"Phew... What a relief!"
Barely an hour after the decision to move forward with Wolka’s prosthetic upgrade, Claesta was slumped over a table in a corner cafe within the Holy Court District. With her arms flung forward, she lay so flat she seemed to be merging with the furniture—a level of unrefined relaxation entirely unbefitting a young lady in a dress. Since it was an outdoor cafe, her undignified posture was on full display for all to see, but Claesta didn't care in the slightest.
"That went well, didn't it, Miss?"
Sebock returned to their two-person table along the canal, balancing drinks in both hands. As he took his seat under the shade of the parasol, he looked across at the girl who had practically turned into a puddle on the tabletop.
"It certainly did..." Claesta groaned, her voice muffled by the wood. "If I had failed, I wouldn't have been able to look Grandfather in the face."
"They were kind kids, though. Especially considering you went off the rails three different times."
"Quiet, Sebock!"
They were currently taking a much-needed breather on their way home, having successfully navigated a business negotiation of extreme importance to Griffith Workshop. Claesta slowly hauled her upper body up and gave Sebock an unnervingly confident smile.
"All’s well that ends well! I’m certain our passion was conveyed in its entirety."
"Where does she get all this confidence?" Sebock muttered, his eyes filled with exasperation.
He didn't mince words, but he wasn't looking down on his young leader. His bluntness was born of familiarity; he had watched this rambunctious girl grow up. Sebock was a veteran of Griffith Workshop and an old friend of the previous head, making him more of an uncle to Claesta than a mere employee. When she had resolved to inherit the workshop at a young age, he had stepped up as her consultant, advisor, and supervisor. In short, he was the "reliable veteran" who supported the workshop from the shadows.
The veteran artisan glanced at the case resting at Claesta’s feet, his expression turning strained, as if something were caught between his teeth.
"But Miss, why did you tell a lie like that?"
"A lie? Whatever do you mean? I didn't say anything false back there."
"No, well... the reason the previous head left those blueprints behind..."
"Ah." Claesta gave a short, knowing nod. "It wasn't exactly a lie, was it? It’s a fact that they were the result of Grandfather pursuing his craft to its limit."
"Well, technically, I suppose."
"If I had told them the whole story, it would have felt like I was trying to guilt them into the contract with a sob story. What would we gain by seeking sympathy from a man who has suffered as much as he has, losing both an eye and a leg? Such a tactic goes against the principles of Griffith Workshop."
Claesta had deliberately withheld one truth from Wolka: the real catalyst that had driven her grandfather to pen those blueprints. There was a reason the old man, in his twilight years, had gone so far as to knock on the doors of the Magisterica to design a prosthetic so over-engineered it was considered impossible by general standards.
"I suppose it has been over ten years now," Sebock said, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.
Back then, Claesta had been a small child, and she didn't clearly remember the change that had come over her grandfather. It was only years later that she had pieced the memory together through stories she’d heard.
As the story went, there was once a swordsman in the Holy City who had lost a leg in a battle against the Demon Race.
He had been a member of an adventurer party that was reasonably well-known at the time, but that single battle had claimed not only his leg but the lives of every one of his comrades. His life as an adventurer, which he had thought was just beginning, had been snatched away in the blink of an eye. Trapped by a desire for vengeance, he sought a way to continue fighting as a swordsman even with a missing limb. Griffith Workshop had learned of him through the Church and accepted the commission to build his prosthetic.
They hadn't been able to use Star-rare back then, but they had used the finest materials available to build it with the highest possible durability. And yet, her grandfather’s work had failed to save that adventurer from despair.
It wasn't that her grandfather’s skill was lacking. Rather, a prosthetic designed for high-intensity combat presented insurmountable problems. Prioritizing the strength to withstand violent movements resulted in a heavy, cumbersome limb that made the connection to the stump unstable. Furthermore, because the structure was so rigid, it couldn't absorb the shock of combat. The impact rattled directly into the bone, causing excruciating pain. Beyond the inevitable swelling and inflammation, the flesh would often tear and bleed until he couldn't even stand, let alone walk.
It might have sufficed for a brief skirmish, but avenging his comrades—let alone hunting the Demon Race—was an impossible dream.
Her grandfather had performed every modification he could think of, but in the end, that adventurer died without ever finding his enemy. He was killed easily by a mid-tier monster, simply because his leg wouldn't move when he needed it to.
That was why her grandfather had clung to the possibilities of magic and sought out the Magisterica. It was an act of atonement for the man he felt he had driven to a pointless death, a desperate attempt to ensure the same tragedy would never be repeated.
Two years ago, when he eventually succumbed to illness, he had left those blueprints to Claesta. The remaining staff had worked desperately to rebuild the workshop after its main pillar collapsed, and only recently had their management finally stabilized.
Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared who actually needed that specific prosthetic.
Claesta didn't believe it was a mere coincidence.
"The time has come," she whispered. "I will fulfill the wish Grandfather left behind."
Her grandfather had truly blamed himself for what happened, and he had died regretting that he was leaving the workshop and the blueprints to his granddaughter. She was going to prove to the heavens that his legacy was in good hands and that he had no reason to worry. She loved and respected him, but she really didn't want him coming back as a ghost to check on her.
Besides... Mr. Wolka was a good man.
He had been surprised that a young female artisan had shown up, but that was the extent of it. He hadn't looked down on her for her age or her gender, nor had he been arrogant because he was the client. She felt like he had looked at her simply as a person.
In Claesta’s industry, there was a persistent prejudice that swinging hammers and working the forge was a man's job. Since she had taken over the workshop, she had often been subjected to heartless comments from clients and competitors alike.
"I’m not sure I can trust a workshop led by a young woman"—she had been denied contracts for that very reason.
"The old man wasn't blessed with a male heir, how tragic"—she had been mocked to her face.
Claesta had pushed through it all with sheer spite, thinking, What’s wrong with a woman being an artisan? I’ll crack your skull open! But the damage had accumulated in her heart regardless. That was why she had been unable to stop herself from asking one final question at the end of their meeting.
"Are you truly certain our workshop is acceptable? As you can see... I am a woman."
Wolka had merely tilted his head in confusion. "Well, obviously you're a woman."
"I mean... some people don't trust a workshop with a female representative."
"What? If you're going to use that logic, then the leader of the Holy City is the Saint. Does that make the entire city untrustworthy?"
When she heard his answer, Claesta had been so taken aback she’d burst into laughter. Where else in the world would you find a man who spoke of a mere artisan and the Incarnation of God in the same breath?
But he had meant it. In Wolka’s mind, Claesta and the Saint stood on the same level—as human beings.
Honestly, he was a troublesome customer. When someone said something like that to her, it made her want to give him her absolute best, regardless of the profit.
"It’s going to be busy, Sebock. I’m going to work you to the bone, so be ready."
"Yeah, yeah."
They shared a smile as they finished their drinks—until a voice drifted over from the left.
"Honestly, Shannon, are you still buying? This old man can't carry another bag..."
"Just one more! Only one more! The pudding here is amazing, and Liesel loves it too!"
"She’s right, it’s famous. You need to keep your ear to the ground for these things, Fyuji."
"Sweets are outside my expertise, ladies."
Claesta glanced toward the noise. At the cafe counter, a bespectacled girl who looked like a guild clerk was ordering pudding. Behind her were two men: one was a plain-looking middle-aged man buried under shopping bags, and the other was a handsome, refined man who looked like he belonged behind the bar of a high-end lounge.
Did that woman just say 'Liesel'?
As Claesta was picturing the tiny mage she had just met, Lieselalte, a voice called out to her from the other side.
"Excuse me. Might I have a moment of your time...?"
"Yes?"
A stranger wearing a beret and a jacket stood there. He looked to be in his late thirties and wore a humble, fawning smile.
Claesta furrowed her brows. "What is it?"
"Terribly sorry to bother you, but I’ve lost my way."
"I see."
"I have a map, but the streets in this city are so dreadfully intricate..."
Claesta nodded. Because of the canal system, navigating the Holy City on foot often involved a confusing series of bridges. It wasn't uncommon for tourists or new adventurers to lose their way. Claesta stood up.
"Let’s see. Show me the map—wait,"
She looked at the paper the man was holding and went silent for several seconds.
"Where did you get this? You've been swindled. This isn't a map, it's garbage."
The "map" looked like a child had scribbled aimlessly with a pen; it was impossible to tell north from south. There was a circle where the destination was supposed to be, but even as a lifelong resident, Claesta couldn't tell what it was meant to represent.
The man kept his fawning smile. "Heheh, my apologies. This is all I have. I don't even know where I am right now."
"I’m not surprised. Sebock, can you make sense of this? I’m stumped."
"Let’s see... Whoa, that’s rough."
Sebock stood up to look, but his reaction was the same. Claesta felt a headache coming on. How had this man expected to get anywhere with this? Whether he was a traveler or a merchant, she decided it would be faster to just lead him to his destination herself.
"Ah—the case!! They're taking the case!!"
Claesta spun around, startled by the girl's scream. She made eye contact with the bespectacled girl who had been ordering pudding; the girl was pointing frantically toward Claesta’s right. When she looked, she saw someone sprinting away, clutching her case.
"Huh?"
She looked down at her feet.
The case that had been sitting by her chair—containing her grandfather’s priceless blueprints—was gone.
"What..."
The realization hit her like a physical blow. The familiar case being carried away. The girl’s desperate shouting.
The blueprints had been stolen.
"You..."
The moment her brain processed the situation, her temper hit its boiling point.
"YOU MOTHERF*CKING PICKPOCKET!! WAIT RIGHT THERE!!"
Claesta let out a roar that shattered her lady-like image and launched into a sprint that would have made a professional adventurer proud.
Leaving Sebock, the man with the map, and her juice behind, she deactivated the Accessorize on the one-handed hammer she always carried. She screamed again as she tore through the crowds:
"THIEF!! SOMEONE STOP THAT MAN WITH THE CASE!! I’M GOING TO CRACK HIS HEAD OPEN MYSELF!!"
It was said that the young lady in the red dress, swinging a hammer as she sprinted through the street, looked less like a noble and more like a blood-drenched asura.
"Ah! She’s chasing him! Old man, get going! Work for your pay, you wage thief!"
"Oh, for heaven’s sake... Roze, watch the map guy!"
"You got it!"
Fyuji shoved the shopping bags into Shannon’s hands, gave Roze a quick instruction, and took off. He’d spent the day being dragged around by Shannon as she looked for treats to bring Wolka and the others, only for a thief to show up in broad daylight.
Still, Fyuji wasn't particularly shocked. Even in the Holy City, there were those bold or foolish enough to steal. In fact, among thieves, successfully robbing someone in the Holy City was a mark of status. Much like an adventurer who conquered a high-rank dungeon, a thief who pulled off a job here earned the envy of their peers. And because it was the Holy City, people tended to be more relaxed, making it easier to catch them off guard.
"I’M GOING TO CRACK HIS HEAD OPEN MYSELF!!"
The lady’s terrifying roar thundered through the streets, reaching even Fyuji’s ears. It sounded like she might actually catch the guy and finish him without any help. The Commercial District artisans sure produce some tough girls, Fyuji thought, impressed.
But Shannon had kicked him into gear, so he had to do his job. Based on the direction the thief was heading, he calculated the most likely escape routes. Using Strength, he accelerated instantly, leaping over the canal and running up the side of a building to take a shortcut across the rooftops.
Strictly speaking, using Strength to jump over buildings was a punishable offense in the city, but this fell under legal justification for the pursuit of a criminal. He’d have to make sure Shannon didn't report him later.
Fyuji dropped down from a roof, blocking the thief’s path at a bridge near the main thoroughfare.
"Tch!"
The thief’s reflexes were sharp. He pivoted ninety degrees and vaulted over the bridge’s railing, dropping down to a promenade along the water. Fyuji moved to the railing to follow, looking down—
"Huh? What do you want?"
Right where the thief had landed, a man was walking leisurely with a fishing rod over his shoulder.
It was Ramsey.
"Dammit! Out of my way!"
The thief was frustrated. First, his path was blocked by Fyuji, and now he was being hindered by some random fisherman. Ordinarily, he would have just jumped over the man or veered around him, but his panic had narrowed his vision. He tried to shove Ramsey aside with brute force.
"Ramsey, stop him!" Fyuji yelled.
He didn't actually expect Ramsey to understand the situation or act out of some sense of justice. He just hoped the man would be enough of a nuisance to slow the thief down.
Ramsey just stood there with a scowl as the thief charged. To the thief, it looked like the man was simply frozen in shock. Using his momentum, the thief threw his shoulder into Ramsey to blow him back.
Ramsey’s roundhouse kick connected.
The moment the thief entered his range, Ramsey struck. Even with the fishing rod on his shoulder, the movement was so fluid it was impossible to see coming. The thief, focused entirely on his charge, couldn't react. He was sent sprawling across the stone ground, knocked senseless.
Fyuji paused mid-vault. The people crossing the bridge stared in shock. Somewhere in the distance, the lady’s roar of "Wait right there!" was getting closer.
"Ugh... d-dammit..."
The thief groaned, crawling along the ground. He didn't even know what had hit him. One moment he was shoving a fisherman, the next he was tumbling through the air. His vision swam, but he desperately looked for the case. It was lying just a few feet away.
He dragged himself forward, reaching out a hand.
"Hey now. That’s dangerous, isn't it?"
A pair of plain boots blocked his reach. The fisherman was looking down at him coldly, his rod still resting casually on his shoulder.
"Don't go jumping down on people. You surprised me. My body just moved on its own."
"Y-You...!"
The fisherman spoke with such nonchalance it was insulting. He wasn't a knight or an adventurer; aside from his grumpy face, he was just a middle-aged man. The thief felt a wave of humiliation. He had been taken down by a civilian who spent his days fishing.
As his anger flared, his vision cleared. His desperation reached its peak. He wasn't done yet. He’d bragged to his crew that he could rob anyone in the Holy City. If he could just get past this one guy, he could still escape.
"If you want to live... get out of my way," the thief hissed.
"Hah?"
The thief coiled his body and lunged upward. He didn't care about the consequences anymore. He deactivated the Accessorize under his coat, a knife appearing in his hand in an instant.
He didn't want to kill, but if he wounded a civilian, the pursuers would have to stop and help the man. It was messy, but it was the fisherman’s fault for interfering. He lunged with the knife—
"Oops."
His wrist was caught. The knife sliced through empty air.
"What...?"
"Too slow. You really think you can pull a weapon that sluggishly in front of me?"
The thief couldn't process the words. His Accessorize deactivation took barely a second—far faster than the average person. No one in his crew was faster than him. And yet, this man hadn't even flinched. He’d reacted as if the attack was in slow motion.
Ramsey yanked the thief’s wrist, pulling him off balance, and drove a knee into his solar plexus. The air left the thief’s lungs in a violent rush. His nervous system simply shut down.
As he collapsed, he heard the fisherman’s annoyed mumble.
"If you're going to try that at this range, you’d better be as fast as that guy, or you’re just wasting my time."
Just how fast is 'that guy' supposed to be?
That was the thief's final thought before his consciousness plummeted into darkness.