Once her encrypted conversation with the Pope came to an end, Jeanne sat perfectly still, enveloped in a long, contemplative silence. It took a few moments for a soft smile to finally break across her otherwise expressionless features, and she let out a low, marveling sigh.
"That old man... I never would have guessed he kept such a passionate spark alive at his age," she murmured to herself. "Hearing him speak like that actually got my own blood pumping. Is he truly an elderly man who belongs in a rocking chair, or did I mistake him entirely?"
Jeanne let her mind drift back to the Pope's words, recalling the sudden, overwhelming impulse that had surged within her chest—the burning desire to accomplish something truly monumental, to reshape the world with her own hands.
In truth, the old man had likely deduced the lingering hesitation weighing on her heart. He had probably caught the faint traces of uncertainty in her voice during their very first exchange, and his grand declaration today was a calculated effort to offer her a profound sense of validation.
Even Jeanne wasn't entirely certain why she was hesitating in the first place. The moment she had analyzed the structural reality of Kazdel's internal conflict, an immediate, unyielding urge had taken root inside her—a desire to swiftly dismantle the war and restore a lasting tranquility to the soil.
Yet, why the reluctance? Why had I paused on the brink of action?
She struggled to unearth a definitive explanation. Did she fear drawing a line that would inadvertently drag Talulah and the others into the line of fire? Was she worried her intervention would force Laterano to compromise its own border security? Or perhaps it was a deeper, more fundamental boundary: the reality that she was not a native child of the Sarkaz, making her loath to violently rewrite their destiny based solely on her personal convictions?
Or was it none of the above? Could some entirely unmapped psychological barrier be anchoring her footsteps, forcing her to take Fafnir on this wandering journey just to forge a temporary absolute resolve?
But how on Terra had that old man managed to dissect my mind so flawlessly? Could he truly have pieced everything together based solely on their brief past dialogue and her sudden manifestation in this blighted frontier? To credit it entirely to analytical deduction felt somewhat far-fetched. Perhaps it was simply the peerless, unteachable intuition that only came with a lifetime of political navigation.
The smile on Jeanne's face deepened at the thought. She cast her gaze through the high windows, staring in the direction of the distant, holy city of Laterano for a long, quiet interval before speaking in a soft whisper.
"Still... I certainly didn't expect that a trip to the barren wastes of Kazdel would result in that old man giving me a masterclass in resolve."
As Jeanne indulged in her quiet reflections, Fafnir paused her eating, tilting her small head to the side in utter bewilderment. The philosophical weight of Jeanne's words sailed completely over her draconic mind.
Yet, even if the young dragon failed to grasp the intricate variables of Jeanne's thoughts, her baseline instincts cleanly registered a significant shift in the atmosphere: Jeanne's mood had grown substantially lighter, which meant Fafnir's universe instantly became infinitely brighter.
And a blissfully happy Fafnir meant an immediate, terrifying spike in her metabolic demands!
Though her stomach should have been rapidly approaching its absolute limit, she immediately flagged down the staff to request an additional twenty portions of steak, fully prepared to stage a grand culinary performance to elevate Jeanne's spirits even further.
By the time Jeanne fully snapped out of her internal monologue, she was confronted with a fresh mountain of twenty empty platters stacking up across the timber table. Caught between amusement and absolute disbelief, she could only reach out to gently caress the little dragon's head, conveying her profound appreciation.
Secretly, however, Jeanne was beginning to wonder if she should hunt and cultivate massive wasteland beasts to serve as Fafnir's future rations. Even with a borderline infinite supply of wealth at her disposal, watching a child burn through capital at this terrifying velocity was beginning to make her personal finances ache.
Naturally, the tavern proprietor was experiencing an identical surge of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. This was magnificent!The hypothetical steering wheel of my future luxury carriage had just been fully paid for, with enough surplus to cover fuel for a year! These two patrons weren't mere travelers; they were living deities of commerce.
By the time Jeanne finally prepared to vacate the establishment, the owner's customer service had escalated to such a desperate, fawning intensity that he looked ready to shed his Sarkaz heritage entirely and transform into a Perro, his entire posture practically wagging a tail to beg for their return.
Stepping out into the crisp air of the secluded alley, Jeanne handed the encrypted communications device back to Executor. Just as she turned to leave, a sudden thought struck her, prompting her to look back at the stoic Sankta with a trace of curiosity.
"Where does your itinerary take you next, Mr. Executor? Please don't tell me that the moment this escort mission concludes, the higher-ups are going to issue an immediate directive for you to shadow my footsteps as a permanent bodyguard."
She studied the expressionless man, genuinely concerned that he might silently tail her through the wilderness without a single word of complaint—an exceptionally dangerous undertaking given the volatile geopolitical reality of the sector.
This time, however, Executor didn't deploy his characteristic literal-minded misdirection to bypass the inquiry. He candidly informed her that his immediate superiors had already issued an executive recall, ordering him back to the capital to undertake an entirely separate operational assignment.
Jeanne harbored zero suspicion that he was attempting to deceive her. She had long since verified that this unyielding operative possessed zero structural capacity for falsehood, at least whenever he was addressing her directly.
Yet, reflecting on his lifestyle—how he would return to Laterano only to immediately anchor himself to a fresh deployment, spending his entire existence bouncing from one grueling crisis to the next without a single day of sacred rest—a profound wave of respect welled up within her chest.
The man was the absolute blueprint of a model civil servant. What manner of state department allowed an operative to grind themselves to the bone like this, stacking high-risk deployments back-to-back with zero allowances for a vacation?
Had Jeanne not possessed an intimate understanding of Laterano's institutional structure, she would have assumed the Notarial Hall compensated its agents strictly on a brutal commission framework, withholding basic survival funds if they failed to meet a monthly quota.
"You truly need to allocate some time for a proper vacation," Jeanne observed, her gaze lingering on Executor for a long moment before she issued the quiet counsel. "If you maintain this frantic operational velocity, I am genuinely concerned that the next time our paths cross, I will be visiting you in a medical ward due to total physical collapse."
Executor offered a succinct, mechanical nod to acknowledge her words, signaling that the input had been successfully logged into his mind. Whether he intended to actively manifest that advice in his future scheduling, however, remained an entirely open question.
"In truth... our institutional framework provides a remarkably generous allocation of rest cycles," Executor explained, turning back to face her as if concerned his grueling schedule might foster an inaccurate perception of Laterano's labor laws. "My current operational density is strictly driven by personal matters requiring definitive resolution. Certain investigations demand extensive temporal investments, forcing me to consolidate my standard leave into a singular block."
With that final, clinical clarification, the laconic Sankta turned and melded back into the shadows of the frontier town. Within a handful of minutes, every trace of his presence had entirely dissolved, leaving Jeanne standing completely alone in the quiet alleyway.
It seems every soul in this world carries the weight of a deeply complicated, unseen tragedy, Jeanne thought, a bittersweet smile gracing her lips as she shook her head. She turned on her heel, guiding Fafnir away from the isolated corner.
She suspected that once upon a time, Executor might have been a perfectly ordinary, fiercely optimistic Sankta, entirely indistinguishable from the vibrant citizens walking the streets of Laterano. It was undoubtedly the devastating reality of his hidden past that had stripped away his warmth, forging the unyielding machine that stood before her today.
But since he had chosen to keep those files sealed, she had zero intention of aggressively prying into his private affairs. Besides, the man had already crossed the outer perimeter; she could hardly justify staging a high-speed pursuit through the wastes just to satisfy a passing curiosity.
"Well, now that he's officially off the grid... Fafnir, is there any specific destination your heart desires?" Jeanne asked, suddenly realizing that with Executor's departure, she was entirely free to chart her own course.
This meant they could technically resume their grand journey at any moment. Still, having already anchored themselves to this quiet frontier outpost, Jeanne wasn't inclined to abruptly tear up her plans.
Of course, a democratic and responsible guardian always consulted her ward before establishing a definitive itinerary!
"A place with food!" Fafnir's response was beautifully succinct. Even the glittering mounds of gold and ancient relics that typically triggered the primal greed of the draconic race had completely lost their luster.
"Is there absolutely nothing left inside that tiny brain of yours besides eating?" Jeanne laughed, reaching down to pinch her cheek. "Very well, let us linger here for a while longer. The culinary output of that tavern is exceptionally high-tier anyway; we can consider our extended stay a charitable contribution to the owner's future business empire."
Thus, Jeanne officially initiated a temporary pause in her wandering journey.
Nearly a full month of ceaseless traveling across the jagged topography of Terra had left her spirit carrying a faint, persistent glaze of exhaustion. Settling into this quiet, uneventful routine felt remarkably pleasant, allowing her overtaxed mind to slowly uncoil and recuperate.
Yet, even the most perfect sanctuary must eventually yield to the flow of time. Cecilia and her mother had arrived in the sector under the protection of a commercial caravan, and a traveling merchant enterprise could never afford to anchor its assets to a single settlement indefinitely.
On the day of their scheduled departure, Jeanne positioned herself atop a distant, sweeping ridge, her eyes mapping out the poignant scene unfolding in the town square below. She watched the solemn, silent farewells exchanged between the travelers and the local Sarkaz father, her mind already charting the precise tactical steps she would execute next.
It was at that exact moment, amidst the bustling movement of the departing caravan, that Jeanne caught sight of a tiny figure down below. Little Cecilia had turned back toward the distant ridge, her small hand cutting through the air in a clear, deliberate wave of farewell.
Could it be... that the child successfully pierced my concealment and registered my presence?