At any time, there are always those who leave the city. Perhaps to seek sustenance, perhaps to escape the crowds, or simply out of a love for adventure.

  These people gather, forming small villages.

  The villages grow, become towns, and eventually transform into new cities. Then others leave again, forming new villages, until there’s nowhere left to go.

  Before the first sunrise, this is how the first humans gradually claimed the promised world of the Forger.

  The mist had lifted from this place only six years ago, but around Solvellon, several such villages had already sprung up.

  In front of them lay one of those small villages.

  In fact, they could have continued their journey through the night.

  Caroline was more than capable of protecting her mistress in the dark and ensuring they reached Solvellon safely.

  Caroline was born to hunt the creatures of the mist.

  The darkness caused by the absence of light was no obstacle for her.

  But Miss Charlotte needed eight hours of sleep every day.

  Although small, the village had an inn.

  Under the light of an oil lamp hanging above the door, Charlotte tried to read the words on the sign.

  "Iguana Head Inn."

  Inside, the noise was loud.

  It seemed like there were a lot of people.

  Were they arguing? Or just drunk?

  Caroline opened the door for her.

  The noise stopped.

  Everyone in the room turned their eyes to them.

  Yes, they were drinking.

  Charlotte felt as though she had walked into a place where she didn’t belong, like someone who enters the wrong room late, kicks the door open, and is stared at by all the students while the teacher asks, “Who are you?”

  She wanted to be like that student—apologize and run away.

  But Caroline touched her shoulder.

  This small gesture from her bodyguard gave her courage.

  “Stay calm, Charlotte. Think of the knights in the novels. Lift your chin, hold your chest steady, and just walk up to the counter. Order a drink... Wait, what’s that puddle on the floor? Do I have to step in it? Uh... never mind.”

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  Though there were a few twists along the way, she still managed to reach the counter.

  In the original plan, she was supposed to order a drink.

  But she hated alcohol, and Caroline probably wouldn’t allow it.

  “A large glass of apple juice, please.” She tried to mimic the tone of the characters in the novels, but her upbringing made her add a polite “Thank you.”

  The sound of sighs and laughter rose around her.

  The bartender, resting his chin on his hand, looked at her as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Did I say something wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t have said “Thank you?”

  “Miss,” the bartender finally spoke, “we only serve alcohol. How about something stronger...”

  “My mistress doesn’t drink. Get me an apple,” Caroline interrupted.

  Since they had entered, Caroline had already sensed the rude stares directed at them.

  There were 31 people in the room, six of whom had artificial limbs modified by alchemy, though none were designed for combat.

  None of them posed a threat.

  These people couldn’t harm her in any way.

  Still, trouble was better avoided when possible.

  Her voice was calm and cold.

  The bartender dared not delay and, as requested, fetched an apple from under the counter.

  Caroline took the apple and, in front of everyone, tossed it into the air.

  A silver flash passed between her fingers, and the apple split into three parts: the top peel, the bottom peel, and the core without the skin.

  No one could see how she drew the blade, but the “rude” stares vanished entirely.

  Charlotte didn’t take the apple.

  The atmosphere around her made her feel uncomfortable.

  Why were those people staring at her? Why were they drinking in the inn’s lobby? Did the sign at the entrance say “bar”?

  No one had taught her how to deal with such people.

  She felt completely out of place here.

  She just wanted to sleep and get through the night.

  Tomorrow, they would reach Solvellon, and the city would certainly be better than this place, wouldn’t it?

  “Please get us a room,” she said to the bartender, handing him a note.

  The man took the note and examined it under the light.

  It was a green bill, with the portrait of a woman stamped on it.

  He recognized the figure: the most famous woman in the world, the empress of the entire empire.

  Although few knew her name, that didn’t matter.

  The empire had only had one ruler for the past four hundred years.

  These two women wanted to pay with this piece of paper? But was it really valuable? It didn’t seem to be made of gold or silver.

  The bartender decided not to take the risk.

  Money had to be gold or silver—at least bronze.

  Something that, when put in the pocket, gave a sense of security.

  “Ladies,” he said, suppressing the urge to tear the paper out of respect for the empress, “paper doesn’t count as money, even if it has the empress’s face on it.”

  Charlotte looked at Caroline, completely lost at the turn of events.

  Why didn’t that man recognize a gold pound? Were they going to sleep on the street?

  Caroline seemed to have anticipated this.

  She took the note back and, after searching her pockets, placed a shiny silver coin on the counter.

  The bartender took the coin.

  On one side was the portrait of the empress, and on the other, a large “1.”

  It was a Dartley silver coin, an old currency issued during the early days of the empire’s unification. Despite centuries having passed, it was still accepted in some cities, like Solvellon.

  The bartender didn’t know this history; he only knew that it wasn’t paper and could be pocketed safely.

  Charlotte gave a small cough.

  Her face blushed slightly.

  Reality was a bit different from what she had imagined, but she needed to maintain a composed posture.

  She couldn’t leave everything to Caroline.

  “A room?” she reminded the bartender.

  The man pulled a key from somewhere. “First room on the left upstairs.”

  Charlotte hesitated to take the key.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  Charlotte was used to dealing with machine oil and other substances, so she wasn’t exactly squeamish.

  But that key seemed like it had come out of a sewer.

  It still carried “souvenirs” from its homeland: a black, sticky substance, impossible to name, that any normal person would avoid touching.

  The key ended up in Caroline’s hands.

  Then again, her hands weren’t much cleaner than the key.

  But who cared? Her only job was to protect her mistress.

  “Let’s go, Miss,” she said softly, encouraging her.