“What? Why?”
The words spilled from my lips, laced with genuine confusion and a rising sense of bewilderment.
They hung in the damp, close air of the shop, a stark contrast to the clatter and low murmur that usually filled such places.
My gaze, sharp with an unexpected edge of defensiveness, snapped to the shop owner.
He stood across from us, a figure etched in stillness against the flickering light of the dusty lanterns, his face a mask of cold, hardened disapproval.
It was an expression that wiped away any trace of the jovial merchant we had encountered just moments before, leaving behind only an unsettling, almost accusatory chill.
“Didn’t you use a foul just a moment ago?”
His voice, devoid of any warmth, cut through the quiet, landing with the precision of a dropped stone.
It wasn’t a question, but a statement, heavy with implied accusation.
“A foul…?”
I repeated, the word alien and unfamiliar on my tongue.
My brows furrowed, trying to understand the sudden shift in his demeanor, the inexplicable charge.
The cloying scent of old wood and something metallic seemed to thicken in the air around us, adding to the growing tension.
Even then, my mind, usually quick to connect disparate pieces of information, struggled to grasp the meaning behind his words.
What foul?
What had happened?
The recent events, the laughter, the competition, all swirled together in a hazy blend, offering no immediate answers.
The shop owner, observing my blank, blinking expression, let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
It was a sound laden with a weariness that suggested I was being deliberately obtuse, a gesture that only served to further ignite my irritation.
With a deliberate, almost theatrical movement, he reached into the well-worn quiver hanging by his side and pulled out an arrow, its shaft smooth beneath his calloused fingers.
“The arrows here generally have blunt tips, but that one arrow, in particular, has a sharp tip. You forcibly changed the arrowhead, so what else could this be but a foul?”
He held the arrow aloft, its pointed tip glinting faintly in the dim light, a damning piece of evidence.
His voice, though still calm, now carried an undeniable edge of triumph, a smug satisfaction in his perceived discovery.
Fury, hot and swift, surged through me.
It was a sudden, unwelcome rush of indignation that burned beneath my skin.
The sheer audacity, the blatant fabrication of his claim, was infuriating.
“Surely you didn’t smooth the arrowhead from the start, intending this?”
The question was less a query and more an accusation, my voice sharper than I intended, reflecting the boiling anger within me.
The thought that he might have orchestrated this, set us up for failure from the very beginning, was a bitter pill to swallow.
A low, despicable laugh, devoid of genuine humor, settled on his face, spreading across his features like an oily stain.
It was a sneering, superior sound that grated on my nerves.
“It seems you’re treating me like some kind of trashy street vendor, miss… I never did anything that would prick my conscience. Well, if the arrowheads wore down naturally from customers using them so much, that’s another story.”
His words were smooth, a practiced deflection, but the glint in his eyes, the almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, spoke volumes.
Now, a clearer, more sinister picture began to form in my mind.
The reason for his brazen display of that precious dagger from the very beginning clicked into place.
It was all a calculated scheme.
He wasn’t just a merchant; he was a trickster, a swindler.
He could subtly tamper with the bows, ensuring the string would snap under too much force, or grind down arrowheads just enough to prevent them from sticking to the target, creating an impossible game designed for his profit.
The realization settled in my gut, a cold, heavy stone of disgust.
My hands, clenching instinctively, trembled with suppressed rage.
My knuckles, white and strained, pressed against my palms as I fought to control the tremor.
The shop owner, observing my barely contained fury, offered a concession, a small crumb of false generosity.
Since I had still managed to hit the target, even with what he claimed was a foul, he would, begrudgingly, give me a small prize.
“This is also a dagger.”
What he offered was a crude, small model, roughly carved and utterly lacking in craftsmanship.
It was barely the size of my thumb, a flimsy, almost insulting trinket. A wave of exasperation washed over me.
I imagined bringing it to Ferry, her likely snort of disdain, and the inevitable question: “What on earth is this for?”
The very thought was enough to make my anger flare anew.
“If you’re still not convinced even after all this, then I’ll have to show you with actions, not just words.”
His voice grew colder, sterner, and at his words, a low, menacing murmur began to ripple through the air.
From the shadowy corners of the shop, burly men, their frames suggesting considerable strength, started to emerge, one by one.
Their presence was a clear threat, a chilling escalation of the situation.
The onlookers, who had been observing the escalating drama with growing unease, now began to boo the shop owner, their voices rising in a chorus of indignation.
“That trashy bastard! I can’t believe I fell for such an obvious trick!”
A man with a weathered face shouted, his voice hoarse with anger.
“It’s because of scum like you that the reputation of master Perello Krichel is being tarnished!”
Another voice, younger and sharper, cut through the air, accusing him directly.
“Boo, you disgrace to merchants! You disgusting scumbag!”
The collective condemnation grew louder, a wave of public scorn directed squarely at the shop owner.
Just then, a voice, calm and laced with a hint of amusement that seemed utterly out of place in the tense atmosphere, broke through the din.
It was the Emperor, and he spoke directly to the shop owner.
“If that’s the case, I’ll show you again.”
“…Huh? What are you going to show me, and how?”
Bewilderment, thick and undisguised, crossed the shop owner’s face.
His expression was a portrait of confusion, unable to fathom the Emperor’s words or his intention.
He seemed to genuinely not understand what kind of display the Emperor was suggesting.
“Promise not to do anything to the arrowhead. If that’s still unsettling, well, how about I try throwing the arrow with my bare hands this time, without a bow?”
The Emperor’s tone was light, almost conversational, yet it carried an undeniable undercurrent of challenge, a quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance.
Then, he glanced around at our motley group: himself, with the unsettling quirk of a pink rabbit mask and a red nose; me, Mayhem, adorned with a brown rabbit head and a pig nose; and Sir Chris, in his undeniably unusual attire.
Seeing how none of us looked remotely “normal” or respectable, a small, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped him.
It was a sound of dry amusement, as if the absurdity of our combined appearances in such a tense situation was not lost on him.
“Yes, well, sure. You’re the first person to say they’ll just throw an arrow, but if you succeed, I’ll give you a dagger made by Master Perello Krichel without a word of complaint.”
The shop owner, still visibly baffled but now intrigued by the sheer oddity of the challenge, agreed.
His skepticism was palpable, but perhaps the promise of such an unusual spectacle, combined with the sheer audacity of the Emperor’s proposal, was too much to resist.
The Emperor, without hesitation, reached into the quiver and took out any arrow, seemingly at random.
He held the arrow in his hand, a simple shaft, and began to move back and forth, a subtle rhythm emerging in his posture, directed towards the target.
With each fluid movement, his arm swelled tautly, muscles coiling and flexing beneath his sleeve, and a distinct whistling sound of displaced air began to be heard.
Whoosh, whoosh!
The sounds cut through the tension, a prelude to something extraordinary.
Finally, with a sudden, explosive release of energy, the arrow flew towards the target.
It wasn’t merely thrown; it was launched, propelled by an unseen force.
CRASH—!
The sound was immense, a deafening concussion that reverberated through the very foundations of the building.
It was as if a rhinoceros, with all its brute force, had charged and headbutted the wall with monumental impact.
The shockwave of the impact vibrated through the floorboards, a tangible force.
The wall itself bore testament to the raw power of the shot.
It was deeply dented, a significant cavity gouged out as if a giant, impossibly heavy weapon had been brought down upon it.
And the arrow, the simple, ordinary arrow, was precisely stuck in the very center of the target, buried deep within the wood, unwavering.
“H-how can this be…!”
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd.
Everyone present, without exception, stood with their mouths agape, eyes wide with disbelief and astonishment.
The shop owner, too, was frozen in utter shock, his usual smugness completely wiped away, replaced by pure, unadulterated awe.
Only Sir Chris let out a sound of regret, a low, frustrated murmur.
“Ah, I should have tried that too!”
The surrounding silence, heavy with collective shock, quickly shattered, transforming into a roar of cheers from the onlookers.
Their initial booing turned into enthusiastic applause, a wave of admiration for the Emperor’s impossible feat.
The Emperor’s face, still devoid of discernible emotion, turned towards the shop owner, his gaze unwavering.
“So, the item?”
His voice was calm, a stark contrast to the cacophony around them, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a silent command.
The shop owner, still dazed and unable to fully comprehend what had just happened, remained with his mouth agape.
He kept alternating glances between the arrow embedded in the target and the Emperor, his mind struggling to form words.
He was utterly speechless, the reality of the situation having completely overturned his carefully constructed scheme.
“If you’re still not convinced even after all this, then I’ll have to show you with actions, not just words.”
The Emperor’s voice echoed the shop owner’s own earlier statement, throwing his arrogant words back at him with a chilling accuracy.
A flicker of raw, primal fear, unmistakably genuine, crossed the shop owner’s face.
The realization of the Emperor’s power, and his own utter helplessness, was dawning on him.
“O-oh, no. I’ll bring it right away….”
He stammered, his bravado entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, almost pathetic eagerness to comply.
He rushed to the transparent display case, which had been so securely locked, fumbling with the latch.
He took out the legendary two-handed dagger, forged by Perello Krichel, the very item he had so smugly displayed.
With trembling hands, he offered it to the Emperor, his fingers quivering uncontrollably.
“I acquired this with great difficulty. My family members, three generations, spent all their hard-earned money, emptying their pockets completely….”
His voice was a hurried, nervous babble, filled with an attempt to convey the dagger’s immense value and the personal sacrifice involved in acquiring it, perhaps hoping to appeal to some sense of mercy.
He was gripping the dagger so hard that his knuckles, white and strained, protruded like bone.
The sheer tension in his grip was palpable.
Seeing this, the Emperor, with a swift, decisive movement, snatched the weapon from his hand, the exchange almost too quick for the eye to follow.
Then, with an effortless grace, he swung the dagger through the air a few times, testing its balance and weight.
He paused, feeling the intricate craftsmanship of the blade, before leaving a brief, almost dismissive impression.
“It’s correct. It’s what that old man, Perello Krichel, made. It’s pretty crude, though.”
At that one remark, dismissive yet precise, the shop owner looked at the Emperor with a truly astonished face.
His eyes, though still wide, now held a new question.
“Do you know the master?”
“That’s not something you need to know,” the Emperor replied, his tone final, cutting off any further inquiry.
His gaze, piercing and unyielding, allowed no room for argument.
And then, with an unexpected gesture, the Emperor handed the two-handed dagger he was holding to me, Mayhem.
“Take it.”
The two-handed dagger, a legendary piece forged by the artisan Perello Krichel.
It was an incredibly precious item, one that felt almost too grand, too significant, for me to receive.
A thought, tinged with a humble disbelief, flitted through my mind: I wondered if I, Mayhem, dared to receive such a precious item.
“Are you really giving this to me?”
My voice was soft, laced with a genuine sense of wonder and a touch of hesitation.
“You earned it yourself. I just gave you a very small amount of help.”
His words, while seemingly casual, held a subtle warmth, a quiet acknowledgment of my efforts. It was a gesture that, despite his usual aloofness, warmed my heart unexpectedly.
***
A warmth, unexpected and gentle, emanated from his otherwise indifferent voice.
It was a curious dichotomy.
Usually, he delighted in nettling people with his harsh, biting words, digging under their skin and leaving them raw.
Yet, at moments like these, when he would suddenly act with such profound tenderness, more genuinely kind than anyone else I knew, my heart would invariably become a tangled mess of confusion.
The hostile feelings, the sharp edges of resentment I had built up against him over time, would, ridiculously, melt away in an instant, like snow in the sun.
It wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t how I should feel.
It felt wrong to let my guard down, to allow such a powerful man to so easily affect my emotions.
Even knowing that, understanding the impropriety of it, for this brief, fleeting moment, I couldn’t control the overwhelming surge of emotion, the sense of a burden lifted, of a connection forged.
“Thank you! I’ll tell Ferry that Allen helped too, not… a bother!”
The words tumbled out, a hurried correction catching in my throat as I remembered his preference.
The name ‘Allen’ felt strangely intimate, almost forbidden, yet it slipped out naturally.
For a fleeting moment, his deep blue eyes, usually so stoic and unreadable, rippled like waves on a surface reflecting a sudden breeze.
It was an almost imperceptible tremor, a momentary break in his composure, but it was there.
However, it was only a momentary flicker, gone as quickly as it appeared.
In an instant, the Emperor regained his unperturbed expression, his face returning to its usual impassive state, and he spoke casually, as if nothing profound had just transpired.
“Suit yourself.”
His voice was back to its typical, almost dismissive tone, yet the warmth of his earlier gesture lingered, a quiet echo in the air.
After that, we resumed our journey, passing through the vibrant, bustling festival streets of Hamilon.
The sensory overload was immediate and exhilarating.
There were so many fascinating sights to behold, an endless tapestry of colors, sounds, and scents.
Beast-folk from countless diverse countries converged here, their unique appearances and varied languages adding to the rich tapestry of the crowd.
They were selling goods I had never encountered before, an array of curious and exotic items that defied categorization.
From golden snake scales, said to bring good luck and ward off evil, shimmering with an ethereal glow in the sunlight, to tiny, brightly colored tummy ache candies, deceptively sweet and perfect for playing tricks on people you disliked.
Beyond these, the streets were a kaleidoscope of entertainment: skilled performers juggling fire, musicians playing unfamiliar melodies on strange instruments, storytellers weaving intricate tales that captivated their audiences.
However, beneath the joyous surface, a single, sad truth gnawed at me.
Even here, amidst the celebration and diversity, the deep-seated resentment and anger towards the sheep beast-folk were palpable and unavoidable.
It was a constant, unsettling undercurrent that marred the otherwise vibrant atmosphere.
Evidence of this animosity was everywhere.
There were games where people threw knives at a target prominently featuring a crude drawing of a sheep, scoring points for every hit.
Another popular attraction involved smashing fake wooden sheep horns with a hammer in one swift blow, a visceral act of symbolic aggression.
Beyond these overt displays, vendors openly sold cursed sheep dolls, small, crude figures said to bring misfortune, explicitly telling customers to give them as “gifts” to those they disliked.
‘How could they do such terrible things…!’
The thought churned in my stomach, a knot of mingled disgust and sorrow.
It was a painful reminder of the prejudice that permeated this world, a prejudice that affected my own kind.
I was wandering around, mesmerized by the strange and colorful spectacle, completely absorbed in the sights and sounds, when I suddenly came to my senses.
The realization hit me only after I had completely devoured the shaved ice I was eating, the sweet, icy remnants melting on my tongue.
It belatedly dawned on me why I had truly come here, the initial purpose of our journey.
‘Come to think of it, haven’t I been playing too much?’
A faint blush touched my cheeks at the thought, a small wave of self-reproach.
I wiped the sticky syrup from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and looked at the Emperor, who stood patiently nearby.
“But where exactly is the underground? Is it far from here?”
My voice was a little rushed, trying to make up for my earlier distraction.
“You’re asking quite early,” he remarked, his tone dry, a hint of amusement in his voice at my belated realization.
“Well… there were just so many fascinating things…”
I mumbled, a weak excuse, feeling a little sheepish.
“You’ll get there quickly if you keep going.”
He offered a simple, direct answer, then turned his gaze towards Sir Chris, who had just set down his empty shaved ice bowl on a nearby table, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips.
With an almost imperceptible nod, the Emperor commanded, “If you’re done eating, get up.”
“Yes, Commander!”
Sir Chris, ever eager and loyal, immediately straightened, his own moment of relaxation coming to an abrupt end.
According to the explanation we had received, the underground was not far from the main festival street, a seemingly convenient location that now felt subtly ominous.
Just as he had said, after entering a few dark, increasingly narrow alleys, the boisterous, festive atmosphere of the main thoroughfare began to gradually recede, giving way to a gloomy, almost oppressive silence.
The vibrant energy drained away, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
The eyes of the people we now encountered, once full of joy and excitement from the festival, were now hollow and vacant, their gazes fixed on nothing in particular, lost in a quiet despair.
The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken misery.
I saw women, scantily clad and shivering despite the mild weather, huddling in shadowed doorways.
Further down, people lay sprawled on the ground, some motionless, others stirring with a faint, disturbing lethargy, their forms indistinct in the growing gloom.
Among them, an old woman with deeply sunken eyes sat muttering something incomprehensible to herself, her voice a low, continuous drone that added to the eerie atmosphere.
Her words were a jumble of sounds, devoid of coherent meaning, yet infused with a profound sense of suffering.
When I had looked down at the city from the towering heights of the capital, gazing at the sprawling urban landscape from the safety of the palace, I had never once imagined that such a terrifying, desolate place could exist within its very heart.
The contrast was stark, almost unbelievable.
“…There was a place like this in Hamilon? This place is really…”
My voice trailed off, unable to find the right words to describe the suffocating aura that clung to the air, the despair that seemed to seep from the very stones.
Unpleasant.
No, “terrible” didn’t even seem to be a strong enough word to express the profound sense of unease, the revulsion that churned in my stomach.
It was a place that felt wrong, fundamentally broken.
“That’s why this is the underground. Those who step in easily find it hard to get out again.”
The Emperor’s voice was devoid of judgment, merely stating a grim truth.
It was a simple explanation, but it carried a chilling weight, implying a trap from which there was little escape.
I couldn’t understand why such a place, so filled with misery and despair, was allowed to exist.
Why wouldn’t the Emperor, with all his power, simply eradicate it?
Perhaps sensing my unspoken question, a deep sigh escaped the Emperor.
“No matter how many you get rid of, another underground is created. In that case, it’s better to keep it in sight and monitor it rather than constantly searching for it.”
His reasoning was cold, practical, and utterly pragmatic, a grim logic born of necessity rather than compassion.
It was a stark reminder of the complexities of governing, even in a world filled with magic and power.
The Emperor took a decisive step, his gaze scanning the figures ahead of us.
He then approached someone who, compared to the utterly broken individuals surrounding them, looked relatively normal, if still deeply affected by the environment.
The man was leaning against a grimy wall, his eyes glazed, a liquor bottle clutched loosely in his hand.
“Do you know a man named Robert?”
The Emperor’s voice was clear, cutting through the heavy silence.
The man just kept guzzling from the liquor bottle in his hand, oblivious, as if he hadn’t heard anything.
His focus was entirely on the fleeting comfort of the alcohol.
The Emperor, with a practiced movement, pulled out a single golden coin from his pocket, its gleam a sudden flash of brilliance in the dim alley.
The man’s eyes, previously dull and unfocused, immediately gleamed, a flicker of avarice igniting within them.
The moment he reached out a trembling hand to grab it, desperate and eager, the Emperor swiftly swatted the coin aside, a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist.
“Answer first.”
The Emperor’s voice was firm, unyielding.
Only then did the man’s blurry vision return to focus, his gaze sharpening.
He blinked, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it, and then glanced at us, who were accompanying the Emperor, his eyes lingering on our unusual attire for a moment.
He then stammered, his voice rough with disuse and perhaps a lingering drunkenness, “Ro-Robert, you mean… One-Legged Robert?”
The recognition, though hesitant, was there.