Trafalgar returned the bow with a polite nod, exactly as expected of him.

Bartholomew, however, froze.

He wasn't used to this. Someone bowing to him, lowering their head with that kind of respect. It wasn't admiration meant for Trafalgar alone this time, and that realization caught him off guard. His shoulders stiffened, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides as he tried to remember what he was supposed to do, what posture he was supposed to take.

"Tra-trafalgar…" he murmured under his breath, leaning just slightly toward him. "W-what do I do?"

Trafalgar looked at him—and laughed.

Not loudly or mockingly, no. Just a short, genuine sound that slipped out before he could stop it. Bartholomew was still Bartholomew. After everything they had just gone through, after blood and death and fear, he was still standing there unsure of how to respond to a bow. Unbroken. Still himself.

For a moment, Trafalgar had thought the ambush might leave a deeper mark. That it might crack something. But looking at him now, he could see the difference clearly. Bartholomew wasn't the same timid, easy-to-push-around boy he had been before. He had changed. Being at Trafalgar's side had shifted something in him, slowly but unmistakably.

He also hadn't killed anyone.

Trafalgar had made sure of that.

That line mattered to him more than he admitted. He didn't want his friend to cross it, not now, not like this. Bartholomew was still important. More than important.

'He can't let this affect him mentally…' Trafalgar thought as he let out a quiet sigh. 'He's one of the ten legendary characters. His class is unique. He'll be needed in the future.'

And seeing him like this—awkward, uncertain, but standing—it reassured him. Seeing Bartholomew still the same at his core was a good thing.

Bartholomew was still hesitating, eyes darting between the guard and Trafalgar, clearly lost.

Trafalgar stepped closer and gave him a firm pat on the back, enough to straighten his posture.

"Just accept their gratitude," he said calmly. "You don't need to do anything else."

Bartholomew swallowed, then nodded.

He straightened his back, steadied his breathing, and did exactly that.

The guard straightened at once and gestured toward the entrance behind him.

"The lord is waiting for you inside," he said respectfully. "Please, follow me. From this moment on, you are guests of all Salca. The city is grateful."

There was no exaggeration in his tone. No attempt to flatter. Just sincerity.

Trafalgar and Bartholomew followed as the doors opened and they were led inside. Servants moved quietly through the halls, bowing as they passed, careful not to intrude. The residence itself was well kept, orderly, but modest. It lacked the weight and excess of power that clung to places like Euclid.

Trafalgar noticed it immediately.

Compared to his own mansion, this place fell short in every sense. The space was smaller. The decorations simpler. Luxury was present only where it was needed, not displayed for its own sake. It didn't bother him in the slightest.

Bartholomew, on the other hand, couldn't quite hide his reaction.

His eyes wandered, taking everything in—the polished floors, the tapestries, the soft glow of lanterns lining the walls. It was clear he wasn't used to walking through places like this, not as a guest. Not openly. Before meeting Trafalgar, these were things he could never have experienced on his own.

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing faintly as they moved deeper into the residence, the contrast between their worlds lingering quietly in the space between them.

Bartholomew was the one who broke the silence.

"T-Trafalgar," he said, a little hesitant at first, then steadier, as if he'd already decided to speak. "I… I think there's something we could ask about."

Trafalgar glanced at him, attentive but relaxed, letting him continue.

"I was researching last night," Bartholomew went on. "Before going to sleep. I… found another lead." He hesitated, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of his bag. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I was scared. I didn't want to go there."

That made Trafalgar slow his steps just slightly.

He arched an eyebrow, looking at Bartholomew more closely now. Researching was one thing. Holding information back out of fear was another. "What scared you that much?" he asked. "You're afraid of plenty of things, Barth, but this sounds different. More than walking into an ambush."

Bartholomew nodded immediately. "Much more."

He took a breath. "There were reports. Almost a year ago. Rifts appeared not too far from here. They were dealt with quickly, before anything serious happened." His voice lowered. "When they searched the area afterward… they only found bodies. Void creatures."

The words hung between them.

"When I read that," Bartholomew said quietly, "it surprised me. I thought… that might be it. That it could be what we're looking for." He looked down. "But I was afraid to go. I'm sorry."

Trafalgar stopped for a moment after Bartholomew finished speaking.

He wasn't angry. That much was clear. But there was a faint tension in his expression, something caught between thought and restraint. They could have avoided the bandits entirely. The situation at the café hadn't been necessary. But that was already behind them, and dwelling on it now served no purpose. First came the dinner. The rest could wait.

He let out a quiet breath.

Bartholomew noticed it immediately. "A-are you… angry?" he asked, uncertainty creeping back into his voice.

Trafalgar looked at him. "Not angry," he said honestly. "But a little bothered." He didn't soften the truth. "If you'd told me earlier, we wouldn't have gone through what we did today."

Bartholomew's shoulders sank.

"Still," Trafalgar continued, tone steady, "after dinner, you'll tell me exactly where it is. We have tomorrow to check it out. And if needed, we can come back another week. If I have the time."

That was all.

Bartholomew nodded, but the weight of it settled heavily on him. Trafalgar was right. Keeping silent had led them straight into that ambush. The café, the blades, the blood—it wasn't something he would forget. It was the closest he had ever come to dying. If Trafalgar hadn't been there, he would have ended up no differently than the guard's daughter. Injured. Or worse.

The thought lingered as they walked.

Then the guard slowed and turned.

"We've arrived," he said, stepping forward and opening the door for them. "Inside is the lord of Salca. He's a kind man. Someone who truly wants the best for this city."

Warm light spilled out from beyond the threshold.

Bartholomew straightened instinctively. Trafalgar simply nodded once and stepped forward.

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