The footsteps crossed the threshold without haste, each one measured, unbothered by the wreckage that filled the café. They stopped just short of the broken doorway, and a voice followed, rough with irritation rather than alarm.

"What did you do this time?" the old man said, tone sharp and dismissive. "How hard is it to deal with two children?"

He stepped into view then and remained there, framed by splintered wood and spilled light. It was the same elder from before, posture upright, expression set in practiced authority. For a heartbeat, he simply looked.

Then his eyes widened.

The bodies came into focus first. Blood pooled across the floor. Limbs lay where they had fallen. Those still alive were unconscious, bound tightly where they'd collapsed, Bartholomew kneeling among them with rope still in his hands. The room told the story in full, and the old man's confidence evaporated with it.

Shock froze him in place.

He didn't get time to speak.

Mana bent sharply as [Severance Step] carried Trafalgar across the space in a curved blur. One instant he stood amid the ruin; the next, he was beside the old man, fingers closing around his throat. The lift was effortless. Feet left the ground. Breath vanished in a strangled gasp.

"You're dead," Trafalgar said, his voice cold like winter in Morgain territory.

Maledicta was already there, the blade sliding into place against the old man's neck, steel resting where a pulse fluttered wildly. Trafalgar's dark-blue eyes held him in place, unyielding.

"What is it," he asked, voice steady, "that you want?"

The old man's composure collapsed almost instantly.

Cold sweat beaded across his forehead, running down into his beard as his hands clawed uselessly at Trafalgar's wrist. His breath came in short, broken gasps, eyes wide and unfocused as panic set in fully.

"Please—" he choked out. "Please, mercy. I beg you." His voice shook as the words spilled out in a rush. "I have a family. Children. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear—"

Trafalgar watched him in silence.

There was no disbelief in his gaze. No surprise. Just open contempt.

Disgust.

The old man's pleas echoed in the ruined café, and with them came the unspoken weight of how many times those same words must have been spoken before. How many people had stood where Trafalgar stood now. How many hadn't been strong enough to turn the situation around. How many had died because someone like this had decided to set a trap and see what came of it.

The begging didn't soften him.

It angered him.

Not because of the ambush. Not because of the attempt on his life. But because of the shamelessness of it. The lack of any right to ask for mercy after what he had done.

Trafalgar moved his arm once.

The hilt of Maledicta drove into the old man's liver with a dull, brutal impact.

"Urgh—!"

The sound tore out of him as his body convulsed, breath vanishing completely. His legs kicked weakly as he struggled to inhale, face contorting as pain flooded through him. Trafalgar kept him upright, letting the moment stretch just long enough for it to sink in.

Then he asked again.

"What is it you want?"

The old man's resistance broke. His head sagged forward as he finally forced the words out between ragged breaths.

"T-to rob you," he admitted. "That's all. Just that. Please… please forgive me."

Trafalgar's dark-blue eyes hardened.

"Wrong person," he said quietly. "I am Trafalgar du Morgain. Trying to rob me was your sin."

Maledicta moved.

There was no hesitation. No ceremony. The blade cut cleanly, and the old man's body went limp almost instantly.

Trafalgar released him and let the corpse fall to the floor.

He turned away without another glance.

"The ones you tied," he said to Bartholomew, voice steady once more. "Leave them alive. Go get the city's protection and explain what happened."

Nothing more needed to be said.

The city's response came sooner than expected.

The protection forces of Salca arrived while the air inside the café was still heavy with the aftermath, boots echoing sharply against stone as they took in the scene. None of them looked surprised. Grim, yes—but not shocked. The expressions said enough. They knew this group. They had known them for a long time.

"Those bastards again," one of them muttered under his breath, eyes moving over the bodies, then to the ones still bound and unconscious. "They've been a problem for months."

They listened to the explanation without interruption. When it was over, the verdict was immediate and unanimous.

"They weren't strong," another guard admitted, turning toward Trafalgar with a stiff nod. "But they caused trouble wherever they went. Robberies, traps, people disappearing on the roads. We didn't have the manpower to deal with them properly."

The gratitude that followed wasn't exaggerated, it was honest.

Not long after, the lord of Salca himself sent word.

He wished to thank them personally. A dinner invitation, extended not as an obligation, but as recognition.

Trafalgar accepted without hesitation.

Not out of politeness.

But because opportunity rarely announced itself so clearly.

If there was anything strange about Salca—anything hidden, overlooked, or quietly ignored—this was the place to ask. People talked more freely over food, especially when they felt indebted.

By the time they left the ruined café behind, the city had already begun to settle back into itself.

Trafalgar and Bartholomew walked alone through the streets, following the directions they had been given toward the lord's residence. The noise of the guards faded behind them, replaced by the muted sounds of evening in Salca.

Bartholomew spoke first.

It was subtle, almost easy to miss, but for him it mattered. For once, the words came before the hesitation, before the familiar pause where he usually reconsidered whether he should say anything at all.

"I think… I was wrong," he said quietly. "About the notebooks." His gaze stayed forward as they walked. "I really believed that was the place. That it was pointing us there." He swallowed. "And because of that, we ended up in that situation."

There was guilt in his voice, unhidden.

Trafalgar slowed just enough to give him a firm pat on the back, the gesture grounding rather than dismissive.

"Relax," he said. "We followed a lead. That doesn't make it a mistake." His tone stayed calm. "And this still might not be over. Don't get discouraged yet."

Bartholomew nodded, but the feeling lingered.

"The ambush," Trafalgar continued, almost shrugging it off, "was nothing new. It's not the first time someone's tried to kill me." A brief pause. "And they were weak."

That was what made Bartholomew look at him with something close to pity.

He didn't ask anything. He didn't want to know how many times it had happened, or how bad those encounters had been. Trafalgar clearly carried more than he ever said, and Bartholomew respected that silence. Trafalgar was someone important in this world. He understood that.

'He saved my life,' Bartholomew thought.

The moment replayed clearly. He had lowered his guard. He had stepped in. And Trafalgar had moved without hesitation, pushing him aside. The blade that should have killed him had only caught his leg. The injury still throbbed faintly, but it was nothing compared to what could have happened.

They stopped.

The residence of Salca's lord stood before them. A guard was there.

The guard straightened the moment he recognized them, eyes widening slightly before he bowed deeply, far more than protocol alone would demand.

"Good evening," he said with clear respect. "It is an honor to receive a member of House Morgain in a city as small and remote as Salca. I never expected someone of your standing to visit us."

He remained bowed a moment longer before lifting his head.

"And thank you," he added, voice tightening. "Truly. Those people caused us many problems. We lacked the strength to deal with them properly." His gaze dropped briefly. "My daughter was deceived by them. Robbed. Left injured on the road."

He bowed again, slower this time. "As a father, and as a citizen of Salca… thank you."

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