The next morning, after finishing his milk, Victor stepped out of the house with a spiced boiled egg clenched between his teeth, another one in hand as he peeled the shell. He intended to greet this beautiful morning with a city jog—healthy, energetic, full of life.
Last night's "lesson" had turned into an experiment. Angoulême wasn't the type of girl to admit defeat easily, so when the first egg produced no reaction, she put in a second, a third, a fourth…
Seeing where this was going, the young man rubbed his nose and let her battle on stubbornly while he went to bed early to make up for the sleep he'd missed the night before.
Obviously there was never any flash of light in the end. But after adding the salt and other spices Victor had prepared beforehand and set aside, she still managed to successfully "brine" an entire pot of spiced eggs.
When Victor got up that morning and witnessed his troupe member's "success," he took two for breakfast, feeling oddly fulfilled and pleased.
There was nothing to be disappointed about. Statistically speaking, for Angoulême—as the second person in this monster-ridden world to attempt miraculous alchemy—this outcome was perfectly normal. Discovering talent would have been the real surprise.
After all, even in alchemy's original world, miraculous alchemy belonged to the chosen few.
Victor hadn't let Angoulême test it on a whim. It had been a decision he'd weighed for a long time. First, she was one of the closest people he'd had since arriving in this world. Second, if she could use alchemy, then with her natural temperament she might awaken some kind of "voice of materials," and from there quickly surpass him and become an alchemist in her own right.
That was Victor's first working theory: people with cleaner hearts, with a more natural way of being, might find it easier to hear the voices of alchemical ingredients. His grandmother was naturally scatterbrained, so she could hear the voice of all things. His third aunt was pure-hearted, so she could hear the voice of minerals.
As for him… his thoughts were too complicated, so he couldn't hear anything at all.
Just imagine it—if you could hear the voice of a material, and it could tell you in its own words what it did, what it cured, what it was best transformed into. Your progress in alchemy would be astonishingly fast, because you'd never use the wrong ingredient.
Unfortunately, Angoulême didn't have that miraculous gift—
…
Light on his feet, Victor ran while mapping out the next few days in his head, until he passed the headquarters of the Order of the Flaming Rose and a neat line of paupers caught his eye.
Since ancient times there have been many kinds of good deeds. Some may vary with local morals and customs, but one remains timeless: feeding the hungry.
Right in front of him, the knights—organized by Sir Jacques—were handing out bread. The Grand Master himself even stepped in, placing loaves directly into the hands of destitute citizens. It was charity made visible, a gesture of mercy with unmistakable symbolism.
And judging by the grateful looks, the practiced way the poor accepted their portions, it was obvious this wasn't the first time. After the bread was distributed, the crowd didn't scatter. Instead, they gathered before a raised platform.
By then Victor was already prepared. Sure enough, the tall, powerfully built Jacques climbed up and began:
"All of you gathered before me… starving, afraid… some mothers still clutching their children to their chests.
People of the Temple Quarter—poverty and plague have driven you into despair! And so you now turn to the Eternal Fire for aid, and the Eternal Fire will answer you through my hands…"
There was no need to listen any longer. Victor moved on, because he could already imagine the rest.
About the plague, Jacques would explain practical measures of public hygiene—cleaning homes, burning items the sick had touched, and so on—then wrap it all in religious language.
And about poverty… it was all the fault of the nonhumans. Those elves and dwarves. They used schemes to steal honest men's jobs, then used loans to snatch the bread from good people's hands.
The claims were extreme and unreasonable, but that was exactly the answer the crowd wanted. Any other explanation was too complicated, too dangerous to confront.
To any human trapped inside the situation, that kind of rhetoric could feel like it made perfect sense.
Even Angoulême thought Jacques seemed like a decent man—pitying the poor, protecting the weak, speaking in a way that sounded reasonable.
But Victor knew Jacques was lighting a fire. Maybe it would be only a spark, but sparks were how long-stored powder kegs exploded.
Victor couldn't tell whether Jacques meant to do it or was simply ignorant and reckless, but the warning from Victor's previous life screamed at him all the same: this flame would set the Northern Kingdoms burning red-hot.
A dangerous man.
Victor quickened his pace, putting as much distance between them as he could.
…
At the same time, sunlight poured into the house, turning the room a warm gold.
Angoulême sat by the second-floor window, her right hand propping up her cheek against the frame as she stared blankly at the street below—people coming and going in the morning rush. With her left hand, she idly teased Catherine.
I failed, she thought.
The captain always treated her like an idiot, but Angoulême felt she'd understood plenty. Like that nonsense "chant" yesterday that wasn't even a proper nursery rhyme, coaxing her into "making spiced eggs" and all that—she wasn't stupid enough not to know that normal cooking didn't glow.
Not to mention all those times camping out in the wild when he didn't even bother hiding it: he'd set up a pot, started boiling things, and called it alchemy. Normal alchemy didn't glow either, all right?!
Back in Ellander, when she'd gone to steal formulas, she'd actually watched how people used proper instruments and equipment for alchemy. The captain's method—dumping things into a big pot and stewing them—made absolutely no sense.
So she knew it. That kind of alchemy was the captain's core secret, like that herb pouch that could hold far more than it should.
And that was why she was so disappointed she'd failed.
The captain trusted her. He wanted to pass his core secret to her.
And she'd let him down.
Catherine gave a soft cry, fluttering her wings as if to comfort her.
Warmth spread through Angoulême's chest. "At least I still have you," she murmured, then suddenly lunged with both arms and hugged the startled Catherine tight before the bird could dodge.
Catherine struggled a little at first, then went still, switching tactics to peck and tap with her hard beak until Angoulême's ear tickled.
After playing around for a good while, Angoulême patted her own cheeks to wake herself up and told herself: even if this was a small failure, I, Angoulême Corion, am still the Phantom Troupe's indispensable chief enforcer.
She released Catherine, then went downstairs. Sure enough, Victor was already out on his jog. Ever since Vergen, she'd gotten used to his discipline.
Angoulême picked up one of the spiced eggs from the table and started peeling it, eating as she read the note Victor had left behind.
"The spiced eggs are delicious, but you made way too many.
After my jog, I'm going straight to the tavern to gather information. If you've got nothing to do, go to the market and buy things—see if you spot any of the materials Kalkstein wants. I put the consolidated list under this note.
Also… be back home before noon so we can regroup. I'll cook something good to celebrate how smoothly things are going.
Captain Vic"
After finishing the note, Angoulême couldn't help smiling with satisfaction.
Of her two hanza captains, Geralt had given her dignity and a sense of safety.
And Victor gave her—
Recognition, and the feeling that she could accomplish something.