Yesterday, by the time he got home, it was already late—but he caught Cynthia just as she was packing up goods. Boka told her to rest and carried everything inside alone.

Being scolded like this by a nun was utterly unexpected. Clergy usually remained neutral, listening to people’s sorrows and easing their burdens. Yet because of his rash actions, he’d been sternly expelled by Sister Lizi. Boka couldn’t make sense of it.

Seven years ago, during the great plague, Duke Clar had nearly emptied his coffers aiding the desperate. Afterward, he used his influence to establish countless welfare institutions. To the people of Albion, he held an irreplaceable place—revered, even worshipped. This proved, from another angle, how heavily the Agnes Family name weighed on people like Lizi.

Boka barely slept all night, tossing and turning for hours. So before dawn, he moved Cynthia’s goods outside and prepared breakfast. By the time she woke, he’d already left for work.

The sky hung gray. A fine rain began to fall mid-journey.

At the Agnes estate, Boka had little to do. The rain made watering pointless, and the damp weather was terrible for pruning.

In the side hall’s staff rest area, Gena had been dozing since morning, sprawled across two chairs, snoring softly. His clothes reeked of women’s perfume—no telling where he’d spent the night. Other servants bustled about, with maids occasionally passing through for cleaning.

Though sleepless the night before, Boka felt no fatigue. He hesitated on a stool, then stood and left the side hall.

He knew the Agnes estate’s layout only vaguely. Even when passing through inner chambers, he rarely paid attention.

Security was tight: over a dozen disciplined soldiers guarded the gates and outer perimeter. But Duke Clar seemed to hate military uniforms—inside, only Ian remained. As Albion’s famed Knight-Captain, Ian was nearly legendary. His presence alone was the strongest shield.

Boka wandered to the kitchen. Recognizing several helpers, he grabbed a piece of bread and returned to the inner hall.

The main hall was the estate’s largest space, yet sparsely decorated—just furniture and simple porcelain, all seemingly as old as the manor itself.

But the walls held many portraits. They must be past members of the Agnes Family. Boka scanned them carefully but found no Duke Clar. After a pause, he realized: these were likely only for the deceased. Only after death did one earn a place on these walls.

Then one woman caught his eye.

Not just for her stunning beauty—a face as still as winter snow—but for a sorrow beyond words. Pale skin, waist-length silver hair… like a forest spirit.

Boka stared, breathless. Her slightly pointed ears… could she truly be an elf?

Suddenly, a hoarse voice spoke behind him.

“Aria’s mother. Her name was Syenna.”

Boka turned. Duke Clar stood there.

“Your Grace…” Boka stepped back, bowing.

“She was beautiful,” Clar said. “The kindest soul I ever knew.”

Boka didn’t know how to respond. Clar sighed, continuing:

“No one knew where she came from. Only her name.” His aged eyes grew distant. “After bearing Aria, she lived here eight more years. Then she fell ill. Like my son—Aria’s father—who died early on the battlefield… she passed to another world.”

Boka had heard servants mention Syenna before. They called her “the woman from the deep forest,” “the silent fairy,” “the wordless outsider.”

“Aria has no memory of her father. And Syenna, her only mother, stayed only eight years.” Clar’s gaze drifted away. “After that, Aria grew quiet. Always staring into the distance. No one knows what she thinks of.”

Boka recalled that night on the roof—Aria’s expression mirroring his own. Was this how loneliness shaped everyone?

“When Aria was little,” Clar murmured, eyes soft with longing, “she’d run wild through the gardens. Back then… she still laughed often.”

Watching the duke, Boka almost saw it too—the little girl radiating innocence and joy.

Clar suddenly smiled at him. “The garden flowers? Syenna planted them herself. Aria treasures them deeply. She used to tend them personally.”

As the Agnes estate’s gardener—assisting Gena with the grounds—Boka now understood why they’d hired a former royal gardener like Gena. And why Aria had reacted so fiercely when he’d pruned those purple shrubs last time.

Just remembering her gaze sent a chill through him.

In a shadowed corner of the hall, Ian stood motionless. How long had he been there? Perhaps since Clar arrived. Yet Boka, usually so perceptive, hadn’t sensed him at all. Ian hid his presence better than any forest beast—and was far deadlier.

He guarded Clar relentlessly. Even when resting with closed eyes outside stairwells, he never truly slept.

After ministers involved in the plague initiative were assassinated and researchers vanished, Clar had been thrust into perilous vulnerability.

This weary old man—the hero Albion sang of—was he truly the mastermind behind that seven-year-old conspiracy?

“Your Grace,” Boka said abruptly, “my grandfather… my whole family… died in the plague seven years ago.”

Clar’s expression flickered, then smoothed.

“Oh. That’s… regrettable.”

“But you helped countless others during the plague. You sacrificed greatly to end it.” Boka bowed again. “Cynthia often speaks of you. As an Albion citizen, I thank you.”

“Cynthia…” Clar mused. “You’re Bloomer’s grandson…”

“Yes. Did you know my grandfather?”

Clar lowered his head. A bitter smile touched his lips.

“Severus was my friend…” He turned toward the stairs. “I’m a prisoner. Not a hero…”

Muttering to himself, he vanished into the stairwell. When Boka looked back, Ian had disappeared too.

*Him.* This broken old man. The demon who’d engineered the plague seven years ago, pushing the kingdom back into war. Boka couldn’t summon anger. Was Clar’s whisper just now remorse for his sins?

Rain still fell. Black clouds hung low, mist rising thickly in the distance. No clearing today.

Boka braved the rain to check the purple shrubs again. Now he knew their origin. Knew what they meant to Aria.

Back at the staff rest area, lunchtime neared. All servants ate here. Relieved guards often joined them too. The estate’s kitchen provided meals—where Boka had gotten his bread.

Today’s lunch: dried pork with noodles and clear broth. The Agnes household always fed its staff well. Clar was generous to his servants.

Gena had woken to eat. Though old, his appetite was strong. Others, hungry after a morning’s work, devoured their food.

Boka had already eaten a large piece of bread. He watched the others but avoided his own plate.

Just as expected, mid-meal, yawns spread through the room. Drowsiness hit fast—within moments, bodies sprawled across the floor.

Only Boka remained awake in the side hall.

Outside, guards hadn’t noticed. Unaffected.

Boka opened a window, confirming no one was near. He dropped one Nier silver coin down the drainpipe. A crisp *clink* echoed from the water below.

A hand pushed aside the rusty manhole cover. A girl climbed out.

“Boka,” Trena asked, “are they all asleep?”