The herbs were unmistakable.
Even in the dim torchlight, even buried beneath careless sacks and grime, Moran recognized them at once. Leaves veined too precisely, stems cut with practiced hands. They were not common flora gathered by peasants or hedge healers. These belonged to Adiand alone.
Imperial stock.
By decree, such herbs were forbidden from trade. Their cultivation was monitored. Their distribution regulated. To move them beyond sanctioned hands was treason dressed as commerce.
Some were curative beyond price.
Moran's eyes narrowed, twas a gaze that was lethal in quantities far smaller than rumor suggested.
"There's even poison mixed in," he murmured, voice barely stirring the air.
It was worse than he had expected. Worse than mere greed.
This was not survival. This was rot.
People like this did not simply exploit desperation; they cultivated it, fed upon it, ensured it multiplied. Stirring the masses was not an accident. Chaos was profitable.
"Unworthy," he breathed, the word heavy with disgust.
Moran remained where he was, pressed into shadow, forcing himself still despite the tension coiling through his muscles. Acting now would be foolish. One man, however skilled, could not tear down an entire den without preparation.
Wait.
Observe.
Endure.
Then—
Crash.
The sound shattered the silence like a blade striking bone.
Moran's heart slammed violently against his ribs.
It was too loud.
He froze, breath caught halfway in his chest. Beneath his boot, fragments of a shattered vase glittered faintly, mocking him with their sharp clarity.
Idiot.
"Who's there?" a voice barked.
Torchlight swung wildly. Shadows lurched and stretched across broken walls. There was no cover close enough, no corner deep enough to disappear into. The room was a trap now, every exit suddenly obvious.
Moran's hand slid to his knife in one smooth, instinctive motion.
Then—
Hands seized him.
Soft. Small.
"Down!"
The voice was high, strained, half a whisper and half a cry, urgency cracking through it. Before he could react, he was yanked sideways, dragged into collapsing debris. Something heavy fell over them a robe, torn and dust-coated—followed by splintered wood and broken ceramic deliberately shoved atop their bodies.
The world shrank.
Darkness pressed in close, suffocating. The scent that enveloped him was unexpected sweet and sharp, like ripe grapes crushed into wine, layered with smoke and dust. Someone's breath brushed his cheek, warm and uneven.
"Don't move," the voice whispered, lips far too close. It was a females voice.
Moran obeyed.
Boots scraped nearby. A man cursed under his breath, torchlight slicing between gaps in the rubble. Moran kept his eyes fixed on the narrow sliver of ground visible through the debris, every muscle screaming to strike.
But he did not.
The man prodded the ruins with his foot. Wood shifted. Ceramic clinked.
Nothing.
"Tch. Rats again."
The torchlight receded. Footsteps retreated, growing duller, fainter, until they were swallowed entirely by the surrounding noise of the den.
Only then did the weight lift.
The girl rolled away first, coughing as she shoved broken planks aside. Dust clung to her robe and veil as she pushed herself upright, breath uneven but controlled.
"He's gone," she said quietly.
Moran rose more slowly, eyes never leaving her.
She turned, brushing debris from her sleeves, then retied her veil with practiced hands, movements quick and efficient despite the tremor still lingering in her fingers.
That was when recognition struck.
"…Ett."
She paused only briefly, then continued adjusting the fabric around her face as if his voice were nothing more than a draft.
Ett had not come here by accident.
She had questioned Akan, carefully, indirectly, about places in Adiand that did not exist on official maps. Slums hidden from the common populace. Spaces the Empire pretended not to see. She had observed them from afar before, cautious not to disturb the fragile balance that kept them contained.
Tonight, she had gone further.
With stolen cartography folded against her chest and a borrowed cloak concealing her frame, she had entered the den herself.
What she had not expected was Moran.
If she looked at him now really looked—his presence here made a cruel sort of sense. This was where he had been broken. This was where he had learned hunger, fear, submission.
And yet—
He was free.
He could leave.
So why is this talented young man in here? There is no way he is sold again! Did the man who brought him sold him again? She was confused, it doesn't look like the man could do that? What was his name again? Fin, Fenal, Fenar! Or was her fleeting trust gone in vain?
Ett's gaze flicked briefly to the knife at his side. Small, but balanced.
Well-kept.
Revenge?
Too soon.
Moran studied her in turn. The veil, the posture, the way she held herself even here. Something in her silhouette stirred a memory he had tried to dismiss earlier.
Fenar's voice echoed in his mind.
A description given too carefully.
Too vividly.
He shook his head once, sharply.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Who are you?" she replied at the same time.
Silence stretched.
Neither answered.
Ett clicked her tongue softly and turned away, clearly done with the exchange. She had not come to watch Moran dismantle the illegal markets that had once swallowed him whole.
Still—
She felt a flicker of relief.
Nothing had changed. Not yet.
In the future she knew, Moran would return here after years had passed, tear this place apart, and leave with the gratitude of the common people clinging to his heels like banners.
Not now.
Good.
"There's a reason you interfered," Moran said, following after her. "Why save me?"
She did not slow. Freak, that Fenar guy must have described her? Hayst. Oh well.
"Mere whim."
Moran stopped, he frowned at the incredulous reason.
A whim?
In this Empire, no one acted without reason. No one helped without cost. A mere whim? It seems she truly is a noble. One that is capable.
Fenar's words returned unbidden. Nobles were capable of strange, cruel acts, guided only by passing fancy.
Ett glanced back. "Where's the uncle?"
Moran's lips curved faintly. "Resting."
"I see." So the Fenar uncle really haven't sold him and Moran's in good hands. That's great to hear.
"Does the uncle treats you well?"
Moran nodded, he gaze at her. "Very."
At least Moran is alive, and won't be treated unfairly.
Ett coughed, wiping sweat from her brow. The air here was thick, heavy with rot and smoke. Her lungs burned.
So this was the place.
The Merry House.
In the original story, the male lead would have discovered this den, crushed it, and emerged a symbol of righteous fury. Now, the timing was off.
Annoying.
She exhaled slowly. "I see."
"What do you see?" Moran asked.
"Nothing."
She turned again, already moving.
This was a problem. If events did not unfold as written, she would have to improvise. That herb, the one Veralis' sister needed might still be here. Illegal trade often hid what official channels refused to provide.
Her steps faltered.
Too much movement.
Too little stamina.
Her knees trembled. Vision swam faintly at the edges.
"You," Moran said from behind her. "Why are you tailing me?"
She stopped where the shadows thickened, turned, and faced him calmly despite the tremor she could no longer fully suppress.
"None of your business," she replied coolly, coughing again. "Do your own… thang."
He frowned.
Thang?
His expression shifted as understanding dawned. "Thing."
She waved him off. "Just don't destroy the Han Flower. It's mine."
His brow furrowed deeper. Then he smirked. "If you can find me."
And he was gone.
Ett watched him disappear, a dull smile ghosting across her lips.
He took the bait.
Good.
She sank to one knee, wheezing, body protesting every step she had taken tonight. The ruin pressed down on her bones like a reminder of fragility.
"I hate this," she muttered.
When she looked up—
"Hello?"
A boy stood a few meters away. Thin. Bruised. Too young.
"Hi," she replied cautiously.
"Are you new?" The boy asked. "Do you want to escape?"
Ett studied him.
The wounds told their own story. Old scars layered over fresh ones. Bruises blooming dark along his arms and neck. Blood at his lips where he had bitten himself to stay silent.
"Do you want to escape?" she asked instead.
He shook his head, smiling faintly. "I can't. But I can help you."
"You're stupid."
His smile faltered. "…Yes. I am. But I still want to help."
Ett stared.
She sighed. This guy seems to be kind, and can be qualified as a protagonist, she can see a halo on his back.
Trust like that was dangerous. Foolish. And yet—
She turned away. "Best of the best."
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"Quiet."
The boy followed anyway.
"Why are you heading toward the second boss's place?"
Second boss. Okay noted, thank you.
She ignored him, extinguishing her candle carefully, moving deeper into shadow.
"You look pale," he whispered.
"Go away." Ett was always pale.
"But—"
"I'll get burned by you."
The boy blinked. "What?"
She pointed behind him. "Your light. It blinds me."
And for a moment, in the darkness of the Merry House, the boy stood frozen—unaware that what shone brightest was not the moon above, but the fragile kindness he carried, flickering stubbornly against the night.
"Little Miss, I don't understand…"