"What on earth are you talking about..."

During the pandemic seven years ago, countless residents perished. Yet now, Baird claimed it was Albion’s conspiracy.

Boka’s mind reeled.

"Those who knew the truth have returned," he said. "I’m hiding here to escape their pursuit. Only here am I safe—no one would guess Baird would hide in a disreputable inn tucked in a dark alley."

*Pursuit?* Who would hunt Baird? A doctor renowned for his integrity, who treated the poor for free—what enemies could he have?

"Explain yourself," Boka released Baird’s collar. "Or I’ll drag you to Cynthia right now."

"Boka, you must understand—it wasn’t my choice." His voice trailed off. "Those ugly memories... if I could, I’d never speak of them again..."

Boka sat down, unsure of his own feelings. But what *was* Baird talking about? Why drag him into the pandemic from seven years ago? All Boka wanted now was to understand what Baird—the very man who’d fought that plague—was trying to say.

"Boka, you know of the century-long war between Albion and the Kingdom of Nellos, right?"

Though Boka had known nothing of the outside world while living in the mountains, the feud between these two kingdoms birthed countless tales—including the legend of the Black Knight. For control of the frozen northern lands, the sacred domain of the gods, Albion and Nellos had slaughtered each other across generations. Beyond border clashes, history recorded seven major wars. The seventh, six years ago—the final assault led by the Black Knight just months past—ended with Nellos’ annihilation.

"The century-long war between Albion and Nellos began the tragedy seven years ago," Baird’s lips trembled. "A filthy scheme..."

"What do you mean?" Boka frowned. "Speak plainly! I don’t follow."

Baird drew a sharp breath, forcing himself steady. After a pause, he continued.

Seven years ago, Albion faced defeat in a critical battle. Years of war had bred deep public resentment. Though the state preached imperial glory daily, the dead could not be brought back. That year, Albion’s economy slumped. Natural disasters ruined harvests. Shops in the capital shuttered one by one. Crime surged. State interventions failed. Soon, protests filled the streets—becoming routine. Most citizens believed this century of bloodshed had ruined their lives. Calls to end the war and reconcile with ancient Nellos became the national cry.

Yet the royal court and its ministers faced a different crisis. They couldn’t negotiate with Nellos—not just over the holy land, but because of their own survival.

The monarchy. Built on centuries of imperial worship and rigid hierarchy. Yielding to the people would shatter their authority, destabilize state institutions, and risk collapse. Peace meant crippling tax reforms and the end of steel monopolies—the monarchy’s lifeblood. Economic ruin would follow.

As Baird recounted this, a bitter, self-mocking smile flickered on his lips.

"So what did the crown plan?" Boka asked.

"A high-ranking minister proposed a solution," he said. "Make the people *eager* to continue the war."

"*Eager* to continue..."

Boka could almost feel Albion’s despair. What could possibly make people embrace endless war?

"This was the conspiracy seven years ago."

As Baird spoke on, Boka saw his lips tremble visibly.

"...They planned an incident in the capital. Something to blame on Nellos’ aggression. A reason to reignite public support for total war."

"What kind of incident?" Boka didn’t understand.

"M-mass casualties."

...Boka froze.

"You mean the..."

"Yes. Yes." Baird’s voice cracked. "The pandemic seven years ago. It killed nearly a third of the capital’s population."

Boka’s parents. Cynthia’s family. They’d all died in that plague. He’d often wondered why Cynthia treated him so kindly—perhaps because she alone survived, and sought to fill that emptiness through him. But now Baird claimed Albion had *caused* it.

"Yet the plague’s lethality exceeded the crown’s expectations. The pathogen, mixed into drinking water, ravaged the entire capital." Baird removed his monocle. "So many died. Children. Young adults. No defense. Every family lost someone."

Boka sat silent, his face unreadable.

"After the plague was contained," Baird’s bitter smile deepened, "the crown announced its findings: Nellos had attacked us. The nation erupted. Revenge consumed Albion. Fathers who’d lost children enlisted en masse, pouring their wealth into the northern front. Within half a year, Albion launched an unprecedented total war. Until months ago, when the Black Knight stormed Nellos’ palace."

A long silence passed before Boka finally spoke.

"Baird... why are you hiding?"

"The plan was leaked..." he whispered. "The state arrested many, but some escaped. And now... they’ve returned."

"So why run?"

"Lord Dain was murdered. Two ministers before him—all involved in the scheme seven years ago..."

"*So!*" Boka glared. "Baird, I’m asking you—why do *you* know this? Why would a doctor who fought the plague abandon his wife and daughter to hide in a brothel?"

"I... I’m sorry, Boka. I betrayed Cynthia..."

"Speak clearly!" Boka grabbed his collar again.

Baird slumped to the floor.

"I... helped develop the plague pathogen..."

Boka’s fury drained away, replaced by chilling understanding. Baird’s free clinics. His medicines for the poor. Taking in strangers like Boka and Aisha without complaint. All penance. He’d killed countless innocents. Including the Blumer Clan.

"B-Boka," Baird nearly knelt, "don’t tell Cynthia. If you do, I—"

"Don’t touch me."

Boka crouched before him. "Baird... you’re the most despicable man I’ve ever met."

"I—"

Boka had heard enough. He strode out, ignoring Lily’s call at the door. Downstairs, he told the madam to inform Gena he’d left. He fled the inn, escaping the hidden alley into the city’s clamor.

The bustling streets choked him. His chest tightened. He couldn’t face Cynthia—not after this. What could he even do about Baird? Cynthia, so gentle and kind... and Baird...

The noisy streets felt alien. He longed for quiet—like the Aber Mountains, where stars filled the sky and no one disturbed his thoughts. But where in Albion’s capital could he find such peace?

Boka walked with his head down—a habit unchanged since his amnesia, even when he’d been a hunter. Had coming here from the mountains been a mistake? The peaks were barren, yes, but serene. A world without these tangled pains.

He’d asked Aisha’s opinion before descending. She’d given a faint smile. *"Boka, you saved my life. I follow your will—your desires, your path."* Those words had decided him. He’d sought his family in this unknown world.

Aisha understood Boka as he understood her. Though they’d met recently, it felt like lifetimes.

Lost in these thoughts, Boka suddenly spotted a woman in the crowd.

Waist-length silver hair. A fitted dress framing a face as cold as frost. He’d never seen such beauty—a maiden’s lips, porcelain skin so pale he could trace the blue veins beneath.

She watched him from afar, as if signaling something. Then she turned and vanished.

Boka’s feet moved without thought. He followed her—drawn like a moth. Through crowded streets, winding alleys, until the sea wind hit his face at the harbor. Only there did she stop.

The wind lifted her silver hair like a banner. She knew he’d followed. Turning, she walked toward him. Unseen, unheard, her sword slid from its sheath.

Without warning, without a whisper of movement, Aria Agnus’s blade pressed against Boka’s throat before he could react.

Death felt inches away. The tip inched forward—a hair’s breadth from piercing his throat.

"Who are you?" Aria’s voice cut the air.

"I—how—"

Boka grasped his peril. But why had he followed her here, to this deserted dock?

"Answer me."

"I’m... Boka."

"Boka Brumer. Exiled with his father from Albion twenty years ago." Her tone was flat. "No one has seen him since."

*How did she know?* Was she investigating him?

"Who *are* you?"

"I—"

The question struck him like ice. As she said—was he truly himself? Who could confirm it?

"Why do you know Percy Pendragon?" Her voice turned glacial. "State your purpose."

"I met him at the harbor. He asked me to teach archery."

Her sword shifted—a hair’s breadth. Blood welled on Boka’s skin.

"You traveled with those merchants."

"I—I rode their wagon. Joined their caravan to reach the capital."

"They’re wanted fugitives."

"What—"

He’d seen no warrants. Heard no whispers about Trena’s group.

"And," her eyes froze his blood, "you’re with *that woman*."

Boka couldn’t grasp her meaning. Their thoughts clashed like broken gears.

"Who? C-Cynthia?"

"*That woman*. Why is she with you? Answer."

Before Aria finished, Boka’s ears caught it—a sound slicing the air. His hunter’s hearing recognized it instantly. That familiar *whizz*... *Arrows!*

"Look out!"

He lunged forward, tackling Aria to the ground. Two crossbow bolts slammed into his back.

Darkness swallowed his vision. His last sight was Aria’s undisguised shock.

Moreover, a familiar streak of crimson.

In the darkness, shadowy figures drifted. Dark clouds had already veiled the moon, obscuring their faces. They slowly closed in on Aria and the fallen Boka.

Aria showed no trace of fear. She simply crouched, gazing at Boka with a hint of hesitation.

Just then, an odd presence sliced through the thick air.

A knight in armor suddenly appeared behind Aria. His steady steps and chilling aura, paired with a unique black emblem on his shoulder, marked him as one of Albion’s only thirteen Knight Captains.

He stood beside Aria, drew his Greatsword, and slammed it into the ground. A dull thud echoed as the stone slabs cracked beneath. Merely the weapon’s weight was beyond any ordinary man’s strength.

The shadows in the dark stirred once more, then slowly faded away.