Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 87

“Beastman… No, cursed?” Sasha said, “You might be a handsome man. What a pity.”

She didn’t attempt to bypass Charlie to confront Amber directly but instead stared into Charlie’s eyes and asked, “What’s your relationship with Erica? Why is this child with you?”

“I’m a cloth merchant, occasionally collaborating with Erica’s caravan,” Charlie answered calmly, not annoyed by her aggressive demeanor and probing. “This child has been entrusted to me. You know, the nomadic life of a caravan isn’t conducive to a child’s healthy upbringing.”

“Are you close?”

“We’ve had a few dealings over the years.”

“And he entrusted the child to you?”

“Until he comes of age.”

Amber, holding several not-too-heavy boxes, looked up at Mr. Rabbit Head’s silhouette.

He wasn’t really scared, even though he knew Sasha was strong.

Because yielding to fear wasn’t an option if one wanted to survive in an underground fighting ring. From his earliest memories, everything he had learned taught him not to fear, not to retreat, not to dodge—only by facing challenges head-on with relentless courage could one find a chance to live!

But why did this man stand in front of him?

Was he strong? No, the redhead and that stern-faced man were probably stronger.

Amber was momentarily puzzled and was almost bumped into by the rabbit-headed shopkeeper’s retreating figure, before he snapped back to reality.

“I have no need to lie to you.” Charlie’s voice remained even. “I wouldn’t presumptuously invite a lady to my home, but if only seeing for yourself will put you at ease…”

He stepped back a few paces and turned the corner of the street, just in time to see the house they were renting.

The mercenaries at the door immediately noticed them. The two, who had been leaning casually, straightened up.

Probably because she didn’t want to cause a conflict with the mercenaries, Sasha’s gaze lingered between them for a while before she finally walked away without further fuss.

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and led Amber back.

The two mercenaries had come out onto the street ready to intercept, but seeing them return, they didn’t ask questions and resumed their positions.

Most of the mercenaries were ready to depart, and Hasting was still busy handing over responsibilities to the kitchen and the steward, missing the gift-giving session.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper kept his promise, purchasing what he thought was the most suitable item for everyone: a roll of soft leather for Hasting; a large bag of hot, local caramel cream rolls topped with baked apple crisps for Shiloh; a small brass telescope for Hall; and for Amber, a fitted hunting outfit imported from abroad, unlike the traditional robes of Lababata with tightly tailored cuffs and waist, convenient for movement, complete with a wind hat and a pair of hard-soled short boots.

Amber, seeing such sophisticated clothing for the first time, clumsily fumbled with the belt until Shiloh, munching on a roll, pulled him aside to help him, accidentally tightening it too much and nearly suffocating him.

But besides these, what really made him popular were several large bags filled with handmade fireworks—in many countries, fireworks technicians were directly employed by the royal families, used only during major festivals or celebrations, with private workshops not allowed, and the splendid nature of fireworks also made them difficult to develop and circulate privately.

Lababata was one of the few countries that allowed the private development and sale of fireworks. Charlie only learned this after seeing a few fireworks stores, so he bought every type he found interesting, carrying a full armload back, nearly unable to walk.

Shiloh, delighted like a savage, whooped and pulled Amber to find Hasting and Hall to set off fireworks in the yard.

Dwight didn’t touch the pile of gifts but sat watching as the rabbit-headed shopkeeper pushed a slender box in front of him.

The exquisite leather box alone was quite valuable. The Duke watched him open the gold and green ribbon like he was presenting a treasure. “Look! An antique quill that doesn’t need dipping in ink. It can also be automatically heated in the winter and never clogs. I found it in an herb shop. Haggling took quite an effort.”

Putting aside the oddity of an herb shop selling stationery, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper indeed knew his stuff.

Although magical items were convenient, not many mages took the trouble to work on such mundane tasks, so even the Duke of Brandenburg had never seen a quill that didn’t need an ink bottle before.

Even by his critical standards, it couldn’t be said to be a bad gift.

However, Dwight neither expressed like nor dislike; instead, he just slightly turned his head to look at him.

“What happened?” he asked.

By this time, the sun had set. The light outside the windows had dimmed, and the lamps in the living room had been lit.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper leaned back in his chair, pondered for a while, and didn’t immediately answer.

He was wondering if there was something subtly different about his behavior that prompted Dwight to suddenly ask. Although he was somewhat accustomed to the other’s abruptly keen perceptiveness, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper couldn’t help but reflect on whether he was still not calm enough—the conclusion was no, he hadn’t shown any flaws, as evidenced by Amber’s still normal reaction.

It was probably due to Amber’s innate talent + extensive combat experience that made him, like a young wild animal, full of wild instincts. In many cases, they could feel that although Amber was sparing with words and expressions, he could precisely discern the subtle attitudes of adults toward him, and if it weren’t for this sense that the people in this house genuinely accepted him, the child wouldn’t have been as docile and harmless as he was now.

It was probably the same with Erica in front of him.

But today Amber hadn’t noticed anything, the only explanation being that the Duke’s ability to read the atmosphere and people’s hearts was becoming excessively sharp.

“We encountered a Lion, not yet mature, but its claws were already sharp.” Charlie decided to be frank. “I—don’t really like that family.”

This was a euphemism. Actually, after encountering Sasha, every pore in his body screamed in rejection, and Sasha and Amber wouldn’t know how much effort he had spent to control himself from turning and fleeing immediately.

This had probably become his instinct.

The Duke observed his face closely, focused like a surgeon—so long that Charlie felt slightly uncomfortable and twitched his ears.

“Are you afraid of her?” The Duke precisely used the female pronoun. The rabbit-headed shopkeeper had no doubt that he had deduced that the interlocutor was indeed the girl causing Erica some trouble.

“…Perhaps,” Charlie murmured.

If someone had been whispering in your ear since you were sensible that there was a group of assassins who could ruthlessly tear you to pieces given the chance, anyone would have a psychological shadow.

Dwight didn’t quite understand Charlie’s fear. In his view, although Rabbit Head lived a disorganized, messy life, he wasn’t a weak person—on the contrary, he had a breadth of vision and survival skills many couldn’t accumulate in a lifetime, which were not much less formidable than pure physical strength.

Yet it was precisely on this point that he was paradoxically both complacent and insecure.

“Compared to talking about the Lions, you mention Erica as if she’s just a neighbor.” The Duke finally withdrew his gaze. “Give me your hand.”

Rabbit-Headed Shopkeeper: “???”

What for?

Seeing him not move, Dwight repeated somewhat impatiently, “Give me your hand—what are you afraid of?”

Charlie wasn’t sure whether this was about his fear of the Lion family or something else, but he extended his right hand, palm up, nonetheless.

He instinctively thought the Duke wanted to give him something, perhaps aniseed or mint candy?

It surely wasn’t because he admitted his fear that he was about to be punished by a slap on the palm.

His fingers were long and smooth, with few lines on his palm, and because of the forward stretch, a section of his wrist exposed blue-green veins meandering like pine branches hidden under snow in winter.

The Duke paused slightly, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t thought about Rabbit Head’s original appearance for quite a while.

Back in Pennigra, he had also secretly speculated what this man might look like, whether handsome or ugly, and why he willingly lived with a rabbit’s head so different from ordinary people, with not a hint of rejection, but as time went by and he grew accustomed, he seldom thought about it anymore. Occasionally, a thought would flash in his mind without reason, like how would such quirks as twitching his ears or bristling his fur be reconciled if he changed back, or whether a naturally serious face could coexist with occasionally slightly frivolous expressions.

Just like now.

He looked down at the wrist in front of him, suddenly thinking that the parts of Rabbit Head below the neck were quite superior. The owner of such hands likely wouldn’t have an unattractive face.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper watched the Duke daydreaming inexplicably. This wasn’t his illusion—the Duke had recently been drifting off mid-conversation quite frequently.

He waited patiently for a while, and seeing that the other hadn’t snapped back, he couldn’t help but wiggle his fingers.

The Duke then reached out, taking the quill from the gift box.

Actually, the lower classes now rarely used quills that weren’t durable, as glass and metal nibs could withstand long-term friction better and could also be crafted into intricate designs like carved or hollowed patterns on the pen body. And the lower classes didn’t engage in luxurious activities like writing and reading, so most quills held more value as collectibles than for writing.

Dwight himself wasn’t accustomed to using quills either, as he disliked the overly ornate feathers, which reminded him of the powder-filled, giggling court dances.

The pen Rabbit Head bought didn’t have the usual large feather. The dark feather was trimmed into a sharp shape, resembling that of a hawk or falcon, and the nib was very sharp.

So, when he lifted the pen to write on Charlie’s palm, the latter instinctively pulled back slightly, only to be held down by his wrist.

Charlie watched as the Duke bent over to write the first letter ‘D’ on his palm. Their wrists overlapped due to the writing motion, and by slowing his breathing, one could feel the other’s pulse rate.

Dwight wrote his name letter by letter, the black ink forming a line on the palm, looking like an exaggerated and bizarre palm print.

“This is the payment for 22 Paulownia Street.” The Duke’s eyelashes cast a blurred shadow in the dim room light. “Lemena will protect you—I will protect you.”

He lifted his hand, put the quill away, and looked up at Charlie, calmly saying, “You need not worry about the Lion’s claws.”

“It’s completely dark now! My Lord…” Shiloh, like a headstrong boar, barged into the living room, and seeing the Duke and Charlie turn to look at him, he belatedly stopped in his tracks.

Although neither spoke, the peculiar atmosphere made an overly excited Shiloh cautiously look around.

Was the Duke deliberating? Had he interrupted something?

But apart from formal meetings, the Duke usually didn’t discuss important matters in places like the living room.

Logically, he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but an inexplicable sense of awkwardness made his toes curl uncomfortably.

It was the rabbit-headed shopkeeper who eased his discomfort. “Are we setting off fireworks?”

Shiloh blinked. “Ah, yes! Even the mercenaries are downstairs watching. Hasting said he prepared chairs and drinks on the third-floor terrace, inviting Your Lordship to go up…”

“They’ve already started.” The Duke sat in a chair by the long table, propping his head to look outside—actually, the sky wasn’t fully dark yet, and as they spoke, a red firework shot across the window glass, followed by a loud pop, bursting like a brief rain of gold foil, illuminating the side faces of everyone in the room.

Dwight, watching the spectacular fireworks following the red ones burst one after another in the night sky, said, “I won’t go up. You go down and have fun.”

You?

Shiloh felt something subtle but couldn’t quite pinpoint it, turning to see the rabbit-headed shopkeeper taking a hat from the hat rack with his left hand and inexplicably asked, “Is Mr. Charlie also going downstairs?”

“Yes.” Charlie draped an arm over the redhead’s shoulders. “Let’s go. The last night must be celebrated properly—after all, as soon as it’s light tomorrow, we’re setting off again.”

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