Chapter Forty-Two: The Warmest Ray of Sunshine

After drinking his milk the next morning, Victor stepped out of his house, a tea egg clamped between his teeth and another in hand, peeling it as he went. He was determined to greet this beautiful morning with a healthy, energetic city jog.

Last night’s lesson had been an experiment. Angoulême was not one to give up easily—so when the first egg failed to react, she tried a second, a third, a fourth… Watching her, the boy simply touched his nose and let her persist, choosing instead to retreat early to his room to catch up on the sleep he’d missed the night before.

In the end, there was never a flash of light, but when she added the salt and other spices Victor had set out for her, she succeeded in “braising” a pot of tea eggs.

That morning, when he rose and saw his teammate’s “success,” he took two eggs for breakfast, feeling fulfilled and gratified.

There was nothing to be disappointed about. Statistically speaking, as the second person in this demon-hunting world to try the incredible art of alchemy, Angoulême’s results were perfectly reasonable; to discover a talent would have been a surprise.

After all, in the world of alchemy, the miraculous art is a gift reserved for the chosen few.

Having Angoulême try it wasn’t a whim, but a decision made after much deliberation. First, she was one of the people Victor was closest to since coming to this world; second, if she could wield alchemy, her innate qualities might awaken the “voice” of certain materials, allowing her to quickly surpass him as an alchemist.

This was Victor’s initial hypothesis: those with pure, natural hearts “might” find it easier to hear the voices of alchemical ingredients. His grandmother, being absent-mindedly innocent, could hear the voice of all things. His third aunt, whose thoughts were equally pure, could hear the voice of minerals.

As for himself… his mind was too complex, so he heard nothing.

Just imagine! If one could hear the voices of materials, listen as they told you their properties, their healing effects, and what they could best be transformed into—alchemy would advance by leaps and bounds, because you’d never use the wrong ingredient.

But, alas, Angoulême did not possess any miraculous talent—

…

Victor jogged lightly along, mentally mapping out his plans for the coming days, until he passed by the headquarters of the Order of the Blazing Rose. There, the orderly line of impoverished townsfolk caught his attention.

Acts of charity have always taken many forms, and while custom and morality may shape their expression, one act—feeding the hungry—has eternally been regarded as good.

Before him, the knights of the Rose, under the command of Sir Jacques, were distributing bread. The commander himself was handing loaves to the needy, a gesture of compassion made manifest.

Judging by the grateful glances of the poor, the practiced way they received the bread, it was clear this was not the first time. Even after the bread was distributed, the crowd did not scatter but gathered before the dais.

Victor was prepared for what would come next. Sure enough, the tall and burly Jacques mounted the platform and addressed the gathering:

“All of you, gathered before me… hungry, anxious, fearful… some mothers clutching their children to their chests.

People of the Temple District, poverty and plague have driven you into misery! So you turn to the Eternal Flame for aid, and now the Eternal Flame answers you through my hands…”

Victor didn’t need to hear more. He walked away, already able to imagine the rest.

On the subject of plague, Jacques would detail practical measures of public hygiene—keeping homes clean, burning anything a patient had touched—all couched in religious language.

As for poverty, well, the blame fell squarely on nonhumans. Those elves and dwarves, with their schemes, had stolen honest men’s jobs, seized the bread of the good-hearted through usury.

These words were extreme and unreasonable, but it was the answer the people wanted. Any other explanation they would neither understand nor accept.

To anyone living within this world, such statements seemed unproblematic—even Angoulême thought Jacques a decent man, compassionate to the poor, protective of the weak, his words persuasive and pleasing.

But Victor knew Jacques was fanning the flames. Perhaps it would be this very spark that would ignite the powder keg of long-standing resentment.

Whether he did so deliberately or blindly, Victor’s foreknowledge warned him: this fire would one day set the northern realms ablaze. Jacques was dangerous. The boy quickened his pace to put as much distance as possible between them.

…

At the same time, sunlight poured through a window, bathing the room in gold. Angoulême sat by the second-story window, her right hand propping up her chin as she gazed in a daze at the bustling morning street, her left hand unconsciously teasing Catherine.

“I failed,” she thought.

Though the commander often treated her as a fool, Angoulême felt she understood a good deal by now. Like yesterday, when she recited that childish rhyme to herself as she made tea eggs—she wasn’t so dim as to believe food was supposed to glow.

Not to mention the times they’d camped outdoors, when he hadn’t even bothered to hide it: he’d just throw things into a pot and call it alchemy. Real alchemy didn’t glow either!

In Aerlind, when she’d stolen recipes, she’d seen for herself how alchemists used their instruments; the commander’s haphazard stews made no sense at all.

So she knew this kind of alchemy was his core secret, just like the herb pouch that could hold so many things.

And so she was disappointed by her failure.

Her commander trusted her, wanted to share his most precious secret—but she’d let him down.

Catherine chirped softly, her wings gently patting to comfort her.

A warmth spread through her heart. “At least I still have you!” With a sudden motion, Angoulême swept Catherine into her arms before she could escape.

Catherine struggled for only a moment, then settled down, poking at Angoulême’s ear with her steel beak, making her giggle.

After a while, their playfulness spent, Angoulême patted her cheeks, steeling herself. Despite a small defeat, she reminded herself she was still the indispensable first striker of the Phantom Troupe.

Letting Catherine go, Angoulême headed downstairs. Sure enough, Victor had already left for his morning run. She’d grown used to his discipline ever since Forgen. Picking up a tea egg from the table, she peeled it as she read the note Victor had left behind.

“The tea eggs are delicious, but you made far too many.
After my run, I’ll go straight to the tavern to gather information. If you have nothing else, you can go to the market to see if you can find any of the ingredients Kalkstein needs. The consolidated list is under this note.
Also… be back before noon. I’ll cook something nice to celebrate our run of good luck.
Commander Wick”

After reading the note, a satisfied smile spread across Angoulême’s face. The last two Hanseatic commanders—Geralt had given her dignity and security, but Victor gave her recognition and a sense of accomplishment.