Two days from now, I’ll be waiting for you at the National Theatre.

With those words, Lupin left.

Boka stood frozen for a moment before bending down to ask Aisha, “So… does this mean I’ve accepted the duel?” His question was cut short by another fierce kick from Aisha.

In truth, Boka still hadn’t taken the matter seriously. He wasn’t a swordsman, let alone a knight. Couldn’t he just surrender in two days? Besides, he’d given Andrew an easy way out to avoid bloodshed. At worst, he’d just flash an apologetic smile.

Heart at ease, he carried the unconscious Cynthia back into the shop.

Old man Alva pulled a vial from his pocket. After letting Cynthia inhale its scent and massaging her forehead for a moment, she slowly regained consciousness.

“...Boka...” she murmured, still dazed.

“Ah, I’m here.”

“You absolute fool!!” Cynthia suddenly shouted at him.

“W-what? You scared me!”

“How could you just pick up a knight’s thrown gauntlet?! Do you want to die?!”

“What’s the big deal?” he whined. “I’ll just surrender later. Andrew was in a tough spot.”

“Heavens...” Cynthia rubbed her temples. “You truly understand nothing...”

Months ago, Boka knew almost nothing about this world. Even after living in the capital for a while, countless things still baffled him—religious rituals, obscure myths, bards with awful voices. There were simply too many.

“Once you accept a knight’s challenge,” Aisha added, “surrendering means any kingdom’s law can have you hanged.”

“You’re lying,” Boka retorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

He’d grown wary of Aisha’s teasing and didn’t believe her easily.

“Forgive me!”

Boka barely caught the voice before turning to see Andrew on his knees.

“I’ve doomed you!” Andrew cried, trembling. “It’s all my fault, Mr. Boka!”

Seeing Andrew’s despair, Boka finally grasped his predicament.

“N-no way,” his voice cracked. “Am I really going to die?”

“Mr. Boka,” Andrew wiped his tears, “I’ll never forget you.”

“...You jerk. Why does it sound like *I’m* the one dying? Are you even sorry?”

Before Boka could argue further, he noticed Cynthia packing bags.

“Huh? Cynthia, what are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Why?”

“We need to run. Now.”

“What?”

“You go first,” she said firmly. “I’ll sell the shop, then find you with the kids.”

Boka froze. These people operated on a wavelength far beyond his understanding. Especially Cynthia—her thoughts were a complete mystery. She was willing to sell the Blumer Clan’s shop, her life’s work, her only home in the capital. Years ago, she’d even made Baird quit teaching to help run it.

“Actually... it should be fine.”

Lola’s quiet voice cut through the tension. All eyes turned to the Dragonfolk girl.

“That man specified the location,” she said, tapping her chin. “The duel’s at the National Theatre in two days.”

Boka recalled—yes, that matched.

“When I entered the city yesterday,” Lola continued with a faint smile, “I saw the notice. The National Theatre is hosting a grand play that day. The king will invite foreign envoys and nobles. Guards will seal off the area for half a mile. If he doesn’t want prison time, the duel can’t happen. And postponing it voids the challenge.”

Boka and Cynthia exchanged long glances.

“So... I’m safe?”

“That’s one way to see it.”

Boka exhaled in relief. A false alarm. He was grateful for the capital’s schedule—this small act might have changed his life forever. For now, he cherished his quiet existence. Before meeting Aisha, he’d lived alone in silent mountains, drowning in loneliness no one could fathom. Everything he had now felt like unexpected happiness.

Alva and the others lingered in the shop awhile longer, thanking Boka for his courage and praising his character. Boka squirmed under the compliments—he’d only been *itchy-handed*. Had he known the consequences, he’d have let Andrew handle his own mess.

Lola, the Dragonfolk girl, gave him an odd look. She stared at him intently, then suddenly grasped his hand, leaning so close their faces nearly touched. *You’re special*, she whispered. *Your heart is genuine. But it’s your past that truly fascinates me.*

A faint, indescribable scent clung to Lola—not perfume, not sweat. Something subtle that defied words.

Aisha shoved her away abruptly.

“Back off.”

Her eyes burned with hostility.

Lola merely smiled it off.

By afternoon, the shop grew busy. Alva’s group left for other errands.

Cynthia handled customers while Boka mostly stood around. He was terrible with words—eager to help but often clumsy. Only when reaching high shelves or delivering goods did he prove useful. He insisted on all heavy tasks: opening shop at dawn, closing at dusk, hauling crates. He’d even snap at Cynthia if she tried to lift anything.

Boka had few hobbies. Honestly, he was rather dull.

Lately, influenced by Aisha, he’d started reading—not deep texts, just practical books to fill his ignorance. When bored, he’d flip through Dorin’s illustrated storybooks. He’d admit it: those held his attention best.

That afternoon, he tended to the seafood, changing the water several times in large basins.

Aisha watched from a corner, then tossed a few plump crabs onto the floor—her dinner claim.

Boka disliked seafood. The taste was fine, but he was slightly allergic. Last time Cynthia cooked fish for him, his ankles itched for hours. She’d dumped the whole dish in frustration.

Steaming crabs was simple: add spices to remove the fishy smell, then boil. It preserved the freshness best.

Boka sometimes cooked during busy hours, but his dishes were rough—edible but ugly, according to Aisha.

With the Birth Festival approaching, the shop bustled, giving him more chances to cook.

Boka often scratched his head, feeling useless. Cynthia practically supported him. About reopening his father’s shop? She’d promised: next year, she’d fund merging both stores by breaking the wall between them. They’d run it together.

*Don’t worry. Leave it to me.*

That had become her mantra to him.

But today’s real shock wasn’t Lupin. It was the moonrise at dusk.

Beyond the usual glowing orb, a dull crimson sphere rose from the west—dim yet several times larger. The twin moons, one small and bright, the other vast and bloody, cast an eerie, chilling light.

Boka stood frozen on the harbor road, returning from a delivery, his mind blank.

Aisha, however, remained calm.

“It’s that time again,” she said casually.

“Th-this...”

“The Twin Moons Ascendant,” Aisha gazed up. “The omen before the Birth Festival.”

“Incredible...”

“It appears once every four years,” she murmured, as if recalling something. “Our calamity. The day we owe our deepest repentance to Amir.”

Her voice was soft, fragments reaching Boka’s ears. She often said cryptic things—he’d stopped questioning them.

Suddenly, streetlights along the distant road flickered and died. One by one, lanterns guttered out until the entire capital plunged into darkness.

Without warning, Albion’s sleepless city became pitch black. A cold wind swept over Boka’s face, deepening the chill.

“What’s happening?!”

“The ritual,” Aisha explained. “When the Twin Moons rise, people extinguish all lights. They pour out their sins to Amir in the dark.”

She often spoke the god’s true name freely—like the Dragonfolk. Boka didn’t mind; she avoided doing it around others. Devout believers would cause trouble if they heard.

“Oh! Should I do that too...”

Memories flooded him: Duke Clar’s death, his broken promises to Albert and Trena, the vow at Trena’s grave. So much guilt weighed on him. If Amir could lift these burdens, he’d repent in church every day.

Aisha shook her head. “You’re with me. No need... Amir still owes *me*...”