“Right. So we’re continuing the questioning,” Masumi said.
What would come next? Whatever it was, she told herself she wouldn’t be surprised—bracing for the worst as she asked,
“Okay, I get that it’s brutal. But even so, doesn’t it feel like they ran away too fast? You’re not hiding something else, are you?”
There was a term back home: 3K work.
“Hard,” “dirty,” “dangerous”—the three shameful Ks. Lately people even tacked on “low pay” and “no going home,” making it an even more dishonorable workplace title.
From everything she’d heard so far, only “hard” was clearly confirmed.
Emotionally, Masumi wanted to stamp a big circle on “dangerous” too, but considering that Arc and the others had managed to avert disaster—whether it was beasts or kidnappers—she decided, for now, not to count it.
At this point, they were bound together regardless. Once she made it clear she was ready to hear everything, Arc propped his cheek on one hand.
“There’s nothing to hide. Musicians are almost entirely hereditary nobles.”
“And what’s the problem with that?”
“There aren’t enough of them.”
“Can’t you increase the number?”
“Do you think any noble would be happy to hear their share will shrink?”
What was he even saying?
Masumi couldn’t see how the pieces connected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“…Where did you really come from?” Arc chuckled softly, still resting his cheek in his hand.
Caught off guard, Masumi faltered.
Why did that question even occur to him?
It felt like he could see straight through her. His eyes—still suspicious of her, yet also entertaining possibilities other than “spy”—held something she couldn’t measure yet: not quite distrust, not quite fear.
Whatever Arc made of her silence, his gaze lowered.
“A Vilard takes months to make. And craftsmen are even rarer than musicians. Naturally, the price is steep. If you’re not a noble, it’s difficult to obtain one.”
“I get that it’s expensive, but…”
That much was common in any world.
Violins, too—especially those made by famous makers—could be priced beyond the ceiling.
And in the first place, an instrument’s birth required a ridiculous amount of time and labor.
Mass production existed now; you could buy an affordable violin because kilns could dry wood quickly and machinery could handle large parts of woodworking. But in traditional handcraft terms, every step demanded time.
First, the wood itself.
It took five to ten years for a tree to grow. Even that was long. And before it could be used, the wood had to be dried. Freshly cut timber was full of moisture; shape it into an instrument as-is, and the wood would warp and shrink as it dried over time. To prevent that, drying was non-negotiable.
How long did that take? In natural drying, five to ten years was standard.
Once you hit ten-plus years, the wood’s value jumped. Wood dried for decades—sometimes a century—became a treasure a craftsman couldn’t even price.
Then, once the material was finally ready, you moved into carving.
Depending on the maker, the woodworking could vary, but roughly two hundred hours per instrument—two hundred fifty for careful work—wasn’t unusual. A finished violin weighed around one-tenth of the original wood block. Which meant nine-tenths was shaved away.
Varnish wasn’t a one-and-done process either.
You applied it once a day, thirty to forty times. That alone took over a month.
Even ignoring growth and drying, a single instrument still demanded at least three months.
And above all: a craftsman needed years—like the tree itself—to become skilled.
So yes, Arc was right: it wouldn’t be cheap.
Masumi understood the logic because she knew that world.
And precisely because she understood it, the same question stubbornly remained.
“But even if you’re not a noble, there are wealthy merchant families, right?”
Not cheap, yes—but not necessarily astronomical.
A legendary master’s instrument carried the cost of fame. But a skilled, experienced maker’s work could land you a genuinely good instrument for something like fifty thousand to a hundred thousand yen, back home.
Albaric and Japan weren’t the same, so she couldn’t pretend the numbers matched—but surely there weren’t only one or two craftsmen in the entire empire.
So she couldn’t accept that it was truly unreachable unless you were noble.
Arc shook his head.
“Every household keeps all information related to musicians strictly closed. In the first place, there are only limited ways to obtain a Vilard, and almost none reach the market. And even if someone did acquire one, sheet music and technique are never released publicly. Ordinary people—no, anyone outside a musician bloodline—will live their entire lives without knowing that world. Even royalty.”
“That’s… aggressively exclusionary.”
“It means the profit attached is that enormous.”
If supply was extremely scarce, what happened?
If there was no substitute, those who needed it had no choice but to compete for what existed. The more essential it was, the fiercer the competition became.
Meanwhile, the suppliers would be endlessly sought after.
If conditions weren’t favorable, they could simply refuse. Or they could make the demand side compete—forcing better and better terms.
A noble “musician house”—a tiny, limited set of lineages—holding a monopoly.
The true shape of the knight order’s problem was finally coming into view for Masumi.
“Fortunately or unfortunately,” Arc said, “both knights and mages earn well.”
“If it’s the same pay, of course people pick the easier job.”
It was hard to believe, but now she was convinced.
In her world, musicians were famous for not being able to live off their craft. But here, things were different. In the Albaric Empire, a musician’s social standing was probably on the level of doctors or lawyers back home.
It might even exceed them.
Because this wasn’t “the exam is hard and only one in ten pass.”
This was “there is no exam at all.”
“Honestly, you could make a fortune just by juggling a few cushy positions. Compared to that, why would anyone choose the Fourth Knight Order—where everyone knows it’s hell—and get paid the same? I get it.”
If even ordinary work paid well, no one would voluntarily walk into a place famous for being “hard.”
Which meant—
Headhunting was probably constant. The market was absolutely a seller’s market. Knights and mages had money; if a musician wanted to, they could rake it in.
And the fewer musicians there were, the bigger each share became.
That was the entire structure the noble musician houses protected.
Simple.
Ugly.
A structure built of filth.
Wanting profit was one thing. You had to work to live. In fact, it was a legitimate right.
But taking it so far that others suffered for it—that was wrong.
And it always came back around.
Just like Arc had said last night.
“Only the present matters” was distorted thinking.
Masumi’s resolve settled into place.
“Okay. I get it. I’ll take care of the entire Fourth Knight Order—every last one of you.”
No one answered.
Arc and Kasumireaz stared at her as though they’d just watched a pigeon get hit with a beanbag.
“Why are you so shocked? You’re the ones who told me to work as a musician.”
“No, I… I did,” Arc said slowly, brow still tense, “but I meant as my dedicated musician.”
“You’re short on musicians, right? Fine, we can talk about increasing numbers later. But if I restore not just you, Arc, but every knight under you… then we won’t ever have to hear that garbage again.”
Arc’s expression turned even darker.
“Were you listening at all? Your burden—”
“After getting mocked like that, you think I can just sit quiet? I’m going to rub it in that man in black’s face.”
Or what—did Arc think she didn’t have the ability?
With the clear intention of picking a fight, Masumi leaned in.
From the side, Kasumireaz murmured, “That’s where you should be denying it.”
A perfect assist.
Masumi almost threw up a victory sign in her head as she lifted her chin.
“Anyway. For now, I’m the Fourth Knight Order’s dedicated musician. That’s settled, right?”
She pressed harder. “You want me to work to clear the spy suspicion, don’t you?”
Arc’s brow remained furrowed, but he didn’t say no.
Kasumireaz, who had barely interrupted all night, looked equal parts hopeful and uneasy as he added, “I will take responsibility and supervise.”
He stirred the fire—and then volunteered to deal with the aftermath.
Truly the model of a middle manager.
＊ ＊ ＊ ＊
And so, the matter was decided.
While Arc and Kasumireaz continued murmuring about the newly chosen course, Masumi stood up to go bathe.
“Seriously… getting kissed by that guy and then just swallowing it and crying myself to sleep? Not a chance.”
“Ah.”
“Hm? What?”
Kasumireaz had said that “ah” loudly enough, but when she asked what it was, he only shook his head.
He looked endlessly uncomfortable.
Masumi, exactly as her complaint suggested, wanted to get into a bath immediately and scrub off every place that man had touched.
Since he didn’t seem likely to answer, she tilted her head and headed for the adjoining room.
Arc’s suite really was like a luxury hotel—three rooms total.
One was the washroom area with bath and toilet, another the bedroom, and the last a proper receiving room. The place they’d been talking was the sitting area attached to the bedroom—more like a long sofa and low table designed for drinking before bed.
Even the washroom area was spacious like a salon, furnished with clean white tables and chairs rather than anything ostentatious.
The Merino family was powerful nobility.
They didn’t seem to be a musician house, but now that Masumi understood that nobles—people of the same rank—were the root of the knight order’s troubles, this lavishness left a bitter taste.
She rested her fingers on the cold white table, lost in thought, when someone knocked at the door.
“Come in,” she called.
Kasumireaz entered.
He closed the door—then stopped. He didn’t take a single step beyond the threshold.
“I’m going back,” he said, face stiff. “I came to say good night.”
“You came all the way for that? You didn’t have to.”
“No. Tonight was… difficult.” His tone didn’t soften. “Get some rest.”
“Thanks. You too, Kasumi—”
Masumi caught herself and smiled anyway. He’d done enough.
“Good night. See you tomorrow.”
“…Yeah.”
The exchange should have ended there.
Yet Kasumireaz remained by the door with his hand on it. He turned back, as if he’d made up his mind—but still didn’t move from where he stood.
He looked like someone restraining himself from doing something… while also trying to do something.
Sensing it, Masumi tilted her head.
“What is it, Kasumi?”
“That cloak.”
“Oh—this?” Masumi hurried to take it off. “Sorry, I forgot to return it.”
Kasumireaz shook his head and stopped her.
“Keep it. Rather… it’s better if you wear it as much as possible.”
“…Even after my bath?”
He nodded once.
“At least let me take it off to sleep—” Masumi started, then paused. “Wait. Don’t tell me I can’t.”
“If possible,” Kasumireaz said, voice low. “Though it may be like throwing a pebble into the sea… that’s all I can say.”
He left those ominous words behind and, this time, departed without hesitation.
Left alone, Masumi washed away the day’s sweat and dust—still wearing a puzzled frown.
