I slid the newspaper back onto the coffee table and noticed the half-eaten slice of toast and the jar of strawberry jam that Evelyn had left behind in her frantic rush to work. I reached out, picked up the butter knife, and mindfully spread a thick layer of the red preserves across the crust before taking a bite.
As I chewed the crisp bread in the silent room, a cold, clinical realization struck me. Since my tongue had been brutally carved out during my escape from the past, I possessed absolutely no functional taste buds. There was no logistical or sensory reason for me to waste time putting spread onto my toast; I could literally eat the bread completely plain without any spread because I couldn't taste a single note of the sweet strawberry flavor. I was just mimicking the ghost of a human habit. Realizing the pointlessness of it, I set the crust down, closed the lid of the jam jar tightly, and prepared my inventory for the day's operations.
I walked over to the sofa and gathered my things. I picked up my heavy leather purse and took a quick mental tally of its contents:
The fully translated ancient bible given to me by Father Columbia.
The silver vial of concentrated holy water… which was literally a lethal, skin-melting poison to my sixth-evolution demonic physiology.
My remaining money pool of 1 gold and 46 silver pieces.
A few fresh, blank notepads and lead pencils for communication.
Instead of carrying the purse openly or wearing the canvas mask through the quiet residential streets, I channeled a thread of dark mana into my right index finger. A soft ripple of displaced air echoed in the room as the inventory Ring smoothly vacuumed the purse inside its 15.34-kilogram free spatial void, keeping me entirely unburdened.
I pulled the deep canvas hood of Olive's fire-resistant crimson trench coat far forward over my face, ensuring my skin was completely shielded from the scorching, allergic glare of the afternoon sun, and stepped out into the streets of the 3rd District.
The heavy stone archway of the 3rd District gate soon loomed ahead, and just like yesterday, Renny was leaning against the iron checkpoint barrier. As I approached, her nose immediately crinkled, and she took a slight, involuntary step back.
"Eirene... wow, you seriously smell like concentrated onions today, your sister Evelyn passed through here earlier for her vanguard shift and she smelled exactly like onions too. What did you guys do, sleep in a produce cellar? Anyways, toll and status card, please." Renny muttered, waving a hand in front of her face as I drew near.
Beneath my deep hood, I remained perfectly mute, refusing to waste a notepad sheet on her. The volatile, pale pink liquid of my ten weaponized tear gas flasks was still completely sealed and insulated inside my coat's fabric and ring domain, but the lingering alchemical residue on my skin was clearly potent. I reached into my trench coat, pulled out my silver 7th-Rank Luminous Knight status card, and dropped a single silver coin into her toll tray. My currency pool ticked down to 1 gold and 45 silver pieces.
Renny quickly swiped the card through the reading terminal, handed it back with an awkward nod, and gestured for me to pass.
"Go on through. Try to get some fresh air out there."
I snatched the card and marched past the threshold without a single backward glance, my leather boots clicking firmly against the stone as I exited the gate. My next tactical stop was the grim, overcrowded maze of the 5th District Tenements. By now, the high-ranking administrators at the Bureau had undoubtedly processed my official request files. The coordinates for the crimson-eyed, brunette reincarnated soul should be waiting for me.
The moment I crossed the threshold into the 5th District, the scenery instantly shifted into a grim, overcrowded labyrinth of decaying stone tenements, soot-stained alleys, and the heavy, suffocating scent of poverty. Standing right at the primary checkpoint barrier was the exceptionally rude gatekeeper, Betch.
Just yesterday, I had violently shattered his composure by delivering a high-stat kick directly into his testicles. Yet, as I approached, I noted with clinical interest that he was standing perfectly upright, showing no signs of the debilitating trauma I had inflicted. Given that I had unleashed my genuine, S-rank demonic physical strength into that strike, a normal human would have been hospitalized for weeks. He had clearly visited a high-tier district healer or consumed a premium restoration potion to bounce back so rapidly.
"Toll and status card," Betch grunted, his voice tight but completely devoid of the personal hostility he had shown me yesterday.
Beneath the shadow of my deep canvas hood, a cold, cynical smirk crossed my lips. Because of the pristine, high-level gear I was currently sporting… the premium, fire-resistant crimson trench coat and the refined posture of an elite vanguard… he completely failed to recognize me as the ragged, mute woman he had tried to extort twenty-four hours ago. Furthermore, I could see the fresh Monday edition of the Caria Times tucked under his arm. He had clearly just finished reading the first three pages detailing the legendary S-rank bounty hunter who had single-handedly slaughtered Don Anthony's guild and donated 30 royal gold coins to the poor.
To him, I wasn't a local nobody; I was the terrifying, celebrated 7th-Rank Luminous Knight appearing on every major headline in the capital.
I reached into my trench coat pocket, pulled out my silver 7th-Rank placeholder status card, and dropped a single silver coin into his collection tray. My personal funds officially ticked down to 1 gold and 44 silver pieces.
Betch took the silver card, his eyes widening slightly as the magical inscription authenticated my high-tier clearance. He quickly looked up from the card to my hooded silhouette, a sudden layer of professional urgency masking his usual arrogance.
"I guess the Bureau needs you to track that boy, they left a high-priority dispatch notice at the guardhouse. Follow me." Betch said, handing the card back to me with a respectful nod.
I slid the silver card back into my coat, remaining completely mute as my translucent blood wings shifted silently beneath the compressed fabric of my cloak. Betch turned on his heel and began leading the way deeper into the gloomy, shadows-locked avenues of the 5th District tenements. My alchemical tear gas and god-tier Death Chant weapons were perfectly weighted at zero grams inside my index finger's inventory ring, my math was absolute, and the Bureau had delivered exactly what I requested. It was time to hunt down the reincarnated soul.
Betch navigated the twisting, narrow labyrinth of the 5th District tenements with an uncharacteristic urgency, his leather boots clicking sharply against the damp cobblestones until we reached a heavily fortified, dimly lit holding cell near the back of the local guardhouse. He unlocked the rusted iron door with a loud, metallic scrape, gesturing for me to step inside.
Sitting on a low wooden bench in the corner of the cell was the exact individual Father Columbia's ancient records had pointed toward.
He was a seventeen-year-old boy, sporting messy brunette hair that fell over a pair of startling, brilliant crimson eyes. Those eyes flashed with a sharp, defensive intelligence… the unmistakable mark of a reincarnated soul ripped from Earth and suddenly trapped within the harsh, magical geography of Andromeda.
"Well, this kid's a notorious local pickpocketer, the local merchants finally caught him slipping fingers into their coin purses this morning. Here, take him. The Bureau's paperwork says he's all yours." Betch grunted, stepping back and crossing his arms with a dismissive shrug.
The moment Betch stepped away to clear the room, the boy's crimson eyes darted toward the open doorway. Sensing a fraction of a second of freedom, his muscles tensed and he suddenly bolted forward, attempting to dive past my silhouette and flee into the crowded avenues of the tenements.
He was fast for a human, but his kinetic speed was absolutely nothing compared to my S-rank vanguard stats.
Before he could even clear the threshold, my single right hand shot forward like a striking viper. My fingers clamped down onto his arm with an absolute, iron grip, completely locking his joints in place and halting his momentum instantly. He thrashed for a fraction of a second, his teeth gritted in frustration, but he couldn't budge my frame by a single millimeter.
Remaining perfectly mute beneath the deep shadow of my canvas hood, I used my free fingers to smoothly retrieve a pre-written notepad sheet from the folds of my crimson trench coat. I held the crisp paper directly in front of his face, forcing his gaze to lock onto the dark, neat handwriting:
"I'm a reincarnated being. Father Columbia wants to talk to you. Follow me."