"I can't believe it… I really didn't recognize him at the time!"
"Sigh... I only thought he looked a bit familiar…"
"But now the future is in my hands!"
"Such explosive news, plus an exclusive interview with Arthur Pendragon… This week's headline will definitely be mine!"
"…Yes, Chief Editor, what are your instructions?"
"…What? I'm not allowed to publish it?"
"B-but… didn't you say we must defend press freedom at all costs?"
"…I understand."
In a dimly lit room, the young reporter hung up the call in utter disappointment.
It was already late at night. Through the window, he could see the faint neon signs scattered across the Kawalerielki.
But the lights were far too dim.
No one knew what kinds of sins were quietly brewing in those patches of darkness.
"Sigh…"
The reporter glanced tiredly at the stack of papers on his desk—several thousand words he had painstakingly written.
Wine Weekly never needed that many words. The publication ran on a few simple rules:
Big fonts.
Strange titles.
Short content.
Blurry photos.
But as a fresh rookie desperate not to let this rare opportunity slip into the hands of his better-connected colleagues, he had prepared multiple versions of his report.
He worked through the entire night, without sleep.
And in return, all he got were a few dismissive sentences from the chief editor.
"..."
Slowly, he returned to the desk.
Then, with clenched teeth, he tore apart every page he had worked so hard on.
"(Kazimierz profanity!)"
The black snake, who had been reading the manuscript with great interest, was startled by the sudden outburst.
But it soon remembered its actual mission.
I don't like people spreading rumors about me.
It slithered up along the reporter's fist, which was still pressed against the desk, and gradually coiled around his neck.
After so many years, the Black Snake's will had learned well how to influence reality.
The reporter felt a strange ache in his neck.
Weird… am I just overworked lately?
Just as the Black Snake was about to strangle the reporter outright, the communicator suddenly rang.
"Hoo…"
The snake loosened its grip.
It was curious—maybe the chief editor had changed his mind?
The reporter, seeing the caller ID, quickly took a deep breath and tried to compose himself.
He carefully lifted the communicator with both hands, pressing it to his ear.
Then he spoke in a cheerful, lively tone:
"…Mom?"
"How's life over there? Are you eating well? Is your place comfortable? Have you found a daughter-in-law for us yet? And why are you still awake at this hour?"
"…Haha, I'm out having fun. My boss gave out bonuses today, so I'm treating myself."
The reporter looked around at his cramped apartment.
He still had a mortgage he hadn't finished paying.
Coming from a small, rural village, he had no connections, no assets, nothing in this glamorous city.
And yet he still came—burning with youthful ambition—only to be beaten down by reality until the only job he could get…
was the very profession he had once looked down on the most:
A gossip reporter.
Yes, he looked down on gossip reporters.
He knew well that what he wrote could tarnish someone's reputation… or even the reputation of many.
But he had no choice.
He was a reporter, and reporters needed traffic.
And in today's Kazimierz, in the Kawalerielki, nothing generated traffic better than entertainment gossip.
He had tasted the convenience and brilliance of city life; he had no intention of returning to his poor, backward hometown.
He would bring his parents here someday, so they could enjoy a better life too.
"Don't worry, Mom, your son is doing great… As for a wife, you know how it is. My career is on the rise, the bosses are starting to notice me. Ordinary girls aren't really worthy of me."
"Good, good, I just knew my son would make something of himself! But you don't have to send so much money home every year. I heard the cost of living in big cities is very high. Here in the village, we don't spend much."
"It's fine, my salary is really high. I can't even spend all of it… How's Dad?"
The reporter's stomach growled.
He opened a cabinet and pulled out a cheap canned meal printed with a purple cat.
He didn't open it yet.
He would eat it after the call ended—his breakfast for the next day.
Even though it was only the early hours of the morning.
"Your father and that stubborn temper of his… He's still mad about you leaving home without saying a word."
Right after she said this, from the communicator her gentle voice suddenly turned rough and booming.
"You brat! I know you too well. Did you get into trouble over there? Did you break any laws?!"
"No!"
"Hmph! With your abilities? Don't let that city chew you up and spit out your bones… Just come back. We still have some farmland you can tend."
"…Don't look down on me. In a few years, when my job is stable, I'll bring you both over. I'll show you that compared to life in the city, village life is worth nothing."
"You brat—!"
Beep~
The reporter seized the chance and hurriedly hung up.
He stared at the communicator for a while before setting it aside.
Then he opened his ledger.
"Loan payments… money sent back home… expenses to 'maintain a good relationship' with the boss…"
"…and now the bonus and promotion I expected are gone too."
His pen scratched across the page, and his already tiny income shrank even further.
Looks like I can't use the air conditioner this month… maybe I should just sleep at the office.
While he was still desperately recalculating, hoping to find some overlooked income…
He didn't notice that under the dim lamp, the shadow at his feet began to writhe.
Arthur was hiding within it, quietly watching him.
"..."
Interesting.
The Black Snake decided to recycle this little waste for now.
After all, it was nothing more than a whim of an immortal… and technically, it didn't even count as harm, did it?
———
"Margaret, are these your friends?"
"Yes. You may call them Shining and Nightingale. Is something wrong?"
"…Nothing."
"Uncle, it isn't good to judge others with prejudice. It's also unwise to judge an entire race with the same bias."
"You think you understand me, Margaret? Do you believe that just because you can defeat me when I'm not using Arts, you have the right to belittle me? To lecture me?"
"…I wouldn't dare."
"Pick up your sword, Margaret."
"…Yes!"
That's strange. Is Uncle… teaching me?
But isn't he always opposed to knight tournaments?
I thought him merely not objecting was already the best I could hope for… being taught by him before the match? I never even dared think of it.
"..."
Something must have happened… something I don't know about.