Chapter 127
Chapter 127
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 126
Chapter Title: Beggar Gritz (2) - Chasing the Rolling Barrel Over the Wall
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There are things in this world that mysteriously double their focus when you veer off the main path.
Like playing games during exam season, or flipping through an old album tucked away in a corner while sorting through moving boxes.
Their concentration-boosting effect is so profound that in a split second, you forget what you were originally doing and dive headfirst into the new distraction.
Grace's current state was something like that.
Just moments ago, her mind had been crammed full of worries about her situation and her future. But now, not a trace of those trivial thoughts remained in her head.
A lone oak barrel rolling around wasn't enough—no, this one was using a stick like a leg, hopping here and there with reckless abandon. It had that kind of impact.
'Was that an arm and a staff earlier? Is there a person inside? Why? How?'
Grace had always been the curious type, the kind who had to poke her nose in to satisfy her itch.
She'd tried to catch the barrel at first, maybe talk to it. But once she started chasing it, she realized it wasn't going to be easy.
"But why is it so fast!?"
De-gurururur!
The barrel rolling across the ground was moving at an insane speed.
Even Grace, who was pretty confident in her sprinting, was giving it her all just to keep it barely in sight.
But Grace didn't give up.
'This path has lots of obstacles. If I catch it when it pauses like before, I can get it!'
Sure enough, not long after, a fairly large step appeared in the barrel's path ahead.
A big one, too—about knee-high for an adult man.
She was certain that would stop the barrel dead. And right at that moment...
Pabat!
A stick shot out from the rolling barrel, smacked the ground, and with the momentum of its roll, the barrel launched into the air, landing squarely on top of the step.
Not sideways, but upright.
Like a high jumper landing on both feet. As Grace stared dumbfounded at the tall, vertical barrel, an arm emerged from it, wiggling the staff side to side.
No words were spoken, but somehow, Grace understood instantly.
-Heh.
"...Ha!"
A smile crept across Grace's lips.
It was the grin from back in the days before all the shaman nonsense, before the heavy, annoying title weighed her down.
The kind of smile that made onlookers click their tongues and mutter, 'There she goes again, losing it.'
"Alright, let's see who wins."
Crack, crunch, pop, stretch. Grace loosened up her body.
If there'd been a neutral third party there with a cool head, they might've pointed out, 'That barrel seems to recognize you, so why not just talk to it like this?' But sadly, no such person existed.
Not that it would've mattered anyway.
This was already a contest.
Tat!
Without a word on who started first, Grace kicked off the ground as the barrel resumed rolling.
The difference from the previous chase? Grace wasn't following behind anymore.
Instead of mirroring the barrel's path, she bolted down a side alley.
It looked like she'd given up at first glance, but the true intent revealed itself soon enough.
The barrel barreled ahead to the right front.
Like a predator lunging at its prey's flank, Grace's body pounced toward the barrel.
Alleys weren't straightforward race tracks.
They twisted, turned, split, and connected into a complex maze. Predicting the opponent's route and taking a shortcut was fair game.
'Got you this time!'
Exploiting her hometown advantage to perfection, Grace launched a flawless ambush—yet she never let her guard down.
Considering the insane maneuverability the barrel had shown earlier, it was too soon to relax.
And sure enough, as the staff slammed the ground, the barrel leaped into the air.
But no matter how slick the dodge, it was useless if anticipated.
Grace had held back just enough instead of going full throttle, allowing her to adjust her trajectory on the fly. The barrel, obeying gravity, plummeted right toward her.
Or it should have.
Kwajik!
The sound from above her head made Grace doubt her ears for a second.
Then she looked up—and doubted her eyes too.
High in the alley sky.
The barrel hung suspended in the air.
A thin staff had pierced the wall like a nail, propping up the entire barrel. Moments later, it used the staff as a pivot to leap even higher.
Grace's capture plan crumbled before a double jump she'd never even imagined. The barrel landed gracefully atop the high wall, then waggled its staff side to side once more with a cocky heh.
As if to say, 'Go ahead and flail—you're still in my palm.' Grace charged again, and the barrel vanished over the wall, escaping once more.
It took quite a while for Canillian's servants—out searching for the overdue shaman as the holiday waned—to spot Grace hopping walls like a monkey.
"Shaman, this is terribly inconvenient. The family head granted you a full, free holiday out of trust in you, yet you're shattering that trust so lightly—"
Grace let the butler's lengthy scolding flow in one ear and out the other.
It wasn't worth much attention anyway.
If the people in this mansion truly cared about Grace as an 'individual' and spoke out of worry, she might've felt a pang of guilt. But their relationship wasn't like that.
Imagine a cow slated for slaughter only for special guests. Does it owe thanks to the ranch hand for pampering it until the day? Should it be grateful for being let out of the cramped pen to romp in the fields?
The answer's no.
All the rewards and treats boiled down to merchandise management.
Letting it exercise properly kept the cow from wasting away under stress or going mad and harming itself.
So they just turned the livestock loose in the fields. If the cow didn't return to the pen on time, the ranch hand fretted—not the owner.
The owner only got upset if the cow tried fleeing the farm altogether, dreading its slaughter day.
And Grace had no intention of dodging her 'slaughter day' or bolting from this place.
So she could brush off the butler's fretful nagging without a care.
No matter his feelings, as long as the ranch owner—the family head—didn't revoke it personally, her weekly holiday was guaranteed.
"...Please be more careful in the future."
The butler seemed to realize that too; the brief emotion in his voice faded quickly.
Just like how he'd greeted her that morning.
Politely. Elegantly. Without a shred of humanity.
Free from the lecture, Grace returned to her room and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The mansion was quiet, her room especially so.
And silence was perfect bait for dragging out useless thoughts.
Her future, the complicated gazes directed her way, the fact that she couldn't even comfortably visit the orphanage—her real home anymore. Problems that only grew more depressing the more she dwelled on them, with no answers in sight.
In that sense, pondering 'How on earth do I catch that infuriating oak barrel?' was brilliant.
It was a worry worth obsessing over, one that didn't ache her heart no matter how long she stewed.
"First things first, gathering intel is key."
And so her holiday returned.
Thanks to six days of 'training,' her speech had reverted to polite tones. Grace muttered to herself.
Loud and enunciated enough that a few passersby glanced over, but they spotted her attire and quickly averted their eyes.
Grace ignored them.
When a bigger issue loomed, petty concerns could wait.
She'd delivered the 'gifts' to the orphanage properly and parted on a light, weightless note.
Keep flashing that cheerful smile steadily, and it'd ease the burden on those left behind, come what may.
Far better than some grim image of a 'girl trapped in the mansion, resenting the family that sold her.'
She'd done what she could, and time remained. Now, this time was purely for her.
The townsfolk, who at first eyed the approaching 'shaman' with clear unease, soon responded earnestly—whether moved by her passion or just wanting to avoid more hassle.
"A rolling oak barrel? Never seen it myself, but I've heard rumors. Apparently it performs tricks in crowded squares and gets food or coin."
"An arm with a staff pops out, waving around, but no one's ever seen inside, weirdly enough."
"That barrel's a mystery. Oak casks are tough, sure, but it bounces around like that without a scratch?"
Her inquiries turned up no one who knew the barrel's secrets.
Not where it came from, why someone was inside, what they looked like, or sounded like. Nothing solid circulated.
But the less they knew, the brighter Grace's eyes sparkled, the fiercer the fire in her chest burned.
The more she learned, the stranger and more fascinating the barrel became.
She wanted to catch it. Face to face. See what it looked like, hear its voice. Talk to it.
What better distraction was there?
After a brief ponder, Grace opted for a time-tested method.
"Everyone, if you spot the rolling oak barrel, please let me know. I'll reward anyone who brings me to where it was seen—handsomely. And naturally, the more helpers, the easier the search."
Soon after, searchers combed the city for the rolling barrel.
Crowd tactics were a genius strategy.