Chapter 103: The Real Lolicon
Noticing Sebas's well-tailored attire, the tavern proprietor made the connection to the Aindra cavalry that had just arrived in town, and his eyes immediately lit with attentive warmth.
"You'd be — one of Lord Aindra's people, I take it?" He was already running a cloth rapidly over the bar. "Come in, come in. What can I get you?"
Sebas took a seat at the bar without denying the assumption. He asked for whatever the locals drank most.
The ale arrived quickly. Sebas took a small sip, keeping his gaze calm as it moved through the tavern's interior. Aside from himself and the proprietor, the only other occupant was a drunk asleep in a corner, snoring with the evenness of someone who had been there a long time.
"Proprietor." Sebas set down the cup. "I'd like to ask you something."
The hand polishing a cup paused briefly, then returned with renewed eagerness. "Ask away, sir. I've lived in this town for decades — I know a bit about everything."
"About dragons."
Those two words stopped the cup-polishing entirely.
"Dragons?"
The proprietor blinked. His expression moved between confusion and an impulse to laugh, and then he reined both in. He set the cup on the bar and scratched the top of his bald head.
"You're not planning to... fight a dragon, are you?"
"I'm looking for information," Sebas said, meeting his eyes directly. "I've heard this country was founded by a dragon. There must be a fair number of legends about them."
"There are indeed." The proprietor wiped his hands on his cloth with the air of someone reaching back to something distant. "When I was a boy, the old people talked about it — a very powerful dragon that established this kingdom hundreds of years ago. That dragon was something else. One roar from it could shatter a mountain." He paused. "Later it passed the throne down to descendants with human blood. Word is Her Majesty still carries that dragon blood today."
Sebas's brow pressed slightly together. Power equivalent to shattering a mountain — was that on par with Super-tier magic? Valuable information, but almost alarmingly so.
"And aside from those legends," he continued, "has anyone seen a dragon in person? Recently?"
"Seen one?" The proprietor thought for a long time. Then he shook his head. "Not that I've heard. I've lived most of my life in the Dragon Kingdom and I've never so much as laid eyes on a scale."
A brief silence. Sebas rose, drew two copper coins from his coat, and placed them on the bar. "Thank you. The ale was good."
He was already moving toward the door.
"Ah — a moment, sir."
The proprietor's voice caught him from behind, carrying the commercial instinct common to all businessmen. Sebas turned.
The proprietor had set down his cloth and come around from behind the bar. The few grey-white wisps of hair on his otherwise bare scalp shifted gently as he walked. He reached the doorway, peered outside for a moment — dusk settling thickly, nothing unusual — then leaned close to Sebas and lowered his voice.
"Dragons, now — I've genuinely never seen one. But..."
He let the sentence hang, a deliberate half-beat.
Sebas waited without pressing.
The proprietor gave a dry cough and dropped his voice further. "I do happen to have an item of some relevance. Care to take a look?"
Something attentive moved through Sebas's eyes. His voice took on a note of gravity. "Please show me."
The proprietor chuckled and turned, quick-stepping back behind the bar. He pushed open the door to the back room, the hinges complaining drily, and his figure disappeared into the shadow beyond, followed by the sound of searching — things moving, a few small objects clinking together.
Presently he returned.
He placed a long, narrow wooden box on the bar with great care, pushing it toward Sebas.
The box had no lacquer; the bare wood grain was exposed and the corners had been worn smooth and bright, clearly handled often.
"That's the one." The proprietor patted it. "Took me considerable effort to get my hands on it."
Sebas opened the box. Inside lay a letter. The edges of the envelope had gone faintly yellow, but it was well-preserved. A red wax seal on the closure, the design somewhat indistinct — only the outline still legible.
"This..." Sebas looked up at the proprietor.
"A personal letter from Her Majesty herself, in whose veins runs the blood of the great dragon." The proprietor stood a little straighter, his round stomach preceding him, his voice full of pride, as though he had written the letter himself. "Genuine article."
"How much?"
"Three gold coins." Three fingers.
Three gold coins was roughly what an ordinary person spent in a year living carefully. A craftsman in this town would earn about ten copper coins a day.
Sebas produced three gold coins without a moment's hesitation and placed them on the bar. The coins caught the lamplight and gave back a rich gleam. The proprietor's eyes lit up at once; he picked each one up with his stubby fingers, held each to his ear, and flicked it — listened to the clear ring, then smiled widely.
"You're a man of action, sir."
Sebas opened the box again, drew the letter from the envelope, and unfolded it.
The handwriting was entirely irregular. Letters of uneven size, some tilting upward, some sinking down, arranged together like a fence after a strong wind had passed through it.
He read the contents carefully. An encouragement to the Dragon Kingdom's soldiers:
"To the brave soldiers: you are all warriors of the Dragon Kingdom. I, in the name of the dragon's bloodline, swear — as long as you are not afraid, I will not be afraid. The beastmen are nothing to be feared. I am small, but I am not afraid of them either. — Draudillon Oriculus."
What these words conveyed was less a battle-ready rallying cry than the earnest effort of a child straining on tiptoe to look taller. There was no useful dragon intelligence in any of it.
Sebas began folding the letter again to put it back.
"Charming, isn't she?"
The proprietor's voice came out of nowhere, very close.
Sebas raised his head. The man had somehow moved directly beside him — that wrinkled face nearly pressed to the letter, eyes burning with a quality Sebas couldn't categorize.
"Look at this handwriting." The proprietor extended a short stubby finger and traced the air just above the letters without touching them. "You can see the hand of a child who has only just learned to form letters. Her Majesty's small frame, seated at a writing desk, holding her pen, putting each character down one careful stroke at a time... just imagining it gives you a feeling of..."
His voice carried an indescribable satisfaction.
Sebas's brow contracted. Before he could produce any response, the proprietor turned and reached into another drawer behind the bar, drawing out a second letter with equal care.
It looked almost identical to the one in the box.
The proprietor did not open it. He simply held it to his nose.
Drew a long, deep breath.
Closed his eyes. His face arranged itself into the expression of someone immersed in something wonderful.
"There's still a faint trace of a young girl's liveliness about it." A long sigh. Voice suffused with feeling.
Sebas watched all of this. Something visible moved across that lined face — a distinct and involuntary expression that rarely appeared there.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A vein made itself briefly noticeable at his temple.
The proprietor opened his eyes to find Sebas looking directly at him.
He immediately tucked the second letter behind his back. Stepped slightly away. Guarded.
"Not this one." His voice had gone firmer. "This is mine to keep."
Sebas looked at that territorial expression.
He felt as though he had been struck by some powerful mental-type magic.
In the end, he only gave a small nod, closed the box with the letter in it, took it in hand, and—
"...Farewell."
His voice was a half-pitch lower than usual. He turned, pushed the door open, and walked out of the tavern at a pace that had something in common with fleeing.
*
The sun had sunk further, and scattered lights were coming on throughout the town. Faint hoof sounds from the cavalry patrol in the distance, and the murmur of voices from the camp.
The evening wind came through from the end of the street, carrying the smell of earth and dry grass, which did at least begin to dispel the barley-ale smell that had settled into his clothes.
Sebas stood outside the tavern door and let out the compression in his chest.
The dragon intelligence in this town went only slightly beyond what was available as common legend in the Kingdom. Despite this being a country with clear dragon connections, there seemed to be no genuine traces of any dragon anywhere in the vicinity.
Perhaps the capital will be better, he told himself. That's where the royal family is; there should be more detailed records and more reliable sources.
He had not intended to go straight back to camp — he had planned to try a few more establishments. But the image of the proprietor holding the queen's letter to his face and inhaling was still in his mind, clinging there like a shadow he couldn't brush loose.
That shopkeeper has something wrong with him. Sebas arrived at this conclusion privately and left it there.
The town was quiet. Only the occasional sound of horses from the camp's direction.
Then a strained, laboring call came from ahead.
Sebas looked.
At the bend in the dirt road, a cart loaded with building stone and lumber had come to rest at an awkward angle in a substantial mud pit. The wheels were buried deep — nearly a third of each wheel swallowed by the mud. The old horse pulling it had its head down, all four legs straining, but however hard it pulled, the cart would not come free.
An elderly man was standing beside the cart, both hands against the shaft, thin shoulders pressed to the rough wood, fine sweat beading across his forehead. His clothing was soaked through, pressing flat against the gaunt lines of his back.
"Heave — ha!"
The old man's call carried the roughness that belongs to age. With each effort his knees bent lower, but the cart only rocked slightly and the wheels made a thick, squelching sound in the mud before settling back in place.
Then a young man came running from one side.
He wore the Aindra domain's electroplated mithril armor, the plates catching the last of the dusk light in a muted silver-grey gleam. His short gold hair was damp with sweat, a few strands stuck to his forehead.
Without a moment's hesitation he put his shoulder to the other side of the cart, both hands gripping the edge of the load, and pushed upward with everything he had.
His jaw was set. Lips pressed to a line. Cheeks red with effort.
The shoulder of his armor was already covered in mud and debris. He didn't notice.
"Sir, please head on — I'll handle this." His voice was clear, carrying the energy of someone who hadn't considered giving up.
The old man shook his head. This was his own problem; it didn't sit right to hand it entirely to someone else. The two of them pushed together.
They failed. The wheel slipped in the mud and sank back in hard, sending a spray of mud across the young man's chest armor.
He caught his breath, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand — and spread mud across his face in the process. He straightened, looking at the stubborn hole in the road, those deep blue eyes showing a flash of refusal.
Sebas walked over.
"Do you need help?"
The moment he spoke, the old man and the young man both turned.
The young man saw Sebas's tailcoat and recognized him immediately — his eyes brightened for a moment, and then hesitation crossed his face.
"You're Lord Lucian's guest, I couldn't ask you to handle something like this..."
He shifted slightly as he spoke, instinctively trying to block the view of his mud-covered, disheveled state.
Sebas didn't answer. He walked to the cart.
He positioned himself at the rear and placed one palm against the load. Building stone and timber, fully loaded — a thousand kilograms at minimum, plus the suction of the mud pit holding the wheels. No wonder the two of them had been unable to move it.
Sebas gave a light single-handed push.
The cart moved cleanly.
The wheels rose from the pit, trailing thick strings of mud, and came to rest solidly on the dry road beside it.
The entire effort was as simple as sliding a piece of paper.
The old man's clouded eyes went round, his mouth falling slightly open, showing several chipped teeth.
The young man had gone entirely still. Those deep blue eyes were full of something bright — astonishment and admiration almost overflowing.
"That easily — Sebas-sama, that was incredible!"
Even the old horse was staring at Sebas, mouth working open and shut in a state of visible disbelief.
Sebas turned and looked at the young man. His face was streaked with mud, his hair in disarray — but those eyes were burning.
The old man came hurrying over, bowing with repeated thanks.
"Thank you so much, sir. Without you, I'd have had this load stuck here until well past dark."
***
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