Like those people who try to help stray cats and dogs—acting out of kindness during the rescue but never thinking about what comes next—Victor was in exactly that situation now.
On the road home, the boy, Luf, still raw from being dragged across the boards, wore a devil's face and followed behind the witcher apprentice with timid, cringing steps.
Victor suddenly remembered how he'd once tried to save an injured bird…
Its left leg was broken. It couldn't stand, couldn't push off, couldn't take flight.
Back then, Victor hadn't been an alchemy apprentice yet. All he could do was choose a quiet patch of grass—open sky above, shade from a tree—and lay it down there, wondering whether the bird had anything like those film-montage memories before the end.
Help and rescue without professional support could, at best, make the other party suffer a little less—and make you feel a little better.
If he abandoned Luf now, there was no doubt the boy would soon be absorbed by the King of Beggars' sphere of influence, becoming a reserve recruit for the usual "professions": beggar, thief, bandit.
But bringing him home… Boslaer wasn't wrong either. The story of the farmer and the viper was worth guarding against. Even if the boy couldn't do real harm, he could still make life miserable.
So the best approach was to take him in for now, teach him how to survive, and leave him no room to do evil.
Saving a person wasn't like saving an animal. If you didn't save them properly, it was better not to save them at all. Maybe he would be another person, after Angoulême, whose fate Victor would change.
Especially since the boy had an interesting name—one that tugged up an unforgettable old memory. Back then, Victor had also been a man who dreamed of becoming the Pirate King.
Decision made—
"Boss, forty pierogi!"
Stopping in front of Hattori's Dumplings, Victor—who wasn't short on coin—decided to start by filling his own stomach, and then the boy's behind him.
…
"…So that's how it is."
After explaining Luf's background to Angoulême, Yoana, and Fergus, Victor arranged the boy's sleeping spot in a corner of the smithy, laying out a simple bed with wooden boards.
Then he walked up to the shrinking Luf.
"Listen. I don't know what you're thinking, but here's what I'm doing with you. For now, you're going to be an apprentice in this smithy. You'll learn forging from Fergus and build a real skill.
"Miss Yoana is from the Skellige Isles too. If you've got questions, ask her more.
"And here's the main point: your range of movement is limited to the smithy for the time being. If you dare step through the second door, I'll throw you out immediately.
"In this city, you can imagine what happens after that. Maybe then you'll wish I'd never saved you at all."
During the meal, Victor had confirmed his age. Luf looked short and scrawny with that sallow face, but he was already eighteen—an adult. It was just long-term malnutrition that made his frame look worse than Victor's.
Either way, so far, he was lucky: out of a day-to-day survival pit, a boss who fed and housed him, and a buxom woman teaching him smithing. Put Victor in the same position, and he couldn't imagine anything sweeter.
What Victor had done could practically be called a model of human virtue.
…
A day passed quickly. After moving the more expensive items from the smithy into the alchemy workshop, Victor fastened a second lock onto the newly installed partition door.
This was to prevent Luf—young, hot-blooded, or just too curious—from trying to sneak a peek at his boss's heroic sleeping posture, or the "older woman's" uninhibited one.
Then the alchemy apprentice began mixing his alchemical brews. Tonight Batman was going out for a "run," and he needed to replenish his voice-changing potion.
He hadn't been stirring the cauldron long when Angoulême came out of the kitchen, handed Victor a cup of warmed milk, and pulled over a rocking chair to sit beside him.
"Did you drink the one that grows hair?"
"Of course not. I told you last time—there are too many causes of baldness, and several of them are simply written in the stars. If you want a potion that makes follicles regenerate, that kind of defiance-of-nature trick is for master alchemists, and it usually comes with all sorts of restrictions."
"Oh…"
With one hand on the stirring rod, the boy drained the milk in loud gulps.
Setting the cup down, Victor asked, "How did the thing I told you to look into go?"
"Marabella's classroom is a good place. She's a sincere, warmhearted lady. I donated a sum, like you told me."
"Not too much at once. Big money invites trouble. Leave the follow-up to Yoana and Fergus—have them buy steady goodwill a little at a time and bank it. We might need it in the future."
"Mhm."
The stirring rod tapped the cauldron in a steady rhythm.
"…You're going out to beat people up later," Angoulême said, certain—not a question.
"How do you know?"
"If something put you in a bad mood, wanting to go out and beat people up is normal, isn't it?"
The tapping paused, then resumed. "Fair enough. Tell me—does this make me an accomplice to human trafficking?"
"You didn't pay for him, so it doesn't count."
"…Thanks for the comfort."
"Vic, your heart's too soft. You get tangled up over things that don't matter."
"I don't like human trafficking. I probably hate it about as much as you hate the academy, right?"
Angoulême tilted her head. "I think you've misunderstood something. I don't hate brothels."
Hearing Angoulême say the word so naturally, Victor asked, curious, "I thought you had a shadow in your head about places like that?"
Angoulême shook her head. "I have a shadow about temples that force women to sell themselves. A brothel is a normal trade. For a while, my dream was to open a big, grand brothel in Beauclair, the capital of Toussaint.
"You know? It's prosperous there. The market's livelier than Ellander—Vergen can't even compare. And yet there's only one hidden little brothel out in the outskirts. Dandelion and I both agreed that opening a place there would be guaranteed profit."
A swirl of rainbow light shimmered. Victor ladled up a spoonful of voice-changing potion and drank it in one go.
"I thought you hated all sex work."
"No. What I hate is coercion. If I'm the one running the place, then it's all between willing adults."
"Then do you still want to open a big brothel?"
The Phantom Troupe's leader stepped behind the screen and changed into the Batsuit.
"Once we make the Phantom Troupe bigger and stronger and become the most famous hanse in the world, maybe I'll change my name and go try it."
"If that's your dream, I'll make it come true."
…
From the kitchen, down into the cellar, he pulled the third bottle from the fifth slot on the third row and turned it gently. Batman opened the hidden passage leading to the inner-city canal.
"By the way—are you really not considering coming out with me to beat people up? You probably haven't vented all that extra energy in a long time."
"If you mean a Catwoman outfit, I refuse. If you're determined to put me in a bat outfit, I refuse too."
Shaking his head, Victor stepped into the secret passage. Behind him, Angoulême gave a small bow.
"Safe travels."
…
The sea wind was salty and damp. Moonlight lay like water across the city as he stood on the highest point of a building.
After his talk with Boslaer, it was clear that Whoreson Junior's gang—first in line to get hit—didn't seem to care about Batman much at all.
Which meant other organizations, or the temple guards, probably held the same dismissive attitude toward the Dark Knight.
Victor decided to correct their negligence. Starting tonight, he would go out for a "run" every day—launching a fifteen-day carnival of public service.
He pushed off with his toes and leapt down.
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