"Um… Sir Guard, you said… you’d help me?"

"Of course it’s not free," Fate replied, glancing back.

"Payment? But… I don’t have any money." The boy looked troubled—he wasn’t lying. His clothes were ragged and worn.

"How much do you have?"

"Only… this." Timidly, the boy pulled a small pouch from his pocket and opened his palm: two copper coins.

"Hmph." Fate stepped forward, took one coin. "Plenty, isn’t it?"

"Let’s go. You’ve paid. It’s my duty to help you now."

"I’ll be out for a bit. Is that alright, Sister?"

"Of course." The Sister hesitated a moment before nodding. She wanted to help the boy too, but felt willing yet powerless.

After all, one copper coin couldn’t even buy half a loaf of black bread.

He always muttered, "I’m retired," yet old habits died hard.

Watching Fate leave with the boy, the Sister understood him a little more—but worry lingered. Could Fate truly help? He was just a retired knight now.

Lide’s home lay on the outskirts of Bati City: a cluster of wooden shacks forming a tiny settlement. Hard to believe such a place—more destitute than any village—existed within this bustling town.

"People here… all went bankrupt. Their homes were seized and sold cheap," Lide explained quietly as he led the way.

Fate gave a slight nod.

They stopped before a modest wooden hut. Lide pushed the door open. A foul, damp rot seeped out—like spoiled food left too long, or mildew clinging to damp wood.

Fate followed him inside.

The space was cramped, barely two rooms. Toilet and wash area were outside.

"Lide… you’re back?" A weak voice drifted from within.

"Mom." Lide rushed to the old wooden bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Those people just forced medicine on me… Lide, do we have a guest?" The woman on the bed noticed the figure by the door.

"Um…"

"Good day, madam." Fate stepped closer. The woman’s hair was tangled. Illness had twisted her features: one side of her face deeply wrinkled, patched with rough black scales; one eye lacked a pupil, showing only a dull yellow iris. She looked haunting—as if two faces fused into one.

"I’m sorry… my appearance must be frightening. I caught a strange illness years ago," she said softly, apologetic.

Fate’s brow furrowed slightly—not at her looks, but because even he couldn’t name the disease.

He wasn’t a healer, but years on campaign had shown him countless ailments.

Yet this… he’d never seen anything like it.

Many illnesses distorted faces, but none twisted them into something monstrous.

A new strain? And why had the local Inquisition Tribunal failed to cure it after years—making it worse instead?

"Madam, I’m Fate. Hired by your son."

"…Hired?"

"Yes. To resolve your situation. How long has this illness lasted?"

"…About three years," she murmured. Strangely, this quiet man felt trustworthy. "Ever since my husband joined the army."

"Has the Inquisition Tribunal honored the contract these three years?"

"Yes. They came this morning."

"And has your condition improved?"

"…At least I’m still alive, right?" She paused, voice bitter.

Alive, yet suffering. A burden to her son.

"I see." Fate turned to Lide. He never wasted words.

"Lide, may I see the contract signed with the Tribunal?"

"Okay." Lide stood, hesitated, then nodded.

He walked to the room’s corner, dug a wooden box from beneath the floorboards, and handed Fate a contract drawn on magic paper.

Fate skimmed it. The Inquisition Tribunal’s seal was stamped clearly at the bottom—official, yet hollow.

The terms were deliberately vague: promised treatment, but no cure guaranteed, no timeline given.

Flowery words masking empty promises—crafted to deceive the honest.

He’d founded the Tribunal insisting contracts be clear and binding. Yet here it was: wordplay thriving.

No guarantees for healing. None for the husband’s return. Even dangled a carrot—*excellence in service might earn Knight Academy eligibility*.

Empty bait. Obvious to him. Transparent deception.

Fate held the contract in silence. His expression hidden beneath armor.

"Oh—Sir Guard," Lide added softly, "this illness isn’t rare. Most families out here… they have it too."

"…" Fate returned the contract, shook his head.

What was meant to happen, would happen.

Less than a month retired—and duty called again.

Knight no longer, yet he could never ignore injustice.

What had become of the Inquisition Tribunal after he left… for its branches to act so brazenly?