Limbus Pit Ecological Report, Part 1

"My Lady! The young master... The young master isn't breathing!"

"Ah!"

Baroness Rinie Nihilit gasped and opened her eyes. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest.

Waking from her nightmare, the first thing she did was look for her child. Fortunately, her beloved youngest son was sleeping peacefully in his cradle. The tiny, fragile thing—whom she once feared might stop breathing at any moment—had finally put on some weight, his features softening into a cute, healthy roundness.

It had been six weeks since this little life entered the world, finally reaching what would have been his fortieth week of gestation. Now that her youngest had caught up to the development of a normal newborn, his breathing had grown steady and even.

Soft, rhythmic breathing.

Rinie listened to the sound for a long time. Only then did her racing heart begin to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠settle.

It was that nightmare again.

Though things had improved, the memory of that terrifying night when her baby's life hung in the balance still haunted her dreams. In those nightmares, Julian was never there, and Rinie was forced to watch this precious life slip away over and over again. Whenever that happened, she would desperately reject the horrific dream and drag herself back to reality.

She turned her head to the other side of the room. On the small bed, the blankets were neatly folded. It was where Julian, the eldest son of the Nihilit family and a healer, should have been.

Rinie wasn't alarmed by his absence. He had spent the entire night watching over them, only to slip away quietly at dawn.

"..."

She didn't know why, but she suddenly missed him. Rinie pulled herself out of bed.

A month and a half had passed since our family welcomed its newest member. Freed had finally reached forty weeks—meaning he was now at the same developmental stage as a normal newborn! Ah, since this world has a Western-style culture, I suppose he's technically zero years old. Either way, a lot had happened to get us here. I can't write ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down every single detail, but I can say with absolute certainty that our youngest put me through absolute hell.

Good job, me. Pat on the back.

There were times when Freed's weight dropped, making my heart skip a beat, but fortunately, it was just because of a massive bowel movement. Man, that kid could poop.

Freed is finally stable.

Of course, just because he was six weeks old and had reached full-term equivalent didn't mean he no longer needed care. But since he was out of the critical premature phase, there was no need for round-the-clock, high-intensity monitoring. It was enough to make sure he was eating well and playing happily in the evenings.

It's about time I head back to the Red-Light District.

Sick children and recovering mothers weren't exclusive to my household. There were still plenty of people out there in the world who needed a protagonist's saving grace. Before returning to the slums, I headed down to the kitchen to pack a lunch for the first time in a while.

Looks like the coast is clear.

On my way to the kitchen, I made sure no one was around. It was still the crack of dawn. Back when I lived in the annex, I never had to walk on eggshells. No one was watching, and no one cared. But ever since moving to the main estate, even going to the kitchen required caution. There was someone who highly disapproved of me stepping foot in there.

Maybe I'll make today's lunch out of yesterday's leftovers...

I was quietly planning the menu when I reached the kitchen. Just as my hand was about to touch the doorknob, a sudden cough sounded from behind me.

"Julian."

I turned around to find my mother, Rinie, standing at the end of the hallway. Seeing the furrow in her brow, I already knew what she was going to say.

"I believe I told you the kitchen is off-limits."

"My apologies, Mother."

I immediately bowed my head in apology. At my swift submission, her lips trembled ever so slightly.

A few months ago, when she was deeply moved by my cooking, I thought I had been granted a pass. Apparently not. Eating a delicious meal was one thing; seeing her son get grease on his hands was an entirely different matter. Ever since that day, she had taken to scolding me whenever I wandered toward the kitchen. Just like now.

Mother looked out the window, avoiding my gaze, and let out a deep sigh.

"...I understand your intentions. But you are now the eldest son of the House of Nihilit. People are watching, and you must carry yourself with dignity."

"I am sorry, Mother. I was thoughtless. It won't happen again."

"You say that, and yet... Sigh. Never mind."

Of course, this was our twentieth time having this exact conversation. Mother knew perfectly well that there was no soul in my apology. Even so, she always ended up letting me off the hook.

"Only for today."

"Thank you, Mother."

I felt a bit guilty, but I had a feeling we would be playing this game for the rest of our lives. Cooking is a core part of my identity, after all. Still...

Thank you for scolding me.

It actually felt nice. It proved she truly viewed me as her own flesh and blood, not just an adopted son.

Today was my first day heading back to the Red-Light District in a while. To check the monorail and tram schedules, I opened the newspaper's transit announcement section.

That line is blocked due to the heavy snow, and this one takes too long of a detour...

I thought, studying the transit map overlaid on the city layout. The gravity of this city flowed strictly according to social class. It wasn't a perfectly vertical drop, but rather a pyramid structure where the center rose higher than the rest.

The trams won't be running for a while because of the snow, so I'll have to rely on the monorail... The direct line is...

My finger traced down the route map.

Sanctum Hill. The heart of the city, the sacred sanctuary of the nobility looking down on everything. This was my starting point.

A little further down was Civitas Square. The commoners' plaza, serving as the city's midsection. This was where I would transfer.

And at the very bottom lay Limbus Pit. Located at the foot of the mountain and the outer fringes, it was the gutter for the unchosen. That was my destination.

Okay. There's a monorail on Line 14 at eight o'clock today.

Naturally, the Red-Light District was located deep within Limbus Pit. The commute alone would take a solid two hours. Just thinking about the suffocating crowds at the transfer station in Civitas Square made my humanity drain away.

What gives? Why is my commute pattern exactly the same as my past life, even in a completely different world?

Well, there was one difference. Instead of commuting from the outskirts to the center, I was going from the center to the outskirts.

As I was wrapping up my thoughts and preparing to leave, my father stopped me.

"Julian. You said you were heading back down there today, correct?"

I turned around at the front door to find my father standing there.

"I've had a car prepared outside. Take it."

"A car... sir?"

Looking out, I saw the vehicle my father usually used for his own commute.

"If I take that, how will you get to work, Father?"

"I bought a new one."

Ah. He used me as an excuse to buy a new car. No wonder the newspaper's automotive section was always open on his desk whenever I visited his study lately.

"Just to be sure... did Mother approve of this?"

"...My apologies. I had to use your name a little."

I could easily picture the scene. He probably put on a dramatic performance for Mother, saying something like, 'How can a father sleep peacefully when his son is walking all the way down to the gutter?' Even in an era where the patriarch's authority was absolute, one could not simply ignore the lady of the house. Especially when it came to major expenses, a proper justification and permission were required.

Well, it was a win-win situation for both of us, so I decided to view it as a mutually beneficial arrangement.

"I don't mind at all."

"Thank you. I was able to purchase it recently thanks to the quinine shares you registered under my name. Don't feel burdened, and use it every day."

He spoke nonchalantly, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. Was he happy about the new car, or was he proud that he could buy one for his son? I decided it was both.

"Thank you, Father."

"Can't you call me 'Dad' at times like this?"

"Thank you, Father."

"...Right."

I gratefully accepted my father's kindness.

Stepping outside, a black, boxy sedan—the kind you'd see in late 19th-century black-and-white photographs—was waiting in front of the manor. It featured a long running board beneath the doors for stepping in and out, brass accents here and there, and intricate engravings on the door handles. To anyone, it was a vintage luxury limousine.

Though, by this world's standards, it probably wasn't considered "vintage."

But is it safe? Really?

My concern lay elsewhere. The exposed wire-spoke wheels reminiscent of a bicycle, the long copper exhaust pipe running along the side, and the blue embers of the magic stone engine visible through the front grille. They looked a bit sketchy. To a doctor's eyes, they looked like a skinless leg bone, exposed blood vessels, and a heart beating between ribs.

Well, that was probably just because I didn't know much about cars. I had to trust that the dwarves built it safely.

I stepped onto the running board and climbed into the back seat.

Oh, the smell of leather.

The moment I sat down, I felt how well-broken-in it was. It had that distinct comfort of a seat someone had sat in for a long time. It didn't take long to realize that the familiar scent lingering in the leather was my father's.

Wait, who's driving?

My father's driver was the head butler. Naturally, the butler would be driving the new car. Then who was driving this one?

I looked toward the driver's seat. A dense metal partition separated the back seat from the front. Beyond it, I saw an unfamiliar back. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Sensing my gaze, the driver met my eyes through the rearview mirror. He turned around and greeted me through the partition.

"I am Otto. I will be in charge of driving this vehicle and serving as your bodyguard from now on, Young Master."

"I look forward to working with you."

That was the end of our conversation. Ideally, I would have preferred someone more talkative. Someone with great reactions would have been even better.

"..."

"..."

Through the rearview mirror, I could practically read Otto's thoughts.

— Our social statuses are too different, so please, let's not get close.

I knew that look all too well. It was the exact same look military drivers gave to the company commander sitting in the back seat. I had seen it plenty of times from the passenger seat in my past life.

Alright, then. I won't bother you.

The car descended toward Limbus Pit in an awkward silence.

My takeaway from riding in a limousine for the first time in both of my lives: expensive cars really are better in every way, from ride comfort to speed.

When we started, the limousine's windows were pristine. But as we descended further down the city, the glass grew dirtier. In tandem, the white marble of Sanctum Hill gave way to the gray brick of Civitas Square, which gradually blackened.

Soon, a single, repetitive scenery began to play outside the window.

Underneath the overpasses, long lines stretched into the dark shadows. Around the necks of the people in line hung tags, like labels indicating the quality of livestock.

[Transfer], [Quarantine], [Debt]...

"Transfer" was just a polite euphemism; the direction was always one-way. Downward. As if the city were excreting waste it couldn't digest, the sick, the disabled, and the bankrupt silently marched down toward Limbus Pit.

The iron masks of the soldiers escorting them showed no emotion whatsoever. Indifference toward one's neighbors was a mandatory virtue in this city.

Tap, tap.

While we were waiting for a signal, someone tapped on the car window. I saw a pair of dirty fingers. It was a child.

In his hand, he held not a tin can for begging, but a crumpled piece of paper. His eyes pleaded with me. As I reached out to roll down the window, the driver spoke while watching me through the rearview mirror.

"Young Master. Please do not roll down the window."

Since he was my bodyguard before he was my driver, he did not permit me to open the window.

"The collection squad won't like it either. It will only disrupt their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠work."

Collection squad. The words rolled around in my mind.

The next moment, an iron-masked soldier grabbed the child's wrist. The child didn't scream. It wasn't because he didn't know how, but because he knew it was pointless.

The iron mask fastened something around the child's neck. It was a small metal tag.

[Unregistered]

Just like that, the child became part of the line. The soldiers who dragged him away bowed repeatedly toward our car as if apologizing.

Watching the scene, what I felt was not superiority, but discomfort. I adjusted my gloves over my lap once more.

...The number of patients is growing.

In this city, the reasons why the protagonist must be kind are always presented in the most horrific ways.

Entering the Red-Light District, a landscape resembling a 19th-century London Chinatown unfolded. I didn't know if Chinatowns even existed back then, but regardless, that was the vibe.

The limousine pulled to a stop beneath a massive archway. I was greeted by red pillars with peeling paint and a dragon sculpture with a broken neck.

Inhale... exhale.

I took a deep breath inside the car.

Returning to these streets after six weeks, they were as unchanged as ever, filled with the stench of sewage and the acrid smell of burning kerosene. Of course, the air inside the city walls was generally poor no matter where you went. But as if to prove there was always a rock bottom, the air quality grew exponentially worse the further down you went.

Yet, this lung-stabbing stench of the slums brought a strange sense of certainty—a feeling that I had returned to where I belonged.

...Ugh, the smell.

I pulled out my Crow Mask and put it on. I hadn't originally intended to plagiarize the plague doctor look, but after chasing various practical functions, I ended up right back at the Crow Mask. I guess this is what they call convergent evolution.

Whew... that's better.

I took a deep breath of the herbal scent packing the bird's beak. For a brief moment, I felt as though I had escaped the city's rotten air. Though, in reality, I had only escaped the smell.

Wearing the mask, I stepped out of the car.

Every time I come here, it really feels like Chinatown.

Unlike other districts of the Empire, the buildings in the Red-Light District followed the architectural style of the beastman culture. Roofs with eaves curving sharply toward the sky, pillars with faded red paint peeling away, and lanterns hanging in every alleyway. This was a unique landscape found only in this particular corner of Limbus Pit.

"I will park the car and come right back down, Young Master."

"Thank you, Otto."

Otto bowed and drove the car back up toward Civitas Square. Since there was nowhere to park in these slums, we had to resort to this tedious method. I walked toward the clinic with my mask on.

On the way to the clinic, beneath a wall bearing the faded traces of the character for 'Good Fortune' (福), several lines of black chalk marks were layered over one another. This was a sort of bamboo forest where the local residents communicated anonymously—or perhaps, the Red-Light District's very own community gallery.

Limbus Pit is open for business as usual today.

A slimy hatred directed toward Sanctum Hill, and a bitter jealousy toward Civitas Square. Today, Limbus Pit was spinning just fine.

Taking another deep breath of the herbal scent inside my beak, I hurried my steps toward the clinic once more.