In the dim light of the Zlatogorye street, Grigori walked at an unhurried pace, his boots softly crunching against thin frost and grit. He wore casual winter clothing, the fabric worn thin at the seams and slightly ragged at the cuffs. A top hat sat low on his head, its brim shadowing his face and hiding his dull, yellowish hair. Over his eyes, contact lenses dulled the natural gleam of his golden slit pupils, replacing them with plain brown ones.
As he walked, he swept his gaze lazily across the street. Sleepy-looking citizens shuffled past, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath fogging the air as they prepared to welcome the morning. Some paused to exchange quiet greetings with small nods; others carried wicker baskets filled with vegetables and spices. A butcher wiped his hands on a stained cloth while cutting meat, the dull thud of the cleaver echoing faintly. Nearby, wooden stalls creaked as merchants set them up, lanterns flickering weakly in the fading night.
This was a view starkly different from the noble district.
This was the market district, or, to be precise, the central district of Zlatogorye. This was the place where the regular citizens of Zlatogorye thrived.
Grigori slowed as he approached a nearby bench, its metal frame cold and dusted with frost.
A ragged-looking man in simple winter clothing sat there, legs crossed, holding a newspaper close to his face. The paper rustled softly in his hands. Beside the bench, a small luggage bag rested on the ground, its corners scuffed from travel.
Grigori stopped, adjusted his coat with a brief tug at the collar, and sat down beside him.
"I'm sure you know that disguise amulets are illegal, Naphael," Grigori said suddenly, his tone casual as he crossed one leg over the other.
Naphael did not look up. "How do you know I'll be here?" he asked instead, eyes still scanning the newspaper.
"You told me you'd be traveling to Aur soon," Grigori replied, lifting a hand slightly as if counting points. "And Calyxianov told me today is the ship flight to Aur. I half-guessed the rest."
"I see," Naphael answered, the paper lowering by only a fraction.
Silence settled between them. Grigori leaned back, resting an arm along the back of the bench, watching the central district wake up. A vendor coughed nearby. Somewhere, a bell chimed softly.
After a few minutes, Grigori broke the quiet.
"At yesterday's meeting, there was an incident involving Valeslina," he said, eyes still forward. "It was taken care of by your daughter's Beast. Although I know you already know that. You were close by, after all."
Naphael's fingers tightened slightly on the newspaper. "What are you trying to say?"
"If you cared so much," Grigori continued, tilting his head toward him, "why didn't you just go with your daughter in the first place?"
Naphael gave no answer.
Grigori leaned back slightly and let out a sigh.
"Naphael, Calyxianov is the only one I have left," he said quietly. "But you? You still have all of them intact. You'll seriously regret it if you keep distancing yourself like this."
"I know," Naphael replied, his voice barely above the rustling paper.
Grigori glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
'Still as difficult as ever.'
He had known Naphael since they were young, long before Naphael became the Grand Magus. This stubbornness was nothing new.
"By the way," Grigori added, tapping a finger lightly against his knee, "about your daughter, are you worried about her becoming a beast tamer? About the potential 'corruption'?"
Naphael finally folded the newspaper and lowered it onto his lap.
"No," he said. "She can handle whatever 'corruption' faces her. She's a strong kid."
Grigori's eyes widened slightly. Hearing Naphael call someone strong was rare.
"Then what are you worried about?" Grigori asked.
"I don't want her dragged into the Cold War."
"Oh," Grigori murmured. "I never thought about that."
Grigori finally began to understand what was on Naphael's mind. He turned his gaze back to the street.
'You're being too overprotective, Naphael.'
From the outside, the central district looked peaceful, people worrying only about their livelihoods and families, hands busy, faces tired but calm.
But beneath this calm, a quiet war was happening behind the scenes.
In that war, those who possess useful 'talent,' regardless of their identity or the nature of that talent, will be dragged and forced to participate, either by becoming a pawn of some faction or by building their own faction.
As Grigori's thoughts drifted, the memory of the spy incident surfaced, where the beast showcased his effortless elimination of his elite guard.
'If Sophia enters this Cold War,' he thought, eyes narrowing slightly, 'she'll be the center of the chaos.'
***
In the bright morning light, inside the Imperial Palace corridor, Sophia walked slowly, her footsteps echoing faintly against the polished marble floor. Tall windows lined the corridor, letting in slanted beams of sunlight that reflected off gold-trimmed pillars. She was now wearing casual outing wear, ready to leave the palace. However, there was still one destination that she must attend.
After some time walking, she finally reached her destination. It was a wide, ornately designed double door, its surface engraved with intricate patterns. She raised her hand, hesitated for a brief moment, then gently knocked on the door.
"Come in." A familiar voice came out from behind it.
Sophia pushed the door open, the hinges letting out a soft sound. Inside was an ornate waiting room with a comfortable, luxurious couch, a low table neatly arranged with documents, and steady light from a magic crystal illuminating the room with a pale glow. The air smelled faintly of incense meant to calm the mind. She had been here yesterday for her check-up with the imperial psychologist. And just like yesterday, there were a couple of people present here. There was her mother, the emperor, and a couple of people in robes, each wearing a mana gun of different sizes on their backs and waists.
There was also the imperial psychologist, although—
'It's not Mr. Sakharov?'
It was a different psychologist from yesterday. Unlike the long-bearded old man, Mr. Sakharov, this one was a young woman wearing glasses, her posture stiff as she sat upright.
Sophia walked forward and took her seat, smoothing her clothes as she sat, facing the new psychologist. On her left stood the emperor, his hands calmly folded behind his back, and on her right stood her mother, her expression unreadable. Surrounding them were the guards, each standing rigidly, hands close to their weapons.
Despite having experienced it yesterday, Sophia still felt suffocated by the atmosphere.
Grigori then began to speak, his voice calm. "You're not coming with your tamed beast?"
"Your majesty, Sir Seraphix is usually asleep at this hour," Sophia replied, lifting her gaze to meet his. "And I don't think it is necessary to bring him here, right?"
"You're right."
Grigori raised a hand slightly, gesturing toward the psychologist to begin the treatment, but suddenly, Sophia spoke again.
"Your majesty, I'm sorry to interrupt."
Grigori's hand paused midair, then he gestured again, signaling the psychologist to stop.
"It's alright," he said. "Did you need anything?"
"No. I'm just curious why Mr. Sakharov is not here."
The tension in the room immediately thickened. Sophia also noticed the woman in front of her, the new imperial psychologist, her complexion slowly paling as her fingers tightened around the fabric of her clothes.
Sophia then looked back at the emperor. He answered with a gentle smile, completely ignoring the unease spreading through the room.
"He's sick, so he can't be joining you today."
'Sick? He was so lively yesterday.'
After the first treatment, Sophia spoke at length with Mr. Sakharov. She remembered his relaxed laughter, his fondness for certain foods, and how he mentioned that his family members also worked within the empire.
"Can I meet him when he gets well?" Sophia asked.
At this question, the room grew even more tense. A visible bead of sweat rolled down the psychologist's temple. Grigori's smile faded, and he stared at Sophia in silence for a few seconds. Before he could respond, Valeslina spoke.
"No." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for rebuttal.
Sophia finally pieced everything together. Her identity as a Nine-Stroke Beast Tamer needed to be kept secret at all costs. Only a select few whom the Emperor trusted could know this. A psychologist involved in her treatment would inevitably learn of yesterday's incident and all its implications.
From this, it was not difficult for Sophia to deduce Sakharov's fate. Judging from the fear etched on the new psychologist's face, it seemed likely that she, too, would face the same fate if she continued treating her.
"Your majesty, I don't think I need the final treatment," Sophia said, locking eyes with the emperor.
"Are you sure?" Grigori asked.
"Yes," Sophia replied, her gaze unwavering.
Grigori glanced at Valeslina. She gave a slight nod in response.
"Fine," Grigori said. "You can leave early if you want."
"Thank you," Sophia said. She stood, bowed respectfully, and immediately walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
She moved through the imperial palace corridor, her pace growing faster and faster. The sunlight that once felt warm now seemed harsh. Eventually, she broke into a run. Her breathing turned ragged, her throat dry. In her clenched hand was a small, cat-shaped pin.
Sophia planned to give it to Mr. Sakharov as a token of thanks for treating her. She never realized that yesterday would be the last time she would ever meet him.
'Mr. Sakharov.... I'm sorry.'