[Spacetime That Might Exist] Undercurrents

In an unknown tavern, the air was filled with the smells of ale and wood.

The shop manager, holding a rag, slowly wiped an empty table. An empty wooden wine glass sat on the corner of the table. After wiping the table, he bent down and pushed the glass into the corner, his movements practiced and efficient.

In the corner, the female mercenary occupied a table all by herself.

Several empty wine glasses sat in front of her, and she still clutched a half-empty bottle in her hand. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, but her posture remained relatively steady. She didn't look at the manager; her gaze lingered on the foam remaining on the rim of her glass. After a moment, she tilted her head back and took another gulp.

The store manager straightened up and draped a rag over his shoulder.

"I'm about to close up shop."

The mercenary didn't look up, her fingers tracing the cool surface of the bottle.

"Manager, please let me stay a little longer."

"If you want to stay longer, come earlier next time." The manager's voice was calm and emotionless. "You've been occupying this table since this afternoon, that's long enough."

The mercenary then raised her eyes, a lazy smile appearing on her face. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"Before that, I was busy with 'work'."

"Really?" The manager walked behind the bar and began counting the bottles on the shelf. "The mercenaries had a pretty tough time during the National Day holiday."

"So," the mercenary shook the bottle in her hand, the amber liquid swirling inside, "Let me have one last drink, how about it?"

"You've had enough to drink." The manager didn't stop what he was doing.

"How much I drink is my own business." She hugged the bottle to her chest, rested her chin on the rim, and drawled, "Even Goddess like you has no right to disturb my relaxation time after work."

"But I have it." The manager turned around, his gaze sweeping over her. "You haven't paid off your debt yet. Finish this drink and get back to your room."

The mercenary stared at him for two seconds, then smiled casually.

"Okay, okay..."

She unscrewed the bottle cap, tilted her head back, her Adam's apple bobbing, and swallowed the last sip of wine with relish. The familiar burning sensation slid down her throat, and she squinted her eyes, letting out a long sigh.

The sound of wheels rolling over the stone road outside the shop came from afar, growing louder and louder until it stopped at the entrance of the tavern.

The female mercenary didn't pay any attention and was about to get up.

"Miss."

A voice came from outside the door, not loud, but clear.

The female mercenary stopped moving and turned to look.

The tavern door was open, and it was already dark outside. A dark-colored carriage without any insignia was parked by the roadside. The window was open, and a man sat inside. In the dim light, only a large, uneven shadow on the right side of his face was visible, like a severe burn. He did not get out of the carriage.

The mercenary's face once again displayed that smile common among mercenaries, a smile that carried a hint of ingratiation and familiarity. She stood up and walked steadily to the door.

"Hmm? Oh dear... Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" Her voice was clear and melodious. "These days, there are so many noble gentlemen coming from all over the country; I know the way best when it comes to asking for directions..."

"Come closer," the man in the car said.

The mercenary approached the carriage with a grin and casually opened the unlocked door. Her movements were fluid, as if she were simply opening the door for a stranger, a nobleman.

The man handed over a folded piece of paper. The paper was ordinary, with neat edges.

"Shadow Warriors," his voice flat, "We have a mission."

The mercenary's smile vanished instantly, like smoke dissipated by the wind. The drunkenness in her eyes disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. She took the note, unfolded it, and quickly scanned the handwriting.

The man waited for her to finish reading.

"Notify everyone. Remember to burn it after you finish reading it," he added.

"Also, drink less alcohol. It will affect your swordsmanship."

The mercenary folded the note and tucked it into her inner pocket. She looked up, a mercenary smile, tinged with a hint of helplessness, returning to her usual expression.

"Please spare me, sir. If I don't have a drink, my hands will shake so badly I won't be able to hold my sword."

The man in the car's lips twitched slightly, forming a faint smile.

"Really? Looks like I shouldn't have asked a drunk for directions."

The mercenary closed the car door swiftly. Then, she took a half step back, raised her right hand, and placed it lightly on her left chest, near her heart, while bowing her head slightly. Her posture remained natural, but the subtle pause and angle revealed a trained demeanor unlike that of a street mercenary.

"Please rest assured, the Imperial Capital is like our backyard." She lowered her voice, making sure only those inside the car could hear her. "By the way, could you please tell me how to address you? I imagine you must also have a title and affiliation for those who have been working on this mission for years. We will also use our own titles."

The man in the car didn't hesitate.

"The governor of the northernmost territory of the Empire, the Rorubea Domain, Levi."

"So it's Your Excellency the Governor." The mercenary maintained her bowed posture, her voice steady. "I was rude earlier. Please call me 'Schritt,' a lowly [mercenary]."

No further sound came from inside the carriage.

Schritt straightened up and watched the carriage slowly start moving, rolling over the cobblestone road and disappearing around the street corner. The magical streetlights along the street lit up one by one, casting flickering light and shadow on her face.

She stood at the door for a few seconds before turning back into the tavern.

The store manager had finished wiping the last table and was turning the chair upside down on it. Seeing her return, he didn't ask any questions and continued with his work.

Schritt walked to the fireplace, took the note from her pocket, knocked out a cigarette from her pack, and put it in her mouth. She leaned over, lit the cigarette in the dying embers of the fireplace, took a deep drag, and then gently pressed the burning butt against a corner of the unfolded note.

The flames licked the pages, spreading rapidly and devouring the ink stains, turning them into curled ashes. She watched it burn completely before shaking the last embers into the fireplace.

"Haven't had a mission in a while." The shopkeeper's voice came from behind him as he fastened the last chair. "I don't know if I'm still up to par; my skills are probably dulled by now."

His gaze seemed to casually sweep over the shadows beneath the bar—where a longbow leaned against the counter, its smooth blade and loosely strung bowstring.

Schritt exhaled a puff of smoke, which rose in the light. She turned her head to look at the shop manager, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"Ha... you always say that." She flicked her cigarette ash. "Among us, aren't you the one who's killed the most, [the tavern owner] Wolf?"

Wolf didn't reply, but walked behind the counter and bent down. When he stood up again, he had two unopened bottles of red wine in his hand. He placed one of the bottles on the edge of the counter and gestured with his eyes towards the back door of the tavern.

Schritt understood, picked up the bottle of liquor, tucked it under her arm, and still held a cigarette in her other hand. She pushed open the back door and walked into the narrow passageway leading to the back alley.

Empty wooden crates were piled up in the dimly lit passageway. A girl waited there, dressed in the simple dress common to tavern waitresses, with a dark apron tied over it. She had long, light blonde hair, styled into two loose braids, and carried a wicker basket covered with a cloth in her hand.

"Iris," Schritt handed over the drink.

"Oh, thanks." The girl called Iris took the wine, casually stuffed it into the basket, and covered it with a cloth. She looked up, her golden eyes sparkling in the dim light, her tone lively, "Just arrived news? Looks like I've got some work to do."

"Okay. Pass the word down, meet at the usual place." Schritt said succinctly, "Is this on your way?"

"Hmm~ I was just about to return the book." Iris patted the basket, and a soft clattering sound came from inside. "The 'caretaker' is definitely still there."

[Tavern Waitress] Iris.

Without another word, Iris, carrying her basket, turned briskly out of the back alley and merged into the deepening night and sparse crowd outside.

Schritt leaned against the cold brick wall, finished her cigarette, and stubbed it out on the wall. She gazed in the direction Iris had disappeared, then looked up at the narrow sliver of night sky above the alley, illuminated by distant lights. After a long while, she turned and went back to the tavern.

The mobile bookstall on the street corner is about to close up shop.

Lutine stood in front of the stall, holding a thick, somewhat tattered book. She wore a dark-colored, old-fashioned dress with a dark knitted cardigan over it. Her long hair was simply tied back, with a few strands falling beside her cheeks, giving her a somewhat gloomy look.

"Page 372 of this book is missing," she said, handing the book back to the stall owner, her voice low and flat, "And the annotations in Chapter Seven appear to have been deliberately erased. I need the complete version, or at least the archival record indicating the missing pages."

The stall owner, a plump middle-aged man, wiped his sweat and nodded repeatedly.

"Yes, yes, you're truly an expert... I'll definitely keep an eye out for you next time I order!"

Lutine nodded, said nothing more, and turned to leave. She walked with her head slightly lowered, seemingly habitually avoiding eye contact with others.

I had only taken a few steps when Iris, carrying a basket, jumped out from the side with a bright smile on her face.

"Miss Administrator! What a coincidence!"

Lutine stopped and glanced at her, her expression unchanged.

Are you here to return the book?

"Yes, yes!" Iris took two books wrapped in parchment from the basket, handed them to Lutine, then leaned closer, lowered her voice, and kept her smile, "Work, usual place, as soon as possible."

Lutine took the book and hugged it to her chest. She lowered her eyes, her long eyelashes casting a small shadow beneath them.

"... Okay." She paused for two seconds before replying softly, "I'll be there after I finish sorting through this batch of returned books."

"Okay, okay!" Iris waved to her and walked away briskly, as if she had just completed a routine book exchange.

Lutine stood there for a while, holding her book. The evening breeze lifted a corner of her cardigan. She looked up at the gray building with a tall, pointed roof at the end of the street—the town's little church. After a few seconds, she started walking in that direction.

[Librarian] "Lutine".

The light was soft in the small hall by the side entrance of the church.

Father Clematis had just received the theological books from Lutine. He was dressed in a black priest's robe, his posture upright and his demeanor composed. After placing the books on the wooden shelf beside him, he turned around and nodded to Sister Lore, who had been standing quietly in the shadows.

Lore, dressed in a dark nun's habit, bowed her head and clasped her hands in front of her. Her eyes remained closed, long eyelashes cascading down her back, and her face was expressionless, like a lifeless porcelain statue.

Clematis said nothing, only made a simple gesture, and then turned and walked toward the corridor leading to the main hall. His steps were steady, and the hem of his robe brushed against the polished stone floor almost silently.

[Priest] "Clematis", [Nun] "Lore".

Lore waited until he was far away before slowly opening her eyes. Her eyes were very light in color, almost transparent, and empty, reflecting nothing. She walked to a small stove in the corner of the small hall, on which sat an earthenware pot, which was bubbling and steaming.

She carefully lifted the earthenware pot, using a thick cloth as a mat, and ladled the warm, thick porridge inside into a wooden bowl. Then, carrying the bowl, she walked out of the side door of the church.

Beside the steps at the church entrance, a ragged "homeless man" was huddled up.

Lore knelt down in front of him and gently placed the wooden bowl on the ground beside him. The bottom of the bowl touched the stone slab with a soft "click".

The homeless man stirred, opening his cloudy eyes a crack. He glanced at the porridge on the ground, then looked up at the nun squatting before him with her eyes closed.

"Goddess bless you, kind girl."

Lore didn't respond or open her eyes. She simply stood up slowly, brushed off any dust that might have settled on the hem of her nun's habit, and turned to walk back into the church. Throughout the entire ordeal, she didn't utter a single word or even glance at the homeless man.

[Varos], a homeless man.

Varos waited until she closed the door before slowly sitting up. He picked up the bowl of still-warm porridge, not caring about the heat, and drank it all in a few gulps, wiping his mouth with his dirty sleeve. Then, he stood up, leaning against the wall, and staggered away from the church entrance, merging into the growing crowd of pedestrians on the street.

He walked slowly, looking around, and finally stopped in front of a street stall selling groceries.

The stall wasn't big, covered with a gray cloth, on which were displayed some cheap trinkets, old tools, and some crudely made "magical" gadgets. The stall owner, "Gazella," was a somewhat sly young man who was squatting behind the stall, idly fiddling with a small, motionless iron bird.

Varos extends his hand, palm up.

"Please have mercy."

Gazella looked up, frowned, and waved his hand impatiently to shoo them away.

"Go away, get out of here! Don't delay my business!"

Varos didn't move, and his face showed no pleading or shame; he simply looked at him calmly.

"I'm standing here precisely because it will interfere with your business."

Gazella glared at him, his lips pursed downwards, a hint of annoyance and a deeper sense of helplessness flashing in his eyes. He clicked his tongue, reached into his pocket and rummaged around for a moment, then pulled out two worn-out copper coins, tossing them irritably into Varos's dirty hand.

"You old geezer... take it and get out of here!"

Varos clasped his hands together, weighed the two copper coins in his hand, and a vague, satisfied expression appeared on his face. He said nothing, turned around, and sauntered away.

Gazella watched his retreating figure disappear into the crowd, her shoulders slumped slightly, and she muttered something under her breath.

"... Back to work. Ugh, so annoying."

[Street vendor] "Gazella".

He squatted down again and continued to fiddle with the motionless little iron bird, but his eyes were no longer lazy; instead, they quickly and discreetly scanned the street, especially the figures lingering in front of the magic tool stalls not far away.

Nearby, at a magical artifact stall, Frieren picked up a strangely shaped, old-fashioned pot covered in patina and examined it closely. Her emerald eyes narrowed slightly, her expression focused.

Fern stood half a step behind her, his pale purple eyes calmly sweeping across the bustling street before returning to his master.

"Really..." she sighed softly.

Frieren seemed not to hear. She put down the small pot and picked up a compass inlaid with cheap crystals next to her, turning it left and right, trying to make out the blurry markings on it.

Between fiddling with the small pot and compass, her gaze seemed to casually sweep over the "vagrant" from a moment ago, her eyes calm, without any probing or lingering, as if she were looking at any insignificant passerby on the street.

Then she looked away and continued to examine the compass in her hand, her small face serious, as if she were appraising some extraordinary ancient artifact.

Fern looked at her, remained silent for two seconds, and then spoke.

"Speaking of which, Lady Frieren..."

"Hmm?" Frieren didn't even look up; her attention seemed to still be on the compass.

"Is this massive purchase of magical tools also part of a strategy to lower the enemy's guard?"

Frieren's fingers, which were fiddling with the compass, froze.

Then, she put down the compass, picked up the old pot, and held it to her chest. Her silvery-white head lowered slightly, her emerald eyes narrowed into thin slits guiltily, and the corners of her mouth turned down, her whole face scrunched up like a kitten caught stealing candy but trying to remain calm.

"... Yes." Her voice came out muffledly from behind the pot.

Fern stared at her expressionlessly.

Please look me in the eyes when you answer.