In the dim room, a phonograph newly produced on the Eastern Continent played the magnificent third movement of "March of the Oldes People."
The sound of wind instruments laid the foundation for the soaring, passionate vocals, echoing long throughout the room.
Old Jack sat on a lounge chair made of silver fir, his expression grave as he looked at the parchment in his hand.
From the crisscrossing lines on the paper, coupled with the simple words written in the Oldes tongue, one could vaguely recognize it as a map.
And in one corner of this map, a small circle was clearly drawn in black ink. Written above it was a name: the Bascabiru Inn.
"Wei'en Loft... So 'the key' really is in his hands!"
"It seems Ales was right. He's low-key and extremely cautious, but when it comes to the people around him, his guard is..."
