Xio had already guessed as much. Her expression turned grave. "You've said before that the Demoness Sect is extremely dangerous."
"That's right. The Demoness Pathway symbolises disaster and catastrophe, and the Demoness Sect is an evil god organisation composed entirely of Demoness Pathway Beyonders. Just to digest the Assassin potion alone, one must commit acts of killing."
Xio's pupils contracted. Could the man who died in the pub washroom have been killed by Sherman?
She spun toward the door. "I have to go help him!"
Bernadette said, flatly: "Xio. I completely understand your concern for your friend. But have you considered the possibility that your friend doesn't need saving — and that this is exactly what he has always dreamed of?"
"If he has already chosen this path, the odds of him turning back are very low. And even if he wanted to, the Demoness Sect wouldn't allow it. If Sherman has second thoughts, they wouldn't hesitate to reduce him to a Beyonder characteristic for the next recruit."
Xio's face went pale. She bit her lip. "But..."
"Let me offer you a piece of advice: respect the choices others make for their own lives. Let go of the impulse to rescue everyone. Don't mistake your own feelings for heroism."
That line had been given to Bernadette by Vincent on the spot — and she found she agreed with it completely.
After a long pause, Xio lowered her head. "I still want to find a chance to talk to him." She immediately added, "Not to talk him out of anything. Just... talk."
"You don't need my permission for that. Honestly, even if you were determined to go and 'save' him, I wouldn't stop you — for the same reason I just said: respect the choices others make for their lives. That applies to you and me both."
"..."
Xio hesitated, then asked: "If Sherman does end up in danger... and I want to ask for your help... what would it cost?"
Bernadette said: "I'm sorry. At your current level, you couldn't pay the price."
"I understand. Thank you."
Xio left, her mind heavy.
Bernadette gave a quiet smile. "I don't think she heard a single word of what I just said."
Vincent said, "You could understand it. From what I know of her, the only people Xio really counts as friends are two — the perpetually lazy novelist Fors, and Sherman. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to let it go that easily either."
"What — is generous Mr. Vincent having second thoughts about helping?"
"Er — I didn't say that. Your Majesty is a Queen Mystic, a Sequence 3 powerhouse. Being passive-aggressive doesn't quite suit your dignity."
She said, lightly: "The truth is, the reason I kept pushing myself to grow stronger in the beginning was so I could do whatever I wanted. It was only under the influence of divinity that I eventually became what I was later. What I'm doing now is just finding my way back to where I started."
"I suppose."
You are genuinely a very different person from the Bernadette I first met.
Knock knock knock.
The door sounded again. A woman's voice came from outside: "Hello? Is anyone there?"
Bernadette opened the door. Standing on the step was a girl of about twenty, with light brown hair falling long past her shoulders, a pleasant face, and a set of working clothes. She carried a canvas bag, and her deep green eyes held a certain clarity to them.
The clarity of a student fresh out of university.
In the world of Lord of the Mysteries, that was something Vincent was seeing for the first time.
At the sight of Bernadette, the girl looked momentarily puzzled, but pressed on. "Excuse me — does 'Wunderkammer' mean you accept all sorts of commissions?"
At those words, both Bernadette and Vincent suddenly remembered: right. This was supposed to be the Wunderkammer.
From the day they'd moved in to now, the only client they'd actually had was that member of the Church of Steam and Machinery. They'd never taken on a proper commission since then (there was one during that week, which they'd declined). And with the Shadow Merchant potion already digested, they had practically forgotten they'd ever opened the place.
A bit of an anti-climax.
Though thinking about it, it was probably a good thing — certainly better than grinding through commissions one by one to digest potions.
Bernadette said inwardly: "We should take down the sign after this. Don't want anyone else turning up."
"And what about this girl? She might be the very last client before we close up shop."
"Hmm... if it's not too much trouble, we may as well finish properly."
Bernadette stepped back and gestured for the girl to come in. "Please, come in. What can I help you with?"
"I... I'd like to hire a bodyguard. Just to accompany me on a trip to the Docklands."
She pulled a few banknotes from her pocket. "Fifty pounds!"
Fifty pounds was a modest sum by Beyonder standards — but for an ordinary person, it was a small fortune. By Klein's weekly wage, it would take him a good half a year to earn that much.
If Klein ever comes to Backlund and finds work like this, he'd be over the moon. Actually — hadn't Klein taken on a commission something like this at some point?
"May I ask why you need a bodyguard for a trip to the Docklands?"
"Well... I've heard it's rather rough down there, so I thought having someone along would be safer." She reached into her bag and produced a camera. "The reason I'm going is to write a piece on life in the Docklands."
"You're a reporter?"
"That's right! A reporter!"
She blinked. "Could you help me find a suitable bodyguard?"
Bernadette was briefly taken aback, then laughed despite herself. "I thought you were asking me to be your bodyguard."
"Well... you're a woman too, so..."
So she'd been turned down. And this was supposed to be the grand finale of the Wunderkammer.
Bernadette raised one hand, gave it a small wave in front of the girl's eyes, then pressed it gently onto the side table. There was a light creak. When she lifted her hand, a clear palm-print had been left in the wood.
"Does that demonstrate my capabilities well enough?"
The girl stared — then apologised frantically. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't — I'm so sorry."
Vincent said, resigned: "If I remember right, Vivian paid a rather significant sum for that side table. Almost certainly more than fifty pounds."
"You're one to talk!"
"..."
The girl immediately stood and bowed. "In that case, I'll be in your care today, Miss."
"Call me Natasha."
"Of course, Miss Natasha. My name is Elly."
The hired carriage rumbled over the iron suspension bridge and into the Docklands. The world around them shifted immediately. Elly pressed her face to the window, gazing out with an expression that was hard to read.
"Miss Elly — where would you like to start?"
"Hm?"
She pulled back, momentarily blank.
"Your piece. The one you mentioned."
Elly thought it over. "Well, since we're in the Docklands, I suppose starting at the actual docks makes sense."
She pulled a notebook from her bag. "Backlund's growth owes everything to its geography — and the Docklands are the heart of it. But from what I know, the very district that brought Backlund its prosperity is also one of the most chaotic and impoverished areas in the entire city."
"There's clearly something wrong with that picture."
Bernadette had watched Roselle personally ignite the spark that became the industrial revolution. The phenomenon Elly was describing was something she understood well. She had once asked Father why it was that the stronger the economy grew and the more powerful the nation became, the harder life seemed to get for those at the bottom. His answer had been that it was the pain of progress — an inevitable part of social development.
"Did your world go through the same kind of growing pains?" Bernadette asked inwardly.
"More or less."
"No way to prevent it?"
"Er... I'm the wrong person to ask. I'm a wizard who studied magic, not a sociologist."
"Didn't you specifically choose a Muggle Studies course in your curriculum that covered Muggle history?"
"That was to help young witches and wizards understand the Muggle world — not a deep academic study. On that subject..." Vincent sighed. "I feel fairly certain that when they compile Hogwarts' list of most incompetent professors, I'll have a reserved spot."
"..."
The carriage slowed to a stop. The driver turned to speak: "I can't take you any further than here."
Elly picked up her bag. "Then this is where we get off."
The two of them stepped out. Nearby, cargo and merchant ships were berthed along the docks, and the surrounding warehouses stretched in a dense cluster. Every day, vast quantities of goods arrived from abroad via Pritz Harbour, then were distributed along the Tussock River to cities along the route.
Elly walked with her heavy camera in hand, shooting as she went, pausing occasionally to stop workers and ask a few quick questions — their wages, their daily lives, their families.
Every person carried their own particular grief. Every person was fighting simply to stay alive. And yet, compared to the vagrants who had no work at all, most of them considered themselves among the lucky ones.
Besides all of this, Elly kept asking one particular question:
"About the explosion at the Cornlis warehouse a few months ago — what do you think? Do you really believe it was caused by workers operating the equipment incorrectly?"
Most gave blank looks, or politely changed the subject.
Elly wasn't deterred. She kept her energy up, kept finding people to talk to, kept shooting. It was only now that Bernadette understood why she had that canvas bag — it was stuffed with rolls of film.
As they made their way deeper into the warehouse district, a newly constructed building came into view, surrounded by signs warning the public to keep away.
Elly raised her camera to take a shot and was immediately cut off by two large men. "This is private property. No visitors."
"I'm a reporter from the Backlund Daily. I'm just taking a few photos for a piece on life in the Docklands."
"No."
"Would you be willing to give me an interview instead?"
"Please leave. Now."
The two men exchanged a glance. One stepped forward and reached for Elly's camera. She clutched it to her chest, but the man grabbed both her and the camera and lifted her off the ground.
As he moved to push with his other hand, Bernadette slid a walking stick neatly into his armpit. The man let out a grunt of pain and stumbled backward, landing on the ground. The second man charged without hesitation. Bernadette sidestepped lightly and jabbed him in the same way — he too doubled over and sat down hard, unable to rise for some time.
"Stop standing there. Let's go."
Elly hesitated for a moment, then said quickly: "Miss Natasha, please wait here for just a moment. I'll be right back."
And then she sprinted straight toward the new warehouse.
Both men tried to push themselves upright. Bernadette gave each of them a firm tap on the head with the walking stick. Their eyes rolled back and they went out cold.
She muttered in mild annoyance, "I have absolutely no patience for that sort of self-important stupidity."
"Then why didn't you just turn around and leave her to it?"
Bernadette pressed her lips together. "Because I was once just as stupid."
"Stop! Stop right there!"
A shout rang out. Elly came bolting back, camera clutched to her chest, with six or seven men behind her, all carrying clubs and looking very serious.
She shouted as she ran: "Run!"
Bernadette didn't bother overwhelming them. She led Elly away at a run for a short distance, then used an illusion to shake off the pursuers.
"Ha... ha..."
Elly leaned against a wall, gasping. "I thought we were done for."
Bernadette frowned. "You were aiming for that new warehouse from the start, weren't you."
"Yes."
She took a steadying breath. "I wanted to find out what really happened in that explosion."
She explained: the warehouse they had just seen belonged to a company called Cornlis. Three months ago, an explosion had killed dozens of workers on the spot. Their families had demanded compensation. But Cornlis's defence lawyer had argued that the explosion was caused by the workers' repeated violations of safety procedures — and that investigation had confirmed a pattern of violations before the incident. By that logic, the true victim of the explosion was the Cornlis company itself, not the workers. The company had been very magnanimous in announcing they would not pursue legal action against the workers' families.
Elly was furious. "They're twisting the truth!"
"So as a journalist, motivated by justice, you want to uncover what really happened — and see that those workers get what they deserve?"
"No. That's not it."
Her voice dropped, but her expression was utterly earnest. "I'm not actually a journalist. I'm a lawyer. I want to gather evidence and win justice for those workers."
"...And what exactly did you manage to photograph just now?"
Elly deflated. "I was spotted the moment I walked in."
"Did you consider that after three months, they've already rebuilt the entire warehouse? Even if there was evidence, it's been long gone. Coming now — wasn't that rather late?"
"I did think about that. But Cornlis started rebuilding the very next day after the explosion and warned all the nearby workers to keep quiet and stay away from the building. I have reason to believe there's still something there."
Bernadette said, incredulous: "So you hired a bodyguard on a whim and went straight to investigate a crime scene?"
"Well..."
She hunched her shoulders slightly. "I was originally just going to have a look around the outside. Then I saw you put those two men down, and I thought — this was my chance. I didn't realise there were so many people inside."
Bernadette stared at her. This girl has a brain. Just not quite enough of one. Exactly the impression she'd had at first glance: clear-eyed and naive.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I suppose I'll go back to the firm first. This case is just one example of what's happening across Backlund — everywhere you look, a city that's supposed to be the City of Hope is drowning in despair. It shouldn't be like this."
Bernadette said, flatly: "It has always been like this."
Elly shot back, loudly: "Just because it's always been like this doesn't mean it's right!"
Bernadette: "..."
Vincent couldn't help laughing. "That's the first time I've seen someone leave you genuinely speechless."
She said quietly: "She only reminded me of something Father used to say. Words are easy. Beautiful wishes are easy. But if the problem cannot actually be solved, none of it means anything."
In his later years, Father had actually reflected on this — on what the deepest limitation of this age was.
Not productivity. Not economic relations. Not social systems — those were, in fact, the simpler parts. The true knot was the gods and the churches. Gods needed anchors; churches needed believers. And so for thousands of years, this world had never undergone any great change. The ideal outcome — for both gods and churches — was that everything stayed exactly as it was, for ten thousand years unchanged.
To be continued…
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