Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

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

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Chapter 96

The morning at the docks began before sunrise, when the originally white stone-paved roads, after decades or even centuries of being trodden upon, had turned black and were always damp, carrying a hint of fishiness.

The port of Fortuna City wasn’t only a hub for several inland waterways but also the last stop before heading to White Bridge via water route. However, many local citizens, from birth to death, never visited that land of wine and gold even once. Yet, the wealthy continued to flock there, stopping in Fortuna for repairs and supplies. This place, originally a small fishing village, had grown into a mid-sized city in less than a century, with many farmers who couldn’t grow enough produce to export continually flooding into the city, finding sustenance as long as they were willing.

Lemena was deep inland, with several non-freezing lakes but no canals, and the coast was far beyond reach.

Thus, many sights here were novel to Dwight—long before dawn, shops along the main road from the docks to the city started to open, unloading their shutters and displaying various goods, mostly cheap bread, soups made from shredded cabbage and onions, or oatmeal, all steaming in big, deep barrels that were quite tempting on a chilly morning.

Seeing Dwight gaze at the barrels, Charlie chuckled softly. “You wouldn’t like that. The dockworkers’ breakfast is the cheapest food. The ingredients aren’t much better, often with rotten cabbage and hard, inedible beans that you only realize are sour and bitter when you taste them.”

Dwight hadn’t planned on eating. It wasn’t hard to tell that the goods sold by the shops opening at this hour weren’t of high quality. More expensive items like cheese, wine, and fruits were nowhere to be seen, and the shops were small and narrow, hardly offering any tables or chairs for customers to sit and eat or rest. However, occasionally, burly men dressed as workers would stop to buy a piece of bread to dip in the soup and eat quickly while standing on the side of the road.

“Sour and bitter?” Dwight asked again.

At least everyone in sight seemed to enjoy their food.

“Indeed, sour and bitter,” Charlie replied as they walked slowly. The dew was heavy. Both of them were wearing hats and dressed neatly, attracting many glances, but no one approached or struck up a conversation.

It was too early for pickpockets and thugs. Only those desperately needing to bring bread home before sunset were out.

“Even if it’s sour and bitter, no one spits it out,” he said in a low voice, not lingering his gaze on those eating breakfast. “They need the calories to have the strength for today’s work, and they’ve paid for the soup and bread—there’s nothing more valuable than that.”

Dwight was silent.

He wasn’t unaware of the hardships of the lower classes. Lemena’s natural bounty and fertile land made it a relatively prosperous region, even in Pennigra. As a Duke, he knew that simply not overtaxing his subjects was enough to earn their gratitude. Standing on this street today, no more than fifteen feet from those scantily clad laborers, seeing the steam rising from the soup pots felt like crossing a barrier he had always been isolated from, touching a world utterly foreign to him.

Beside him, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper was wearing a black knee-length coat with two rows of mother-of-pearl buttons shining in the dim morning light, boots and hat immaculate, looking fit to enter city hall or attend a banquet with just the right cane.

Despite often claiming poverty, everyone knew that 22 Paulownia Street had amassed a significant fortune, with rumors even suggesting the shopkeeper was richer than some small country kings. Like the Knight Commander, he was familiar with the Duke’s everyday standards during their brief separation.

Such a person, yet he was standing on the dockside street describing the taste of the laborers’ breakfast in such a natural and understated tone, wasn’t embellishing or emphasizing anything, but the Duke didn’t believe someone without personal experience could detail such life so casually.

The Duke lowered his eyes, remaining silent.

He wanted to ask, “How do you know what that soup tastes like?” but wasn’t sure.

Uncertain whether the rabbit-headed shopkeeper would tell the truth and whether he wanted to hear it.

So it was better not to ask.

They continued along the long road, and as time passed, the temperature rose quickly. The morning fog thinned, and more houses along the street opened their doors and windows, filling the streets with the sounds of chatter and movement.

“After sunrise, more shops will open. If we’re lucky, we can buy fine gin and premium ham, and some specialty stores—” Charlie’s words were cut off by the sound of approaching horse hooves. Soon, two horses appeared at the end of the street, ridden by two individuals dressed in maroon uniforms with black felt hats.

They turned into an alley on the left ahead, their hooves distinctly audible on such a quiet morning. People in the breakfast shops peered curiously, and some even followed to see the commotion.

“Are those sheriffs?” Dwight squinted. He judged by their uniforms, tight at the cuffs and waist, tucked into riding boots, a dagger belted but no armor worn, it suggested it wasn’t a lord’s cavalry but more like a police force from a sizable city.

“Probably,” Charlie suggested half-heartedly. “Shall we go take a look?”

Fully armed on the street at this time likely meant trouble.

Dwight pretended not to notice his reluctance in his tone and headed towards the alley.

He had noticed that the closer they got to White Bridge, the more low-profile Charlie became, especially evident now. This unwillingness to cause trouble was a stark contrast to his eagerness to explore every commercial street in Lababata or during the March Rabbit Market.

If not for Dwight’s specific request, Charlie would have preferred to sleep in the warm cabin this morning rather than taking this precious opportunity to go ashore.

But he denied any potential threat from Fortuna City, so Dwight thought his unusual reticence more resembled a near-hometown nervousness.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper appeared easy-going, always smiling and amiable, yet surprisingly firm-mouthed, not giving away anything he didn’t wish to disclose. Prying wasn’t the Duke’s style, so he prepared to observe for himself.

The incident site was closer than they expected. It was just a short distance from the corner, where a small crowd had gathered. Two uniformed officers had tied their horses to an iron lamppost; one stood, the other crouched, observing a man lying on the ground with the onlookers.

Someone, perhaps a doctor or an assistant, knowing a bit of medical knowledge, was loudly dispersing the crowd to let “this poor man breathe some fresh air.”

“He’s still alive.” As Charlie and Dwight approached, the crouching middle-aged officer moved his hand from the collapsed man’s neck. The man’s hair was sparse, his face pale purple, barely showing any chest movement—if not for the officer’s assurance, most would assume they were seeing a corpse.

Interestingly, once it was confirmed this wasn’t a violent death on the street, the crowd voluntarily dispersed—everyone had work to do early in the morning, and since the officers were already there, there was no need to waste time over a drunkard who drank bad liquor or someone who suddenly fell ill.

Only the person who dispersed the crowd stayed at the officer’s request, not lifting the man but vigorously rubbing his hands across his chest to warm him.

Charlie and Dwight didn’t approach closer because of the dispersing crowd but stood a few steps away, watching them frantically trying to wake the still unconscious man.

Dwight’s gaze fell on a cloth bag near their feet, likely dropped suddenly due to its scattered contents, including a hand mirror, a simple hair curler, and a comb. A ribbon peeped out of the bag, its end dampened and emitting a scent of rose water, suggesting a glass container had shattered.

These were women’s makeup items. The bag probably also contained lead powder, rouge, and a toothbrush, among other things.

Before Priscilla was married, she had a dressing room next to her bedroom filled with such items. Every winter, Dwight would also authorize a budget for makeup expenses for the women in the castle to prepare for the coming spring, which included these items as well.

However, ordinary citizens or even lower-class women clearly didn’t have the means of a Duke’s daughter or the castle’s maids. For ordinary female workers, let alone makeup, even buying a new dress was a luxury. Even if the items scattered from the bag weren’t high-end, most would likely not use them.

Thus, this man must have been a craftsman serving women with special professions—women of lower status in flower yards without maids or actresses in theaters often employ such people for their services.

Most likely, there was a major performance at a nearby theater last night, and the craftsman was busy until late at night, helping everyone remove their makeup and comb their hair until the break of dawn, but he collapsed on his way home.

“His heartbeat is getting stronger,” said the man who had been rubbing his chest in distress, “but he hasn’t woken up.”

“Could he be ill?” asked the other officer. Only when she spoke did everyone realize she was a woman. She seemed to have some medical knowledge as she was taking off her gloves while speaking. “Let’s check his eyes.”

Inspired by her words, the man reached to lift the closed eyelids of the unconscious man but recoiled with a scream, throwing his hands back in fright.

“What happened?” the officer asked anxiously.

“His pupils are white!” The man backed away two steps. “He’s been cursed, or—or possessed—”

But it was too late.

Before he could finish his sentence, his throat made a “gurgle” sound, and his eyes rolled back as his hands involuntarily clutched his own throat.

“What’s going on?” The female officer drew her dagger, unsure of what to do next since the man’s only target was himself.

As soon as he heard the description of white pupils, Charlie’s ears twitched involuntarily. Before he could voice a warning, the well-intentioned bystander began to convulse.

“Don’t get close to him!” Charlie shouted, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat to pull out a flat object and throwing it at the man, hitting him squarely on the forehead with a “thud”.

Immediately, the man’s hands released their grip, and he fell backward as if knocked out, but something even stranger occurred. As he fell, a black figure rose from his body, as if someone was forcibly pulling his shadow out—this shadow even wore the man’s clothes and hat, but its face and limbs appeared as a blurred black. It moved slowly and eerily as it stood up, wobbled, and turned towards Charlie, as if sizing him up.

But before it could fully stabilize, Charlie had already grabbed Dwight’s hand and turned to run, holding his top hat with his other hand as he looked back while running. As expected, the shadow adapted quickly to its limbs, moving more smoothly and clearly heading straight for him.

“Black magic?” Dwight also looked back as he ran. “What did you throw at him?”

“Just a piece of wood, but it had an exorcism script I wrote on it,” Charlie explained, speeding up. “I had a bad feeling this morning, and it turns out this was why!”

Dwight stroked his cane. “So it’s coming after you?”

The black magic he was familiar with usually attacked indiscriminately unless the caster was present—since when had it evolved to precisely identify the person who expelled it from a body?

The two officers closer to the scene were unharmed, and Dwight saw them looking terrified at the shadow, forgetting even to run.

Charlie held onto Dwight’s hand tightly, nearly dragging him across the street. “Magic always leaves traces. It’s not coming because of the exorcism script, but because the person who wrote the script is me.”

It sounded as though Charlie and that kind of magic recognized each other… Dwight seemed to recall something, pausing slightly in surprise. “Elena?”

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