why the steward had ordered Boka seized. *He’s the culprit.* Angering Aria was catastrophic. For some reason, Percy feared his elder sister more than his own father—the ruler of Albion.

Aria turned. Her eyes locked onto Boka. For a split second, pure loathing flashed across her face.

Boka was slow in many things, but he read expressions well. A chill shot down his spine. His pores stood on end.

It wasn’t just anger. It was soul-deep revulsion. Or better put—*murderous intent*.

...

Soon after, Percy was dragged away by a lavish carriage. He kicked and protested, but the attendants were used to it. "Your Highness, please behave," they chanted, hauling him inside.

Aria remained by the shrub, gazing at it as if Boka didn’t exist. He took the hint. Her icy glare had carved its message deep. No reason to stay. No job. He left quietly.

By the time he reached Cynthia’s house, night had fallen. He’d tried finding Albert’s caravan but got lost, wandering until he spotted the long harbor lights. He followed the gentle slope of the docks back to Mire Street.

The moment he stepped inside, Cynthia’s full-force hand-chop slammed his forehead. A red mark bloomed instantly.

Then came the endless scolding: accusations of running away, reminders that he was "the last man of the Blumer Clan," and her watery-eyed act. He felt like a scolded child.

Dorin peeked from behind the door, watching his punishment. Aisha sat on the bench, giggling as if enjoying a play. *She loves seeing me like this,* Boka thought grimly.

Finally, Cynthia thrust a letter at him. The seal was broken—she’d already read it. *Privacy? What’s that?* She managed his life: laundry hung before he noticed it was dirty, even his underwear neatly pinned.

"A prank delivery," she huffed. "Says you’re hired as Duke Clar’s head groundskeeper. Since when does my man know how to water plants?!"

"...Actually," Boka said slowly, "that might be real."