Listening to Executor stand opposite her and address her as though he were reading a clinical, structured administrative brief, Jeanne couldn't help but marvel inwardly at how Laterano had managed to cultivate an individual who felt so fundamentally decoupled from the vibrant, expressive rhythm of his own homeland.
With the silver-haired Sankta methodically answering her inquiries in his characteristically clockwork cadence, Jeanne experienced a distinct sensation of déjà vu, as if she were a senior executive ensconced in an office, reviewing a formal operational report delivered by a subordinate.
Still, the realization that Laterano had dispatched an active operative to shadow the pair aligned seamlessly with Jeanne's prior deductions. After all, allowing a vulnerable mother and child to journey unassisted into a domain as hostile as Kazdel carried catastrophic risk metrics; if an unforeseen crisis materialized, the fallout would be severe.
Furthermore, Cecilia's lineage and genealogical background harbored severe systemic complications. If some lethal anomaly befell her within this lawless territory, any opportunistic political faction that caught wind of the incident would undoubtedly weaponize the tragedy, shifting the narrative to accuse Laterano of executing a brutal assassination to bury an inconvenient truth.
"Pardon the inquiry, but regarding your deployment parameters within this sector... do you require me to omit your presence from my official transmission to the Pope?" Executor asked, his eyes evaluating Jeanne's civilian attire, which function as an effective disguise to obscure her ecclesiastical identity.
He was acutely aware that the revered Saintess before him operated as a nexus for an unquantifiable number of classified variables. Her sudden manifestation within the volatile borders of Kazdel was almost certainly tied to one of those underlying strategic mysteries, making her desire to preserve operational security entirely logical.
From his perspective, adjusting the parameters of his brief was a trivial matter; it merely required a selective omission during his formal reporting process. If executing such a minor procedural deviation could assist the Saintess, he harbored no personal reservations about extending the courtesy.
"There is no need for that. The old man back at the Basilicais already fully cognizant of my excursion into Kazdel, so there is no practical imperative to conceal my logistical coordinates," Jeanne replied, offering a casual wave of her hand to dismiss the suggestion.
Hearing Executor volunteer such an offer genuinely caught her off guard. She had operating under the firm assumption that a man of his rigid temperament would invariably document every micro-interaction and granular detail verbatim into his logs.
Evidently, while this particular Sankta cut a distinctly anomalous figure against the cultural backdrop of his native city, the subtle, pragmatic flexibility he was displaying proved he still possessed a trace of that characteristic Laterano adaptability.
Upon hearing that Jeanne had already established direct alignment with the Pope, Executor's expression betrayed no discernible fluctuation—or perhaps his features simply lacked the neurological apparatus to project surprise. He merely offered a precise nod of acknowledgment, spun on his heel, and systematically dissolved into the shadows of the thoroughfare.
The entire process was executed with such clinical efficiency that not a single civilian in the immediate vicinity registered his departure, looking as though he had never occupied that coordinate in space to begin with.
So he literally emerged from cover purely to exchange formal greetings, without expressing any desire to cross-examine my operational status? Jeanne mused silently, her gaze lingering on the empty space where Executor had stood moments prior.
Originally, she had anticipated a grueling sequence of questions regarding Fafnir's sudden presence and biological origins. She was highly surprised that the Executor hadn't dedicated a single unit of attention to the anomaly, behaving as though he hadn't even registered the minor threshold of physical similarity connecting the young dragon to her.
Then again, since he chose not to raise the issue, it spared her the tedious chore of vocalizing a manufactured string of cover stories to legitimize the child's identity—even if Jeanne harbored a sneaking suspicion that she would still end up repeating that specific narrative numerous times in the future.
Shaking off those analytical thoughts, Jeanne resumed her leisurely trek through the frontier settlement, guiding Fafnir along the timber-lined avenues. Their immediate objective was to secure a substantial replenishment of raw provisions, as the survival rations stockpiled within their luggage had dwindled to critical levels.
Admittedly, Fafnir had achieved monumental behavioral milestones recently, successfully downscaling her nutritional intake from an astronomical five whole sheep per meal to a baseline of a single sheep per day—and on select occasions, she could even sustain her energy levels for a modest duration on standard human portions.
However, navigating the land with two individuals who possessed functionally bottomless metabolic capacities meant that food security dictated ninety percent of their physical luggage parameters.
If an average Sankta civilian were to inspect the interior of their traveling packs, they would almost certainly conclude that the duo suffered from a profound cognitive deficit, operating under the delusion that they had ventured into the deadly warzones of Kazdel to conduct a casual countryside picnic.
"Unbelievable... what possessed those fools to permit Sankta presence within this perimeter? I cannot fathom what the leadership of this settlement is calculating."
As Jeanne settled into a secluded corner of a rustic establishment that functioned as a hybrid between a local tavern and a dining hall, a voice laced with unfiltered, visceral animosity sliced through the ambient noise of the room.
The individual broadcasting the statement was a rugged Sarkaz. Judging by the intricate tapestry of jagged scar tissue mapping his flesh and the distinct, desensitized aura of a veteran who had walked through mountains of corpses, he was undoubtedly a mercenary who earned his bread on the battlefield.
The mercenary was visibly incensed by the settlement's progressive administrative policy of harboring Sankta civilians. Yet, the primary catalyst for his volatile mood appeared to be the absolute lack of a localized black-market node willing to purchase Sankta guardian firearms—a reality underscored by the heavy canvas sack resting beside his boots.
Gazing at the unmistakable silhouettes of firearms stretching against the fabric of the sack, it was impossible to calculate the sheer volume of Sankta lives this predator had extinguished to amass such a grim collection. He clearly relied on the trafficking of these sacred weapons as his primary economic engine.
Within the borders of Kazdel, a Sankta firearm commanded a premium valuation as an exceptionally high-tier piece of martial technology. Despite the incredibly restrictive, near-impossibility of its biological user parameters, a vast network of underground research cells and engineering syndicates remained perpetually eager to acquire them for reverse-engineering purposes.
This lucrative black-market economy functioned as the primary secondary driver behind the relentless, historical Sarkaz raids targeting Sankta populations, existing alongside their foundational racial animosity. These mercenaries viewed the slaughter of Sankta and the subsequent plunder of their armaments as nothing more than a standardized livelihood.
Reflecting on this grim systemic cycle, Jeanne felt a wave of profound respect for Feoria. For a Sankta woman to survive the harrowing trauma of such historical nightmares and still cultivate a genuine, consuming love for a Sarkaz man—entirely independent of the broader geopolitical consensus—proved their bond possessed a rare, indestructible quality.
Of course, the marital reality of that specific couple was fundamentally unsuited for public exposure. Given the contemporary landscape, where both races universally viewed each other through a lens of existential hatred, broadcasting their union would trigger immediate, lethal ramifications.
Yet, analyzing the mercenary's grievances inadvertently yielded a fascinating piece of intelligence: the administrative forces governing this town were actively suppressing hostile actions targeted at Sankta residents. What manner of hidden entity possessed the structural authority and martial power to enforce such an anomalous sanctuary deep within Kazdel without being instantly obliterated by neighboring warlords?
"Keep your voice down! Do not compromise our operational security simply because your profit margins took a hit!" the mercenary's companion hissed, hastily shoving his partner's head lower as he issued a hushed reprimand. "Instigating an altercation within this sector is suicide; the security units maintaining order here will not extend any clemency!"
Though the companion had transitioned his voice to a low whisper, the sound waves were captured effortlessly by Jeanne's heightened sensory apparatus.
However, as the dialogue progressed, the vocabulary quickly decoupled from standard syntax. The duo began utilizing a highly complex matrix of localized underworld slang interwoven with cryptic, coded metaphors, occasionally pivoting to scrap paper to sketch out sensitive diagrams and logistical coordinates.
This shift introduced an annoying threshold of difficulty for Jeanne's decoding efforts. She could easily interpret the underlying emotional frequency of their dialogue to confirm they were actively engineering a highly malicious plot, but extracting the granular operational details proved entirely elusive.
As for the deduction that they were plotting something sinister? Frankly speaking, finding an individual within this blighted territory who wasn't actively plotting an atrocity would be the real statistical anomaly. Jeanne could feel the ambient waves of malice and dark intent saturating the atmosphere of the tavern—a volatile energetic cocktail that functioned as the absolute premier fuel source for her Noble Phantasm.
Ultimately, Jeanne remained anchored to her seat until the duo formally vacated the premises, yet she failed to definitively extract the core parameters of their conspiracy. Short of physically detaining them to execute a coercive interrogation, she could only watch their retreating figures pass through the exit.
Even if the exact blueprints of their scheme remained obscure, the instinctual alarms ringing in her consciousness confirmed it carried a highly destructive index. Furthermore, whatever operation they were organizing was fundamentally linked to the structural integrity of this very town.
Unfortunately, translating the slurred, disjointed idioms of two intoxicated raiders was an exercise in pure conjecture, leaving her with nothing but intuitive theories—a reality that was genuinely frustrating to navigate.
At that exact junction, Fafnir, who had been meticulously and quietly shredding her food, noted the severe, contemplative expression anchoring Jeanne's features. She released the half-chewed steak clamped in her jaws and looked up.
"Jeanne doesn't like them? Why don't we simply eliminate those individuals?"
Fafnir possessed no conceptual grasp of the geopolitical nuances at play, but her instincts had cleanly registered the sudden drop in Jeanne's emotional baseline the moment her eyes locked onto that canvas sack of plundered firearms.
In the beautifully binary parameters of the young dragon's cognitive framework, if Jeanne harbored an aversion toward those entities, the most logical and efficient countermeasure was to terminate them. It was a flawless equation, wasn't it? After all, while eliminating the underlying source of a problem was sometimes challenging, eliminating the physical vectors causing the aggravation achieved the exact same net result.
"You absolute little terror... you cannot simply resort to erasing people from existence every single time a minor inconvenience arises!" Jeanne chuckled, her frustration evaporating as she reached out to vigorously ruffle the young dragon's horns, her tone saturated with affectionate amusement.
She was fully cognizant that Fafnir's homicidal proposal was merely a pure, unadulterated manifestation of protective devotion. The child simply refused to tolerate any variable that degraded Jeanne's emotional state, desiring nothing more than to execute an absolute, permanent resolution to preserve her happiness.
This was the foundational, primeval logic inherent to a true dragon: deploy absolute, unyielding supremacy to crush any entity that caused psychological friction, completely bypassing the need for convoluted philosophical deliberation.
Yet, this unfiltered perspective inadvertently illuminated a glaring truth for Jeanne: why was she squandering mental energy agonizing over the theoretical machinations of those brigands? The moment their conspiracy crossed the threshold into tangible action, she could simply deploy her absolute power to grind them into dust.
Having unlocked this sense of clarity, Jeanne gave Fafnir's head another affectionate squeeze. The young dragon responded by projecting a remarkably dopey, innocent smile that mirrored Talulah's characteristic expressions with uncanny accuracy, looking utterly adorable.
With her cognitive processing restored to normal, Fafnir pivoted back to demolishing her final portion of steak. By the time Jeanne formally guided the child toward the exit, the tavern proprietor and his staff had lined up to form an enthusiastic guard of honor to bid them farewell.
In a single sitting, Fafnir had personally consumed an volume of inventory equivalent to the establishment's average weekly sales metrics! Confronted with a client of such monumental economic value, the owner naturally harbored a desperate desire for them to become permanent patrons.
As she navigated the timber-lined thoroughfares, Jeanne finalized her decision to extend her stay within this frontier settlement for an additional forty-eight hours to monitor the movements of those suspicious mercenaries.
Perhaps because she was actively directing her focus toward the obscured, unpretentious dimensions of the town, she began to discern that the localized social atmosphere was by no means as harmonious as it initially appeared; a subtle, choking layer of systemic tension was pulsing beneath the surface.
"Holy Sai... ah, my apologies. Lady Jeanne! I am Feoria's husband. I must offer you my deepest, most absolute gratitude for ensuring Cecilia's safety during that historical crisis. Words cannot express the depth of my thankfulness!"
As Jeanne completed her sweeping perimeter check and crossed back toward her lodgings, she was surprised to find Feoria's husband actively waiting at her coordinate. Upon confronting the individual who had preserved the life of his biological daughter, the Sarkaz civilian was visibly overwhelmed by intense emotion.
Evidently, both he and his wife maintained the absolute conviction that the extraordinary administrative clemency extended to Cecilia—to the point of permitting a formal family reunion with a Sarkaz father—was entirely engineered through the immense systemic leverage of the Saintess herself.
Gazing at the trembling Sarkaz man pouring his heart out in gratitude, a profound sense of bewilderment washed over Jeanne. Wait a minute... did I truly exert that much influence over the outcome of Cecilia's situation back then?