The Bowen family, descendants of one of Albion's founding fathers, still held immense prestige in the capital despite centuries passing. They appeared in every political reform, their influence rivaling Duke Clar and Duke Agnes.

Yet this very family, draped in glory and mystery, saw its current head, Marquis Daina, brutally murdered in a dark alley outside the imperial palace. His guards and knights lay with limbs hacked apart; Marquis Daina’s head was nailed to the wall by a sharp weapon.

The murder happened on a late afternoon. Many witnessed his body, and someone recognized the famed politician. The National Institution couldn’t hide it. By nightfall, news of the marquis’s death had spread citywide.

By the next day, the incident escalated toward the fall of the Nellos Kingdom. Capital residents believed it was retaliation by Nellos remnants. The National Institution must have had prior intelligence—hence the heavy patrols. Rumor said the killer left blood-written words at the scene: "We’re back" and "The third person."

Boka knew it was true. He’d seen it himself.

"We’re back" hinted at reignited war with Nellos. "The third person" sparked guesses: important figures might have been assassinated earlier, covered up to prevent panic.

That morning, Cynthia warned Boka to stay safe. Yesterday, he’d returned home dazed. Only after she warmed him ginger tea did he pull himself together.

Boka worried not for himself, but for Cynthia and the others. With him working and Baird away, he felt responsible as the man of the house. He agonized over taking leave to protect Cynthia.

Cynthia sensed his distress. She stroked Boka’s messy hair—he towered over her—and comforted him: "Mire Street has guards all day. I know the knight in charge; he was my junior at the Pharmacy Academy."

Boka recalled that young knight. Once Baird’s student, he’d admired Baird Atley’s medical skill and supported his marriage to Cynthia despite public scorn. Cynthia’s words soothed Boka; she hated seeing her brother troubled.

Aisha often read at the National Library. But with Baird gone and tensions high, Cynthia forbade her from leaving. Strangely, Aisha—who loved arguing and mocking others—always obeyed Cynthia. Boka couldn’t fathom why.

Security tightened at Duke Agnes’s mansion. Yet Boka held their permit and was recognized by guards, so entry posed no issue.

The scorching heat demanded careful plant watering. Following Grandpa Gena’s guidance, Boka sprinkled water sparingly from a bucket, refilling often. Yellowing leaves signaled water trouble. Grandpa Gena approved: Boka was honest, hardworking, close to the young master but never arrogant.

While working, Boka felt intermittent gazes—his hunter’s instinct flaring. He turned.

In a distant mansion window stood Aria, watching him. Boka’s poor eyesight didn’t matter; he knew her aura. Her chest held no warmth; her eyes were glacial ice. He still feared this woman his age.

Marquis Daina’s murder near the palace meant Percy wouldn’t bother Boka soon—he’d surely be under house arrest.

Aria had returned to Duke Agnes’s mansion that morning but left by carriage in the afternoon. Rumor claimed Duke Clar banned her from the main house. Boka heard this from servants. Honestly, he preferred not seeing her. Before departing, Aria lingered in the front garden, studying the plants. Only then did her eyes show emotion—a tender affection Boka couldn’t describe. She gave Grandpa Gena brief instructions and left.

As one of few permitted men inside the mansion, Boka drew attention. Duke Clar, though kind, had loved beautiful women in youth and still surrounded himself with young girls in old age. The girls knew Boka’s closeness to the young master. Some flirted; others teased the silly young man.

Cynthia had warned him: keep distance from girls. "If you marry," she’d said, "I’ll arrange it." Boka heeded her, never deepening ties.

Grandpa Gena chuckled, patting Boka’s shoulder. "Next time, I’ll take you to a good place."

Beyond gardening, he loved fishing—that "good place" meant riverside chats with old men. He’d invited Boka before, but Boka declined, fearing scolding for coming home late. This second offer couldn’t be refused.

After tidying tools, Boka stepped onto the streets.

Everyone around him was kind, yet the air felt oppressive. Only outside breathed freedom.

He stopped. That dark alley.

Where Marquis Daina died. Soldiers guarded it; outsiders barred. From afar, bloodstains seemed cleaned. Recalling yesterday’s scene, Boka’s stomach churned—the metallic stench, flesh and organs like ground meat. A hellish sight.

But relief washed over him. Trena had been there too, yet hadn’t seen it. She’d have been terrified.

What was Trena doing now? Evening had fallen. Though the merchant caravan stayed at an inn, women handled meals. She’d be helping.

Boka hesitated.

The yellow inn in the South District.

Only two blocks away. Decision made, his feet moved. He’d find words; he was Boka.

This time, no getting lost. Unlike his usual careless self, he studied the route, asked passersby, and arrived quickly.

Albion’s buildings were uniformly dark gray—repainting required approval and tax. Shops sometimes defied this to attract customers, making the yellow inn stand out.

Night patrols were heavy. Knights led stern-faced soldiers, questioning wanderers. Outsiders were targeted; ports were sealed, city gates barred to foreigners.

After two rounds, Boka spotted the inn.

Traveling merchants had legal daytime stalls but couldn’t trade at night markets. Albert’s group should be inside, avoiding nighttime risks.

Inside, middle-aged men drank. A waitress weaved between tables. Boka scanned the room—no familiar faces. Were they asleep upstairs? Unlikely for merchants who loved drink.

"Excuse me," Boka asked the ledger-writing boss, "is a red-haired girl here? Long hair. She lives here."

"Ah, the traveling merchant’s girl." Crimson hair left deep impressions.

"Y-yes!" Albert’s group was here.

"She and the caravan left."

"Ah..." Boka’s voice dropped. "W-why?"

"Don’t you know? Marquis Daina died. The National Institution’s screening suspicious people citywide." The boss sighed. "Many arrested. They entered recently—avoiding trouble, they left this afternoon."