The night had grown late, and the patrons who had been celebrating were beginning to wrap things up, not wanting tomorrow's work to suffer.
Around the time the date was about to change, a man appeared at the bar where Rei and the others were standing by.
Judging by his appearance alone, one might have taken him for a drunkard who'd come in still thirsty for more. He approached the counter with a stagger that was textbook drunk—except his walking speed was faster than a normal pace. At first glance, it looked as though his unsteady gait was simply the result of poor balance.
The man lurched to a halt, clinging to the counter for support, and spoke to the person before him.
"Ajas has made a move."
That single phrase was by no means the voice of a drunken man. It was sharp and utterly calm.
The bar clerk who heard it simply nodded, showing no particular surprise at the words spoken by the man across the counter. Naturally—the man pretending to be drunk was a colleague of the clerk's, a member of the Intelligence Unit. Strictly speaking, his rank was still that of a trainee, but his affiliation with the Intelligence Unit was beyond question.
The clerk set a glass of water in front of the man and headed toward the back. Entering one of the rooms, he gave a small nod to Dahl inside.
Seeing that nod, Dahl set his expression. It wasn't the friendly demeanor he'd worn in front of Rei, but the stern look befitting the Intelligence Unit.
"I'll go inform Rei-san's party. In the meantime, gather as much information as you can."
"Understood."
Watching the others in the room spring into action, Dahl headed to a room a short distance away—the one where Rei's party was staying.
"Excuse me, it's Dahl. May I have a moment?"
He knocked, and upon hearing a voice from inside granting permission, he opened the door.
The first thing Dahl saw upon entering was Byune, fast asleep with her arms folded on the table as a pillow. Next were Rei, Marina, and Vihera, conversing together. And Ilse, sitting alone in silence.
Drawing the eyes of everyone except the sleeping Byune, Dahl spoke.
"It appears Ajas has made a move."
The instant those words left his mouth, Ilse reacted sharply. Naturally—she could finally avenge her family.
"When you say he's made a move, does that mean he left the inn?" Rei asked.
"Yes. However, we don't yet know where he's headed. But given the circumstances, most likely..."
"I see. Then I'll need detailed information. If they try to leave Gilm carrying abducted women, it's bound to stand out."
"Exactly. We're currently gathering information. I'd like to ask Rei-san's party to be ready to deploy at any time."
Rei and the others each nodded at Dahl's words. Vihera had already begun rousing the sleeping Byune.
"Then I'll go compile the information right away. Please excuse me."
Seeing Rei's party begin their preparations, Dahl promptly left the room. Seeing him off, Rei steeled himself—the climax of tonight was finally at hand.
"Damn it. It's not like I'm saying anything wrong... Why do I have to get chewed out like that?"
At a certain bar where the number of patrons had dwindled, Melan was airing his grievances over drinks. He sat alone at his table with no other customers nearby. There were still a few people further off, but no one dared approach his table. He was, for all intents and purposes, completely isolated.
In truth, at first there had been those who'd observed his state and tried to strike up a conversation. But Melan, drunk, had picked fights with every one of them. He was saying the right things, sure—but for an adventurer, being right wasn't everything. There were certainly no small number of people engaged in acts that bordered on criminal. As a result, few could listen to Melan's self-righteous lectures and actually agree with him.
Those who found him troublesome gradually drifted away from his table, and as a result, Melan now drank alone. Fortunately—or perhaps not—the expansion construction in Gilm meant there was no shortage of work, so at least he wouldn't be unable to pay his tab. But for the bar, having an isolated patron surrounded by empty seats was far from ideal. Then again, it was nearly past midnight, and most customers were already heading home, so the bar owner had largely resigned himself to the situation with a look that said nothing could be done about it tonight.
"Urrgh... am I really that wrong...?"
Still drunk, Melan stood and settled his tab. He stepped out of the bar and started toward his inn, but then stopped. If he went back now, he might run into Ilse. Recalling what she'd said to him at the bar, his feet refused to carry him forward.
He was right. Ilse was the one who was wrong. He understood that perfectly. But Melan had never been told so bluntly to his face that his words were shallow, and what had come out of Ilse's mouth had pierced deep into his heart.
On Earth, midnight would still only be early evening. But in Elgin, by this hour, the overwhelming majority of people were already asleep. There were certainly still people making noise in entertainment districts and bars, but on the street where Melan stood, the only light came from the moon and stars.
Even so, several prostitutes lingered, waiting for customers. Most worked in brothels, but those who disliked the social dynamics, or who couldn't work in one for some reason, would sometimes solicit on the city streets like this.
To those prostitutes, Melan—stopped in the middle of the path—looked like the perfect customer. He was young and well-proportioned. Naturally, the women would prefer to be with someone attractive if they had the choice.
A prostitute in her twenties who had spotted Melan called out to him.
"Hey there, sweetheart. If you're interested, want to have some fun with me? I'll give you a good price."
What was unfortunate for her was that she didn't know what kind of man Melan was. And while he normally wouldn't lecture a prostitute, tonight he had taken deep mental damage from Ilse's attack—no, her Verbal Attack. As if to vent his pent-up frustrations, Melan berated the woman for selling her body.
Naturally, she bristled at being told such things. An exchange of harsh words followed, and the prostitute stalked off.
Melan, drunk and half-numb, watched her disappear into the alley with unfocused eyes—then saw her, walking through that alley, suddenly have her mouth clamped shut by someone and be forcibly dragged away.
The instant he witnessed it, Melan stepped toward the alley.
"Wait!"
Perhaps because of the shock, the intoxication had already evaporated from his head. He broke into a run, shouting as he went. But even if the drunkenness had left his mind, the alcohol still saturating his body had not. He managed the first few steps on sheer momentum, but then his legs tangled and he pitched forward, tumbling across the ground.
When he came to a stop, two men were looking down at him with puzzled expressions. One of them had an unconscious woman slung over his shoulder.
"...Hey, what do we do with this guy?"
"What do you mean, what do we do? It's a guy, right? We're collecting women, so taking him along would be pointless."
"Ah... true. Should we kill him, then?"
The word came out casually. That it was no empty threat was clear from the look in the man's eyes as he regarded Melan.
In his current state, resisting would be nearly impossible. Understanding that, Melan still tried to stand—but while his usual level of drinking might have been manageable, tonight he'd had far more than usual, and his body couldn't even walk properly.
If only I hadn't drunk this much!
He cursed himself inwardly, but for now, he had to somehow deal with these men. He frantically searched for a way out—
"Forget it. Killing a guy like this won't do us any good. Besides, it's almost time for the deal. I'd like to grab a few more women if we can."
"Ugh, we're still collecting? Isn't it about time we called it? The higher-ups aren't expecting that much from us."
"Maybe not. But it's better to follow orders from above as much as possible. That works to our advantage too."
"...Tch, fine. Then at least let's take his weapon. That much is fine, right?"
"Yeah. Knock him out after. With this stench of alcohol, he'll just look like a drunk who passed out."
"You got it... Alright, I'll be putting that weapon of yours to good use. Night."
"Wai—!"
Wait, he wanted to say. Melan likely intended exactly that. But before he could finish the word, an impact slammed into his solar plexus, and consciousness vanished.
The man who had struck him gazed down at Melan's crumpled form and addressed his companion again.
"You sure we don't need to kill him? From the looks of it, this guy seems like a real pain."
He asked because he had watched Melan charge in to help the prostitute—the same woman he'd just been arguing with—despite being visibly drunk. A strong sense of justice could, at times, trigger events far beyond what anyone expected. Knowing that, the man wondered if it wouldn't be better to finish him off here.
But his companion shook his head.
"I want to avoid causing any commotion tonight. Other guys are out there moving too. If his body turns up and the guards find a dead man, you know what'll happen."
"Ah... I see. So that's why you knock him out and make it look like a drunk sleeping it off."
"Exactly. A murdered man versus a drunk who passed out. Which one causes more trouble for the guards? You don't even need to think about it."
"...Well, true. But—"
The man accepted the reasoning but still seemed to have something on his mind. His companion tilted his head.
"What is it?"
"Nah, I agree with your thinking, but... I'm wondering about the other guys. Especially Jaas. He's a hothead, right? While we're out collecting women, he could end up starting something with the guards."
At those words, the man called Jaas and his usual behavior flashed through the first man's mind. Convinced, he nodded immediately.
"You're right. Anyway, let's gather as many women as we can before anything unnecessary happens. Once a disturbance starts, the guards will crack down harder."
"...Though I guess we should count ourselves lucky there are no adventurer patrols at night."
Night patrols in Gilm, unlike during the day, were conducted solely by the guards. Partly because the number of people out after dark was overwhelmingly smaller, but also because if a drunk got belligerent, the guards—accustomed to handling such situations—could defuse it. With adventurers, there was no guarantee a brawl wouldn't break out.
Of course, even the guards couldn't absolutely guarantee they could calm every drunk on the spot, but in terms of sheer experience, they had the clear edge.
For those reasons, men with something to hide found it easier to operate at night. Though the flip side was that with so few people out, careless movement made them easier for the guards to spot.
At any rate, the two men judged that lingering here would only waste time. They departed with the unconscious woman and the longsword they'd taken from Melan.
Roughly thirty minutes after they left, Melan opened his eyes.
"I'm... where is this? The city? Huh? Why..."
He had woken up not in his inn bed but, for some reason, in the middle of the street. And near what could only be called an alleyway. Bewildered as to why he'd been sleeping in such a place, he looked around—
"Guh!"
A sudden flare of pain drew a groan from him. But ironically, that very pain was what reminded Melan of what had happened. The drunken argument with the prostitute. Her heading into this alley. The two men attacking her and dragging her off. He'd tried to rush to her aid, but in his drunken state, there'd been nothing he could do. He'd been knocked out without a fight.
"Kuh..."
He frantically patted himself down for his weapon, but there was nothing around him. Realizing it had been stolen, Melan took a step forward—still not fully sober—to recover both the abducted prostitute and his own weapon.