The winter in Black Iron Town seemed bearable under the flickering hearth fire and the occasional scent of food.
The shared warmth of the sleeping arrangements, the simple yet regular hot meals, and the old books Seraphilia continuously brought back—these fragments pieced together an illusion of near'stability.'
Robin's injuries had long since healed, and her cheeks had filled out a bit. Her pale blue eyes would occasionally flash with the light of genuine immersion when she was reading.
But only Robin herself knew that beneath this seemingly calm surface, the seeds of suspicion planted since their first meeting in the abandoned warehouse had never truly withered.
They were merely dormant, quietly growing tougher, more complex roots with every inexplicable action Seraphilia took.
Why?
This initial question had not dissipated with time; instead, it had become sharper and more unsettling due to Seraphilia's continuous, unrequited giving.
If Seraphilia had an agenda—whether she was an agent of the World Government playing the long game, or some other force coveting the knowledge of Ohara—then the cost of providing food, books, medicine for months, and even now risking the severe cold and danger to 'earn money' to maintain this destitute but stable life, was far too high, and the period far too long.
This did not align with the operational style of CP9, who preferred infiltration and swift resolution.
It did not fit any logic of 'pursuit' or 'exploitation' that Robin knew.
If she had no agenda... that made even less sense.
It was practically a paradox.
In Robin's world, goodwill required a reason, especially goodwill that was continuous and nearly self-sacrificing. She had seen many people toss a piece of bread out of momentary pity, but she had never seen someone bring food and water every day, quietly waiting for a wanted criminal in a desolate place; never seen someone exhaust their savings just to celebrate a birthday for her that no one remembered; never seen someone shiver on the floor in the bitter cold while yielding the only bed and thick blanket to her; and never seen someone silently do all this, bearing the scars of training and frostbite, without ever asking for or even expecting a single word of thanks.
This 'unconditionality' was, in itself, the greatest'suspicion.' It was like a light so perfectly flawless that it made Robin feel it was unreal, suspecting that a deeper shadow, one she hadn't yet discovered, must be hidden beneath it.
Seraphilia was special.
She was strong, intelligent, resilient, possessing a composure beyond her years and... a bottomless sense of loneliness.
But this special quality did not alleviate Robin's doubts; rather, it made her want to understand even more: Who exactly was this special person? Where did she come from? And why did she specifically choose her, the 'child of the devil'?
Robin decided to take a more proactive approach to investigation.
She needed to know what Seraphilia was doing every day when she left early and returned late, and who she was meeting.
This might provide clues.
One early morning, shortly after Seraphilia wrapped her shawl tightly and left silently as usual, Robin quietly got up.
She covered most of her face with a thick scarf, her pale blue eyes looking exceptionally calm in the morning light.
She utilized the power of the Hana Hana no Mi. In the complex alleyways, she would sometimes 'bloom' an eye on a distant rooftop to confirm the direction, or 'grow' an ear in a corner shadow to catch footsteps, while maintaining a safe and hidden distance herself, like the most patient hunter, tailing the vague silver-haired figure ahead.
Once, a drunken man nearly bumped into the wooden crate Robin was hiding behind. Seraphilia noticed it in advance, subtly took a detour, and used her own body to block the drunkard's view, thus preventing Robin's exposure.
Did she notice?
Robin's heart skipped a beat, but Seraphilia's steps didn't falter in the slightest, as if it were just a coincidence.
She followed Seraphilia through the still-sleeping slums, avoiding the gathering spots for early-rising casual laborers, finally arriving at an area near the edge of the dock district—a zone even more chaotic and desolate. It was piled high with industrial waste and broken ship hulls, the smell of rust and engine oil thick and pervasive in the air.
Robin watched Seraphilia skillfully navigate around several seemingly random abandoned containers, arriving at a small, relatively open patch of frozen earth.
Then, she stopped, facing a cluster of frost-covered rocks.
The scene that followed made Robin, observing in secret, hold her breath.
Seraphilia extended her hand, her expression one of absolute focus Robin had never witnessed, tinged with a hint of severity. The air before her began to distort and condense unnaturally. Large swathes of white mist materialized out of thin air, accompanied by a 'crackling' sound like friction between ice crystals. The surrounding temperature plummeted instantly!
Spinning, compressing... within seconds, an ice crystal spear, though crude, clearly radiating a sharp, cold gleam, instantly took shape and hovered in mid-air!
The cold glint of the spear tip reminded Robin of the brightly polished muzzles of the Marine warships.
With a wave of Seraphilia's hand, the ice spear shot out, carrying a sharp whistling sound as it fiercely pierced the frozen ground in the distance, shattering ice shards!
Robin's heart clenched violently. She had seen Seraphilia use mist to do various things—maintain food temperature, assist in treating wounds, and even create fog on the ship that time—but this ability to instantly conjure ice into a spear exceeded her previous understanding in terms of aggression and control precision.
This was no longer simple ability application; this was a combat skill tempered by countless trials!
The destructive power of this strength was likely comparable to some Marine Captain-rank officers!
Why was she training her offensive capabilities so desperately? To protect their current safety? Or did she have another, more dangerous objective?
Robin watched Seraphilia practice repeatedly, fail, and try again. Her face grew paler and paler, yet she refused to stop. The bruises and chilblains on her body now had a clear source. A complex emotion surged in Robin's chest—it was shock, an instinctive wariness of this power, and a sliver... of emotion she was unwilling to admit, stirred by Seraphilia's almost masochistic effort.
The training lasted for about an hour before Seraphilia stopped, exhausted, leaning against a rock to catch her breath.
Robin was about to quietly leave when she noticed that after resting for a moment, Seraphilia did not return directly, but instead headed in another direction—deeper into Black Iron Town, toward the district rumored to house underground clinics and black market doctors.
Robin's heart tensed again.
Was she injured?
Or sick?
She hesitated for a moment, then followed again.
Seraphilia did not go to the obviously marked 'clinics' but turned into a narrow alleyway where sewage flowed, knocking on a heavy metal door with no markings. A middle-aged woman with a scar on her face and sharp eyes opened the door, glanced at Seraphilia, and stepped aside to let her in.
The door quickly closed.
Robin hid behind a pile of distant junk, her pale blue eyes fixed tightly on the door.
She quietly 'bloomed' an ear near the crack of the door, only catching the muffled sound of conversation.
'...Same as always?' It was the woman's voice.
'Mm, same as always,' Seraphilia's voice was a bit weak. 'Increase the dosage... a little more.'
'You will die.'
'I won't die.'
What followed was a long silence and the faint clinking sound of medicine bottles.
All sorts of terrible speculations made Robin's fingers turn cold.
She waited in the cold wind for what felt like a century before the metal door opened again. Seraphilia walked out, holding a small paper packet in her hand. Her face was still pale, but her steps were steady enough. She didn't linger and quickly left the district.
Robin did not continue tracking her. She returned to the cabin alone, her heart in turmoil.
The scene she witnessed that morning—the ice spear comparable to a Marine Captain's, and the exchange about 'increasing the dosage' and 'death'—weighed like two heavy stones upon her already doubtful heart.
Seraphilia's power was greater than she had imagined, and her purpose seemed more complex than what she had seen.
What exactly was she preparing for?
And what was she suppressing with medication?
The nights spent sharing the same bed became Robin's next silent window for observation.
Physical proximity allowed her to see Seraphilia's fatigue more clearly, and it was also more 'convenient' for conducting extremely covert investigations.
Seraphilia slept deeply.
AI Model: mistral-large
Robin lay awake in the darkness, her gaze as precise as an archaeologist's brush, repeatedly scanning Seraphilia's face, neck, and the slightly open collar of her shirt just inches away.
In the close distance and occasional faint light, the old mark on that patch of skin finally revealed a clearer outline.
It was not an ordinary scar. Although the light was dim and the specific shape was not clearly visible, the texture of the scar was very strange—the edges did not look like the smooth or overgrown healing of a natural wound. Instead, it had a distorted and abnormally flat appearance, as if the skin texture had been completely destroyed by something. The color was also darker than the surrounding skin, with an old, unnatural darkness.
This was not the kind of wound one could get from wandering around a place like Black Iron Town.
The 'texture' and position of this scar hinted at an unsettling, unnatural meaning. Robin's scholarly mind began to race: Torture? Some kind of cult mark? Or...a slave brand?
The thought made her shiver. The slave brand of the Celestial Dragons, the 'Hoof of the Soaring Dragon,' was world-famous, but it was said to be on the back.
The marks of other slave traders varied widely.
The shape of this scar...in the darkness, it looked like a twisted, broken-winged bird.
If she was an escaped slave...this identity might explain her excessive vigilance, her desire for power, and her unwillingness to mention her past.
But it still didn't explain—why was she so kind to her? What reason or obligation did an escaped slave have to protect another person hunted by the World Government?
Doubts snowballed, growing larger and larger.
Robin's thoughts drifted back to the recent birthday.
The books, the food, the bottle of ink and pen...now, thinking back, each item precisely hit her preferences and needs.
How did Seraphilia know? She had never mentioned her birthday to Seraphilia, let alone what types of books she liked.
Unless...Seraphilia had observed her, studied her, much earlier. This realization sent a chill down Robin's spine.
Like a hunter, who thoroughly studies the habits of their prey before making a move.
Could their 'first meeting' have been anything but coincidental?
Had Seraphilia approached her with a purpose from the start?
But if that were the case, the cost of Seraphilia's efforts over the past few months seemed too high.
To gain her trust, was it necessary to go to such lengths?
Robin didn't think she had that much 'value' to warrant such 'investment'.
Logic hit a dead end. Every guess had supporting reasons, but also unexplainable contradictions.
Seraphilia was like a puzzle made up of countless contradictory fragments—warmth and coldness, giving and mystery, protection and concealment, all perfectly blended in her.
That evening, Seraphilia returned a bit later than usual, her body unusually cold, her brow furrowed with exhaustion. But she carried more food than usual—besides the common potatoes and beans, there was a small piece of what looked like smoked fish wrapped in oiled paper, and even a few rare, though not very fresh, oranges.
She silently started a fire and began to prepare dinner as usual.
Robin sat by the stove, holding a book, but her eyes were on Seraphilia's busy figure, watching her fingers, slightly reddened from the cold, moving a bit slower than usual.
"Did you go to the northern junkyard?" Robin suddenly asked, her voice calm and emotionless.
That was the direction Robin had guessed Seraphilia was training in when she followed her in the morning.
Seraphilia's hand, which was cutting potatoes, paused briefly before resuming naturally.
"Yes. It's quiet there." She replied briefly, neither denying it nor asking how Robin knew.
"It's very cold there." Robin turned a page of her book, casually saying, "Much colder than in town. Easy to get hurt."
Seraphilia put the cut potato pieces into the pot, which was already starting to heat up, making a'sizzle' sound.
"It's okay, I'm used to it." Her tone remained calm.
The fire crackled, and the aroma of food began to fill the air.
Silence spread between the two, but it was no longer just quiet; it was like a silent confrontation.
The air seemed to thicken.
Robin's gaze shifted from the book to Seraphilia's face, illuminated by the firelight. "Your ability," she chose her words carefully, "can it create ice?"
This time, Seraphilia's movement clearly paused for a longer moment. She slowly put down the spatula, her entire body tense, turning to look at Robin with ice-blue eyes that seemed to have anticipated the question.
"A bit of moisture, it's cold, so it turns to ice." She evaded the question, her tone still calm, as if describing the weather.
"It's more than a bit." Robin met her gaze, her blue eyes unyielding, her voice a bit colder. "I saw it. It was fast, sharp. Like a real spear." She revealed part of what she had observed, wanting to see Seraphilia's reaction.
Seraphilia looked at her for a few seconds, her knuckles white from gripping the spatula.
Then, she turned back and continued stirring the food in the pot. "Yes, I'm practicing."
She admitted it, but still didn't explain why she was practicing.
"The more skills you have, the better." She repeated her previous statement.
This answer was flawless but also revealed nothing.
Robin didn't ask any more questions.
She knew that further questioning would yield no more results.
Seraphilia's mouth, like her ability, could freeze into solid ice.
Dinner proceeded in an even more silent atmosphere than usual. Seraphilia placed the best piece of smoked fish into Robin's bowl.
Robin looked at the piece of fish, then at Seraphilia, who was quietly eating as if the previous conversation had never happened.
That familiar, helpless feeling of contradiction surged again.
On one hand, there was genuine, meticulous care; on the other, there were deep, heavily guarded secrets.
She picked up the fish and slowly ate it.
The taste was salty and fragrant, with a smoky aroma—a rare 'delicacy'.
But this taste, mixed with the doubts in her heart, was complex and indescribable.
Seraphilia quickly finished her simple meal and got up to clean.
In that instant, Robin's gaze quickly scanned the edge of her collar below her collarbone again.
That twisted shadow flashed in the firelight.
Seraphilia seemed to notice her gaze, her movement to straighten her collar stiffening for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure and walked towards the water jar in the corner with the bowl.
She didn't look at Robin again the whole time.
Robin looked down at the remaining food in her bowl.
She knew that Seraphilia was hiding a huge secret, possibly related to that strange scar and mysterious medicine.
She knew that Seraphilia was secretly honing a dangerous weapon.
She knew that behind Seraphilia's kindness was a motive she couldn't understand.
Doubts still entangled her, even more so because of today's discovery.
But what couldn't be denied was that in this cold and cruel world, in this dilapidated little house, it was Seraphilia who, with her silent actions, supported this small, fragile space with food, books, and warmth.
Even if this space was built on lies or unknown purposes.
Trust was still far away.
But something more complex than mere interest—perhaps dependence, perhaps habit, perhaps an unwillingness to let go of this 'unusual warmth'—had quietly taken root.
Robin finished the last bite of food and gently put down her bowl.
The cold wind outside still howled, but the fire in the little house was still burning.
The investigation would continue, and vigilance would not be relaxed. But before that, they still had to survive the winter, depending on each other.
And the truth, she vowed, would one day be uncovered by her own hands.