Episode 14
The news of Aunt Agne’s imprisonment left me both relieved and oddly unsettled.
“They’ve ordered her to pay us damages, but you know, right? She’s divorced now. She barely has enough to feed herself—there’s no way she has money left for us, Antonian.”
When her affair with Headmaster Arnold became public, Aunt Agne had been cast out immediately.
Since the entire fault lay with her, she hadn’t received a single coin of alimony when she was thrown out.
“Then…”
“Mm. We’re not getting paid.”
Forget a settlement—the compensation the court mandated had already slipped through our fingers.
Instead, her failure to follow through with the ruling would only extend her prison sentence.
The problem is still money.
Ceres’s gaze drifted to the stack of debt notices.
Noticing, Antonian’s voice dropped heavy with gloom.
“So… we really have to sell the shop, don’t we?”
The reimbursement of Yulia’s medical fees had only bought them time—it hadn’t solved anything. The debts still towered over them, and Antonian knew that well.
But…
“Even if we sell, I doubt it’ll clear everything.”
Ceres silently agreed.
The shop was in the very heart of the capital. Selling it would certainly bring in a hefty sum. But enough to erase their mountain of debt? Hardly.
“For now…”
Ceres stood abruptly.
“Where is this shop, again?”
“Two stews here!”
“Large for me!”
“Same!”
Delasi First Avenue—the beating heart of the Empire’s capital.
Lined with dazzling storefronts and luxurious boutiques, the street itself felt like a runway of wealth. If you wanted to know the Empire’s latest trends, you came to Delasi First Avenue.
Amid all that brilliance, one shop stood out for the wrong reasons.
Wedged between immaculate, polished buildings was a shabby little place, run-down and out of step with its neighbors.
The stew shop that earned nothing but scornful glares from surrounding merchants:
“Where Your Steps Come to Rest.”
A poetic name for a decidedly unpoetic establishment.
Inside…
“Damn it, my stomach’s on fire…”
“Told you to quit drinking like a maniac, dumbass.”
“Hey, that’s mine! Hands off, you bastard!”
“Oh yeah? Cutting in line, kid? Let’s see if you’re this bold when you’re bleeding out!”
The air inside was thick with curses and the sound of fists slamming on tables.
This was no ordinary clientele. Nearly every patron was a mercenary.
“Ahhh, this hits the spot!”
“I swear, I only drank that much yesterday so I could cure it with this!”
The shop had only one item on the menu: meat and vegetable stew.
From dawn, mercenaries crowded the place, desperate to ease their hangovers or fill their empty stomachs.
A steaming bowl of stew. That was all it took.
Some had been coming for five years, others for twenty—without missing a single day.
“Where Your Steps Come to Rest” was less a restaurant than a battlefield, packed daily with mercenaries seeking their soul food.
“Oi, where’s my stew?”
“Y-Yes, right away!”
In the middle of the chaos, one man in his late twenties scrambled nervously from table to table: Mark, the shop’s cook and only worker.
CRASH!
“You bastard! What did you just say?!”
“What, did I stutter? Prove me wrong, coward!”
Carrying out another tray, Mark froze as yet another brawl erupted. His face went pale.
Here we go again…
No matter how often it happened, the constant fights never grew easier to stomach. If anything, his fear only worsened.
“Who the hell splattered blood in my stew?! Was it you?!”
“You brain-dead prick, stop accusing me!”
The fight spread, tables overturned, dishes shattered, and the whole place descended into mayhem.
Mark trembled, retreating to a corner to wait out the storm—his usual survival tactic.
At least the regulars always paid for the damage before leaving.
Still, no wonder no one wanted to work here.
‘I-I’m sorry! I can’t do this anymore!’
‘Please, I quit! They’re terrifying!’
‘Eek! I’m out—I won’t last another minute in this hell!’
No one lasted a day. Most didn’t even make it to lunchtime.
And so Mark had been left alone, holding the shop together year after year.
Lord Gallen…
His eyes stung at the memory.
The late Baron Gallen Drowe had found him starving and half-dead on the streets and had handed him a free bowl of stew. He’d given him a job, a place to stay, and wages higher than anywhere else.
After the baron and his wife were killed in an accident, Mark had stayed. Out of gratitude. Out of loyalty.
And because he’d heard how dire things had become for the Drowe children—especially the sickly Lady Yulia. He wanted to be of use to them, somehow.
But each day tested his resolve.
CRASH!
“Kill that bastard!”
“Get him!”
Steel clashed, chairs flew, and Mark curled smaller in his corner, unsure how much longer he could endure.
And then—
“What a mess.”
“…?”
A young woman’s voice, clear and composed, cut through the din.
Mark flinched. No woman ever came here—at least, not one who sounded like that.
“Who…?”
He turned and saw her, standing right beside him, arms folded, watching the chaos with detached calm.
“…!”
His eyes widened. Recognition hit him like a hammer.
“L-Lady Ceres?!”
He’d only seen her once, but that face was unforgettable—shining platinum hair and eyes like amethyst fire.
And yet, he hadn’t recognized her immediately.
Because the girl before him was nothing like the timid child he remembered.
The old Ceres had clung nervously to her parents, flinching at every sound, her fragility so apparent even the mercenaries had softened their behavior around her.
But this Ceres?
“You there.”
“Y-Yes, ma’am?”
Mark leapt to his feet at her call.
“Hand me that.”
“…Eh?”
He blinked. She was pointing at the tray in his hands.
Why would she want a tray now? Surely she didn’t mean to serve food in the middle of this chaos?
“Lady Ceres, please—it’s dangerous right now, you should—”
Before he could finish, she snatched the tray, weighed it in her hands for a moment, then whipped it forward with startling force.
“Wh-What the—?!”
It flew like a discus, slicing through the air. With a sharp crack, it slammed squarely into the back of a mercenary’s skull.
“Guhh!”
He collapsed instantly, foaming at the mouth.
The shop fell into stunned silence.
Mercenaries froze mid-fight, then slowly turned toward the source.
And there she stood—arms crossed, perfectly composed, unflinching under their hostile stares.
Ceres.
Without a word, she extended her hand toward Mark again.
