Crow pulled his wet shirt over his head and dropped it near the basket next to the wardrobe. A towel hung on the wardrobe's inner hook; he dragged it across his shoulders and down his arms, working fast.
Then he turned to the training gear.
He sorted through it quickly. Trousers, fine. A jacket, manageable. And then, at the back, the largest piece available: a white button-front blouse, structured at the collar, fitted with small cloth-covered buttons down the center. The kind noblewomen wore for fencing drills. Wide through the body, clearly designed for movement.
He picked it up. Held it against himself.
The torso, fine. Loose, even.
Then he looked at the sleeve opening.
He looked at his arm.
He looked at the sleeve opening again.
...Obviously.
He tried anyway. Got four fingers past the cuff before the fabric made its position clear. His forearm alone, never mind the elbow, measured roughly twice what the sleeve had been built to accommodate. The blouse was wide enough across the chest to fit even him with plenty of room to spare, and somehow the tailor had decided the sleeves required no such generosity.
He set it back down before he could hear the silk scream.
A knock came at the door. Soft, precise.
"Come in."
Sophia entered, a folded set of clothes balanced across both forearms, trousers, a long-sleeve, a jacket in deep blue, all sized like they'd been chosen by someone who'd actually measured him without him noticing, or worse, someone had guessed right on the first try. That thought alone made his skin prickle.
She stopped.
Her gaze dropped to the blouse on the desk, then to his bare torso, then back to the blouse. Something thin and silver traced the corner of her mouth. She pressed her lips together, produced a small cloth from her apron pocket, and dabbed once with the efficiency of long practice.
She crossed the room and handed the clothes to him.
"After what occurred in the library, I took the liberty of preparing something suitable."
Then she leaned in slightly, voice dropping to just above silence:
"You don't waste time, do you, Crow. Barely a foot in the door and you're already trying to get into Her Majesty's... clothes."
She stepped back, bowed once, and left.
The door clicked shut.
Well played, Sophia. Well played.
He dropped the bundle on the bed and started dressing mechanically: trousers first, then the long-sleeve that slid over his shoulders like it had been waiting for him. The jacket settled with a satisfying weight, the fabric cool against still-damp skin from whatever bath they'd forced on him earlier.
Ridiculous.
He caught his reflection in the tall mirror across the room, dark hair still tousled, faint bruise blooming under one eye from the library scuffle, and now this ensemble that screamed "visiting noble" more than "man who just stumbled into a palace intrigue."
What now?
The question hit like a dull blade. He was inside the queen's private wing, apparently, wearing clothes that probably cost more than his last three bounties combined, after Sophia had just walked in on him half-naked and decided to roast him for it. The whole thing felt like a fever dream scripted by someone with a twisted sense of humor.
He didn't belong here. Not like this. Not yet.
But running now would look suspicious, and stupid. Alice had already marked him as interesting, and interesting things in places like this tended to get in trouble rather than be ignored.
He was halfway through changing his trousers when the door clicked open again. He didn't even have to look up to know who it was. The sudden, sharp intake of breath from the doorway was enough.
Sophia stood there, frozen, her eyes wide as they drifted, once again, somewhere they shouldn't be. She didn't move, and for a second, neither did he.
Her eyes widening, but she didn't turn back immediately. Instead, she marched toward the desk near him, her gaze fixed strictly on the wood to avoid looking down.
She set the emblem down with a trembling hand.
"I just... I came back to return the d-door key," she managed to say, her voice betraying her.
Before he could respond, she spun on her heel and practically ran out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Crow sighed, stared at the closed door. Then at his half-donned trousers. Then at the emblem on the desk. He finished dressing without hurrying.
I'm not even surprised anymore.
What is going to happen to me next? Nevermind, I don't want to know anymore, honestly.
After putting on his clothes, he sat on the bed, staring at the wall and slowly shaking his head from side to side with an expression of disbelief.
The last few days have been so crazy that, honestly, my body still has energy, but my mind... it feels like I'm about to pass out from mental exhaustion.
Crow lay back on the far side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was too soft, too clean, too royal. Sleep should have come easily after everything, the maid attack, the explosion, the dimensional void, the carry through the halls, but his mind refused to shut off.
How did things end this way…
The vial on the desk caught the lantern light again, violet residue swirling inside like trapped smoke. Alice had carried it here casually, as if it were perfume instead of a potential bomb fragment. That alone should have been enough to keep him awake, but his exhaustion was heavier than his fear.
His thoughts drifted backward, his eyelids grew heavy, and he slipped into a dream.
He remembered the night in Tokyo. Rain like tonight, but colder, dirtier. The girlfriend of a mid-level yakuza lieutenant had taken a liking to him—too much liking. She'd cornered him outside a bar, drunk on sake and bad decisions, pressing herself against him while her boyfriend's crew watched from across the street.
"Ano... onii-san," she began, her fingers twirling a strand of hair as she scanned his build. "Sugoku kakkoii desu ne... Watashi to issho ni asobimasen ka?"
She stepped into his space, her hand sliding up his arm in a practiced, fluid motion. She leaned in, letting her scent linger, her eyes locked onto his with a calculated shimmer of seduction.
Karl stared at her, his expression as unreadable as a blank page.
"Sorry," he said flatly. "I don't speak Japanese."
He pushed her away gently. "I have someone," he said. Simple. Honest. Stupid.
She didn't take rejection well.
An hour later, three guys, her boyfriend's crew jumped him in an alley near Shibuya. No guns—Japan wasn't kind to firearms. Just bats, knives, and fists. They wanted to teach him manners.
Rain slicked the pavement underfoot.
Two from one side, and a larger one from the other, trapping him in the alley.
The bigger one said, "Hey, hey buddy. You think you can mess with the boss's girl and just walk away like it's nothing?"
Karl blinked. "English?"
The man scoffed, tightening his grip on the bat. "You think that, because we are gangsters, we didn't go to school? This is Japan, gaijin."
Karl looked back at the big man, then to his front, where the other two were approaching slowly.
Yeah, it's brawl time.
The big one swung a metal bat low, aiming for Karl's knees. Karl sidestepped, letting the bat whistle past, then drove his elbow straight into the man's throat. The thug choked, staggering back, but the second was already closing in with a knife, blade flashing under a streetlamp.
He fought dirty because he had to.
Karl caught the wrist mid-thrust, twisted hard, and felt the joint pop. The knife clattered to the ground. Before the man could recover, Karl slammed his forehead into the attacker's nose. Blood sprayed; the thug reeled, hands flying to his face. The third circled behind, heavier, slower, but carrying a length of chain that rattled like warning.
He kept standing. Kept swinging.
Smack! Smack! Thud! Crack!
Karl spun, ducking under the chain's first swing. It cracked against the wall, sparks flying. He lunged low, tackling the man at the waist, driving him backward into a stack of trash bins.
Metal rang out as they crashed down together. Karl mounted, knees pinning the arms, and rained short, sharp punches—jaw, temple, jaw again. The chain-wielder bucked, but Karl held firm, weight shifted forward, breathing controlled despite the fire in his ribs.
The first man recovered enough to lunge again, bat raised high. Karl rolled off his current opponent, grabbed the dropped knife, and slashed upward in a tight arc—not to kill, just to open the forearm. The bat wielder screamed, weapon dropping as blood poured. Karl kicked the knee out from under him, sending him sprawling face-first into a puddle.
The second thug, nose ruined, charged blindly. Karl met him head-on, sidestepping at the last second and hooking an arm around the neck. He squeezed, not choking, just controlling, then drove a knee into the gut twice. The man folded, gasping. Karl released, stepped back, hands still up.
Meanwhile, the big man with the bat, one arm useless from the slash to his forearm, the other gripping the weapon with pure hatred—swung with everything he had at Karl's jaw. His reflexes weren't fast enough.
Karl tried to block, but the bat slammed through his arms and clipped the side of his face. His vision blurred, his head spun, but he didn't falter. Karl drove a punch straight into the man's nose, stepped inside his guard, and hooked a leg behind the giant's. With a forceful shove, he sent the man crashing to the ground. The impact knocked him unconscious.
The chain-wielder was on his knees now, coughing blood, staring up with dazed eyes, looked up at him with genuine confusion.
"Why… why don't you fall, man?"
Karl spat blood onto the concrete. His voice came out hoarse, yet steady.
"You guys hit like a girl. And in a fight? I only stop when I'm dead… or when you run."
The other guy scooped up his two companions, and they scrambled away into the shadows of the alley, limping and cursing as they disappeared into the rain-soaked night.
Why do I always get into trouble because of a woman?
Story of my life.
Karl stood alone in the alley, ribs screaming, knuckles split, but still on his feet. He exhaled once, long and slow, then started walking home, alive, and very aware of how close it had been.
The world began to crack into pieces…
Then he woke up.
Ah, it was only a dream from the past... maybe my life had always been crazy.
Lying here now, in the queen's bed, maybe things are worse now? I don't know.
Crow almost smiled at the memory of the past. He was grateful that it happened in Japan.
If that had been back home, or anywhere with guns, I would have died in that alley. No bare-knuckle brawl. Just bullets.
Here, in this world, he had swords. Mana. A body that somehow handled insane amounts of power without burning out. And a queen who carried bomb fragments to her bedroom like they were jewelry.
He turned his head toward the closed bath door. Steam was already seeping under it.
Alice is dangerous in a way those three thugs could never be. It isn't because she wants me dead; it is because she wants me useful. Alive. Close. That is why I tried to keep her from finding out about the assassination attempt. Now, how do I get away? If she posts a guard, my escape plan is done for. But I'll find a way.
He closed his eyes.
11 minutes later.
The steam from the bath felt like a suffocating shroud. Crow lay motionless near the edge of the bed, but his pulse was a hammer against his ribs.
Alice said nothing as she stepped into the room. Fresh from the shower, she stood wrapped in a white towel that barely held the lingering heat of her skin.
She just stood there, close to the edge of the bed where he lay apparently asleep, her presence weighing on the room like a physical force, a cold, jagged aura that made the hair on his arm stand up. Slowly, she approached.
Her hand, cool and steady, found his. She turned his split-knuckled palm upward, her thumb tracing the edge of the ring with deliberate slowness.
What the heck?
"This is bad," the voice of the sage hissed in Crow's mind. "I forgot to mention... I have some history with her. If she finds out what this ring really is, and that you didn't tell her, not that you knew, but... you're screwed, boy. Completely and utterly screwed."
I didn't even remember you existed until now, and you show up just to tell me this? Only now?
Slowly, she leaned in. The scent of her damp hair and expensive soap reached him, but it brought no comfort.
Crow's throat went dry. He could feel her gaze, sharp, calculating, dissecting him. The abnormal effect of fear emanating from her aura. He stayed there, under the weight of her shadow pretending to be asleep.
Alice leaned closer, her lips inches from his ear.
"It's a heavy thing to carry, isn't it?" she whispered. "Knowing that this world is doomed, and you are tied to a tyrant."
I just want to vanish…
Alice straightened.
No explanation. No follow-up. She released his hand like she'd simply set down something she'd finished examining, and walked toward the wardrobe.
The only sound in the room was the soft rustle of fabric as she sifted through the hangers in her wardrobe. After a moment of indecision, she finally picked an outfit. She let her towel drop to the floor with a muffled thud, quickly changed, and headed straight toward the door, with the same unhurried calm of someone who'd already won an argument no one else knew had started.
Her hand rested briefly on the door frame.
"In case you're awake—" her voice carried back, flat and conversational, as though commenting on the weather, "—the key sits on the table. But for your own safety, I'd recommend spending the night here. No one would be foolish enough to invade this place."
The door closed.
Not slammed. Not even pulled shut with any particular emphasis.
Just click, and silence.
Crow opened one eye.
Then the other.
She'll definitely have someone watching over me, some kind of 'bodyguard.' I can already see it happening. When the time comes for the expedition, it might be my last chance before things spiral out of control.
Crow didn't get up immediately. He waited until the sound of her footsteps was a distant memory before he let out the breath he'd been holding. His muscles ached as if he'd just fought a war.
He didn't go for the key. Instead, he went straight to the bathroom.
The water was scalding, but he barely felt it. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the lingering thoughts. Under the steam, the Sage remained silent—perhaps out of guilt, or perhaps out of fear.
When he finally crawled back into the bed, the sheets still carried the faint scent of her expensive soap. It was the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in, and the most terrifying place he had ever been.
I need to relax. I have a plan, and it's going to work. And if it doesn't? Well, I'll just have to wing it.
Sleep finally came, fitful, shallow, haunted by the echo of that old question.
Why don't you fall?
Because falling here might mean never getting up again.