Arlan City was about the same size as Himlabacken.
The city walls stretched along the coastline, their gray-white stone bricks etched with fine patterns from years of erosion by the sea breeze. A briny scent drifted from the harbor—the smell of the tide mixed with dried fish.
The setting sun cast its rays from the west, dyeing the entire street a vibrant lime-orange. Shell wind chimes hung before the shops along the street, tinkling in unison whenever the sea breeze swept through.
Margarita waited in front of the Adventurer’s Association, flipping through a map. Patrick and Lovell were inside the building, submitting the commissions from their previous hunts and selling materials.
“The inn is in the harbor district,” Margarita said, glancing back at Lovell. “Lovell! Ask the people in the Association how much further it is to the harbor district!”
“They said it’s a thirty-minute walk south!”
Patrick emerged from the Association, looking at Irene and Erica’s luggage on the ground with a face full of agony. “Consultant, can you use Feather Fall on me again?”
“Consider it part of your extra practice,” Margarita said expressionlessly. “Professor Glion would be pleased.”
Patrick let out a long wail of despair.
Lovell followed behind Patrick. Her face, usually radiating optimism, was a bit tense today. She repeatedly kneaded the money pouch in her hand until it was somewhat misshapen, the silver coins and copper plates clinking inside.
Margarita walked to her side, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah.”
The inn was located on a street in the harbor district, a three-story stone structure with an iron sign featuring an anchor hanging over the door. Behind the counter was a lean old man who gave them three rooms after checking their Adventurer’s Association certificates.
Margarita assigned the rooms, tossed the luggage inside, and stood by the window in the second-floor corridor, looking out into the distance. The harbor was just two blocks away; she could see the tips of masts and a glimmer of golden light on the far-off sea. The sea breeze blew in through the window, lifting her white hair.
She suddenly felt like going out for a stroll.
As she passed the counter, the old man called out to her.
“Margarita Percy?”
“Eh? That’s me,” Margarita said, startled. “What is it?”
The man behind the counter pulled out a letter and handed it to her. “A letter for you.”
The letter was sealed with the Windermere wax seal.
Oh, a letter from the busybody. Let’s see what it says.
“Have arrived in Arlan. Meet tomorrow afternoon, South Coast Beach. Do not be too conspicuous; wear a swimsuit. —Constance.”
Margarita clicked her tongue and flipped the letter over to check the back—it was completely blank.
Hehe, even though the President loves to mess with me, her figure really is top-tier. Patrick, I’m starting to agree with you.
The next day was a beautiful, clear day.
South Coast Beach was located at the southernmost tip of Arlan City, a crescent-shaped beach surrounded by low cliffs. The sand was fine and white, and under the midday sun, the seawater appeared as a translucent blue-green that gradually transitioned into a deep navy in the distance. There weren't too many people on the beach; a few colorful sun umbrellas were scattered here and there, and a few children were splashing in the shallows further away.
By the time the Special Action Group arrived, Constance was already there.
Margarita almost didn't recognize her at first glance.
Constance was sitting in the innermost part of the beach under a dark blue sun umbrella. Her long golden hair wasn't tied in a ponytail but was draped over her shoulders, fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. She wore a wine-red two-piece swimsuit with side-ties and a halter-style top; the back was held by only a single thin string—it was exactly the one Margarita had picked out. The wine-red color made her skin look exceptionally fair. Her long legs were crossed as they rested on the beach chair, her toes curling slightly in the fine sand.
Margarita stood on the steps of the low cliff, holding a bag containing her own mint green swimsuit. Her sunglasses hid her shocked expression.
Sunshine. The beach. The President in a wine-red swimsuit.
Why do you even need me as bait? President, you should just do it yourself.
“Consultant.” Constance tilted her head, her emerald eyes looking over the top of her sunglasses, her tone calm. “What are you doing standing there? Come down.”
“Coming.” Margarita’s voice was a pitch higher than usual. She stepped down, but her foot hit a loose stone, and she stumbled. Joshua reached out from behind to steady her arm.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said.
“I am watching.” Margarita pulled her arm back, cleared her throat, and continued downward.
Lovell followed behind, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt over a lemon yellow two-piece swimsuit, her red ponytail swinging back and forth. She let out a whistle when she saw Constance, only to be nudged by Irene’s elbow.
Patrick walked at the very back, wearing shorts and an open short-sleeved shirt, carrying a cloth bag containing the sunscreen oil Irene had prepared. He paused when he saw Constance from a distance, then whispered something to Joshua, who ignored him.
The group spread out mats next to the sun umbrella. Erica had chosen a dark blue one-piece swimsuit and was wrapped in a large towel; once she sat down, she didn't move much. Irene was wearing a light green two-piece and had already started applying sunscreen to her arms.
Margarita went to a nearby wooden shack to change into her swimsuit.
The mint green one-piece swimsuit clung to her skin, the straps crossing below her collarbones, and a V-shaped opening in the back revealed a patch of her spine. The skirt hem reached mid-thigh. She gathered her white hair to one shoulder. When she stepped out of the shack, Lovell was the first to see her and let out another whistle.
“Little mint green girl!” Lovell shouted, clapping her hands.
“Shut up.” Margarita walked over and sat on the edge of the mat, her knees together and her skirt pulled down. The sea breeze blew directly at her, brushing her white hair back. The mint green fabric looked exceptionally clean under the sunlight.
Constance glanced at her.
“The color is nice,” she said.
Margarita’s ears felt hot, but she maintained a smile. “The President looks great in that one, too.”
“I know.” Constance put her sunglasses back on and leaned back against the beach chair, going silent.
Margarita sat on the mat, her gaze drifting toward Constance’s side involuntarily. The President really was a sight to behold in a swimsuit—golden hair, wine-red swimsuit, long legs, a slender waist, and that eternally cold expression. She looked like she belonged to an entirely different world than the noble ladies laughing and drinking iced beverages on the beach.
Question Patrick, understand Patrick, become Patrick.
Margarita silently retracted her gaze, repeating the words “You are here to find someone” to herself three times.
Patrick had already jumped into the sea to have a water fight with some children he didn't know. He had left his short spear on the shore and had managed to kick one of his flip-flops far away. Irene was in the shallow area picking up seashells, not caring that her skirt was getting wet from the waves. Erica finally emerged from her towel and sat by the water, letting the waves wash over her ankles; her long dark purple hair was blown into a mess by the sea breeze. Joshua sat next to Margarita, quiet and still, his blue eyes gazing at the distant sea.
Lovell sat on Margarita’s other side, her lemon yellow swimsuit eye-catchingly bright in the sun. She didn't enter the water but instead fiddled with a grass stalk she had picked from the roadside, mindlessly twirling it as her amber eyes watched the small path between the beach and the cliff.
Margarita noticed.
“Lovell.” She lowered her voice and turned her head. “Which direction is that tavern?”
Lovell glanced at her, the grass stalk stopping between her fingers.
“South of the city, two blocks from the harbor,” Lovell whispered. “Master’s letter said he sits at the ‘Anchor and Cup’ for two hours every afternoon—drinking, looking at the sea, and then heading back.”
“When do you plan to go?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Lovell said. “I can go by myself.”
Margarita didn't respond immediately. She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them, her gaze falling on the ocean waves.
An old thief, sitting in the same spot in the same tavern for ten years.
Margarita’s fingers gently tapped against her knees.
If Grey Reed really sat in the same spot for ten years without fail, then the people from the Sacrosanct Circle only needed to watch him once to master his routine. The spatial anchors, the letters, the attack on Lovell at the academy—all these clues pointed to the fact that the Sacrosanct Circle had eyes in Arlan, and they had been watching for more than just a day or two.
Lovell going there now would be like walking straight into a trap.
“Lovell,” Margarita spoke up.
“Yeah.”
“You can’t go alone.”
Lovell turned to look at her, a flash of resistance in her amber eyes.
“I know you’re worried about me,” Margarita said before the other could speak. “But listen to me. Your master has been sitting in the same spot for ten years. If the Sacrosanct Circle has been watching him, his routine is a target. You going to see him is the same as telling them that ‘Grey’s disciple is back.’ Regardless of whether you were followed, that tavern is no longer safe.”
Lovell snapped the grass stalk.
“So?”
“So, we go together, but we won’t enter the tavern.” Margarita lifted her chin from her knees and looked past Lovell at Constance on the beach chair. “We’ll scout the area first to confirm the tavern’s surroundings, see if your master is still there, and check for any lookouts. If everything looks normal, then you can go in to see him.”
Lovell was silent for a few seconds.
“Who are you getting to scout?” she asked.
Margarita stood up and brushed the fine sand from her skirt.
“The strongest person in the action group.”
She walked toward Constance’s beach chair. Constance was closing her eyes, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses, but she tilted her head as Margarita approached.
“President.”
“Mm.”
“Are you free tomorrow morning?”
Constance took off her sunglasses, her emerald eyes fixing on her.
“You’re coming to talk business with me while dressed like that?” Her tone was flat, but Margarita could sense a certain subtle tension in the air.
“The mission requires a combatant of the President’s caliber.” Margarita flashed her professional smile. “There’s a tavern in the south of the city where Lovell’s master frequently stays. I suspect the Sacrosanct Circle is watching him. I want to scout the area, but I need someone as backup.”
Constance looked at her for a while. The sea breeze blew through, causing the silver-gray satin ribbon on Margarita’s side braid to flap against her shoulder.
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, at the cliff entrance.” Constance put her sunglasses back on. “Wear casual clothes. Don’t wear a skirt.”
“Okay.”
Margarita retracted her gaze and looked at the distant sea. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, and the color of the seawater changed from blue-green to a dark navy, with golden light shimmering on the tips of the waves. Patrick climbed out of the sea, soaking wet with hair plastered to his face, holding a conch shell he had picked up from somewhere. He shouted toward them, “Consultant! Can I sell this thing for money?!”
“No!” Margarita shouted back.
Patrick’s face fell, and he tossed the shell back into the sea with a splash.
Lovell chuckled beside her, her small canine tooth showing. Margarita glanced at her, and her own lips curved into a smile.
She would deal with tomorrow's matters tomorrow.
The sea breeze here was very comfortable; she wanted to sit a little longer.
Rate on N.U.
