Backlund

"Taking leave?" Klein froze, apparently not expecting that answer. "What happened? Do you need my help?"

"Or have you found a lead on that matter?"

"Neither." Leon shook his head. "Besides, I don't think that person's power can reach another city."

"Where are you going?"

"A private commission. I need to make a trip to Backlund. I'll be back by the morning after tomorrow at the latest." Leon shook the fountain pen in his hand, which was running low on ink.

"It's from an old client of considerable standing, so it was hard to refuse. I've spoken to the captain. Nothing much is happening lately anyway. The Red Gloves' investigation has been very useful; at least, things are peaceful on the surface. I'll give half the commission fee to the company too. When I get back, I'll treat you to something good."

"Backlund."

Klein ignored Leon's words, which sounded like he was raising a flag. But when he heard where Leon was going, his expression finally changed, and his brows drew together slightly.

The name Backlund reminded him that the Hanged Man had mentioned it yesterday. The great pirate Qilingus was hiding there.

He looked at Leon, hesitating over whether to ask him to help investigate the pirate or tell him about the hidden danger and warn him to be careful.

Even though he had great confidence in Leon's strength, a Sequence 6 Beyonder with a Sequence 5 Mystical Item was no easy opponent.

But doing so might expose the existence of the Tarot Club.

"When are you leaving?" After thinking it over, Klein didn't rush to tell him. Instead, he asked the question.

"This afternoon's train." Leon finished signing his name, put the report in a document envelope, and returned the fountain pen to Klein.

"It leaves in an hour and a half." With that, Leon set the report aside rather than submitting it immediately.

"You can wait until I get back to give the captain the report about Madam Sharon, or you can decide for yourself whether to give it to him. Of course, that's assuming she doesn't come after me again."

He then took a copper-colored key from his pocket, paused, and handed it to Klein along with the report.

"This is the key to my home. Sorry for the trouble, but could you look after Martha while I'm away?"

Klein reached out and took the key. It still held the warmth of Leon's pocket and lay heavy in his palm.

He nodded, feeling increasingly conflicted.

But Leon wasn't finished with the subject.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if making sure there was no one else in the underground armory.

"If-and I mean if-you run into trouble you can't handle while I'm away, you can try taking Martha with you."

Klein's fingers stilled on the key.

He looked up and met the look on Leon's face that said, You'll find out when the time comes.

He didn't ask anything, because he knew asking would only get him an answer like, I'm not telling you.

"All right." Feeling somewhat helpless, Klein put the key in his pocket.

"See you the day after tomorrow, then."

Leon straightened and patted Klein on the shoulder. The touch was light, yet it was like an anchor, briefly grounding Klein after days of feeling dazed.

Then he put on his coat and headed for the stairs leading from the basement to the ground floor.

"Wait." In the end, Klein couldn't stop himself from calling out to Leon.

Leon stopped and turned his head without speaking. His expression seemed to say, What else?

"According to my information, a dangerous individual infiltrated Backlund some time ago. The great pirate Qilingus, known as 'Vice Admiral Hurricane.'"

Klein sighed, then quickly and earnestly gave him the key information.

"He's a Sequence 6 Beyonder of the Sailor Pathway, a Wind-blessed. He also has a Mystical Item with an ability related to a Shepherd. He's very dangerous."

"Do you need me to kill him for you?" Leon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No!" Klein waved his hand and said irritably, "I mean you should be careful. If you do run into him, at least you'll be prepared."

"Do you know how big Backlund is? Each borough is bigger than Tingen City and its suburbs combined."

Leon gave Klein a strange look. "Why do I get the feeling you see me as a walking bomb now? Wherever I go, something blows up."

Klein said nothing, merely giving him a look that said, What do you think?

"I'll be careful." With that, Leon left without looking back.

His footsteps echoed on the stone steps, growing distant before finally disappearing beyond the door upstairs.

The armory fell quiet. Klein sat alone in his chair, his hand still in his pocket, his fingertips resting against the key.

He didn't sit there long.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs again, two sets this time. Dunn Smith's gray eyes were deep and dark, and his right hand was rubbing his temple as usual. Pale-faced Frye followed behind him.

"Captain." Klein stood up.

Dunn glanced at him. Without exchanging pleasantries or offering any preamble, he spoke, like a paper knife slicing straight through an envelope.

"We're going to resolve the matter you reported about the Wraith in Lamud Town now. We'll try to be back before dinner."

"Huh?"

Backlund train station.

A whistle tore through the fog hanging over the platform. Leon stepped down onto the iron footboard, the hem of his black cape-shouldered coat swept up by both steam and the rush of air from the opening door before slowly settling again.

He adjusted the deerstalker on his head and tapped his ruby cane lightly against the stone paving, setting foot on Backlund's soil.

Pale yellow fog stretched endlessly around him. Figures hurried back and forth through it, every face indistinct, every pair of feet seeming barely to touch the ground.

His predecessor's parents had died in this city, known as the City of Cities and the Land of Hope.

Then his predecessor had fled for his life, all the way to Tingen.

Leon leafed unhurriedly through those memories that weren't his, as though reading an old novel written in a careless scrawl.

He hadn't come to avenge his predecessor-he wasn't that kindhearted.

Nor had he come to carry out the so-called "commission" he'd told Klein about. He thought anyone with eyes should have been able to tell it was an excuse.

What had truly brought him on this journey was a piece of information Miss Spectator had mentioned in the Roundtable Hold, one that had yet to be fully confirmed.

And there were traces of the Frenzied Flame hidden in the city's sewers. That was what interested him.

He took a deep breath. The fermented stench of coal smoke, steam, horse manure, and river water rushed into his nostrils, and his upturned lips immediately settled back into a neutral line.

"Ah, the damned smell of smog."

How similar it was to that city on Earth, which was also famous for its fog.

For a moment, he almost thought that if he turned the corner ahead, he would see red double-decker buses and black taxis.

Of course, there were none of those flashy things here, but there were four-wheeled cabs and gentlemen and ladies in top hats, some with muddy skirts.

However he looked at it, there wasn't much difference.

With a light movement of his cane tip, he stepped aside for a newsboy who had nearly run into him, then walked unhurriedly toward the station exit.

Following the route in his memory, he hailed a cab in the square outside the station and traveled through layers of fog to Cherwood Borough.

The sign of Bravehearts Bar was half-hidden in the gloomy afternoon light.

Leon pulled down the brim of his hat and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The stench of sweat and cheap liquor struck him like two fists at once. Without so much as frowning, he walked straight through the crowd waving their fists and shouting at the gambling tables and reached the counter.

A one-soli coin landed on the wooden countertop with a soft, dull clink.

"Is Kaspars here?"

The bartender swept his palm across the counter, and the coin vanished.

He jerked his chin to the side. "Billiard room three."

"Thanks."

Leon made his way around the gamblers shouting themselves hoarse over a dog catching rats betting game and walked to the door of billiard room three.

He didn't knock, simply pushing the door open and entering.

In the dim light, several colored balls lay scattered across the billiard table, not yet returned to their places. Someone was bent over, wiping a cue.

At the sound of the door, the man looked up. His movements paused for half a beat, and the astonishment on his face gave way to rough delight.

"Leon? You're not dead!"