A week had passed since Trafalgar arrived in Carac.

A week since the battle that shook the neutral territories.

It was enough time for the world to react.

Enough time for fear to spread.

Enough time for the truth to blur into rumor.

Now, everyone knew.

Not just nobles or merchants, not just scholars or soldiers—everyone. From the poorest districts to the highest balconies, the same topic lingered in every conversation. Whispers carried through streets, arguments erupted in taverns, and rumors twisted from mouth to mouth until no one could tell where facts ended and exaggerations began.

Blame was being assigned. Sides were being chosen.

And fear sat beneath it all.

Carac, once proud of its neutrality, felt different now. The city still stood tall, its stone streets unchanged, its towers unbroken—but the atmosphere had grown heavier. People walked with more caution, voices dropped more often, and eyes lingered just a little too long on strangers. Stress showed itself in small ways: clenched jaws, hurried steps, merchants counting coins twice before closing deals.

Trafalgar moved through the streets calmly, blending in with the flow.

He didn't rush. He didn't linger either. He listened. That had been his role from the beginning—not to interfere, not to provoke, but to observe. To hear what people said when they believed no one important was listening. To understand not only what had happened, but how the world was digesting it.

'It didn't take long,' he thought quietly.

In the past week, he had gathered more information than he initially expected. Not just reports and confirmed facts, but sentiments—public opinion, resentment, fear, opportunism. Caelum had already sent several reports ahead, neatly organized, transmitted with his usual precision. By now, Valttair would be reading them.

And Trafalgar had no doubt there were others.

More agents. More observers. More pieces moving at the same time.

Valttair never relied on a single perspective.

'This was never just about information,' Trafalgar admitted to himself as he passed through a crowded square. 'It was a test.'

Not to make Valttair happy—Trafalgar didn't consider him a father, not truly. But favor had its own value. Among the Morgains, being useful mattered more than being loved. And compared to the others, Valttair already held him in unusually high regard.

That alone was worth securing.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

Objectively, his mission was done. He had fulfilled what was asked of him. The facts had been collected, the reactions observed, the early consequences mapped out.

Trafalgar didn't stop walking when he heard them.

A human and a dwarf moved side by side a few steps ahead, their voices unguarded, the kind people used when they believed no one important was close enough to listen. They weren't whispering, they didn't feel the need to do so.

That alone said enough.

Trafalgar slowed his pace just slightly, letting the distance remain natural as he followed them down the street. The scent of smoke and cooked grain lingered in the air, mixed with something sharper—irritation, perhaps. Ahead, the sign of a modest bar swayed gently.

Their conversation carried clearly.

"This whole thing's a mess," the human said with a tired sigh. "A damn mess."

The dwarf snorted. "Bad doesn't even begin to cover it. A war like this? Started by families playing at pride."

"It's the Thal'Zar," the human continued. "Everyone knows it. They attacked something precious to the Sylvanel. That kind of insult doesn't go unanswered."

"And now we're the ones paying for it," the dwarf growled. "Funny how that works."

They turned toward the bar, pushing open the door. Trafalgar followed a few heartbeats later, slipping inside just as their voices continued.

"Teleportation Gates closed," the human went on, shaking his head. "Trade routes rerouted or cut entirely. Fewer caravans coming in."

"And the ones that do?" the dwarf added bitterly. "Prices doubled. Sometimes tripled. Merchants claim it's 'risk compensation.'"

He spat the words like an insult.

Carac was neutral in name only now. The city suffered all the same, its neutrality doing little to shield it from the consequences. Less food arrived. Fewer materials. More tension. More anger.

The dwarf slammed a hand against the counter. "Honestly? The other six of the Eight should step in already. End it fast. Crush the Thal'Zar and be done with it."

The human hesitated, then sighed. "I've heard rumors. They can't. Or won't. Political restraints. Pacts. Balance nonsense."

He took a breath. "At this rate, the war's going to drag on."

"Great," the dwarf muttered. "So we're stuck bleeding for months—maybe years—because eight families decided to hate each other overnight."

He shook his head. "Selfish bastards. All of them."

"Careful," the human warned quietly.

"It's true," the dwarf snapped back. "Always is. We suffer so they can keep playing gods."

Trafalgar listened in silence.

'He's right,' he admitted inwardly, calm and unoffended.

He was a Morgain. One of the Eight. And he couldn't deny it—the Great Families were selfish. Their ego was exactly why they ruled, why they endured. Power like that didn't survive on kindness.

If they recognized him now, if they knew who he was, he would have to intervene—if only to protect the image of the Eight, of the Morgains included.

But here?

He remained just another listener.

Deaf ears. No names spoken. Nothing said.

The bar swallowed the street noise the moment the door closed behind him.

Inside, the air was thick—cheap alcohol, grease, old wood, and too many bodies packed into too little space. Dim mana-lamps hung from the ceiling, their light uneven and tired, casting long shadows across scarred tables and worn floors. Conversations overlapped in rough tones, unpolished and honest in a way noble halls never were.

It was a low-end place.

And somehow, it fit him.

Trafalgar moved deeper inside without drawing attention, taking an empty table a short distance behind the human and the dwarf. From there, he could still hear them clearly, but no one bothered him. To the rest, he was just another quiet customer.

He looked the part.

His expression was serious, almost permanently so. Long black hair tied back into a loose ponytail, slightly neglected but intentional. His posture was relaxed, unassuming. Only his pale skin—porcelain-like compared to the weathered faces around him—stood out as something that didn't quite belong.

A reminder that he never fully did.

An elven waitress approached, glancing at him briefly.

"A jug," Trafalgar said calmly. "And some meat."

Nothing more.

She nodded and walked away.

Left alone, his thoughts drifted—uninvited, as they often did.

'Valttair… and Seraphine.'

He wondered what Valttair had truly done to his first wife. Probably nothing, he concluded. Attachment wasn't affection, but it still mattered to a man like him. Valttair didn't seem the type to casually discard what he once valued.

That didn't excuse the rest.

The curse placed on the original Trafalgar. A child burdened with expectations and neglect in equal measure. A life given a name but never warmth. And in the end—

Suicide.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly through his nose.

'If they had shown him even a little love…'

The thought lingered, then twisted into something bitterly ironic.

'Then I wouldn't be here,' he mused. 'I'd still be on Earth. Probably lying on my bed, playing gacha games, complaining about rates.'

The corner of his mouth almost lifted.

Almost.

Reality settled back in just as quickly.

This mission had been easier than expected. Too smooth. Valttair had likely known that. This wasn't about the information itself—Valttair surely had others better suited for that.

This was about watching Trafalgar work.

Judgment. Patience. Discretion.

The jug arrived with a dull thud against the table.

Along with it—unexpectedly—came something else.

A pale bird landed beside the mug, claws tapping softly against the worn wood.

Trafalgar blinked once, gaze dropping to it.

"…Sorry," he said to the elven waitress, calm but faintly puzzled. "I didn't order a bird."

She followed his eyes—just in time to see the creature flutter up and vanish into the dim rafters. The waitress shrugged, clearly uninterested in chasing it down or questioning how it had appeared in the first place.

"Must've wandered in," she said flatly, already turning away. "Happens."

Trafalgar didn't press the matter.

He lifted the jug, took a slow drink, letting the bitterness of the beer ground him—

Then stopped.

His hand froze halfway through lowering the mug.

'…Wait.'

His eyes sharpened.

'That bird.'

The realization hit him a heartbeat later, sharp and unmistakable.

'Pipin?'

Trafalgar lowered the jug fully, his attention no longer on the drink. His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, scanning the interior of the bar. Shadows clung to the corners where the mana-lamps failed to reach, pools of darkness untouched by the dim glow.

And there—

In the far corner, pressed against the wall, sat a hooded figure.

The light barely touched her. A silhouette more than a person. Still, there was no mistaking it now. Pipin perched calmly on her shoulder, pale feathers unmistakable even in the gloom.

Trafalgar exhaled quietly.

So that's how it was.

He picked up his jug and the plate of meat, stood without haste, and crossed the bar. No eyes followed him. No one cared. He stopped at the corner table and inclined his head slightly.

"Excuse me."

He set his food down and took the seat across from her.

"How have you been," he said evenly, "Senior Aubrelle au Rosenthal?"

The hood obscured most of her face, but the bandage wrapped around her eyes was unmistakable. Strands of blond hair slipped free near her cheeks, barely visible beneath the shadow of the cloak. And then—there it was.

That gentle smile.

The same calm, warm expression that had stood at the center of a battlefield just a week ago.

Her lips parted slightly. She faced forward—not at him, but at Pipin's line of sight.

"Good morning, Trafalgar," she said softly. "I hope you've been well."

For the first time since arriving in Carac, Trafalgar felt something shift.

A quiet certainty settled in his chest.

He wasn't leaving just yet.

If Aubrelle was here—if Pipin had led him to her—then this city still had something to offer. And whatever it was, he had the distinct feeling it wouldn't be written in reports sent ahead to Valttair.

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