Incidentally, there was a certain man at that place. His name was Margomedari Brompton, and he claimed to be the scum of the earth.
Regule Aire was inhabited by people of different races. Despite there being conflict among them, most did not confine themselves to homogeneous communities. Instead, they blended into a cultural melting pot to form cities and villages.
Nevertheless, there were some races that had difficulty living together with others. For example, it went without saying that the insectoid myrmex, who made their nests in the soil, and the aquatic, fish-faced habara were like that. Others like the cygne, who made up the ruling class of the winged races, used culture and tradition as excuses for their refusal to mix with other races.
The tavern was located on the outskirts of a ghetto designated for special races like those. The sun having long set, its closing hours approached. Although the business was hardly thriving, there naturally weren’t many customers at this hour. At the moment, only one regular was quietly enjoying his drink at the corner of the counter.
Suddenly, the door opened with a clang. The barkeeper, who was polishing a glass, looked up towards the new customer.
“Sorry, but we’re closing―”
“I’ve finally found you,” a woman’s voice resounded.
The regular slowly raised his head and glanced at the door. The petite lady who stood there looked exactly as one would expect from her voice. Slowly, the man’s aged, weary expression morphed into that of shock.
“…Why are you here?”
“I have a request for you.” The woman looked down and shook her head lightly.
“No,” he curtly refused.
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“There’s no need. I know you―at least, well enough to know what it is you’re seeking right now.”
“In that case…”
“Precisely.” Again he interrupted her, and the firmness in his voice silenced the woman. “That’s precisely why I said no. What you want is not only dangerous, it’s also unauthorized, and practically impossible from the get-go.”
“But…”
“No buts. This conversation is over, we’re done here.” Silence followed for a moment.
“At this point, I no longer have any right to keep hiding like a turtle in its shell.”
“That’s just a self-serving excuse. Everyone has the right to prioritize their own life, and no one can take that away,” the man murmured softly.
Unconcerned, the woman retorted: “Having come this far, I’m not hoping to receive anybody’s forgiveness. Or rather, I’ll never forgive myself if I stopped at this juncture.”
“You can stand to be a little more lenient on yourself. As much as those around you are willing to accept and forgive you.”
“I don’t want to be told that by you of all people,” the woman shook her head wearily. “In fact, I’m relieved to hear you say it’s practically impossible, because you’ve just confirmed that it isn’t impossible after all.”
Oh. The man looked up at the ceiling in despair. Good heavens. For crying out loud…this woman, this noble soul―her love runs too deep. She’s well aware that overwhelming love will burn her to ash, yet she gladly chooses to leap into the flames.
“You…” Hesitating for a moment, he tried coming up with something to dissuade her, but suddenly swallowed his words.
Footsteps were approaching from somewhere behind the woman and further down the back alley. It wasn’t just one or two pairs; the rapid, irregular footfalls of over ten people could be heard.
The woman whipped her head around―but they were faster. From the darkness, the footsteps’ owners appeared, dressed in matching dark gray coats and wielding long-barreled revolvers. Silently, they all filed into the bar.
“H-hey, hold on!?” The woman protested in confusion and anger. However, the intruders ignored her and surrounded the man at the counter.
“You’re Dr. Margomedari Brompton, aren’cha?” a small-statured lizardfolk rasped.
“This establishment is about to close soon. If you’re looking to drink with your buds, I suggest you find another store.”
“You’re Dr. Margomedari Brompton, aren’cha?” the lizardfolk repeated, ignoring the man’s attempt to lighten the mood.
Soundlessly, the eleven of them raised their guns, their muzzles trained on him.
“…Good grief. I never planned on becoming a celebrity, nor do I remember handing out business cards to your kind.”
He smiled a bitter, resigned smile. Perhaps the men took his reply as assent, for they nodded to each other and closed in around him. With the muzzles of their guns now pressed against the man’s back, the woman gulped.
“Kindly accompany us, please.”
“I don’t suppose I have the right to refuse, do I?” Downing the contents of his glass, the man submissively stood up from his stool.
His gait was sluggish, as if he had trouble walking. In front of the door, he came to a stop as the woman stood in his way, her head hanging and face slightly concealed.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Someplace that’s not here. At least somewhere that won’t get you or this establishment involved.”
“These people…” She took a deep breath. “What is the Winged Guard trying to do?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, right? Please understand, I’m begging you.”
Another gun poked him in the rear. “I know,” the man powerlessly replied.
“I refuse―”
At her words, he raised his head, gazing straight at the woman whose shoulders trembled helplessly. Appearing to panic, he repeatedly cautioned her: “No, don’t do it! You mustn’t! Please reconsider!” Behind them, the intruders’ suspicion grew as the man continued: “It’s not too late for you! You can still create any number of futures if you try! But if you do this, you’ll be on our side now! There’s no turning back once you’ve crossed the line!”
One of the men pointed his gun at the woman. After a moment’s hesitation, his compatriots did the same. Slowly, she raised her obscured face.
“…Is this what it takes, I wonder? If I cross the point of no return, will you finally start listening to me?”
“STOP!” The man’s cries never reached her. “You, of all people, mustn’t set yourself against them!”