The mid-day sun of July 20, 1300, hangs suspended over Flora City like a burnished brass plate, pouring a pale, dry radiance across the geometric cobblestone avenues. Mild and bright, the afternoon air carries no sharp edge, only the faint, crisp scent of distant mountain cypress filtering through the immaculate, white-vaulted thoroughfares. Down the main concourse, the pale stone paving glistens, scrubbed clean of road dust by the city's unyielding hydraulic gutters.
Aldo steps onto the polished stone entryway of the grand wooden establishment. His heavy leather boots, freshly greased and dark, strike the smooth threshold with a clean, measured thud. He does not hesitate at the double-carved oak doors today. He pushes through them, stepping straight out of the clear sunlight into the cool, humid interior where the soft, rhythmic gurgle of stone carp fountains fills the reception hall. Exotic incense—sweet, woody, and thick with crushed lotus—drifts through the amber air in thin, translucent ribbons.
He walks straight up to the dark, black-veined marble counter. Behind it sits the manager, his dark velvet doublet unwrinkled, his dark hair slicked back with aromatic pomade. Beside the thick, leather-bound ledger sits the cedar cash box.
Without a single word of complaint, Aldo reaches into his coat. His calloused fingers wrap around a heavy leather pouch. He pulls it free and lays it onto the cedar-trimmed counter, untying the leather thongs with practiced, economical movements. He counts out forty silver coins.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The silver pieces fall into four neat stacks of ten upon the dark marble, glowing faintly beneath the overhead glass lanterns. Aldo's face remains entirely smooth, his jaw relaxed, his dark eyes clear and unbothered.
The manager's sharp, dark eyes trace the movement of the silver, then slide upward to study Aldo's calm countenance. A small, polite smile touches the man's thin lips, though a flicker of genuine curiosity lingers in the fold of his brow. He sweeps the forty silver coins into the cedar drawer with a swift, fluid motion of his pale palm.
Clack.
The iron lock snaps shut. The manager leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the smooth marble edge. He tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over Aldo's neat collar and clean, dark wool coat.
"A pleasant afternoon to you, ser," the manager says, his voice smooth, resonant, and measured. "I see you have returned to our sanctuary. Tell me... did you perchance find yourself taken with any of the ladies during your previous visit? If there is a particular companion who caught your eye, you need only speak her name. I can arrange for her presence without delay."
Aldo's hands rest flat against the cold marble counter. His expression does not shift; his broad, scar-marked features remain perfectly composed.
"I like this place because it's clean, fragrant, the fruit is delicious, and the laundry is done well," Aldo replies smoothly, his voice flat and even, carrying the calm weight of a man stating an undeniable physical truth.
He reaches into his coat once more, pulls out two loose silver coins, and places them gently beside the leather ledger. He pushes them forward with the tip of his index finger until they rest against the manager's pale sleeve.
"A token for the staff," Aldo adds, his tone warm and unhurried. "I hope your bathhouse continues to thrive."
The manager looks down at the two silver coins, then back up at Aldo. His smile falters for a fraction of a second, his dark eyebrows rising in quiet, bewildered astonishment. He picks up the two silvers, rolling them between his long fingers.
"Sir," the manager says, leaning in a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, "you know we are not a bathhouse. If you like any girl here, just tell me; I won't judge."
Aldo looks him straight in the eye, his dark pupils steady, unblinking.
"All the girls here are pretty," Aldo says simply.
The manager freezes. He stares at Aldo's face, searching the hard lines around the soldier's jaw, the slight scars along his brow, and the total, absolute absence of any romantic or lustful flicker in his dark eyes.
[So why does his face show no interest in beauty?] the manager muses silently, his fingers pausing over the silver coins. [Not a twitch of the lip, not a stray glance toward the inner archway. Nothing.]
Aldo notices the man's prolonged silence and offers a slight, pragmatic shrug of his shoulders.
"Yesterday I was dirty, my clothes were dusty, and I'm a clean person," Aldo explains, gesturing faintly toward his broad chest and immaculate collar. "So I felt the need to bathe, wash my clothes, and eat some fruit."
The manager lets out a short, soft breath, nodding slowly as if trying to grasp a foreign language. He rests his hands back on the silver-trimmed ledger, his sharp mind pivoting.
"Ah. I see," the manager says smoothly. He leans closer across the dark marble slab, lowering his voice again. "Well, speaking of exceptional company... we have Priscilla Lowe here."
Aldo's dark eyes widen instantly. His breath hitches in his throat, his chest freezing mid-expansion. The calm, immovable mask on his face cracks, replaced by a sudden, sharp intensity.
"The same name as the woman the people of Flora say contributed to designing this beautiful and orderly city?" Aldo asks, his voice dropping an octave, his fingers tightening slightly against the stone edge.
The manager smiles, a proud, knowing glint entering his eyes. He nods once, slowly and deliberately.
"Yes, it's her, Priscilla Lowe," the manager confirms softly. "I heard she's also from Earth, like you. Although Earthlings are just slaves here in Heilop, some exceptional ones have helped this place prosper."
Aldo lets out a long, heavy exhale through his nose, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he shakes his head with a faint, weary grimace.
"Earthling this, Earthling that, such a general term," Aldo mutters, gesturing vaguely to his own angular face, his olive-toned skin, and his straight black hair. "Don't I look more like an Easterner from Wanghai, or Eastern Mikhland, while many others look more like people from Mediplana, or Central Mikhland?"
The manager pauses, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Aldo's distinct facial structure, the high cheekbones, and the dark, almond-shaped eyes that set him apart from the pale, broad-featured natives of the northern valleys. He ponders for a long moment, tapping his chin with the feather end of his quill.
"I suppose Earthlings are as diverse as we are," the manager concedes thoughtfully.
"Yes, of course," Aldo replies instantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
The manager steps around the corner of the marble counter, moving cautiously, his velvet slippers making no sound on the thick carpet. He comes to a halt a few feet away, leaning in slightly, his curiosity clearly piqued.
"Do you have people on Earth who resemble the Ghanzmir region?" the manager asks softly.
Aldo tilts his head, his dark eyes shifting upward as he accesses his memories of geography and military encounters.
"Ghanzamir, you mean West Mikhland?" Aldo asks, tapping his chin. "Well... they look like Arabs on Earth, but I find most Ghanzmir men and women to be tall, loud-mouthed, and fierce-looking..."
The manager lets out a soft, delighted chuckle, waving his hand dismissively in agreement.
"Everyone says so," the manager laughs softly. "I heard that region is a frontier, which is why the people are that way."
The manager turns his body fully toward Aldo, his sharp eyes examining the clean military cut of Aldo's dark coat, the absence of noble house crests, and the disciplined, measured way he stands.
"And what kind of Earthling are you, wandering around so freely?" the manager asks, genuine curiosity lacing his tone.
"I'm a slave-soldier," Aldo answers without a second of hesitation, his tone flat, unbothered, and completely stripped of shame or pride.
The manager's eyebrows shoot up. He takes half a step back, leaning his head forward.
"Are you a soldier of Duke Ferris, Duchess Meave, or some nobleman in Heilop?" the manager inquires rapidly.
"Of the PCA," Aldo states calmly.
The manager blinks, his brow furrowing in utter confusion. He cupped an ear with his pale hand.
"Excuse me, what? I didn't hear you clearly."
"The Royal Heilop Central Army, Professional Centrl Army." Aldo clarifies, speaking each word clearly and distinctly.
The manager's eyes bulge. He takes a full step backward, his silver quill nearly slipping from his fingers. He stares at Aldo as if the soldier had suddenly transformed into a gilded statue.
"Well, well..." the manager breathes, his voice trembling slightly with sudden, overwhelming realization. "Are you Aldo Patriot, the leader of the 204th Company of the Heilop Central Army?"
Aldo's dark eyes narrow into tiny, suspicious slits. His posture stiffens, his right hand instinctively shifting two inches closer to his waist. He looks at the manager with deep, unyielding skepticism.
[How does a brothel manager in a satellite hub know my full name and unit designator?] Aldo thinks rapidly, his mind racing through security protocols and potential intelligence leaks. [I haven't been in Flora City for more than four days.]
"Well, how do you know me so well?" Aldo asks, his voice turning cool and guarded. "I haven't been here long."
The manager cannot hide his excitement. His face flushes with sudden color, his hands coming together in a frantic, delighted clap. He steps closer, his professional coldness entirely shattered by pure fanatical fascination.
"So you're the one who suppressed the Rebel Rebels in Erikas!" the manager exclaims, his voice rising in pitch as he lists the events off his fingers. "The one who defeated the Witches in the Samel Swamp, and slayed the Dragon of Lake Drakolimne in Pirus, in northern Samekh?!"
Aldo falls completely silent. His jaw sets hard. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. A heavy, suffocating pause fills the reception hall.
[Who wrote down all those detailed missions the PCA assigned me?!] Aldo screams internally, his mind reeling in absolute, agonizing horror. [The marsh campaign was an logistics nightmare and I was almost lost! The dragon was a bloated, dying wyrm that got eliminated by the cheat code Morito! Who is turning our miserable tactical survival reports into heroic epics?!]
Aldo lets out a low, weary breath, his eyes staring blankly at the dark marble counter.
"Who wrote down all those detailed missions the PCA assigned me?!" Aldo asks aloud, his tone laced with deep, exhausted exasperation.
The manager beams, waving his hand as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.
"It's the PCA, of course! Those high-ranking officers are always talking about the 204th, 205th, and 203rd Companies of the Earthling Slave-soldiers and their glorious achievements."
Aldo rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closing his eyes tightly.
[Now I know the PCA has a propaganda agency,] Aldo realizes with a bitter, internal groan. [They're using our casualty-heavy victories to rally the populace and justify their military budgets.]
"It's an honor that you chose this place," the manager says, bowing low, his voice rich with sudden, profound reverence.
Aldo quickly waves his hands in front of his chest, shaking his head rapidly to dispel the man's grand romantic notions.
"No, no, I chose this place because it's clean and beautiful," Aldo insists, his voice rising slightly in protest. "Besides, why are you overreacting when I'm just a slave soldier?"
The manager doesn't listen. His eyes light up with sudden, frantic energy. He turns on his heel, his crimson velvet doublet fluttering behind him.
"I'll give you the most luxurious service right now!" the manager shouts excitedly, darting straight toward an inner door leading into the private bathing quarters.
"Wait—" Aldo calls out, extending a hand, but the manager has already vanished down the dimly lit hallway, his velvet slippers pattering rapidly against the rug.
Aldo stands alone in the reception hall for three seconds. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, resigned to his fate. He pulls his bronze lotus key fob from his pocket, turns around, and walks deliberately down the carpeted corridor toward his designated suite.
The massive, green marble bathtub in the center of Room Seven boils with continuous, steamy fury. White plumes of fragrant vapor rise to the cedar-vaulted ceiling, coating the dark wood in thick beads of moisture.
Aldo sits submerged up to his chest in the scalding mineral water. His eyes are closed, his arms resting flat along the wide marble rim. The heat works its way deep into his shoulders, melting the lingering tension from his long march.
SLAM!
The heavy cedar entrance door to the private suite slams shut with a sudden, deafening violence that echoes through the room like a thunderclap.
Instantly, the soft, golden magical light emanating from the silver wall lanterns flickers wildly. The ambient illumination drops from a warm, bright radiance down to a deep, crimson-tinged dimness. The air in the room thickens rapidly as the unseen magical vents in the walls release a dense, suffocating surge of exotic lotus incense. The heavy, sweet scent washes over the tub in a physical wave, making the air feel sticky, hot, and intensely heavy.
Aldo's eyes snap open. His body jerks upright in the water, his muscles locking instantly into a rigid combat stance. His dark pupils dart frantically across the dim room, scanning the shadowed corners and the heavy cedar door.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Aldo's mind screams in absolute, violent panic, his pulse hammering against his throat like a trapped war drum.
I'D ALREADY TRIED TO AVOID YOUR ONLY SERVICE! I paid forty silvers for laundry and water! What is this nonsense?!
The thick, humid air settles over his skin. A strange, heavy warmth begins to creep through his veins, forcing his tight, panicked muscles to loosen against his will. His shoulders sink an inch lower into the water. His breath grows shallow, heavy, and warm.
No, no, no,
Aldo thinks frantically, his heart thrashing against his ribs as he fights against the relaxing effects of the scented vapor.
Don't fall for it! If you lose your focus now, something terrible is going to happen! You'll be compromised, or robbed, or worse! Stay alert!
The crimson light flickers again. The incense burns hotter, filling his nostrils with the thick, intoxicating scent of crushed night-blooming flowers.
Panic threatens to swallow his thoughts entirely. Then, through the noise of his hammering pulse, a voice echoes from deep within his memory—a calm, stern, weathered voice from a small, modest kitchen back on Earth. His father's voice.
"When you feel stuck, son," his father had told him years ago, over a steaming cup of dark tea, "take a deep breath. Tell yourself that everything except death is insignificant. You can overcome it."
Aldo closes his eyes tightly. He expands his chest, drawing a long, deep, controlled breath of the warm, incense-heavy air into his lungs. He holds it for three seconds, then lets it out in a slow, focused whistle through his teeth.
[Everything except death is insignificant,] Aldo tells himself, repeating the words like an ancient, unbreakable military oath. [I can overcome it. I can overcome this.]
The heavy cedar door creaks open.
Slowly, deliberately, a female figure steps through the doorway into the dim, red-tinged light of the suite.
Aldo's eyes open. He takes another deep, desperate breath, squaring his shoulders in the water. He raises his chin, forcing his voice to sound firm, authoritative, and utterly unyielding—the voice of a company commander issuing an order to halt an advance.
"Excuse me, ma'am, I feel too shy and not ready to be an adult yet. Please stop," Aldo says firmly, his tone sharp and clear.
He pauses for a fraction of a second, his mind realizing how ridiculous he sounds, before he lowers his voice slightly, adding a desperate, grim warning:
"If I roll over here crying and sulking and whining, you won't be able to comfort me."
The woman steps fully into the warm light of the silver oil lamps.
Aldo catches a direct, unobstructed glance at her face.
His breath dies instantly in his throat. His heart stutters, missing a full beat, then explodes into a chaotic, fluttering rhythm against his sternum.
He instantly violently spins his head away, staring intently at the dark cedar paneling on the opposite wall, his face flushing a bright, fiery crimson from his neck up to the tips of his ears.
The woman lets out a soft, low, melodic laugh that sounds like silver bells drifting across a quiet lake. She steps closer to the tub, her footsteps light, measured, and effortlessly poised.
"Are you shy seeing me, sir?" she asks, her voice a rich, velvety contralto that vibrates through the warm air with irresistible, effortless charm. "So you're just like any other man?"
She stands beside the green marble tub, her towering presence dominating the room entirely. She is exceptionally, unusually tall—standing at a commanding 175 centimeters. She looms over the space with a statuesque, imposing physical grace, a full 5 centimeters taller than Aldo himself.
Her figure is voluptuous, perfectly sculpted, and notoriously exquisite—a lush, flawless hourglass curves maintained through ruthless personal discipline, exotic oils, and rigorous physical conditioning. She wears a customized, form-fitting gown of sheer, dark crimson silk, reinforced with a delicate, embroidered gold corset that accentuates her impossibly narrow waist while concealing the fluid, dangerous agility of a trained athlete.
Her face is exceptionally captivating—framed by a sharp, sensual jawline, smooth, high cheekbones, and full, plush lips curved into an enigmatic, knowing smile that keeps both highborn nobles and common street peddlers perpetually guessing.
Most striking of all are her eyes—striking, brilliant heterochromia. Her left eye glows like a brilliant, polished sapphire blue, while her right eye gleams like a sharp, piercing emerald green.
A stunning, endless expanse of spun-gold blonde hair cascades down her back in loose, perfumed waves, catching the dim golden light of the lamps. It is meticulously adorned with intricate gold hairpins, lustrous pearls, and rare, fragrant botanical blossoms native to the gardens of Flora.
Her skin is unblemished, porcelain perfection—whiter than fresh milk. She has systematically erased every single physical trace, scar, and callous from her early days of forced labor using hyper-expensive magical ointments and specialized cosmetics, absolute in her refusal to allow the Federation to leave a permanent physical mark upon her body.
Priscilla Lowe steps right to the edge of the tub. She leans down slightly, her long, spun-gold waves falling over one shoulder.
She reaches out with a smooth, porcelain hand, her slender fingers reaching into the warm water. She gently, insistently takes Aldo's calloused right hand, pulling it upward, forcing him to turn his body toward her.
"I feel left out if you keep avoiding me," Priscilla says seductively, her plush lips forming a subtle, adorable pout as her brilliant sapphire and emerald eyes lock onto his.
Aldo's hand trembles slightly in her grasp. He stares at the dark cedar wall, his jaw working frantically as he stammers, his face burning like a furnace.
"D-dress up, cover your face, and then I'll have enough confidence to talk to you!" Aldo blurts out, his voice cracking slightly.
Priscilla lets out a soft, musical giggle that echoes warmly off the cedar panels. She steps an inch closer, her emerald and sapphire eyes dancing with playful delight.
"I understand," Priscilla purrs, her voice dropping into a low, intimate murmur. "You're attracted to me."
Aldo's face flushes a deeper, darker red, the heat spreading all the way down his neck. He stammers frantically, his eyes darting across the room, completely unable to look at her sharp jawline.
"Uh, yes, so what?!" Aldo stammers out defensively, his free hand splashing slightly in the water. "What are you going to do?"
Priscilla leans closer, her fragrant gold hair brushing lightly against the rim of the tub. Her plush lips curve into a slow, tantalizing smile.
"I want to help you 'relieve your stress'," she whispers softly.
Aldo's eyes bulge. A surge of frantic, self-preservation energy surges through his limbs.
"Wait a minute!" Aldo shouts, blurting the words out with frantic speed. "Let me go outside and prepare myself!"
Priscilla smiles softly, her enigmatic expression widening just a fraction. Slowly, gracefully, she releases her grip on his hand, drawing her slender fingers back.
The second her hand leaves his skin, Aldo moves like a panicked deer springing from a trap. He launches himself out of the boiling marble tub, grabbing a thick linen towel off the brass rack in a single, blind blur of motion. He wraps the towel tightly around his waist, vaulting over the marble rim, his bare feet slapping hard against the wet cedar floor.
He doesn't look back. He grabs the brass handle of the heavy cedar door, yanks it open, and surges out into the long, carpeted hallway.
The corridor is quiet, dimly lit by silver oil lamps mounted on the gold-trimmed walls. The cool air of the hallway washes over Aldo's bare, dripping chest, chilling the burning heat on his face.
Aldo leans his back against the dark wood of the corridor wall, his chest heaving as he takes a series of deep, desperate breaths. He slaps his own cheeks with his calloused palms, forcing his mind back into military focus.
My reflexes are terrible!
Aldo berates himself internally, his teeth gritting in frustration as he stares at the patterned carpet.
I let her get the better of me without even taking the initiative! I'm a company commander! I've faced dragon-lake and swamp witches, and I let a tall blonde woman reduce me to a stammering mess in five seconds!
The heavy cedar door of Room Seven creaks open behind him.
Priscilla Lowe steps out into the hallway with fluid, unhurried grace. Her sheer crimson gown rustles softly against the plush rug. Her brilliant sapphire and emerald eyes fix onto Aldo's back with that same enigmatic, knowing smile.
"If you want privacy," Priscilla says softly, her velvety voice cutting through the quiet corridor, "we can go to a private room to 'talk'."
Aldo freezes. His initial instinct is to bark out a sharp, immediate refusal, run back into the tub, lock the door, and demand his clothes back.
Then, his tactical mind kicks into gear.
Wait,
Aldo thinks rapidly, his brows knitting together into a hard V.
This establishment is frequented by the highest-ranking nobles, royal officers, and wealthy merchant guilds in the entire region. Priscilla Lowe isn't just an attendant—she designed part of this city. She interacts with everyone. If I play this right, I can glean priceless military and political intelligence without spending another silver coin.
Aldo turns around slowly. He straightens his posture, squaring his bare shoulders, attempting to project absolute military confidence despite standing in nothing but a damp linen towel.
"I agree, madam," Aldo says loudly, his voice booming slightly too hard in the narrow hallway. "Please wait a moment while I regain my composure!"
Priscilla giggles softly behind her hand, nodding gracefully.
Aldo turns slightly, stepping a few paces down the quiet corridor under the pretense of adjusting his towel. He tilts his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he listens intently to the muffled sounds echoing from behind the gold-trimmed cedar doors lining the hall.
His sharp ears pick up a conversation from a suite three doors down.
From behind the dark wood comes the sound of heavy, labored breathing, followed by the sharp, angry voice of a wealthy middle-aged man complaining bitterly.
"...these cursed tribute rates!" the man growls, the sound of a heavy pewter goblet slamming onto a wooden table echoing clearly. "The Heilop royal family is bleeding the merchant houses dry! Exorbitant levies on every cart crossing the Triad Bridge! If I could pack my assets and leave this miserable realm, I'd have crossed the border three months ago!"
A young woman's voice replies from inside, feigning deep, exaggerated surprise and sympathy. "Oh, my lord... truly? That sounds dreadful..."
Aldo notes the detail down instantly in his head, filing it away under regional economic stability.
He takes three soundless steps down the carpeted hallway, leaning his ear toward another door.
"...another requisition order from the crown," an older voice mutters inside. "They take our grain, they take our silver, and for what? To feed Sevan's corrupt inner court..."
Aldo moves to a third door, then a fourth.
Every single room echoes with the exact same refrain: furious complaints about exorbitant taxes, oppressive royal levies, corrupt ministers, and deep-seated hatred for the Heilop royal family. Yet, despite the intense bitterness, none of them mention organized resistance or troop movements. It is merely the helpless venting of over-taxed elites.
High taxes, corrupt administration, dissatisfied merchant class,
Aldo summarizes internally, filing the intelligence away.
Useful background, but nothing actionable yet.
He turns back around to head toward the private suite, only to find Priscilla Lowe standing less than two feet away from him.
Before he can react, her long, slender porcelain fingers wrap securely around his wrist. Her grip is surprisingly firm, laced with subtle, disciplined strength.