Chapter 61
“Right? A clue sent by that Madam Eccentric?”
“Seems so.”
Cassian said, peering down at the newspaper.
“So if you send a letter to P.O. Box 221B, they’ll tell you who set fire to Plank Street?”
“I don’t think so.”
I shook my head.
“There is no P.O. Box 221B at the Central Post Office.”
I know because before the dress shop changed owners, I often ran errands there for Madame Scrooge.
“Sending it to 221B is probably just a way of saying don’t reply. Even if some ladies who happen to see this ad genuinely want to join the gathering, they’ll check for P.O. Box 221B, realize it doesn’t exist, and give up.”
“Then is there a hint about the culprit hidden in the ad?”
“Yeah.”
Honestly, it seems pretty obvious to me. When I added that, Cassian just blinked.
“Read it again.”
I pointed at the ad with my finger.
“It says you have to live ‘at the center,’ and that ‘men’ are excluded.”
“…The men at the center?”
“Exactly.”
“Isn’t that a bit too simple?”
“I have reasons for thinking this.”
I counted them off on my fingers.
“First of all, Madam Eccentric doesn’t seem smart enough to hide a complicated clue in a coded message.”
“I wonder if the lady knows she’s being this thoroughly dismissed behind her back…”
“And second, the Men of the Center were the social club that caught our eye from the very beginning.”
The Tram family, who had The Dancing Boy stolen by me, and Oblonsky, Madame Scrooge’s affair partner—every single one of them was a member.
It felt less like “I figured it out” and more like “of course.”
“Remember? The golden badge engraved with a white-headed eagle.”
Cassian nodded in agreement.
“I don’t know how the lady found out, but if the ones behind the Plank Street fire are the Men of the Center…”
“Then there’s a high chance that the reporter Skitter, who harassed Rosena, was also acting under orders from that same social club.”
Of course, we couldn’t trust the lady’s words blindly—we’d need to verify everything.
Hmm.
“Cassian. Do you know anything about this social club?”
At my question, Cassian replied,
“It’s a men-only social club that openly advocates strict bloodline supremacy and meritocracy.”
“Huh?”
Strict bloodline supremacy and meritocracy?
“Doesn’t that contradict itself?”
At my comment, Cassian chuckled.
“They believe that noble blood—so-called ‘good blood’—naturally comes with superior ability.”
“Oh….”
Then why am I such a mess?
If the ruling class nobles were really that competent, shouldn’t the empire be so peaceful that something like a Holy Maiden of Magic wouldn’t even be necessary?
“They know it’s an ideology they can’t openly reveal, so they operate in secrecy. No one knows who leads the club or how large it is—everything’s shrouded in mystery.”
“There isn’t a single publicly known member?”
Cassian rolled his eyes thoughtfully.
“There is one member who acts as a sort of representative.”
The imperial capital, Rouar.
Somewhere unknown—though one desperately wished someone would turn on a light—stood a dark, gloomy mansion.
“You worthless fool!”
A man, seething with rage, kicked over a fully prepared dining table and lashed out at the cage in front of him.
“I—I’m sorry… cough!”
The red-eyed man trapped inside the cage coughed violently.
Clang! Clang!
Each kick made him curl in on himself.
His body was already covered in bruises and wounds, and beneath his torn collar, a small animal paw tattoo briefly appeared and disappeared with his movements.
“You begged me to trust you, and I did! How many times have you already ruined my plans?!”
“M-master….”
“Silence!”
The enraged master turned around.
He tried to pull a decorative longsword from the wall, but being too short to draw it fully, he staggered.
“Damn it!”
Twice as furious, he shoved his hand through the bars of the cage.
He formed a gun shape with his thumb and forefinger and aimed it at the red-eyed man’s forehead.
That was when—
“Master!”
A woman suddenly appeared and threw herself down before him.
She had white hair, blue eyes, and a cat paw tattoo on the back of her neck.
“Please—just once more. Please grant him one more chance!”
Just then, ding, a bell rang to announce mealtime.
The door, flung wide open as the woman rushed in, let in the smell of freshly baked bread.
Sniffing the scent, the master clicked his tongue and lowered his hand.
“Fine… three chances is the rule, after all.”
But this really would be the last one.
If they failed again—
“There will be no more chances.”
The next day. The fountain plaza.
“Nothing beats milk tea on a cold day.”
I like mine with condensed milk, but with skim milk instead of regular milk. It keeps the flavor clean and lets the black tea aroma shine.
And if you pair it with a freshly baked, warm scone—
What is this?
Am I already in heaven?
“Munch.”
“If you sit there, the fountain water’s going to splash you.”
“Eep.”
I turned around—it was Arden.
Noticing the scone crumbs on my lips, Arden pushed a handkerchief toward me.
…Pushed it. From a safe distance.
“What are you doing here?”
I asked while wiping my mouth.
“Buying a newspaper.”
“Ah.”
I glanced at the newspaper stands arranged around the fountain.
“And you, senior?”
“I’m here for lunch.”
Even though things had gotten easier at work since the dress shop changed owners—longer lunch breaks and all—every worker’s true desire was still to escape the workplace during lunch.
“Want to share a scone?”
“No.”
Arden rejected me instantly—yet instead of walking away coldly…
He sat down next to me.
After complaining about the splashing water, he spread out his handkerchief on the stone and settled in properly, unfolding his newspaper.
“……”
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Nothing.”
I was stuffing a scone into my mouth to suppress my grin when—
“Wow! It’s Sir Arden!”
Children playing “Holy Maiden” around the fountain spun in circles, shouting.
“The villain who wants to capture the Holy Maiden!”
“Bad guy!”
“…….”
That’s right.
With the Holy Maiden of Magic’s popularity soaring, Arden—who openly declared he’d capture her—had become famous too.
Among kids, he was now cast as the villain tormenting the righteous Holy Maiden…
‘Though calling him a complete villain might be a stretch.’
“But Sir Arden hugged the Holy Maiden!”
“What’s a hug?!”
“When you hold someone tight!”
“Then are they getting married?!”
At Everland Amusement Park, I’d suddenly hugged Arden, and the newspapers had splashed it everywhere…
“Waaah! The Holy Maiden has to marry me!”
“Fine, but no!”
“No, but yes!”
“Marriage!”
“…….”
One kid stomped over and pretended to smack Arden’s calf, declaring the Holy Maiden was his.
Unable to seriously fight back against children, Arden’s hand trembled around his newspaper.
Feeling bad for the trouble I’d caused him, I said,
“Hang in there.”
There wasn’t much else I could do.
“If you don’t like scones, want some milk tea?”
I offered him the cup I’d already drunk from—and received only a cold stare in return.
“Hug! Hug!”
“Haah.”
Passersby didn’t try to stop it—just laughed as they watched.
Looking utterly humiliated, Arden covered his face with one hand.
The kids, meanwhile, were having the time of their lives.
“I’m definitely going to marry the Holy Maiden!”
“Then you’re Sir Arden’s rival!”
“I’ll win! I’ll defeat Sir Arden!”
“Arden-extermination hammer!”
One child gleefully shouted, pointing a stick like a weapon—
“That kind of barbarism!”
A middle-aged gentleman, who had just bought a newspaper and turned around, suddenly barked out in anger.
