Greetings, readers:
Thank you for reading this fan-made work...
"I hope you enjoy today's chapter." I, Wissumi Wizaki, wish you a happy reading
...
October 20th...
Year 1050 A.N.
In one of the valleys of the Backlands, there was that kind of silence that is not stillness but restraint. A handsome five-year-old boy walked step by step along the village street, carrying two sacks—the kind of weight an adult man should carry on his shoulders.
He carried the two sacks back to the base with the same mental calm with which he carried weights during his training, but his mind was already several steps ahead.
Upon arriving home, Giotto sent Daiki to find a cart. Daiki ran off to find it, and when he brought the cart back, Giotto was ready to head out, his mind prepared.
The rice was of good reserve: clean grain, dry, without the mold that ruined half of what families stored poorly. It could feed his own, like the orphaned children, for weeks if managed well. But it could also do something more.
For this journey, he invited Sana and Haru, leaving Daiki and Reijiro at the base.
—Where are we going? —Haru asked, appearing at his side with that knack of his for surging out of nowhere.
—To the route market —Giotto said.
Haru looked at him.
—To sell it?
—To exchange it.
The route market was not a market in the sense of a fixed location with permanent stalls. It was more of a point where the valley paths converged, a crossroads of packed earth surrounded by old trees where passing merchants stopped to rest, trade goods, and gather information before moving on.
It had that specific atmosphere of places that belong to no one and therefore belong to everyone: the mixed noise of voices in different dialects, the smell of animals and cheap spices, and the sound of wooden carts against the uneven earth.
Giotto arrived when the afternoon already had that orange hue that flattens shadows and makes everything look older than it is. Haru walked behind him with one of the sacks. Sana, who had appeared without notice twenty minutes earlier and had decided to come without being asked, carried the other with the expression of someone who does things because they make sense, not because they were given instructions.
The market had a pulse of its own. Giotto read it in the first thirty seconds: who was buying, who was waiting, who was in a hurry, and who had time. The eyes that looked too much. Those that did not look enough.
Eichi was in his late forties, with the body of someone who had spent his life on the road: neither thin nor stout, with the weathered skin of someone who doesn't seek shade when there is work to do, and eyes of a brown so dark they were almost black, sharpened with the precision of a measuring instrument. He dressed well for a route merchant, not with luxury but with the careful functionality of someone who knows that appearance is also a work tool. Nothing out of place. Nothing to spare.
Beside him was a seven-year-old boy with messy black hair and crossed arms, watching the market with an expression that shifted between boredom and irritation, unable to decide on either.
Giotto approached the man.
—Good afternoon.
Eichi looked at him. It was a brief and complete gaze, the kind that takes inventory in seconds and then decides what to do with the result.
—Good afternoon, boy —he said, in a pleasant voice that did not let down its guard—. Are you looking for something?
—Exchange —Giotto said—. I have reserve rice, clean grain, two sacks. I'm looking for salt or wool cloth, preferably medium-weight, for the winter.
Eichi raised an eyebrow. Not much. Just enough to indicate that something in what he had heard deserved a second of additional attention.
—Reserve rice is not what people passing through usually bring to the market —he said—. Where do you come from?
—East Wind.
—That village does not send children alone to the route market.
—No one sent me —Giotto said—. I came on my own.
Eichi studied him for a moment more. Then he pointed to the crate beside him with a gesture that was an invitation without being exactly that.
—Sit for a moment.
Giotto did not sit. He remained standing with the same calm posture as always, and that, more than anything else, was what made Eichi tilt his head slightly.
—How old are you?
—Five.
Eichi said nothing for a second. Then:
—Five.
—Five —Giotto confirmed.
The boy beside Eichi, who had stopped feigning boredom to look directly at Giotto with an expression that was half curiosity and half the evaluative instinct of someone measuring the competition, let out a brief sound that could have been a laugh or could have been skepticism.
—Takeshi —Eichi said, without looking at him—. Be quiet.
Takeshi fell silent, though his expression did not change much.
—Two sacks of reserve —Eichi said, turning back to Giotto—. What variety?
—Koshihikari from the Hayase's northern lot. Short grain, no moisture, this year's harvest.
Eichi interlaced his fingers over his knee. It was the gesture of someone who is calculating and doesn't mind it being noticed that he is calculating.
—That is worth more than medium-weight salt —he said.
—I know.
—Then why are you offering it at that price?
—Because salt is more useful to me now than the full value of the rice —Giotto said—. And because I prefer to establish a fair exchange relationship with someone who has a distribution network rather than getting today's best price from someone who won't appear again.
The silence that followed was of a different quality than the previous ones. Eichi stopped calculating and began to observe, which is what people do when they stop treating something as a problem and start treating it as a phenomenon.
—Who taught you to talk like that? —he asked.
—No one —Giotto said.
—That's worse —Eichi said, and in his voice, there was something that could have been humor, though it was hard to be sure.
Sana, who had remained a step behind Giotto throughout the conversation, placed the two sacks on the ground without a sound and crossed her arms, looking at Eichi with that stillness of hers that was always more uncomfortable than an aggressive gaze, because it was impossible to know what she was thinking.
Haru, on the other hand, had not stood still. He had been moving on the edges of the conversation with that naturalness of his that meant no one looked at him twice; in that time, he had looked at Eichi's cart, counted the sacks of salt, noted the quality of the fabric of the cloths, and observed three neighboring merchants who had exchanged gestures with the man without the conversation being interrupted.
Now he stepped back behind Giotto and said nothing, but Giotto felt the small movement that meant he had information.
—A question —Giotto said.
—Go ahead —Eichi said.
—How many villages in the valley have access to your distribution network?
This time, Eichi's pause was longer. His eyes moved briefly toward the sacks, then toward Sana, and finally back to Giotto.
—That is not a question from someone looking to exchange rice —he said.
—No —Giotto admitted—. It isn't.
A route merchant—the kind who knows every path in the valley better than his own hands, with the type of contact network that is only built over years of knowing when to remain silent. Eichi had something Giotto needed: freely circulating information, access to markets outside the village, and a discretion that was not cowardice but calculation. The alliance was natural. The exchange of information between them was always equivalent, always honest, and always mutually useful.
Takeshi had let his arms drop to his sides. His expression had shifted from competitive evaluation to something more like genuine attention—the kind produced by something that doesn't fit into any known category and that the brain decides deserves more time before being classified.
Takeshi was seven years old, the same as Reijiro and Daiki, but he resembled them only in age. He was proud with the kind of pride that stems not from arrogance but from the fear of being considered lesser; he was temperamental in the way of children who feel things too quickly and process them too slowly. He hated being treated as weak. His need to prove himself—to himself and to others—turned him into a perpetual spark. Especially near Daiki, with whom the rivalry was instantaneous and completely mutual: a single exchange of glances during their first meeting was enough for both to establish, without words, that this was going to be complicated.
Eichi looked at his son for a second. Then he looked at Giotto.
—Nine villages with regular access —he said, with the decisiveness of someone who has weighed the risk and decided that the information costs less than the potential benefit of what might follow—. Six more via seasonal passage.
—And how many of them have the same agricultural tools as my village? —Giotto asked, with a voice strangely mature for his age.
Eichi felt odd at the question, but he answered without hesitation. —All of them. I see an idea in you to improve those tools.
Giotto sketched a half-smile. —I have access to metal. And not just common metal. I have designs for agricultural tools to work the land better—more efficient than you can imagine. Tools that, until today, do not exist in this valley or anywhere else.
Eichi studied Giotto for a moment. It was a time already too long to be a mere evaluation, and too short to be a decision. Takeshi let out a breath through his nose, impatient.
—How old did you say you were? —Eichi asked, at last.
—Five.
This time Giotto smiled as much as he could, as a triumph of his skills.
Eichi repeated the word with the same tone as before, but with completely different content. There was no incredulity in his voice. It was something more like the resignation of someone who has just understood that the world does not work exactly as they thought. Takeshi, who hated being treated as weak and always sought to prove his worth, felt an instant spark of rivalry toward Giotto, though the latter did not seem to notice it.
—I need to trust you —Eichi said, his voice dropping in tone—. And you seem to fit the rumors circulating about a very small boy that the village chief, Razol, has "solving his quarrel problems"... I honestly thought it was nonsense. I even heard that this child saved Razol's son in a kidnapping by thieves. I feel that you are that child.
Giotto neither confirmed nor denied anything. He simply remained silent, praising Eichi in his mind.
And Eichi was shrewd enough to know that silence was already an answer.
Eichi continued. —If it is you, if you can really do what you say, then fix a problem for me. It is something aggressive for a child—I don't know if you can help me, but... There is a merchant in the network. A parasite operating on the margins of the system. He manipulates prices, unfairly and dishonestly blocks his competitors' routes, creates false debts, and absorbs the profit margins of small producers. I have detected the pattern, but I cannot prove it alone.
—And this person is within the jurisdiction of your territory, and we can do nothing because Razol is very protective of his zone and its inhabitants.
Giotto listened intently and analyzed. The negotiation was no longer just about routes and tools; it was a test. Eichi was giving him an opportunity to prove that he was not just a child with access to metal, but someone capable of dealing with the complexities and dangers of power in the valley. The connection between them—an alliance based on information and mutual utility—was about to be sealed. Takeshi kept watching, processing everything, his need to prove himself igniting into a perpetual spark near Daiki—an exchange of wordless glances that foreshadowed a future complicity.
—Tell me more about this parasite —Giotto said, finally seeing a potentially powerful ally. Eichi's network of contacts was within his reach, but there was also an opportunity to increase his influence within Razol's territory.
Eichi exhaled slowly.
—That parasite merchant who operates in the strip between East Wind and Kita-mura village. Technically, his jurisdiction is in transit: he belongs to your territory, but whenever he is out of sight, he claims he is under no chief's authority. He moves within that margin with great deliberation. —His eyes returned to Giotto—. His hands are always clean. He never signs anything incriminating. He never acts directly. But he has been doing this for two years.
Giotto did not respond. He waited.
—And no one has reported him?
—To whom? —Eichi said, with an irony that was not bitter but tired—. There is no authority that covers that border space. The chief of East Wind has no jurisdiction outside his territory. The chief of Kita-mura doesn't either. And that man knows it better than anyone. He built his operation exactly where the edges do not touch.
Giotto processed that in silence. The architecture of the problem was clean in its perversity: a man who had found the void between two power structures and inhabited it with enough care that removing him would require someone who operated with that same logic of the margins.
—What is his name?
—Kuroda Ren —Eichi said—. A merchant of spices and fabrics, in appearance. A man of irreproachable reputation, in all records. —A pause—. I have been detecting the pattern for months. I know what he does and how he does it. But I cannot prove it alone. Every time I get close to the evidence, it is no longer where it should be.
—Why can't you prove it alone? —Giotto asked.
—Because if I accuse him without sufficient proof, the reputation being attacked is mine, not his. —Eichi said it without resentment, only with the precision of someone who has calculated every exit of a problem and knows which one is the wall—. Kuroda has better commercial relationships than I do in three of the nine villages in my network. If I move poorly, I lose access. And if I lose access, I lose what you just told me you need to distribute tools.
Giotto looked at the market. The background noise, the voices, the creaking of the carts. Everything completely ordinary.
—And how do you know I can help you? —he asked.
Eichi looked at him for a moment before responding.
—If you can solve this —he said—, you aren't just doing a favor for my network. You are doing a favor for the valley and your entire people. And I will accept anything you wish to negotiate or integrate into my full network. Not just nine villages of regular access. All fifteen. Including the southern markets that are outside the country.
Giotto looked at him and said: —In ten days, I will solve this problem for you, Eichi.
Young Takeshi frowned, looking somewhat uncertain.
—Fine, deal settled, boy.
The conversation at the route market had ended with a handshake and a ten-day promise. But Eichi had not left immediately.
He had waited for Haru and Sana to finish tying up the exchanged goods, and for Takeshi to stop sizing up Giotto with his eyes while pretending to look at something else. Giotto, for his part, remained unfazed, but he saw a potential new member for the Vongola family soon…
On the way back to East Wind, Haru walked for twenty silences before he could take it no longer.
—Are you going to do it? —he asked.
—I will look into it —Giotto said.
—That means yes —Haru replied.
Sana, a step behind, said nothing. But something in her posture indicated that she agreed with Haru.
At the Vongola base.
The workspace smelled of fresh ink and the damp wood from the previous night's rain. On the table lay the map by Reijiro—an excellent cartographer since he had learned to handle a quill. It served to locate the border strip between East Wind and Kita-mura with a precision possible only for someone who had spent weeks taking notes on every route and boundary in the valley.
Giotto stood before the map with his arms crossed. Reijiro sat beside him, brush in hand, with three new annotations in the margin. Haru leaned against the wall, trying to look relaxed and not quite succeeding. Sana stood on the other side, poised and waiting for Giotto to need something—which was what Sana did when she was processing serious information. Daiki stood by the window, looking out with that posture of his that meant he was listening to everything, even if he appeared not to be.
And Reijiro had arrived that morning with more than just his usual parchment.
—There is something I should have said sooner —he said, without preamble.
Everyone looked at him. Reijiro was not one to open conversations with phrases like that unless what followed deserved attention.
—I know Kita-mura —he said—. Not by hearsay. I know it because my father observed the commercial activities there. I've been there four times in the last two years.
Giotto's expression didn't change, but something in his posture adjusted slightly.
—And Kuroda Ren? —he asked.
Reijiro rested the brush on the inkwell.
—I've seen him. My father spoke with him directly, but I know who he is within the village. —A pause—. I never liked the guy, but he seems shrewd, and my father, with so much on his mind, didn't see it. My father is a just man within his own territory. Very protective of his people, his routes, and his fields. But his problem is that he doesn't look past the smiles and lets himself be swayed. To him, what happens in the border strip is no concern as long as his enemies don't cross inward.
—And Kuroda operates exactly in that strip, as Eichi said? —Giotto said.
—Exactly. —Reijiro pointed to a spot on the map, in the corridor between the two cedar forests—. In my opinion, here. Technically, it's the neighboring village's territory. And my father knows it and doesn't act because it isn't his military problem. Kuroda built his entire system by taking advantage of exactly that.
Haru frowned.
—So, he knows something strange is going on, but he does nothing because your father doesn't dive into dilemmas that aren't in his military jurisdiction, so to speak.
—Yes. Perhaps he knows there is active illegal trade in the strip. He doesn't know Kuroda is a parasite because he has known how to win him over —Reijiro said—. Or he's just lazy and doesn't want to know. With my father, it's hard to distinguish between the two.
—And have you tried telling him? —Giotto asked.
Reijiro remained still for a second.
—I tried. About nine months ago. I told him when I detected the issues with the grain prices. My father listened to me, but he told me that without concrete evidence, he couldn't act against a free merchant who operated within his territory in favor of another, and that was the end of the conversation. —A very brief pause—. I came back very frustrated that day.
Sana broke her silence.
—And is that why Eichi looked for an opportunity with Giotto? —she asked.
—That's why —Reijiro confirmed, with the calm of someone acknowledging the sequence of events without over-dramatizing them—. And because he thought that if the boy who solved the problem between the Moris and the Hayases was the same one who rescued my father's son from the group of bandits, perhaps he had the kind of resources my father demands before he takes action.
The silence that followed was one of work, not surprise.
Daiki turned from the window.
—What else do you know about Kuroda? —he asked, direct.
—That he has good manners and worse intentions —said Reijiro—. In the transit markets, he is known as a reasonable man. He never raises his voice. He always pays taxes on time. His visible reputation is impeccable within the territory because he built the damage outside with foreigners, not in East Wind.
—Contracts and deals with buried clauses —Giotto said.
—Yes. And loans to the transporters. —Reijiro pointed out two routes on the map—. These two cross the strip. Those who use them have owed him favors for over a year. They aren't his employees. They are his hostages without knowing it.
Haru pushed himself off the wall.
—And how do we prove any of that in ten days?
—We don't prove it —Giotto said—. Those whom no one looks at twice will prove it.
Haru looked at him.
—The three from the Shadow Group?
—They already left this morning —Giotto said.
Haru blinked.
—Already?
—I sent them at dawn. —Giotto pointed to three spots on the map—. One to the transit market in the northern corridor. Another to the inn at Kita-mura where route merchants rest when they cross the strip. The third to the warehouses in the southern sector, where Kuroda keeps the merchandise he doesn't declare in the main records.
Daiki looked at the three points.
—How much time do they have to gather something useful?
—Eight days —Giotto said—. We use the ninth to organize what they bring. On the tenth, we move.
Sana tucked her dagger back into her belt.
—And if they don't bring enough in eight days? —she asked, in her way of asking difficult questions without making them sound like objections.
—Then we use what we have and look for the weak point in the system instead of the entire system —Giotto said—. Kuroda is methodical. Methodical systems always have one piece that is worth more than the others. We find that piece, and the rest falls on its own.
Reijiro noted something in the margin of the map.
—The scribe —he said, in a low voice.
—What scribe? —Haru asked.
—There is a scribe in Kita-mura who drafts Kuroda's contracts —Reijiro said—. I saw him once in the market. Always near Kuroda, always one step behind. He never speaks first. —A pause—. Men who work for someone who compromises them are usually afraid. And fear, used well, is information.
Giotto looked at him.
—Well spotted.
Reijiro didn't respond, but something in his posture shifted slightly—that almost imperceptible adjustment of someone receiving recognition from the person whose opinion matters most.
Haru stared at the map for a moment, with that expression of someone processing things at his own speed, which was fast but loud.
—Let me see if I got this right —he said—. Kuroda scams the producers in the corridor with contracts no one understands, he blocks routes with fabricated debts, Lord Razol doesn't act because it's outside his interests, we have three orphans spying since this morning, eight days to bring back something useful, and a frightened scribe who could be the piece that breaks everything.
—Yes —Giotto said.
—And what do we do in the meantime?
—Prepare for what comes after he falls; and if they bring nothing, I will go myself —Giotto said, returning to the map—. Because when Kuroda's system unravels, the border corridor will be left without a commercial structure for weeks. Someone will have to fill it, and perhaps I'll have to share it with Eichi.
On the fourth day, he received a visit from Takeshi, who appeared at the base without warning.
The boy simply arrived with the firm step of someone proud who has decided that arriving unannounced is more honest than arriving with permission. He had a small package wrapped in cream-colored linen under his arm, which he tried to hold with as much boastfulness as possible—achieving exactly the opposite effect.
The first person to see him was the ill-tempered Daiki.
He was sweeping the front yard of the base with the furious energy of someone doing things fast not because they wanted to, but because they were forced to—resulting in a rather uncomfortable first impression. When he looked up and found an unknown boy standing at the entrance with a package under his arm and a look that suggested he too was wondering what he was doing there, Daiki stopped in his tracks.
The two looked at each other with pride, arrogance, and as if each were the master of the world.
Is it possible for two tigers on one mountain to cross paths without fighting?
—Who are you? —Daiki asked in a threatening voice.
—Takeshi —Takeshi said, with the specific dignity of someone giving their name as if it were a sufficient credential.
—Takeshi from where?
—Son of Eichi.
Daiki narrowed his eyes.
—The merchant?
—Yes.
—And what do you want?
Takeshi ignored Daiki's threatening intent and looked at the package under his arm. Then he looked at Daiki. Then he looked at the package again with the expression of someone who is actively reconsidering several decisions made over the last few hours.
—To talk to Giotto —he said, trying to sidestep his true intention.
—Giotto is busy.
—With what?
—With things —Daiki said, with an authority completely disproportionate for someone who was sweeping a yard ten seconds ago, but enjoying it nonetheless since he did not like the boy, Takeshi.
Takeshi frowned.
—Things? What kind of things?
—The kind that are none of your business.
Takeshi opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked at the package for the third time and made a decision.
—I also came to see Sana —he said, with a naturalness so forced it was absolutely transparent.
Daiki looked at him, feeling surprised. He liked Sana too; in fact, he was only sweeping because she had asked him to... just as he was about to lunge at Takeshi, Haru appeared, dampening Daiki's impulse to zero.
—Oh! Hello Takeshi... what have you come for?
Haru examined him for exactly two seconds. Then he turned toward the interior of the base and shouted with all the power of his lungs:
—SANA! THERE'S A BOY AT THE DOOR WITH A GIFT FOR YOU!
Takeshi closed his eyes and thought: "Am I that obvious?" Shame covered Takeshi's face.
Sana appeared at the threshold with the expression of someone who had heard perfectly what had just been shouted and was processing the information with the calm of someone who never loses their composure—which, in this context, was significantly more uncomfortable than if she had reacted in any other way.
She was six years old. She was shorter than Takeshi by a couple of inches, with her dark hair tied back haphazardly and eyes of that light brown color that looked almost golden in the midday light. Her hands were stained with ink, suggesting she had been interrupted in the middle of something.
She looked at Takeshi.
Takeshi looked at her.
They had seen each other at the route market four days prior, for exactly the amount of time it took Haru to tie up the goods, which wasn't long. Takeshi had looked at her. Sana had not returned the gesture with any visible interest, which at the time Takeshi had decided to interpret as shyness.
Now, under that still and completely expressionless gaze, he was beginning to suspect it had not been shyness.
He held out the package.
—I brought this —he said.
Sana looked at the package. Then she looked at Takeshi.
—Why? —she asked.
It was an absolutely simple and absolutely devastating question.
—As a... gesture —Takeshi said.
—What kind of gesture?
—A gesture of... —Takeshi searched for the right word but couldn't find it; the pressure in his chest was tightening— good wishes.
—We don't know each other —Sana said.
—That's why. To get to know each other.
Sana processed that for a moment; she already knew the intention and where all of this was heading.
—I don't need a gift to get to know someone —she said, with the direct logic of someone who genuinely doesn't understand why things should work any other way—. I only need to talk to that person.
—Well... I also came to talk.
—Then talk —Sana said—. The gift is not necessary.
And she turned around and walked back into the base, leaving Takeshi at the door with the package still extended toward nothing.
Haru and Daiki, who had observed all of this without moving, burst into laughter so sudden that Daiki almost dropped his broom.
—She rejected you! —Daiki said, with the malicious enthusiasm of someone who has just witnessed something he plans to tell for weeks, and also something he had secretly hoped for.
—She didn't reject me —Takeshi said, lowering his arm with considerable dignity given the circumstances—. She said she didn't need the gift.
—That is exactly what rejecting you is.
—It is not.
—Yes, it is.
—No —Takeshi said, with a conviction that audibly diminished with every syllable.
Giotto found him ten minutes later, sitting on the edge of the patio with the package on his knees and the expression of someone having a very serious internal conversation.
He looked at him for a moment.
—I came to talk to you —Takeshi said, before Giotto could say anything.
—I think you came for Sana and not for me —Giotto said, sitting down beside him without any preamble.
—You saw everything?
—Haru told me.
—When?
—Eight minutes ago.
Takeshi looked toward the interior of the base with the expression of someone reconsidering his opinion on the speed of information flow in this place.
—What is in the package? —Giotto asked.
—A cherry wood hair comb —Takeshi said—. I found it at the transit market last week.
Giotto looked at the package.
—Sana doesn't use hair combs.
Takeshi processed that.
—How do you know that?
—Because I know her —Giotto said, with a simplicity that wasn't cruelty but just a fact.
Silence.
From inside the base came the sound of voices: Reijiro giving instructions about something, the thud of wood against wood from the afternoon drills, and Daiki correcting someone with that one-sentence tone of his that cut deeper than a long reproach.
Takeshi listened to all of it. His eyes moved toward the open window with an attention he hadn't possessed five minutes ago.
—What are they doing? —he asked.
—Training —Giotto said.
—For what?
—For what is coming.
—And what is coming?
Giotto looked at him with that calm of his that wasn't distance but evaluation.
—Why did you really come, Takeshi?
Deep down, Takeshi had fallen for Sana; she was a very clean and orderly girl for the era, with a behavior better than that of girls from wealthy families. But fundamentally, Takeshi felt a deep intrigue regarding Giotto, a boy very different from the rest he knew. And even more so now that he realized the order, discipline, and diversity surrounding him; everything was unique and brilliant—a place only for children who solved adult problems.
He had come out of immediate curiosity.
He pondered his thoughts and did not answer immediately. He looked at the package on his knees. Then he looked toward the window again, toward that noise of things functioning with a purpose he still didn't quite understand but could feel—with that instinct of someone who has always known how to measure the weight of things, even if he didn't know how to name it.
—I want to see how this works —he said at last, with an honesty that cost him something—. What you do here. How you do it.
—And the gift? —Giotto asked.
Takeshi lowered his eyes to the package.
—That was a miscalculation —he said, with the specific dignity of seven-year-old boys who are not used to admitting mistakes but are proud enough not to lie.
Giotto nodded, but with stoic understanding.
—Come in —he said, standing up—. But the package stays outside; do not carry a failed attempt with you.
While at the Vongola base, Takeshi observed how Giotto was resolving the problem his father had asked him to solve. And Giotto allowed such observation.
Giotto was testing him.
Because he needed to hook Takeshi so that he would decide to join the Vongola.
During the investigation...
...
Author's Note:
"Please excuse my erratic posting schedule. I am currently in the final stages of my university degree, and it has been quite challenging to keep up with regular updates. On top of that, I've been dealing with some writer's block and a bit of frustration, as I feel like I might be stretching the story out, yet I'm struggling with how to pace it properly.
To be honest, I sometimes find these things difficult; my TDAH can make it hard to maintain a sharp focus, leading to these creative blocks. I have many other responsibilities and so many ideas swirling in my head at once, but as a creator with a polyglot and multifaceted mind, I find it hard to execute everything simultaneously.
That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for your patience, and stay tuned for the next one!"
To be continued...
Until the next chapter!