"Boka, what's wrong?" Cynthia asked the boy lost in thought.

He snapped out of his daze as if waking up.

"I-I'm fine..."

Cynthia sat on the bed, chewing warm lamb fried rice, eyeing Boka with a trace of suspicion.

"Leave him be," Aisha mumbled through a mouthful of food. "He zones out all the time. Back on the mountain, he’d stare into the distance for hours, lost in who-knows-what."

It was noon. Boka had cooked fried rice for Aisha and Dorin too. After waking them, he moved the dining table to Cynthia’s room. Dorin squeezed beside her mother, clumsily gripping a spoon and scattering rice everywhere.

Boka caught a faint whiff of apple-scented alcohol—Aisha must have been sneaking fruit wine from the cellar while Cynthia was bedridden.

"Mommy, Uncle’s fried rice is so yummy!" Dorin beamed with innocent joy.

"Yeah, I’m surprised too," Cynthia stroked her daughter’s hair.

Boka’s lamb fried rice balanced onion aroma, tender carrots, and perfect stir-fry timing. Though careless in details, he might have an unexpected knack for cooking.

Dorin shared Cynthia’s flaxen hair, radiating warmth. Even young, she carried echoes of her mother that Boka couldn’t ignore.

Butter-fried rice alone could parch the throat, so Boka also made tomato vegetable soup to soothe it—though Aisha devoured most. Boka marveled where she stored it all; she was so tiny.

"Today’s the first time the general store’s closed since opening," Cynthia sighed. "Without Baird, it’s such a hassle. And you’re stuck caring for me again, Boka."

"Cynthia, um..." he hesitated. "Do you... really like Baird?"

"Why ask that?" She frowned. "He’s my husband. How should I even answer?"

"Because... nothing..."

"Honestly, I can’t explain it well," Cynthia seemed lost in memory. "I just know he’s a good man. I don’t understand men much. All I recall is the epidemic seven years ago—Baird quietly entered my life. Then naturally, we married and had Dorin."

It sounded casual, yet pure Cynthia.

Boka flinched at "epidemic period"—a shadow he couldn’t shake.

"Seven years ago," he faltered. "If... if it was Albion’s doing..."

"You’ve heard the rumors too?" Cynthia cut in sharply. "That the epidemic was Albion’s conspiracy. Is that it?"

...

Had this spread through the capital? Not just Boka learning the truth from Baird—but someone deliberately fueling it.

"That rumor’s old news," she said wearily. "But we lived it. We know it’s impossible. Commoners, nobles, even ministers’ families—all lost loved ones."

"But... what if the rumor’s true? The epidemic wasn’t Nellos—it was Albion’s trap. Even... someone close to you!" Boka’s voice dropped to a whisper. "What would you do then..."

Cynthia’s gaze turned complex. She studied him, words caught in her throat.

"Boka, you and the others are my only family," she said firmly. "And seven years ago, I was the sole survivor of the Blumer Clan. I inherited four shops. When Albion launched the Seventh Great War, I sold them all and donated every coin."

Boka lowered his head. In those few lines, he grasped her truth. Albion’s people clawed out of hell, burying kin to survive. Cynthia embodied the capital. If they learned the epidemic was Albion’s plot, their rage might shatter the centuries-old monarchy—just like wartime fervor.

"Boka." Cynthia tapped his head with her spoon. "That’s past. Promise me you’ll stop dwelling on it."

His throat tightened. To mask his unease, he bit his lower lip hard.

"Okay. I know."

Later, Boka cleared the dishes. Following instructions from Cynthia—the former licensed doctor—he fetched medicines from the cabinet for her to swallow with warm water. Her fever had broken, but weakness lingered. Running the store alone was hopeless, so he focused on Dorin. Aisha needed no supervision; she sipped stolen apple wine, buried in a basic magic tome.

Dorin adored Boka and was easily charmed. A few illustrated storybooks, read slowly, held her rapt—eyes wide with anticipation.

Boka puzzled over Aisha’s magic book. Why such obscure study? Even simple spells demanded genius-level calculations and ancient chants. Magicians were rarer than knight captains worldwide.

Today, Boka tasted housework life. Between playing with Dorin, he washed clothes and wiped dusty furniture. He forgot dinner entirely until Dorin tugged his sleeve: "Uncle, hungry!" He slunk to the shopping street’s eatery for ready-made meals. The owner, friendly with the Bairds—Baird often gave free clinics—charged half-price.

After dinner, Cynthia fell asleep fast. Just today’s chores drained Boka. Yet she managed store and home daily. He finally understood her exhaustion.

With Cynthia sick, Aisha ran wild. She’d nearly drained half a barrel of apple wine, hugging her magic book, already snoring softly. Dorin watched from afar, too scared to approach the drunkard.

Dorin had her own room, but with Baird away, she stayed with Cynthia. Boka’s last task was tucking her in. Lying beside him, she buzzed with energy.

"Can’t sleep?"

"Mhm!" She nodded vigorously. "Because I’m with Uncle!"

"Is that so..."

Her affection warmed him, but staying up risked health—and he had plans. Still, Dorin was young; moments later, she drifted into dreams.

Boka carried her to Aisha’s side and laid her down gently.

Aisha’s eyes fluttered open.

"Boka," she murmured.

"Yeah?"

"You’re going?"

"Yep."

"Fine. Your choice..." she slurred. "Just remember what I said."

"I know."

Their brief exchange ended. Boka stepped outside.

Near the harbor, stars blazed brilliantly. Salt mist coated the capital’s ancient buildings, etching corrosion marks. The cobblestones underfoot were uneven—centuries old, their edges smoothed by rain.

Beyond castles and architecture, Albion’s proudest feat was its drainage system. Even in downpours, the capital never flooded. When founding the city, fearing low districts would drown, armies of craftsmen and soldiers carved vast underground channels. The network spanned nearly the entire metropolis.

Boka reached the street from the note. He counted manhole covers.

Twelfth from left to right.

One, two, three... ten.

This must be it.

The cover was heavy. He glanced around, grabbed a nearby stone, and tapped a rhythm. Soon, it lifted from within. A man’s head emerged, smiling faintly, beckoning him down.

The area was deserted, deep night. No one saw Boka slip inside.

He climbed the damp ladder into the sewer. Above, the cover sealed shut.

An oil lamp flared, illuminating the space.

Figures stood before him—faces he recognized from travels, though names escaped him. Especially the red-haired siblings at the center.

"Boka. You came," Trena hung the lamp on a wall hook.

"Yeah," he said. "Like you asked."

Flickering light danced in the sloping tunnel. Sewage flowed, reeking sharply. Boka’s stomach churned, but the others seemed accustomed.

They hid here to evade capture. No one would search sewers for fugitives.

"Boka, I knew you’d come," Albert said. "Step inside. Don’t linger."

Rusted iron cages lined the walls—remnants of slave pens, soaked in damp decay. Inside one, a table held guttering candles.

"Slave traders kept ‘goods’ here," Trena tapped a cage. "After abolition, it rotted."

"Oh," Boka replied. "You’ve stayed here all this time?"

He recalled Gena mentioning slavery in his youth: POWs and convicts sold to quarries; women funneled into brothels.

"Desperate times," Albert shrugged. "Not so bad, honestly."

Blueprints littered the table—sewer maps. Boka didn’t grasp engineering, but recognized their use for Albion operations. Caravan members filled the space. From the darkness ahead came murmured voices; guards likely watched every junction.

"Seeing you at Baird’s surprised me," Trena sat on a stone bench. "I gave no reason, yet you came."

"Mhm."

"Trena, Boka’s always admired you," Albert clapped his shoulder.

She tilted her head, studying him. "True, Boka?"

Once, that question would’ve flushed his cheeks. Now, he stayed silent.

"I know why. The epidemic incident seven years ago."

Albert and the others tensed visibly. Only Trena remained calm.

"Baird told you?" Albert pressed.

Boka paused, then slowly shook his head.

"I guessed. Rumors flood the capital."

"You know where Baird is."

"Yeah. But I won’t say."

"Boka," Albert leaned closer. "How much do you know?"

"The truth from seven years ago."

Albert’s group masterminded the capital’s assassinations—the very people who knew the truth, as Baird described.

Yet unlike Albert’s tension, Trena smiled.

"So like you, Boka. Heh." She stood. "Baird’s location doesn’t matter now. And you knowing things? A blessing. Saves us explaining."

Albert hesitated but nodded at her cue.

"Boka."

"He said, 'You know the situation, right? About seven years ago.'

'Yeah.'

'Both Trena’s and my parents died during the plague. My comrades too—their wives, children—all slaughtered in that conspiracy.'

When Boka’s face was utterly blank, Albert felt he didn’t know this man at all. He couldn’t even guess what thoughts flickered behind those eyes.

'They were murdered,' Albert continued. 'Our parents were researchers at the medical academy. Close to Baird. They helped develop the virus. But conscience gnawed at them. My parents were kind souls. They believed they had to expose the truth before the plan launched—to stop the plague’s spread. Yet they died.'

Boka showed no flicker of emotion at Albert’s words.

'Brother, you’re rambling too much,' Trena blurted out.

'Trena.' Boka suddenly locked eyes with her. 'That day we met by chance—you gave me perfume.'

'Yeah? So what?'

'Did you kill Marquis Daina?'

She froze for a second, then gave a slow, meaningful smile.

'Yep. You figured it out.'

'The scent,' he said. 'Blood clung to you that day.'

'Huh? Do you think I’m cruel?'

'No.' Boka denied it flatly.

'Then do you hate me?' Trena pressed.

Boka stayed silent a moment before speaking again. 'Will you harm Cynthia and the others?'

'Baird’s wife?' Albert countered. 'No, Boka. You have my word on that.'

'That’s why you came, isn’t it, Boka?' Trena perched on the table again. 'Just to confirm we won’t touch your family.'

'Partly,' Boka hesitated. 'Now, tell me why you summoned me.'

Albert exchanged glances with the others nearby.

'We need your help.'

'With what?'

'You work at Duke Clar’s estate, correct?' Albert stared hard at him.

'You want me to assassinate the duke?' Boka cut straight to the point.

Albert’s face tightened with tension. The others shifted, hands drifting toward hidden weapons behind their backs.

Boka had expected this demand. He knew his worth. That’s why he stood here.

'I accept.'

'What?!'

The answer came too easily. Albert hadn’t foreseen this—Boka agreed almost instantly, shattering his imagined scenario.

'But with one condition.' Boka stepped close to Albert. 'You guarantee Baird’s safety.'

'Hahaha!' Trena doubled over, clutching her stomach. 'So like Boka.'

'Your answer?' he asked calmly.

'Of course we agree!' Albert stammered. 'After all, Baird only followed the royal family’s orders.'

Trena suddenly closed the distance between them.

'It’s not just that, is it, Boka?' She twirled a strand of her long hair around her finger. 'You’re helping us—for reasons beyond Baird, aren’t you?'

Boka hesitated again, then murmured after a long pause, 'Perhaps my reasons mirror yours.'