All the information they had led back to a single thing, and the more Trafalgar turned it over in his mind, the less he liked the shape it took. A café, nothing more. No name worth remembering, no details beyond the fact that it stood outside the city, paired with the vague story of a mysterious warrior woman who had vanished without explanation. The whole thing felt poorly constructed, like a tale meant to be just convincing enough to pull someone in.

The location bothered him the most. Outside Salca's walls, where the flow of people thinned and eyes stopped watching, any confrontation would unfold on someone else's terms. Add to that the idea of a lone fighter strong enough to draw crowds and then disappear, and the story began to feel less like a coincidence and more like something shaped on purpose. It could have been invented outright, or exaggerated over time, but either way the gaps were too clean, too convenient.

Trafalgar had lived through enough attempts on his life to recognize familiar patterns when they appeared. Isolation. Curiosity. A promise of answers offered just far enough away from safety. He had seen it before, and he had survived it by refusing to trust appearances.

That didn't mean he would turn away.

If anything, it meant he would move forward with his eyes open. He walked without urgency, posture loose enough to seem unbothered, while his attention stayed sharp, tracking his surroundings and measuring distances without effort. Whatever waited beyond the city, he intended to meet it prepared, not surprised.

Suspicion followed him naturally, not as fear, but as discipline.

And if the café truly was a trap, then Trafalgar would make sure it unfolded on terms he could control.

They left Salca on foot, passing through the last stretch of stone buildings before the city gave way to a narrower path that led toward the surrounding hills. The transition was gradual rather than abrupt, the noise of voices and carriages fading behind them until it was replaced by the muted rhythm of their own steps.

The trail was clearly marked, worn down by regular use, and it didn't take long to realize how close their destination actually was. Barely a kilometer from the city's edge, close enough to feel safe, close enough that anyone would assume nothing could go wrong there. That, more than the distance itself, made Trafalgar uneasy.

Trees lined both sides of the path, their branches arching overhead just enough to filter the light. Leaves shifted with the breeze, creating a constant, low rustle that blended naturally into the surroundings. It was quiet, but not unnaturally so. The kind of silence that belonged to places people passed through without thinking twice.

Trafalgar's attention stayed fixed on the details most would ignore. A faint movement among the leaves that didn't repeat. A sound that arrived half a second too late. Subtle changes in the air as the path curved and straightened again. He adjusted his pace without breaking stride, letting his awareness extend outward, testing the space around them for inconsistencies.

Nothing revealed itself.

No footsteps following them. No presence pressing in from the trees. No sudden shifts that confirmed his suspicions.

And that, more than anything, kept him alert.

The path continued upward at a gentle incline, the city now mostly hidden behind them. Whatever waited at the end of it was close, close enough to feel intentional.

Bartholomew, in contrast, seemed lighter with every step. The further they moved from Salca, the more his thoughts drifted toward possibility rather than caution. His eyes moved ahead along the path, already imagining what they might find at the end of it, how the pieces from the notebooks could finally begin to fit together.

"If it really is connected to her," he said after a moment, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice, "then this could be important. The notebooks, the city, the timing… it all lines up, doesn't it?"

He adjusted the strap of his bag, fingers restless. "And that woman everyone talked about. If she's real, then maybe she knows something. Or maybe she left something behind."

Trafalgar listened, answering without dismissing him, his tone steady. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just a coincidence."

Bartholomew nodded quickly, unfazed. "Even so, it feels different this time. Like we're finally close."

They kept walking, side by side, the rhythm of their steps falling naturally into sync. To anyone watching, it would have looked like an ordinary conversation between two people following a simple lead, nothing more.

But beneath that calm surface, Trafalgar stayed ready. His posture remained loose, his breathing even, as if nothing weighed on him at all, while his awareness never strayed far from the path or the trees flanking it. Every word Bartholomew spoke was met with normality, every comment answered without revealing the caution underneath.

The café appeared at the end of the path almost casually, a small wooden building resting where the trail widened, as if it had always belonged there. A few tables were set outside, and through the open door they could see people sitting inside, cups in hand, voices low and relaxed. It wasn't empty. It wasn't abandoned. If anything, it looked normal.

They stepped inside, the warmth and smell of coffee washing over them immediately. A handful of patrons occupied the room, travelers by the look of them, some already halfway through their drinks. Chairs scraped lightly against the floor, a conversation paused and resumed, nothing out of place at first glance.

Behind the counter stood a young woman with short brown hair, sleeves rolled up, moving with the ease of someone used to the routine. She glanced up at them and smiled.

"Welcome," she said. "You can sit wherever you like."

Bartholomew relaxed a fraction, eyes drifting over the room. "Looks cozy," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

"It usually is," the woman replied as she reached for a cup. "Not many people come up here unless they're passing through."

That, by itself, would have meant nothing.

Trafalgar kept walking, expression unchanged, but his attention sharpened. The café was close to the city, close enough that foot traffic should have been irregular but not rare. Travelers passed through Salca often. A place like this wouldn't survive on chance visits alone.

He stopped near one of the tables but didn't sit.

"And yet," Trafalgar said calmly, "you don't seem surprised to see us."

The woman paused for just a moment. Barely a breath.

"Why would I be?" she asked.

A normal attendant would have brushed it off, laughed, asked what he meant. Instead, she held his gaze a second longer than necessary, her posture tightening in a way that had nothing to do with serving coffee.

Trafalgar's mana condensed instantly as Widow's Whisper formed in his hand, the weapon appearing mid-step as he moved. The throw was clean, controlled, aimed not to kill but to end the threat. The blade struck her arm and buried itself into the wooden counter behind her, pinning the limb in place.

She cried out, pain cutting through the quiet room as chairs scraped back and people shouted in surprise.

Trafalgar was already turning.

"Barth," he said evenly, stance shifting. "Get ready. This is an ambush."

Bartholomew reacted without panic. Mana answered his call as he invoked a simple bow forming in his hands, string drawn as his eyes swept the room.

Trafalgar stepped forward without haste and pulled Widow's Whisper free in one smooth motion, the blade sliding out as blood followed it down the woman's arm. Before she could even stumble back, he was already there, gripping her from behind, the dagger pressed firmly against her throat.

The café froze for a fraction of a second.

Then the illusion broke.

Chairs scraped violently against the floor as the people who had been sitting moments ago rose all at once. Hands moved with practiced intent. Steel flashed into view. A sword cleared its sheath. A spear was brought forward and leveled. Someone near the back produced a crude firearm, a short-barreled gun, already being raised with shaking but determined hands.

No one screamed now or pretended anymore.

Trafalgar's eyes moved across the room calmly, measuring distance, angles, intent. He took in every weapon, every stance, every breath that came a little too fast. Bartholomew stood just behind him, bow drawn, the string pulled tight, golden eyes locked on the nearest threat without wavering.

The woman in Trafalgar's grip trembled, breath hitching as the cold edge at her neck reminded her how close she was to dying.

Then Trafalgar spoke.

His voice carried clearly through the room, steady and unraised, yet heavy enough to settle over everyone present.

"An attempt on my life," he said quietly, the blade pressing just a fraction closer, "is paid for in blood."

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