Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

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

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Chapter 100

“Miss Priscilla’s judgment isn’t wrong. It concerns the life of the Earl, and Captain Sparry has already set off to return home. We hope he brings back good news,” Erica succinctly stated.

Dwight frowned. For them, the so-called good news definitely was not that Lestrop came out unscathed and victorious. In fact, almost everyone hoped he would just die soon. However, if their wishes came true, Tifa’s attention would directly turn to Priscilla—and the child in her womb.

“How’s my sister’s health?” he asked.

“In addition to her usual headaches, her dietary restrictions are increasing, and she often suffers from bone pain, making it difficult to move,” Erica replied after some thought, her face showing a hint of worry.

Pregnancy wasn’t easy for any woman, especially for a noble lady accustomed to delicacy and illness. Even though the profession of midwifery had become quite mature, childbirth still posed a life-threatening challenge for them. Priscilla’s challenges began early in her pregnancy. As her body became increasingly heavy, even relatively smooth travel by large ship became a substantial burden, necessitating her rest stop in Fortuna City.

But war waits for no one.

As soon as the domestic news arrived, Priscilla began preparations to continue her journey to White Bridge.

It wasn’t that White Bridge would necessarily be safer, but at least Tifa’s troops or assassins would be greatly weakened there.

“When are you planning to leave?” Dwight asked. “We’ll go together.”

With the auction approaching, Fortuna City was unusually lively, and many luxurious ships chose to dock here. One or two coincidentally traveling together wouldn’t attract attention.

Erica hesitated for a moment.

“Before we depart, Miss Priscilla wants to wait here for someone,” she revealed.

This had been planned in advance.

When Priscilla realized that frequent headaches and dizziness made it difficult for her to stay alert and rational for long, she prepared for contingencies. The Dwight family wouldn’t leave their safety in the hands of others, especially not a King who had long harbored grievances against Lestrop. Out of maternal instinct, she had to use every means to ensure her own safety.

“‘Ceylon’?” The Duke’s gaze sharpened.

“Yes. Miss Priscilla said he was more aware of the Earl’s secret experiments than anyone else.”

“Who is he?”

“He never fully disclosed his identity, but he once told Miss Priscilla that he could be found in Fortuna City or White Bridge—so she surmises that he’s likely a member of either the Monkey or Wolf Family.”

Despite anticipation, the Duke was still visibly choked up.

No wonder Priscilla said she wouldn’t marry the child’s father.

No wonder she was certain she would raise the child herself.

Not intermarrying with the Black Gold Families was a consensus among the nobility of both continents. Their relationship remained unexposed, and a child born of a Duke’s daughter and an illegitimate member of the Black Gold Family—anyone would know which side would be better for the child’s future.

Moreover, as he knew, the current heads of the Monkey and Wolf Families were elders near fifty. Priscilla, even if driven mad by Lestrop, wouldn’t spark a romance with them. It was evident from the partners of the members of the Brandenburg Knights and the Dwight family that being particular about appearance was a hereditary trait.

So the person wasn’t only a member of the Black Gold Family who must be kept out of the public eye, but also not one of the highest status.

Dwight didn’t pursue the topic further. These were matters Priscilla had likely considered long before him.

He turned his head, signaling Hasting to step forward and hand his own handwritten letter to Erica, which detailed everything Shivers had discovered at Lestrop’s estate and advised Priscilla to check whether she had ingested any suspicious magic potions. If not, it was very likely that the child was safe and healthy.

“Shivers will return soon,” Dwight told her. “There have been traces of witch activity in Fortuna City. Starting tonight, reestablish your contacts. No matter what happens, you cannot leave Priscilla’s side again.”

……

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper strolled casually down the dock street, a place he knew all too well.

Although he hadn’t told the young and honorable knights the whole truth, he hadn’t lied either. Fortuna City really wasn’t far from his old home. Even after being away from Doran for so long, he still remembered the city’s windmill-like main road structure, the scent of the wind blowing down from the mountain, and the local accent—slightly different in its rising intonation and pauses compared to other regions.

Because he had lived here for several years, along with “Louis”.

The residential area diagonally across from Dock Street was an upscale area, concentrating all the city’s most luxurious facilities: a large central garden, the city’s largest theater, a grand but understaffed library, and several expensive restaurants.

As expected, the residents there were either wealthy or noble. Even though there was no explicit division of territories with walls, ordinary citizens and the poor would consciously avoid the area to avoid being scolded and driven away by patrollers.

That residential area was undoubtedly comfortable, but he didn’t really like it back then because the surrounding walls not only kept out the poor but also blocked his view.

As a result, when he was still shorter than the walls, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper planned daily how to sneak past the servants and teachers to escape. He naturally loved crowds—the pain and joy that life brought to people gave him the illusion that he was part of them, allowing him to briefly forget the life within the walls that seemed as delicate and fragile as a piece of fine art.

A neatly dressed child in such a mixed and bustling place was easy to get into trouble, so this behavior was strictly prohibited. Later, he found a spot where he would change into the clothes commonly worn by laborers, asking the kind-hearted friend who owned the place to keep his secret.

This put that friend in a difficult position.

“Louis, oh Louis.” The friend would sigh whenever he saw him, saying so in a very helpless tone before welcoming him in, casually grabbing a handful of mints from the counter, and having him sit at the most secluded table.

“You can’t keep doing this. Drink your milk and go home, or I’ll tell on you,” he would say every time. “Really, I’ll tell—you’ll be punished to copy lines all night without sleep.”

As the rabbit-headed shopkeeper reminisced, he turned down the main street by memory, took a right at the end, and was supposed to see that familiar yet foreign sign swaying at the roadside. Its screws were loose, making passersby nervous when it swung in the wind…

He stopped walking and adjusted his hat to broaden his view.

Ahead was a street shaded by green trees, lined with townhouses—not all residential but mostly small detective agencies or cleaning companies. At the end was an inconspicuous shop front with a rust-red sign hanging over the sidewalk, written in cursive: “Brooks and Dee”.

The arched sign was quite old, with its hand-painted edges now blurred. It hung precariously by a single screw, dangerously tilting as if it could fall at any moment.

Below, the shop window was small, displaying several baskets of handmade bread that looked both sweet and fluffy. Upon opening the door, the crisp sound of a wind chime could be heard, and the warm air mixed with the aroma of bread enveloped the visitor.

Charlie looked around the interior of the shop, finding it void of both customers and staff. Behind the counter, a huge shelf was filled with various bottled wines, and the opposite wall was adorned with bread racks, offering an even greater variety than what was shown in the window.

A bakery and also a tavern, the shopkeeper here clearly had a bold style.

Or perhaps he had realized that merely waiting drunkenly for patrons was no longer sustainable and had thus expanded into new ventures.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper chuckled softly, leaning slightly to examine the shelves stocked with jam bread.

Before he could determine what kind of fruit produced the almost transparent jam, the curtain that led to the kitchen was swept aside, and a voice as coarse as if it had been sanded grumbled, “It won’t fall off. I’ll fix it—oh, there’s a customer!”

He shouted back into the kitchen, then turned to see Charlie. He paused, then immediately offered a smile. “Sir, would you like some bread?”

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper looked at him strangely. The man’s face bore a long scar stretching from his jaw to his neck, his large nose and puffy eyes contrasted sharply with his rugged facial contours and burly physique, making his overly friendly smile seem disingenuous, almost like a clumsy pirate luring a sailor to step off the plank.

But laughing out loud would clearly be impolite. The rabbit-headed shopkeeper nodded and casually pointed at a plump cream bun.

The proprietor quickly pulled out a plate, placed the bun on it, and set a small fork beside it. “Would you like a drink with that? Vanilla tea? Or perhaps some wine?”

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper tilted his head. The proprietor lowered his voice, motioning towards the wall behind the counter. “My wines are really good. Not to boast, but once people try them, they become regulars…”

“I don’t drink alcohol. Do you have milk?” Charlie asked.

Hearing him speak, the proprietor froze, stepping back to size him up from head to toe.

“Louis?” His eyes widened. “Louis! You’re Louis!”

The proprietor nearly dropped the plate he was holding—but then composed himself as the other man gestured for silence with a “shush”.

“I’m not Louis,” the rabbit-headed shopkeeper stated. “My name is Charlie.”

The perplexed proprietor looked even more formidable as he gave up on thinking, forcefully ushered him to sit down, but didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he stared, trying to see past the rabbit head for any trace of a human face.

But he failed.

“Say what you will,” he eventually muttered. “But you’re Louis.”

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper sat at the corner seat—the very spot closest to where he had been observing the bread shelf. The round wooden tabletop appeared newly varnished, looking quite fresh, although the iron-wire twisted back chairs were a bit unstable and smaller than he remembered, with his knees nearly touching the table as he sat.

He smiled amiably at the proprietor sitting opposite him, who looked much the same as he had a decade earlier, albeit with slightly grayer hair.

“Louis, oh Louis.” His sigh sounded just as it had years ago, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “My tavern doesn’t sell milk, you little rascal.”

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