Ivengard, Adria.
Around noon, in a gracefully decorated municipal library by a tranquil Adria canal, Dorothy sat in a corner seat facing the river. A small table in front of her held various locally published books from Ivengard. Although she had spread open one of the library’s volumes, her mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the situation unfolding far away in Tivian.
“Consolidating the intelligence Gregor and Adèle have sent over, I can see the approximate location of those North Ufiga bandits now: Blackwater Street in Tivian. I never thought they’d pick a place like that to hide…”
Seated there, Dorothy gazed out at boats gliding along the canal, reflecting that the robbers’ decision to hole up in Tivian’s South District was hardly ideal from her perspective.
“In Tivian, both the South and West Districts are known for poor security and chaotic conditions, with Blackwater Street ranking among the worst. If they aren’t familiar with the city, you wouldn’t expect them to choose a place like that. So it suggests they must have an adviser who knows Tivian well. Or, more likely, they just killed a local underworld member and summoned his soul for intel. Hmph… in some ways, Silence Beyonders are worryingly good at gathering information…”
Dorothy mused, then turned her thoughts to the challenge she faced: with the robbers shifting to the South District, much of the intelligence network she commanded had lost its reach.
The police Gregor has mobilized are mostly from East Tivian, and Adèle’s main power base is also there. Now these people have abruptly moved to South Tivian, which neither Gregor nor Adèle cover extensively. I don’t have any major local contacts in that area either… Searching for someone there is going to be tough.
Deep in thought, Dorothy’s eyes moved from the canal back to the Literary Sea Logbook on the table. On an open communication page, Adèle’s notes were clearly visible.
Not long ago, Adèle had ordered her subordinates to investigate Blackwater Street, looking for five North Ufiga foreigners and their kidnapped captive, but they found nothing. No one claimed to have recently seen any foreigners entering Blackwater, and kidnappings were so common that few took notice of any particular case. Adèle’s influence in the South District was too limited to unearth whatever deeper secrets lay buried in that area.
As Dorothy read Adèle’s words in the Logbook, she deduced that the bandits, having chosen Blackwater Street, must have realized the authorities were after them. They’d been bolder when they first arrived in Tivian because they intended to raid the Boyle mansion for the golden scepter, then quickly flee. Secrecy was less essential if they planned only a brief stay.But Davis’s hidden chamber proved more of an obstacle than they expected. They had no choice but to kidnap Nust to force out the secret of how to open the vault. In doing so, they’d already committed a brazen home invasion. Their anonymity was gone, and so they became cautious, going underground. It made sense that they were now covering their tracks far more thoroughly.
This is a bit troublesome. They’re holed up in Blackwater Street, which neither Adèle nor Gregor can easily penetrate in the short term… We can track them down eventually, but Nust may not hold out that long. We need a faster plan.
Frowning, Dorothy pondered the situation with a vexed expression. She reflected that if she were physically in Tivian, scanning an entire district might not be difficult given her own investigative capabilities.
As it is, I have to rely on Gregor and Adèle. To flush them out, I need to make good use of their strengths.
Leaning back, Dorothy toyed pensively with the nib of her pen, almost chewing it to bits when inspiration suddenly flickered in her mind.
…
Pritt, Tivian.
Afternoon. Along a street in the city’s South District, a carriage came to a stop after traveling for quite some time. The door swung open, and a polished shoe stepped onto grimy pavement. A young man, dressed in a suit and tie and radiating a certain polished demeanor, descended from the coach. Once he stood upright, he retrieved some coin and handed it to the coachman. The coachman tipped his hat in farewell and spurred the carriage away.
Watching the carriage disappear, Gregor—wearing a different, disguised face—turned to the street before him. For the first time, he beheld a side of Tivian he’d never seen before.
Beneath a haze of gray sky, rows of three- or four-story, run-down buildings flanked the narrow road. Their dirty walls were plastered with layer upon layer of small advertisements. The street, scarcely wide enough for two carriages to pass, was bordered by sluggish gutters of blackish water. A shallow film of foul liquid covered the road itself, the result of poorly managed industrial effluent from a nearby zone. This pollution severely tarnished the local environment, earning the district its name: Blackwater Street.
Straining to endure an odor twice as pungent as in most other parts of Tivian, Gregor paused to survey his surroundings. He saw weary figures trudging down the street, their clothes caked with dust. Some people were hauling heavy loads by hand. From the mouths of nearby alleys came wary stares, and at the far end of the road stood towering smokestacks, spewing dark fumes into the air.
“It’s even worse than the lower districts of Igwynt… This is Tivian too, huh?”
Gregor murmured. In his first year after entering the city, he’d lived in the slums of Igwynt, laboring day and night in a factory. He’d seen dire conditions before, but Blackwater Street seemed even more wretched.
“The better places just get better, and the worse places get even worse… So this is Tivian.”
Gregor thought about the comfortable environment he enjoyed in the North District, sighing inwardly. He pushed those thoughts away and set off into the depths of Blackwater Street.
Blackwater Street was more than a single road; it was a whole neighborhood—and a fairly large one at that. Merely strolling through it once took Gregor quite some time. By the time he’d done a cursory sweep of the area, dusk was nearly upon him.
This place is really big, not just tangled with countless alleyways and complicated terrain, but brimming with people. It’d be easy to hide yourself or slip away here. Trying to find someone without having any sort of influence would be tough indeed.
“So I guess I’ll have to resort to some other tactics…”
After confirming the time on his watch, Gregor headed back to the entrance of Blackwater Street—the very spot where he had first arrived. Scanning his surroundings, he finally noticed a carriage painted in dull crimson stationed in a discreet corner, alongside several cargo wagons with their loads concealed beneath tarps. Several people were standing guard around them.
Spotting the carriage, Gregor walked straight toward it. The driver, upon seeing him approach, shifted his attention in Gregor’s direction.
“Excuse me… is this the performance carriage?”
“Yes, sir. May I ask who you are?”
“I’m the invited actor. My role… is the butler.”
“Ah, I see. Then please, step aboard, sir. Everything you’ll need is inside.”
Hearing Gregor’s statement, the driver quickly opened the door and welcomed him in. Once Gregor got in, he pulled the door shut and discovered a neatly folded outfit on the seat.
Without hesitation, Gregor changed into the clothes, and soon he was wearing a slim-fitting tailcoat complete with a bow tie and white gloves—an attire common for the household butlers of Tivian’s wealthy elite.
Finished dressing, Gregor turned toward the large mirror built into the carriage interior. After inspecting himself, he raised a hand to rub his cheeks, and his entire face began to shift.
His features twisted and writhed; his complexion darkened, his limbs lengthened bit by bit, and his hair grew white. In a short time, the young man Gregor had been was gone, replaced by the tall, dark-skinned, white-haired figure with a trim mustache—none other than Nust’s likeness.
Having completed this transformation, Gregor opened the carriage door and stepped down to address the group waiting outside.
“All right, everyone, it’s time we extended the grace of the Holy Mother to the poor souls of Blackwater Street. Let us show them kindness.”
“Yes, sir…”
A chorus of voices responded in unison. Meanwhile, the people standing around the cargo wagons yanked away the tarps, revealing a haul of food and various basic goods.
…
In Tivian, nobles and wealthy citizens often displayed their supposed benevolence by donating sizable sums to charity, but most of that money seldom reached the truly needy. Either it got chipped away through multiple layers of graft or channeled back to the original donors in roundabout ways. Even the remainder that went into official charity funds tended more to yield greater benefits and tax exemptions for the donors than to tangibly improve the lives of the poor.
Hence, the only reliable approach to real charity in Tivian was taking matters into one’s own hands—going into the slums and directly handing out necessities to those who needed them most. Very few took that initiative, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of. Now one such instance was unfolding.
Along Blackwater Street, a line of carriages advanced slowly. People flanking the convoy announced their purpose, catching the attention of countless residents. When onlookers realized the passengers were calling out about a free distribution of goods, confusion gave way to excitement and amazement.
This convoy was here to perform on-the-spot charity, with carriages loaded to the brim with supplies: food, clothing, books, medicine, various household items—everything imaginable. According to the convoy, they were distributing these items free of charge to the poor of Blackwater Street.
Initially, most people viewed it as a joke, but once they saw neighbors indeed receiving things for free, they swarmed over, crowding around the carriages to line up eagerly. In moments, the area surrounding the convoy was filled with people desperate for a share.
Word spread like wildfire, and soon all of Blackwater Street was abuzz with news of this altruistic giveaway. Swayed—perhaps intentionally—by the rumors, throngs of residents poured in from every corner of the neighborhood. They offered praises to the Holy Mother and rushed to claim their gifts.
Surging crowds of impoverished townsfolk pressed in eagerly, but thanks to the abundant manpower accompanying the convoy—each individual seeming quite strong—they managed to maintain order. Under their organization, the poor were divided into several lines, proceeding in turn to receive their provisions.
At the center of this charity giveaway, in plain view of all, stood an older foreigner with a slightly dark complexion dressed in a butler’s uniform. He took up a commanding position on top of a truck loaded with supplies, directing the entire operation to ensure it ran smoothly.
“Don’t panic, don’t push! There’s plenty for everyone. This is my master’s kindness extended to you all, and no one will be left out—so please queue up in an orderly fashion!”
His voice carried above the noise, making him impossible to miss. In response to his instructions—and amid the grateful voices of the countless needy—the distribution proceeded in an orderly manner.
Within the throng and near the center of the convoy, a cloaked woman stood quietly, her elegant figure obscured beneath the cape. Having disguised herself to avoid being recognized as a local celebrity, Adèle moved among the ragged crowds pouring in from every corner. She actively used her ability, sensing in groups the desires of those around her. In her eyes, the greatest yearnings within each impoverished heart were laid bare. She could passively perceive any desire focused upon her directly; for desires not aimed at her, she needed to deliberately probe small groups one by one. Only by sensing someone’s desire could she then influence it.
Longing, longing—unceasing longing. In wave after wave of her deliberately released ability, Adèle perceived an endless sea of hopes: the gratitude these downtrodden souls felt for a sudden stroke of good fortune, and their yearning for better lives. Naturally, she also sensed darker urges—those who wanted to cast aside all decorum and seize resources by force. But Adèle suppressed these avaricious impulses, helping to maintain order.
The giveaway continued, and so did Adèle’s wide-range empathy for desires. Finally, about halfway through the distribution, Adèle picked up on a jarringly different desire among a group of newly arrived onlookers.
It was a powerful thirst for knowledge, born out of shock, disbelief, and incomprehension—an intense drive to discover the truth behind something baffling. Adèle knew such strong curiosity often indicated a person who’d just witnessed something that unsettled them so deeply, they felt compelled to unravel it.
Pausing in the midst of the crowd, Adèle turned in the direction of that strange desire, peering through gaps in the throng. She spotted another cloaked figure.
That figure wore both a hood and a face covering, tilted upward to stare fixedly at the old butler presiding over the handouts atop the truck.
“That… that’s the Boyle family’s butler?! Impossible—he should be tied up in our hideout! When did he escape? How could he just show up here handing out supplies?! What in the world is going on?”
Rooted to the spot, the hooded man’s gaze radiated astonishment. He had merely come to see what was causing all the commotion on Blackwater Street, never expecting to encounter such a bewildering scene. His shock transformed into pressing questions, the urgent need to understand fueling the desire Adèle had picked up on.
“Well, well… looks like we’ve found our target.”
Standing in the crowd, a small, knowing smile curved across Adèle’s vividly colored lips.