Chapter 60
Even after the agreement wrapped up, Kal and Aria were still tearing into each other like rabid dogs, so I slipped out to the streets to avoid them.
As a Sword Master, I'd gotten permission to roam without escorts, but wandering around bare-faced felt too risky. So I disguised myself fully as Mir and headed out.
My aimless wandering led me straight to a tavern, of all places.
"...Isn't that Mir over there?"
"No way. Why would Mir come to a dump like this? Probably just some mercenary imitating her."
"Still... I've heard Mir's been spotted around here a lot."
"Pfft. Haven't you heard? She's not taking jobs anymore, gone completely off the grid. There were even rumors she was dead. No way she'd be boozing it up in a place like this."
"Yeah, guess you're right..."
I ignored the noisy whispers and sidelong glances from the crowd—like always—and plopped down in the corner of the bar. Sure enough, it was dead-on: I wasn't dead, and here I was, drinking my ass off.
The bartender crept over, eyeing me like he was trying to confirm if I was the real deal.
"What'll it be?"
"Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred."
My old standby order came out in a voice modulated low with a sigh.
The bartender's pupils shook. The murmurs around us swelled.
"Voice modulator too? Gotta be the real Mir."
"...Hm. But anyone could fake that much..."
I tuned out the rowdy chatter like white noise, same as always. Propping my feet on the barstool rung, I leaned back against the wall and let out a lazy sigh.
• When my head was really messed up, blending into a noisy crowd beat hiding in some quiet hole every time.
Chaotic.
My thoughts were spilling over, dripping everywhere.
Atara Kingdom's delegation. The hunting tournament. The swordsmanship contest. The war. Alessandro. Alessandro. Alessandro.
Damn it... Alessandro's the problem.
I pressed my forehead with a groan. Leo's sharp, feral cat face wouldn't leave my mind—nor would Alessandro's sated predator smirk in that photo after his conquest.
Shit! What if Leo really is Alessandro?
Memories of treating him like a pesky neighborhood kid made me clutch my head.
'I'm not eating! I said I don't wanna!'
'You little punk... Humans die without food, you idiot.'
'Fine! I'll starve to death! So just... mph! Don't, eat, guh—'
'You think I dragged your corpse around and nursed you back for fun? I'm helping you despite my own shit, so cut the crap.'
'Get lost. Fuck off. Die.'
'Ha... You know how expensive the ingredients are for these meds? Just stop fighting and behave for once...'
'Then why waste pricey stuff on my medicine? Just ditch me! Why help me? Answer—cough!'
'What, am I trash you can toss when you feel like it? Next time you don't eat nicely, I'll shove it down your throat.'
'Gasp, you, guh, dare order me around like this and think you'll get away with it!? Huh!? '
'You're so weak, you need exercise like this. Oh, more herbs over there. Go dig 'em up.'
'You psycho—guh, for real! You're just lazy! Get off my back! Ugh!'
'Nothing builds stamina like hauling fertilizer sacks. No sacks at home, so you're it. All for your own good.'
'You... I'll kill you someday!'
'You? I'd flick you dead. Say that after you bulk up and get strong—then maybe I'll pretend to be scared.'
Kid-me was way more immature than now, fouler-mouthed, and emotional as hell. Sure, remembering the original story and my past life bumped my mental age to around fifty now—more mature—but back then, actual thirteen-year-old me couldn't compare.
Meaning, when Leo went feral like a scrappy kitten, I'd stoop to his level pretty childishly.
Damn! What if he actually comes to kill me?
I screamed internally and slammed the vodka martini down my throat in one go.
Getting wasted would be nice, but I'd started drinking right at fifteen—liver tough as nails—and my body transcended human limits. No way I'd get buzzed on normal booze.
With the empty glass in front of me, I sighed heavily. The bartender shot me wary looks, so I beckoned him over. He hurried right up.
"Ha... Strongest vodka you've got."
"Uh, straight up? On the rocks...?"
"The bottle. No glass."
He fetched it with a dumbfounded stare. Watching me chug like a man who'd given up on life, he backed away in horror.
Shit...
• I slammed the bottle down with a thud and squeezed my eyes shut.
If Leo was just a prince, I could handle it somehow. As the daughter of Duke Crisis—power rivaling the imperial family and the temple—I outranked an Atara prince.
But if he's king, his status officially trumps mine!
That was the issue. Beat down anyone lower-ranked with my sword, no problem. But slice Atara's king? Instant diplomatic disaster.
Guess I can only pray Leo became some simple farmer tilling remote fields. No— even if he's Alessandro... as long as he doesn't show up disguised as a delegation like in the original story. Even if he does, if he doesn't recognize me... But if he does recognize me... shit! I'm his lifesaver—why am I even stressing this?
Sudden injustice hit me; I scowled and chugged more vodka.
Even if he figured out who I was back then, I couldn't assume Leo wouldn't come for my head.
'You! I'll really kill you!'
'You mad bastard! I'll definitely kill you!'
'I don't care about others—you'll die the worst death of all!'
His attitude back then? I could buy him becoming king just to off me.
I'd treated him like a bratty slave back when I was a kid, bossing him around. The urge to blast aura at past-me had me banging my head on the bar.
We'd gotten close by the end, but maybe his sudden obedience was a ploy to lower my guard.
And then—a presence pricked my overflowing thoughts, right on instinct.
...What the hell is this aura doing in a place like this?
A bit startled, I whipped around toward the door.
Rainer-level, maybe. But opposite his refined control—this was wild, savage energy rampaging toward the entrance.
Not my match, but a sudden powerhouse had me tensing, hand drifting to my sword.
Ding-a-ling.
The chime rang out as the door swung open. A tall figure cloaked head-to-toe in black robes stepped in.
Hmm.
I swallowed a grunt at the sight. Hood pulled low, not a single hair visible—total blackout.
Level: Sword Expert, just shy of Sword Master. Weapons: sword at the waist, dagger by the thigh, that's it...
I scanned him roughly for power. Suspicious getup and strong, but not a threat.
Fishy, sure—but coming to drink? Harmless.
Reason I couldn't look away? Something else.
...Lemon scent...
I stared blankly. Faded with time, yet etched in memory: that boy's bittersweet lemon fragrance.
It cut sharp through the tavern's booze stench and the drunks' sour reek, seizing my senses. Nostalgic.
...Leo?
Ridiculous thought. I gawked at the robed man as he scanned the room—then his face locked on me.
Hood shadowed everything but his lips, but I felt our eyes meet. His gaze raked me slow and sticky, hood be damned.
Those red lips curved. A predator's grin at spotting prey.
Chill racing down my spine, I spun away.
"Hah."
Even turned, all my senses locked on the newcomer. I heard his scoff and took another swig of vodka.
Finish fast and bail.
Thud.
And the source of it all? Plops right on the stool next to me.
...Next to me? Really?
I frowned, tilting my head.
This place had bar and tables—tables packed with groups, but barstools galore.
No need to squeeze next to the corner loner.
Likes corners... huh.
I ignored the now-overpowering lemon scent, fighting overanalysis. Fixing my eyes on the vodka—pulling away interest—just as...
Screech.
Stools scoot closer. Lemon dominates my nose.
Thud. His stool bumps mine.
He'd dragged it right up, inches from touching me.
Intimidating me...?
His presence loomed too close; I blinked uncomfortably.
He'd twisted toward me, elbow on the bar, staring hard at my masked face.
That gaze drew cold sweat.
Just... my weird outfit drawing eyes.
I rationalized. Heart pounded—not attraction's thrill, but instinct's chill dread spiking my pulse.
Play dumb.
Gut screamed: best move, pretend I don't know him.
To block any glance his way, I sighed deep—like burdened with woes—and lifted the vodka bottle.
"Tsk."
A low, honeyed voice tickled my ear. His pale neck flashed under the hood, snaring my gaze.
Black leather gloves hid it, but a graceful, long hand seized the bottle. Fingertips brushed mine lightly as he set it between us.
Hood hid his eyes, but sharp nose and flushed red lips—like a slice of forbidden fruit—were plain.
Those lips traced a lewd arc. Intent or habit? Something redder than lipstick licked slow across them, vanishing.
Feeling the vibration from his throat so close, I realized anew.
"Just booze on an empty stomach? You'll hurl."
This man's scent wasn't the fresh, tart boy from the cabin. It was a honed, sensual adult's allure.
No mirror needed—I felt my pupils quake.
This close? No ignoring him.
His purpose here: me.