Temperature and the amount of clothing worn by young ladies always seemed inversely related.
As the weather warmed, the girls of the City of Chaos began revealing slender ankles and delicate collarbones once more.
As for those long, fair legs—that was a sight reserved for summer.
Of course, if Ron really wanted to see them, there were plenty of ways—just not something to elaborate on.
Meanwhile, in the northern regions, the hot pot price war was in full swing.
Under Mia's aggressive strategy, the imitation hot pot restaurants had no choice but to lower their prices and engage in a price war.
And they had to go even lower than Mia's.
Otherwise, if both charged the same price but one tasted far better, the choice was obvious.
Unless Mia's place was full, no one would bother with the inferior imitation.
Perhaps because of the deterrence of Emperor André III behind Mia, there had been no major interference—only minor annoyances.
Both sides were relying purely on business tactics, clashing head-on.
Whoever ran out of resources first would fall.
…
At the private experimental zone outside the City of Chaos, the research area was now more than halfway completed.
After several days of testing, many experimental instruments had begun to be put into use.
After creating a soundproof array powered by a Light-element Element Potato, Illya once again returned to studying the principles behind Element Potatoes.
With Illya conducting formal experiments, Edith also stepped in to organize a structured schedule for the research area.
Meanwhile, Harper continued working hard at the construction site, hoping to complete the Mana–Element Reaction zone as soon as possible to begin his own research.
During this time, Ron made a trip to the convent outside the city.
With Sylvie steadily implementing her nun recruitment plan, there were now seven convents, housing over four hundred nuns.
If they were only tasked with managing the original patch of Chameleon Radish, it would be an over-allocation of labor.
Moreover, as Element Cards gained popularity in the Royal Capital, their sales would inevitably expand across the entire empire.
Demand would surge.
So Ron planted a large batch of Chameleon Radish in the cultivation space, expanding the small plantation outside the city into a large-scale cultivation base.
To reward the nuns, he specially produced a batch of War of the Gods cards to satisfy their growing enthusiasm for mahjong.
After prolonged play, the nuns were no longer satisfied with the original rules and had begun inventing increasingly complex variations.
Ron found it headache-inducing and left after a brief look.
With the plantation expanded, the factory outside the city also needed to scale up.
After supplying a batch of Heartvine for assembly-line production, Ron toured the facility.
The workers had become increasingly proficient in using Heartvine.
These vines, constantly working in the factory, had developed a kind of learning ability—once a worker touched their tendrils, they immediately understood what to do.
Like experienced veterans who could react with just a signal.
This greatly reduced labor, made work easier, and significantly improved packaging efficiency.
…
After handling all this, the time came on February 20.
That afternoon, in the guest room on the second floor of the flower shop:
Ron sat beside the bed, speaking gently to the blank-eyed werewolf lying there.
"Where are you from?"
"What's your name?"
"How did you get to the City of Chaos?"
"What happened to your injuries?"
"… "
He asked a question every few seconds.
But the werewolf remained silent, staring blankly at the ceiling.
No response.
This made things difficult.
In theory, the common language of the continent had originated during the era when beastfolk ruled—it was unlikely the werewolf didn't understand him.
So either he refused to speak to humans, or he had suffered a mental breakdown.
"You were supposed to be dead."
"A girl named Jorina from my shop saved you."
"Otherwise, you'd already be a corpse in some alley."
"You were too badly injured for her to heal, so she came to me."
"The reason you're lying here alive is that I used many rare medicines on you."
"No one else could have saved you."
"So if you can hear me—and if you can speak—answer your benefactor's questions."
Silence filled the room.
The werewolf's throat moved slightly.
Ron noticed and immediately pressed on:
"Where are you from?"
"How did you get here?"
The werewolf's lips twitched.
After a long pause, he finally spoke in a hoarse voice:
"…Thirsty."
Ron's eye twitched.
"Jorina! Bring some water!"
Footsteps hurried over.
Jorina quickly brought water in.
"Give him a drink—he says he's thirsty."
Gulp, gulp.
Jorina skillfully poured water into the werewolf's muzzle.
The werewolf looked at her—his gaze complex.
"…Why did you save me?"
Jorina startled, spilling some water.
"S-sorry!"
She quickly wiped him with a towel.
"Why did you save me?" he repeated.
Jorina froze, then said timidly:
"You saved me first… so I saved you."
The werewolf: "?"
When did I save you?
He had been in a dazed state, acting purely on instinct—he didn't even remember most of what he had done.
Let alone saving someone.
After tending to him, Jorina left.
Only Ron and the werewolf remained.
"Then why did you save me?" the werewolf asked, turning his head.
"Does saving someone need a reason?"
"I'm a werewolf. You're human."
"You're no threat to me. Saving you was just convenient."
The werewolf fell silent, his gaze dimming at the mention of his ruined Battle Aura Vortex.
"I answered you—now your turn," Ron said with a faint smile.
After a few minutes, the werewolf finally spoke:
"I'm the young chieftain of the Wolf Fang Tribe, from the Frozen Tundra."
"The Beastfolk Royal Court ordered our entire tribe to launch a suicidal charge at Beast Abyss Pass."
"So we rebelled. We fled toward the Forest of Freyst."
"We were hunted by elves… then by human forces in the eastern region…"
"In the end… only I survived."
Silence filled the room.
Ron didn't know what to say.
"…What about your tribe?" he finally asked.
The werewolf turned away, a bitter smile on his lips.
"They starved to death long ago."
"We were just expendable pieces."
"Before the war even began, it was already decided."
"Which tribe would be sacrificed this year… which next year…"
"As long as the seven Red Fang tribes survive, the beastfolk endure."
"As for the rest… small or medium tribes—"
"They're meant to die."
The Beastfolk Royal Court wasn't a fixed place—it was a seasonal military council formed each winter.
The chiefs of the seven major tribes—called the "Red Fangs"—held absolute authority.
To the smaller tribes, those "red fangs" were stained with the blood of their own kind.
From this werewolf's perspective, being forced into sacrifice was nothing but cruelty.
Ron chose not to comment.
Matters between races were best left alone.
"Your body is mostly recovered," Ron said, changing the subject. "In a day or two, you should be able to walk."
"What are your plans?"
The werewolf's eyes shifted slightly—blank.
Having grown up in the Frozen Tundra, he likely didn't even understand what the City of Chaos was—let alone how to live here.
"If you don't have plans, you can stay here for now," Ron said. "As long as you don't harm anyone, I won't drive you away."
He was curious about the beastfolk—and wanted to learn more.
But that could wait until the werewolf stabilized.
Ron stood and walked toward the door, then paused.
"Oh—what's your name again?"
The werewolf replied:
"Husky."
Ron froze.
"Husky?"
The werewolf frowned slightly.
"Husky."