Information Broker's Alley "Night Hawk Lane"—a collection of back alleys burrowed even deeper into the lower districts of Falcrest. The entrance was supposedly somewhere around two blocks behind the main street "Ash Cat Avenue," where the cobblestones gave way to gravel and the wooden signs turned to cloth scraps. Leon Crawford pushed into the dimly lit alley of Night Hawk Lane, still riding the momentum from yesterday's desperate sprint. The dragon-slaying sword at his hip rattled softly. In his breast pocket lay a single piece of parchment. *Debt fully forgiven. Condition: Rescue a girl in the Northern Margrave's territory. For details, consult the Star-Reading Witch.*—Armed with only those words, he'd decided to knock on every information broker's door in sight. First establishment. "Excuse me, information broker. About this person called the Star-Reading Witch—" Slam. The door closed. Silently, emotionlessly, purely as a matter of physics. Leon stood before the shut door. He hadn't even finished saying "person." *(…That was fast.)* Steeling himself, he moved to the second place. This time, he decided to show his wallet first before speaking. He pulled out a leather wallet from his pocket. He tilted it. Three copper coins rattled to the bottom with a pathetic sound. "Um, what would your information fee be—" The door slowly opened from inside. A sharp-eyed man glanced at Leon's wallet, then at Leon's face, then back at the wallet. "Go home." Slam. For a moment—just a moment—Leon's hand moved toward his sword's hilt. His survival instinct barely won out. Taking on a platinum-rank job without the dragon-slayer would be suicide. The third place felt different. When he knocked, a voice said "Come in," and a plump middle-aged woman, still writing, spoke without turning around. "Do you have identification?" Leon hurriedly searched his breast pocket. All he found were the remnants of a demand notice and the parchment. When he pulled out the only palm-sized paper, it turned out to be the demand notice itself—and worse, a bill from the Iron Claw Trading Company, with "Two Thousand Four Hundred Gold Coins" printed plainly on the front. The woman glanced at it. "…That sounds difficult." The door didn't close. But the woman continued, "We only handle clients with good payment records," and that was that. Fourth place. The moment the door opened, an elderly man stared at Leon's face and said just one thing. "You've got the face of someone without money." Then he closed the door. *(What does a face without money even look like? Where on my face does money show?)* Fifth place was closed. The sign read "Temporarily Closed Today" in ink. If you're going to close, at least make the entrance obvious, Leon thought, but there was no one to complain to. Sixth place. At the very back of Night Hawk Lane, in the darkness where a stone wall bent in an L-shape, there was a narrow door with no sign. Leon raised his right hand. It was trembling in small, rapid movements. *(Trembling. My hand is trembling.)* Leon looked at his own right hand. It bore calluses from the sword, a hand accustomed to battle. It hadn't trembled when he stood before the Dragon King, yet now it shook pathetically before a single information broker's door. "Come on, help me out," he said quietly to his hand. "This is the sixth place. Don't give up on me now. We can still do this. We can still make it." That was when it happened. A sweetness drifted through the air of the alley, replacing it entirely. Sandalwood with night flowers dissolved into it—a complex sweetness that reached deep into the nasal passages. It was utterly otherworldly, completely out of place in this alley of gravel and stone. Leon stopped mid-sentence and slowly turned around. --- Moonlight filtered in from the alley's entrance. A woman stood in that light. Silver hair flowed from her shoulders in gentle waves down to her waist. The color wasn't white-silver so much as moonlight itself woven into thread. Her eyes were violet—a deep, calm violet with a faint shimmer of light within them. She stood about 165 centimeters tall, draped in a deep green velvet mantle with dark clothing beneath. A subtle, unmistakable sweet fragrance. The corner of her lips curved slightly upward. "Were you having a conversation with your hand?" Her voice was low and composed. A whisper, yet it reached him clearly. "N-No! I was just, um, giving myself some encouragement—" "Encouraging your hand." "…Yeah, that does sound pretty bad when you say it like that." The woman walked slowly toward Leon. One step closer. Leon reflexively stepped back. Another step closer. Another step back. Another step closer. Another step back. Another step. Back. Another step. Back. Another step. Back— His back hit the stone wall. Thud. Leon was now completely pinned against it. The silver-haired woman stood before him, no more than thirty centimeters away. The sandalwood and night flower fragrance now hung at an inescapable concentration. "…Why do you keep backing away?" The woman tilted her head slightly. Her silver hair rippled. "W-Well, retreat and escape are different things! This is more of a tactical withdrawal, or repositioning, you see—" "Either way is fine." It was a clean dismissal. The woman then withdrew a small notebook from her chest. The cover bore a familiar wax seal—a design combining a star and crescent moon. It was identical to the seal on the parchment. She opened the notebook. "…Huh?" Leon froze. The page was filled with dense writing. An itemized list. Numbers, dates, item names. Equipment costs, eight hundred coins. Expedition food, six hundred coins. Lodging, three hundred forty coins. Potions, three hundred fifty coins. Celebration expenses, two hundred coins— "This is… my debt…" "The breakdown. Total of two thousand four hundred coins. Currently accruing at forty-eight percent annual interest." "How do you know all this?!" The woman didn't answer. Instead, she turned the page. More writing. Leon squinted to read it. *—Duration of the smile of the shop attendant during the purchase of dragon breath defense potion: estimated three seconds.* "…W-What?!" "More precisely, 2.8 seconds. I calculated it from your reaction time." "The smile duration is recorded?! Why?! What for?! What kind of record was I leaving behind?!" The woman turned another page. This time it was blank, but she produced something else—a piece of parchment with the exact same seal as the one that had stuck to Leon's face yesterday. "I sent that request letter." Leon was silent for three seconds. "…The Star-Reading Witch?" "Celes Vera. Pleased to meet you, hero." --- Celes Vera led him deeper into Night Hawk Lane to a small fortune-telling establishment. The sign read "Dream Star Hall"—a facility scattered throughout Falcrest's lower districts where star-reading fortune tellers conveyed the stars' messages to their clients. When the door opened, incense smoke drifted through, and hanging lanterns swayed. Star charts and celestial globes decorated the walls. He was shown to a back room. One round table. Two chairs. *(Cramped.)* Leon thought. The table's diameter was half the normal size. Sitting across from each other, he could reach the other person's shoulder by extending his arm. Every time the lantern light flickered, Celes's silver hair caught the glow and shimmered. "I'll explain in detail," Celes said. Her low, composed voice quietly vibrated the air of the small room. "Friedrich Vassen, the Northern Margrave—the lord of Vassen territory, about six days north of Falcrest by carriage. Called 'the Laughless Noble,' he avoids outside contact extremely. In his Greyfeld castle, there's a girl being held captive. I need you to rescue her." "…Rescue her? How are we supposed to get into a place like that?" "I'll explain that too." Celes paused briefly. "Vassen holds a grand dinner every autumn. Guests are limited to select nobility and those the Margrave recognizes as distinguished. But this year there's an exception—a hero who defeated the Dragon King wouldn't be turned away by the Margrave." "I see. That's why you need me." "Half right. The other half is—" Celes stood and moved to Leon's side without warning. Smoothly, like water flowing. Before Leon could react, Celes's shoulder gently touched his. Her body heat transmitted through the fabric. The sweet fragrance intensified. "I need someone to lean against like this. We'll attend the dinner posing as the hero and his fiancée." Leon's ears turned red without him noticing. "…A fake couple?" "Yes. Is that a problem?" "A problem… is… well…" His words wouldn't come together. Their shoulders were touching. Touching. The sandalwood and night flower scent interfered with his thoughts. Celes then gently turned his face forward with a delicate finger. Cold fingertips touched his jaw. He was turned to face a pair of violet eyes. Distance: fifteen centimeters. "—Please breathe." "I am! I was breathing in front of the Dragon King too!!" Celes's eyes narrowed slightly. "You were calmer in front of the dragon." "That's because it only had killing intent, which was easier to understand! This doesn't have killing intent, so I can't cope with it—wait, did I just confess something terrible?" "You did." Leon put his hand to his forehead and looked down. Celes returned to her seat across from him. Leon took a slow, deep breath. *(Calm down. This is just business. She's working too. I stayed calm in front of the Dragon King, so I can handle this—)* "I'll let you experience the third stage of training early," Celes said casually. "Huh? Third stage means—" He had no time to object. Celes stood, circled the round table, and moved to Leon's right side. Her long silver hair swayed and brushed against his cheek. Just that. Just that alone sent a shiver through his skin, a sensation of goosebumps rising. Soft and slightly cool. The touch of her hair on his skin for that single instant burned itself into his mind. Celes bent down, bringing her mouth close to his ear. Her lips were five centimeters from his ear. Four. Three. The sandalwood fragrance filled the space beyond any room for thought. Her low, soft voice reached him—almost as vibration—through the air. "I'll forgive all your debt, hero." Every drop of blood in his body rushed to his upper half. His ears burned. His face burned. His entire body burned—yet his back felt oddly cool. Something was wrong. His thoughts wouldn't function properly. *Debt forgiven* and *ear* and *sandalwood* and *violet eyes* all swirled together— CRASH!!! Leon Crawford fell backward, chair and all. He lay spread-eagle on the floor. The ceiling lantern swayed above him. For a while, he couldn't speak. Silence. Celes leaned over him. Her expression was cool. "First, we need to train you not to fall out of your chair." "D-Don't say that…!!" --- With Celes's help, Leon managed to stand. Her hand was slender, pale, and slightly cool. He noticed the low body temperature the moment he grasped it and instinctively looked at her face. For just an instant—truly just an instant—Celes showed a surprised expression. Her eyebrows rose slightly, her lips parted a little. It was different from the calculated composure she'd shown before—a fragment of an unguarded expression. It returned immediately. Back to her usual cool face. Leon said nothing. But that single instant lodged quietly in the corner of his memory. "Will you accept the request?" Celes asked in her usual composed voice. Leon took a moment while righting the fallen chair. *(This is suspicious. Extremely suspicious. The letter had no signature until I could identify the sender, and I haven't heard anything about the captive girl's identity or purpose. The Margrave's relationship to all this is unclear. Logically, I should refuse.)* *(But it's two thousand four hundred gol