Chapter 143
Chapter 143
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 142
Chapter Title: Musician Hamel (Hamel) (2) - Invitation
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Originally, the woman had no real hobbies to speak of.
She enjoyed showers, but that was more like a ritual than a hobby. She'd tried to pick up other pastimes, only to fail repeatedly.
For this woman, something that could finally be called a hobby had emerged for the first time.
～♪ ♫ ♪ ♫～
Every morning, she sat by the window and listened to the young man's performance.
The pieces he played varied each day.
Sometimes grand and majestic, other times light and upbeat, and yet others wistful and distant.
None of them had any shortcomings or awkward moments.
Even she, who knew little about music, could instantly tell his playing was extraordinary.
And she wasn't the only one who felt that way. Among the city's passersby, quite a few stopped for a short while to listen to the young man play.
Considering that most residents of Mist Heaven lived as if constantly chased by something, this was an utterly strange and unusual occurrence.
Watching the faces of those deeply moved by his music, the woman suddenly felt an urge to hear his playing from closer up.
She half-unconsciously reached for her mask but shook her head and stepped out of the building in her true appearance, heading toward the fountain.
Instead of mingling with the crowd surrounding the young man by the fountain, she hung back a bit and took a spot in a nearby alley.
～♪ ♫ ♪ ♫～
Up close, the music was even clearer, brimming with an indescribable vitality.
She closed her eyes and immersed herself in the appreciation for a while.
Once the performance for the day ended, the young man took off his hat and bowed to the audience.
"That's all for today. I hope you all enjoyed it."
Clap clap clap!
The crowd gladly applauded him, and some even tossed in coins as payment.
The woman rummaged through her pockets, thinking she should pay too, but stopped when she realized she hadn't brought her wallet. She turned toward the basket.
That's when her eyes widened at the sight of its contents.
The basket was empty.
There were a few coins, but she knew they weren't enough even for a day's living expenses.
Despite the many claps and cheers for his performance, hardly anyone had given him real compensation.
She thought it was an outrageous slight given his skill, but the young man retrieved the basket with a perfectly smooth expression.
She watched his retreating back with complicated eyes as he thanked the audience and left.
The woman grew worried.
'...If his earnings are this poor, it'll affect his performances.'
In Mist Heaven, people ruining their health from overwork in impoverished conditions were as common as dirt.
For the young man's music, which cleansed the soul just by listening, she wouldn't mind paying dozens of bills per show.
And she had more than enough means to do so.
The problem was how to hand over the money.
'Handing it to him directly at the fountain won't work.'
There were too many eyes around.
Once or twice might pass as the whim of a rich eccentric, but pulling out large sums after every performance would surely spread rumors.
She wasn't fazed by ordinary thugs, but drawing that kind of attention didn't appeal to her. Wearing a mask to approach was ridiculous too.
As she pondered using her underlings to deliver it indirectly, she remembered several decent bars managed by her organization.
She headed straight home and pulled a round metal object from a drawer.
It resembled a pocket watch at a glance, but it was actually a magic tool with communication functions.
Of course, "communication" just meant exchanging simple signal tones over distance—not free conversation—but even that was rare and expensive, beyond the reach of commoners or even the middle class.
Beep-
A sound like a flute but far colder exchanged a few times.
After merely five minutes, someone cautiously knocked on the front door of her house.
She opened it to find a man in a black suit bowing stiffly.
"You called for me, Boss?"
"Yes, Leo. I have a job for you."
True to his background as a retired soldier, the man called Leo reeked of blood and iron.
He seemed ready to start a bloodbath in the back alleys at her command.
But upon hearing her actual request, he showed faint bewilderment.
"You want to hire a musician?"
"Yes, top-tier treatment. Oh, and absolutely no strong-arming. Bring him politely."
"......"
Leo fell silent for a moment.
Not out of defiance, but to confirm he'd understood correctly.
"'Politely' meaning... the normal, polite way?"
Those unaware of the context might laugh at the foolish question, but given what happened to everyone the organization had "politely" brought in before, it was perfectly reasonable.
Realizing this, she reaffirmed.
"Not our usual meaning—the common, everyday one. Make sure no one twists it midway and goes overboard."
She was the organization's boss, and Leo was one of the few close aides who knew her true face.
A bar manager was mid-level at best in the organization.
Someone that low wouldn't normally even see her or Leo, so there was a risk of the orders getting distorted in transmission.
She emphasized carefully to prevent mishaps.
Her attitude, like handling a priceless treasure, made Leo realize how seriously she took this.
"Understood. I'll handle it right away."
Leo left as if on a grave mission, and soon results followed.
"Failed to hire him as the bar's exclusive musician, but we contracted for three evenings a week, performing during dinner hours. However... we disagreed on compensation."
"I said top-tier pay. Wasn't that enough?"
"The opposite. He insisted he couldn't accept so much and demanded the same as the other house musicians. It felt like he'd refuse the contract entirely if we forced more, so we had to go with his amount."
"...I see."
"Shall I try renegotiating now?"
"No need. Can't force it if he doesn't want it."
It might have been wariness of the excessive sum or an artist's pride and stubbornness.
A twinge of regret at her "gift" being rejected, but the woman soothed it with the thought of hearing his music in a proper venue more often.
"When's the first performance?"
"Tomorrow evening."
"Right. ...I'm looking forward to it."
Among Mist Heaven's bars, there was an unwritten rule.
No establishment below a certain "class" could use the word "mist" in its name.
The criteria for class varied: sales, quality and variety of liquor stocked, flashy facilities, and who backed them.
Breaking through that invisible ceiling was tough, and owners who did were haughty and proud.
Laiton Forger, owner and bartender of the Foggy Goblet, was no exception.
Unlike run-of-the-mill tavern keepers, he saw himself as upper crust, backed by his wealth and connections tangible and otherwise.
Cops who harassed small merchants under inspection pretexts turned meek lambs before him. Factory owners and landlords fawned with smiles, hoping for useful info from his lips.
In this post-revolution republic where nobles lost power daily, Laiton viewed himself as a de facto lord.
The Foggy Goblet was his domain, employees his vassals.
Thus, when told to hire some nameless street musician on the spot, he recoiled strongly.
"Outrageous. Hiring an untested rookie with no resume as exclusive musician? And at pay our top performer doesn't even get? The staff will revolt, and it could tarnish the bar's prestige."
He didn't bother adding that it'd tank sales and organization cut, figuring she'd get it.
But she wouldn't budge.
"I know. I know all that, so just do it."
"Brother Blake, please tell me why. Did I do something to offend you?"
His voice tinged with genuine grievance, Laiton pleaded earnestly.
Blake: the organization exec overseeing bars. Even with a city permit, no booze business thrived in Mist Heaven without his nod—a heavyweight.
Someone Laiton shared drinks with, on brotherly terms.
Blake sighed.
"What grudge could I have against you? It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
"What else? Orders from above."
"Pardon?"
Laiton's face went blank, mouth agape.
Then paled rapidly.
Blake was an exec.
Only the three top brass—or someone higher—could order him.
"Telling you this much is just to keep you from griping and causing trouble. Don't pry more or blab. I can't protect you if things go south."
Under Blake's low warning, Laiton could only nod in submission.
After that came tense hours.
Fearing underlings might botch it, Laiton hunted the street musician himself, practically escorting him and politely offering the contract.
He even felt dizzy when the guy refused the lavish pay, but no backlash came.
Just an addendum: one guest would visit, so serve discreetly without drawing notice.
Polishing already spotless glasses, Laiton stole glances at said guest.
'Who the hell is she?'
A beauty with flowing purple hair, exuding a languid, mature allure.
Her eyepatch was odd but added decadent charm rather than ugliness.
'Top brass mistress? Family?'
Laiton wasn't alone; other patrons eyed her relentlessly, seeking an opening to chat.
But she ignored them completely, gazing intently only at the musician prepping on stage.
Noticing, the men turned to the stage with envious, frustrated looks.
As if thinking, 'How good can this nobody be?' the young man raised the flute to his lips.
～♪ ♫ ♪ ♫～
Rich, brilliant tones from a single flute—unbelievable variety.
Self-proclaimed music aficionados murmured in quiet awe and surprise.
Those chatting or drinking indifferently fell silent one by one, ears turning to the music until the bar filled solely with flute melody.
After a performance shy of thirty minutes, the young man bowed hat in hand, met with whistles, cheers, and applause from around the bar.
Some approached him post-stage to talk, but halted abruptly.
The purple-haired woman glided forward first, hair swaying softly.
"Wonderful performance. Care for a drink and a chat?"
Men nearby shot jealous glares at her alluring invitation.
And amid them, the young man replied.
"Thank you for the kind offer. But I have prior plans with the children tonight, so regrettably, I must decline. Good evening."
With polite, firm refusal leaving no room for argument, he left the bar lightheartedly.
As everyone stared in shock, the lone woman blinked.
"...Huh?"
It took a fair bit before her dazed murmur—sigh or realization—slipped out.