HFfC: CH 15: The Month Anniversary

Two days had passed. The aftermath of the Viper incident had settled into a quiet, watchful waiting, but inside Café LeBlanc, the atmosphere was anything but tense. For Soma, it was a day of celebration.

"What's this, Soma?" the gruff dwarf regular asked, pointing a thick finger at a handsome wooden box placed beside the cash register. A neatly lettered sign was propped against it, reading: "VOTE FOR THE FIXED MENU!"

Soma, beaming with the pride of a restaurateur launching his magnum opus, leaned over the counter. "That," he announced to the whole café, "is for our one-month anniversary!"

Zero, standing behind the bar, sighed audibly but didn't contradict him.

"Today, and for today only," Soma continued, his voice full of passion, "the kitchen is open! You can order anything I've made in the past month. The Soufflé Pancakes, the Tonkotsu Ramen, the Oyakodon, the Katsu Curry—anything you've missed or heard about and wanted to try again! The dishes with the most votes in that box by the end of the day will earn a permanent spot on our first-ever fixed menu!"

The small crowd of loyal customers erupted in excited chatter. It was a brilliant idea, and they knew it. Everyone had a favorite dish, and everyone had heard whispers of legendary meals served on days they hadn't been able to visit.

"I'll take the Pho from the other night!" the tailor from down the street called out.

"The Katsu Curry for me!" the dwarf rumbled. "I missed that one."

"But I want to try both!" a young university student lamented.

"Then you're in luck!" Soma said, unveiling the core of his plan. "Today, we're also offering 'tasting plates.' Small, appetizer-sized portions of any dish, so you can try as many as you like!"

The effect was instantaneous. The customers, freed from the tyranny of choosing just one meal, began ordering with abandon. Small, artful plates of various dishes began to fly out of the kitchen, each one a perfect miniature of Soma's culinary creations. The tables were soon covered in a vibrant mosaic of different foods, and the air was filled with the happy sounds of people sharing, tasting, and debating which dish deserved their precious vote.

It was a perfect win-win. The customers were ecstatic, getting to experience a wide range of Master Chef-level cooking. Soma was in his element, smiling from ear to ear as he watched people fall in love with his food all over again.

And Zero, standing calmly behind his veil, smiled for a different reason. With every new order, with every tasting plate that left the kitchen, he could hear the soft, satisfying ding of the old cash register. He glanced at the holographic display. The Gacha points, which had been slowly trickling in, were now flooding in. The counter was already at 1647, climbing steadily toward the 2000-point mark. It seemed his chef's ridiculous "month anniversary" was a stroke of business genius after all.

…

Far from the bustling café, in a grand office overlooking a windswept cliff and the vast, grey ocean, the political gears of the kingdom were turning. This was the palace of the Evercrest Duchy, the heart of the Granite Cape. Duke Orion Evercrest, a man in his prime with sun-kissed skin that spoke of a life spent on the coast, sat behind a massive desk carved from the hull of an ancient warship. Behind him stood his two most trusted advisors: his right-hand man and his ever-silent butler.

Kneeling on the fine rug before the desk was a formidable white tiger beastman, his uniform crisp and adorned with the medals of a celebrated naval commander. It was the same beastman who frequented Café LeBlanc, though his relaxed demeanor from the café was replaced by a soldier's rigid formality. Lately, his duties had kept him far from the city.

The Duke sighed, a sound that was more weary than commanding. "Rise, Fleet Admiral Lauvel."

The white tiger beastman stood, his posture ramrod straight. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Lauvel, how many times do I have to tell you to relax when it's just us?" Orion said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I was under your command once when I was a boy, remember?"

A rare, genuine smile broke through Lauvel's stern expression. "And a terrible underling you were, I might add. The knots you tied on the rigging still haunt my nightmares."

The Duke let out a real, hearty laugh that filled the office. The formality of the court vanished, replaced by the easy rapport of old friends. He leaned back in his chair. "So," he said, his tone shifting back to business. "How was the sail?"

Lauvel's smile faded. "Two of our ships were lost, Your Grace. Several of our men have gone down to Davy Jones' Locker. But," he added, a grim satisfaction in his voice, "we sank nine of The Sentinel Coast's vessels. Those Argent fanatics are not much of a navy."

"But from what my reports say, they kept attacking, right up to the end. Why is that?" Orion asked.

"They are full of a terrible vigor," Lauvel explained, his voice a low growl. "Even I could see their men were barely getting enough nutrition to stand, but their Abbot-Commander kept blessing them, whipping them into a frenzy. They fought like rabid beasts. I am convinced they will never stop until every last one of them is at the bottom of the sea. So that's why I sank them all."

The Duke sighed again, rubbing his temples. "Alright. So we can breathe for another year, then?"

"I am not confident of that, Your Grace," Lauvel said gravely. "I've seen progress in their shipbuilding. I don't know where those zealots found a proper shipwright all of a sudden, but they are learning. They will be back, and sooner than we anticipate."

The Duke frowned, a deep worry creasing his brow. His right-hand man stepped forward. "Fleet Admiral, is there any way for us to extend our breathing room? We need the northern shipping lanes to be absolutely secure for at least the next nine months. Our allies from The Watchtower of Edda will be arriving in that window of time."

Lauvel looked at the advisor. "Can't those mages from Edda just use their Divination and Rune-work to avoid any trouble at sea?"

It was the Duke who answered. "This is about our kingdom's image, Lauvel. The First Prince himself has given me the order to welcome our soon-to-be allies personally. The Watchtower of Edda is notoriously difficult to deal with. Their pragmatic nature can make them… challenging." He leaned forward, his expression serious. "But the First Prince somehow managed to get them to agree to a formal visit. Now we need to ensure they arrive safely. A show of strength and reliability."

Lauvel let out a long, weary sigh. The weight of the entire duchy's naval security rested on his broad shoulders. "Okay," he rumbled. "I can increase the patrols. No Argent cultist or opportunistic pirate will touch their ships. Not while they're in my waters."

A look of genuine relief washed over the Duke's face. "Thank you, Lauvel. I mean that."

"Yeah, yeah," the old beastman grumbled. "Just approve my retirement papers next time I submit them."

Orion grinned. "I'll employ you until the day I step down as Duke myself, old man."

"Is this payback?" Lauvel shot back. "For all those times I made you swim beside the ship for tying a bad knot?"

The Duke rolled his shoulders and laughed again. "I still get a sore shoulder just thinking about it."

…

Far to the north, in the heartland of the Argent Theocracy, the Hallowed See of Argenta, a different kind of power was being exercised. Inside the Grand Temple of Luminous, the air was cool and solemn. There were no gaudy statues or colorful frescoes here; the vast, vaulted chamber was a masterpiece of stark, white marble and grey stone, designed to draw the eye upwards to the single, massive crystal in the dome that refracted the pale northern sunlight into a thousand beams of pure, white light. The clothing of the massive congregation was simple, in muted shades of white, grey, and blue, a reflection of a society where public displays of wealth were frowned upon.

At the head of the silent, kneeling masses was the newly risen Hierophant, Theron Varrus. He was a man in his late 60s, tall and gaunt, his posture as rigid as a winter pine. His head was shaved, and his face was a mask of serene piety, rarely showing emotion. He knelt before the great altar, dressed in the simple white robes of his office, adorned only with a single, unadorned silver emblem of the Silent Light. His voice, amplified by the temple's perfect acoustics, was not loud, but it resonated with a chilling, absolute authority.

He led the congregation in a final psalm from the Canticles of the Long Night.

"The Great Darkness is eternal," he chanted, his voice a low hum. "And so our endurance must be eternal," the congregation responded in unison, their voices a wave of sound. "The Wild Spark is temptation," Theron continued. "And so our purity must be our shield," they answered. "We are the children of the Silent Light. In its cold, pure radiance, we are tested. In its stillness, we find strength."

He rose, turning to face them. His most striking features were his eyes; they were a pale, icy blue and possessed a piercing clarity that seemed to weigh the soul of every person he looked at. He raised his hands. "May the Silent Light preserve you in your hardship and find you worthy. Go in peace and endurance."

After the blessing, the congregation filed out in disciplined silence. As the last of them departed, one of the senior bishops approached, bowing his head low. "Hierophant," he said, his voice a respectful whisper. "We have news from the Evercrest front. The Sentinel Coast fleet was… unsuccessful."

Theron's serene expression did not change. He walked slowly from the main hall into a private, spartan office, the bishop following a respectful distance behind. He stood before a simple stone hearth, his back to the fire.

First, he closed his eyes. "Let us pray for the souls of the faithful sailors who have returned to the Light's embrace," he said softly. "Their sacrifice in the crucible of the sea will not be forgotten." He remained silent for a full minute, a leader genuinely mourning the loss of his people.

Then, he opened his eyes, and the shepherd's brief warmth was gone, replaced by the chilling intensity of the fanatic. "The Duke of Evercrest is decadent, his people tainted by the selfish spark of individualism and the chaotic culture of Averidane," he said, his voice flat and cold. "That they could repel our blessed fleet is not a sign of their strength, but of the depths of their impurity. It is a spiritual cancer we must be prepared to cut out."

Finally, he gave his orders, and the detached conviction of the man who rose through the Inquisition was on full display. "See to it that the families of the fallen receive double rations for the winter. It is our duty to care for them," he commanded, the benevolent administrator ensuring the welfare of his nation. 

He then added, his voice dropping, "Also, dispatch an Inquisitor from the Eyes of Light to the Sentinel Coast. I want the surviving captains and the Abbot-Commander questioned. This defeat was born of either tactical failure or a failure of faith. I will know which." To him, this was not a cruel act, but a necessary surgery to protect the soul of his nation.

The bishop bowed. "It will be done, Hierophant."

As the bishop turned to leave, Theron added one final thought, his icy eyes staring into the fire. "I have heard whispers that the Kingdom of Averidane seeks an alliance with the mages of the Athenean Concord. Keep watch. If the chaos of the south allies itself with the arrogance of the west, our great work of purification may need to begin sooner than anticipated."

…

Erwin was building a reputation. It started as whispers in taverns and marketplaces, the story of the foreign "Sentinel" who had single-handedly taken down two armed Viper thugs in that strange little café. The whispers grew into a small, localized legend. He wasn't famous, not yet, but the name "Erwin" was becoming synonymous with a kind of swift, uncompromising justice the city hadn't seen in a long time.

He was now operating out of a small, rented room in a respectable boarding house, taking on private cases. Today's case had found him. A distraught couple, a baker and his wife, stood in his spartan room, their faces etched with grief.

"Please, sir," the woman wept, clutching a small, worn teddy bear. "Our daughter, Elisa... she's been gone for two days. The Watchers... they won't even file a missing persons report until she's been gone for a week."

"They told us to 'be patient'," the baker added, his voice thick with a rage born of helplessness. "They said children run off all the time. But Elisa would never... she's a good girl."

Erwin, playing his part, listened with a stern but sympathetic expression. "I understand your grief," he said, his foreign accent lending his words a certain gravity. "But I am a private citizen. I hold no official jurisdiction. I cannot compel the Watchers to act, nor can I conduct an official investigation."

It was the final, devastating blow for the couple. The woman's sobs grew louder. The baker's face crumpled, the last of his hope draining away.

"So that's it, then?" the man said, his voice cracking. "There's no justice for people like us in this city? We don't have enough money to grease the palms of the Watchers, so our daughter is just... gone? Left to the whims of whatever monster took her?" His voice rose, filled with the righteous fury of a powerless man. "Is this the kind of kingdom we live in?"

Erwin let the man's desperate, angry words hang in the air for a long, heavy moment. Then, he let out a slow, deliberate sigh, as if a great internal struggle had just concluded. His voice now filled with a reluctant, steely resolve, "A kingdom that does not protect its most innocent citizens is a kingdom that has failed. I will help you."

The relief that washed over the couple was so profound it was almost painful to watch. They offered him a small pouch of coins, all they had. Erwin took only a nominal fee, just enough to make the transaction legitimate. His performance was flawless.

Later that day, Erwin began to piece together the last known hours of Elisa's life. He started with her friends, a group of small, frightened children. He knelt down to their level, his imposing height replaced by a gentle, reassuring presence. 

The detective in him knew that children were the best and worst witnesses; their honesty was absolute, but their perception was filtered through a lens of imagination and fear. He didn't ask them what they saw; he asked them what they played. He learned about their favorite hiding spots, about the "scary old man" who lived in the alley (who turned out to be a harmless recluse), and about the "shiny carriage" that Elisa had been admiring the day she disappeared.

He then moved on to her school. The teachers spoke of Elisa in glowing terms, but their words were rehearsed, their grief a little too performative. The headmaster, a man with shifty eyes and an overly lavish office for such a humble school, was particularly evasive. He seemed more concerned with the school's reputation than with the missing child.

Erwin's mind, a finely tuned instrument of deduction, began to sift through the data. The children's testimony was pure, unfiltered truth. The adults, however... the adults were hiding something. It was too early to judge, too soon to form a conclusion. For now, he just needed to gather more data.

…

Night had fallen. After a long day of fruitless searching and quiet observation, Erwin retreated from the physical world. He closed his eyes in his small boarding house room and let his consciousness sink into the Animus Hub.

The Hub had changed. By his will, it was no longer an empty void but a perfect replica of his rented room, a personal nook where he could think. He had manifested a simple wooden table and a large corkboard. On the board, he began to place his memories. They weren't static images but living, moving photographs, each one an exact replica of what he had seen and heard, perfect for visualization.

He was pinning a moving image of the evasive headmaster to the board when another form solidified in the Hub beside him. It was Zero.

Zero looked around at the memory board, at the moving pictures of crying parents and nervous teachers. "This is quite convenient, huh?" he said quietly.

Erwin glanced at Zero, then back at his board. "Yes," he agreed. "It's good for threading my steps. Even with a perfect memory, I need to sort and visualize the data to see the patterns and clear the case."

"Oh, is that right?" Zero said, pulling up a manifested chair. "Well, another brain can always help. So, throw it at me. Let me listen in on this case."

Erwin paused, considering it. Then he nodded. "This is the first significant case I've taken," he began. "A missing child. The Watchers, as expected, are doing nothing. From what I've gathered, missing children cases here always go cold. The victims are often already outside the duchy's territory by the time the Watchers are officially compelled to move."

Zero's head tilted. "Why is that?"

"The Watchers do not officially begin searching for a missing person until they have been gone for one week," Erwin stated flatly.

"What?!" Zero exclaimed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "That's rubbish! A child could be dead or on another continent by then!"

"We have no time to criticize the Watchers' broken system," Erwin said, his voice cutting and focused. "We have clues." He pointed to the board.

"Any possible suspects?" Zero asked.

"My intuition points to some of the teachers," Erwin said, tapping the images of the overly rehearsed interviews. "And the headmaster himself. Their stories are too clean, their grief too performative."

Zero looked at the board, at the face of the missing girl, Elisa. Then his eyes drifted to a separate section of the board where Erwin had pinned other, older files. "Which one is this case?" he asked, then pointed. "And who are these others?"

"Oh," Erwin said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Those are the other missing children. From the past month. I found their case files in the public record. They all share the same background. Their parents are immigrants, refugees from the Argent Theocracy." He looked at Zero. "I suspect it's all the work of the same perpetrator."

A look of profound, horrified understanding dawned on Zero's face. He saw the pattern. Unwanted refugees, a police force that wouldn't investigate for a week, a school with a suspicious staff... It all painted a sickening picture. "Damn it," Zero whispered, his voice filled with a sudden, cold dread. "How can you be so composed?"

Erwin turned back to the board, his face a mask of cold concentration. "I need to be calm so I can think clearly," he said. "These children need to be rescued. Soon."

Zero's voice was low and sad. "I really hope it's not the worst thing I'm thinking is happening to those kids."

And so Erwin's night was spent in the Animus Hub, with Zero as his silent partner, as they worked to connect the terrible, tragic clues.

…

Meanwhile, in the Watchers' precinct, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and bureaucratic apathy. Detective Sergeant Lomare sat in the main briefing room, a mountain of case files stacked precariously on his desk. As the sergeant supervising the detective division, he knew which of his people were the real deal and which were "nepo-tectives"—incompetent parachutes from influential families.

He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. He couldn't even begin to do something with the latest string of missing children cases. They were too cold, too politically sensitive. But his conversation with Wolfe the other night had left a splinter in his mind.

…

The previous night, in a quiet, smoky tavern, Lomare clinked his glass of ale against Wolfe's. Wolfe, one of the few truly trustworthy officers he had left, was his regular drinking partner.

"Why did you let them demote you like that?" Lomare slurred, his words heavy with drink and frustration. "You passed your sergeant's exam. Those fat bastards just made up the numbers on the oral exam part to make sure you failed. Those pigs!"

Wolfe chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "It's good to hear you complaining about my life again, Lomare."

"Hey, it's true!" Lomare insisted. "So answer me. Why did you choose to become a Training Officer? You could be a detective under my command. I need all the good hands I can get. These nepo-tectives aren't helping my department at all."

Wolfe took a long sip of his drink, his grey eyes distant. "It's for the future," he said quietly. "I need to change the younger ones' mindset. Keep reminding them that we are here to serve and protect the people. As cheesy as that sounds, it's my core belief."

Lomare snorted. "Remind me again who scared off the entire first batch of rookies on their first day as a T.O.?"

Wolfe actually laughed at that. "Those rookies didn't have the guts to be Watchers. Almost three-quarters of them quit before finishing the program."

"Serve and protect, huh," Lomare muttered, looking up at the tavern's smoke-stained ceiling. "If only the higher-ups had the same mindset as you do."

"What are you talking about?" Wolfe said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Why rely on them? You're a Detective Sergeant. You're the one who supervises the detectives in our precinct. You're the one on the ground."

Lomare's eyes went blank, Wolfe's words cutting through the alcoholic haze.

…

Lomare steeled himself, a new resolve hardening his features. He stood up and called out across the bullpen. "Detectives Morhan and Celvise! My office, now!"

Two of the handful of detectives he knew actually took their duty seriously hurried into his office. "Yes, sir?"

Lomare didn't waste time. He handed them the stack of cold case files on the missing children from the Theocracy. "This one's yours."

Morhan, a sharp-eyed woman with a knack for patterns, flipped through them. "It's the same M.O. in every case, sir."

Celvise, her partner, pointed to the newest file on top—Elisa's. "Wait, this one's only been missing for three days. Isn't our official procedure to wait a week?"

Lomare looked at his two best detectives, a fire he hadn't felt in years rekindling in his gut. "You know damn well that a week is the same thing as searching for a needle in a haystack on another continent," he said, his voice a low growl. "And from now on... fuck the procedure. We've been sleeping long enough."

Morhan and Celvise looked at each other, a silent, shared understanding passing between them. A real case. A real chance to do some good. They both turned back to their sergeant, their expressions now as determined as his.

"Yes, sir."

…

Detectives Morhan and Celvise arrived in the quiet, respectable district that housed two of the city's private schools. Limstar Academy, an expensive institution for the children of merchants and minor nobles, sat directly across the street from Pinecrest Public School, a more humble but well-regarded establishment.

"Shall we split up?" Morhan suggested, her eyes already scanning the opulent facade of Limstar.

Celvise fist-bumped her partner. "Hope we find a solid lead."

With that, they separated. Morhan headed for the gilded gates of the academy, while Celvise made her way toward the more modest entrance of Pinecrest Public.

The moment Celvise stepped into the main hall of Pinecrest, she was met by the school's janitor, an old, stooped man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

"Watcher, Detective Celvise," she said, flashing her badge. "Can you lead me to the headmaster's office?"

The janitor nodded silently and led her down a quiet hallway, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the polished floor. He stopped at a door, gestured to it, and then simply vanished back down the hall without another word. Weird guy, Celvise thought, making a quick note in her pad.

She knocked. The door was opened by the headmaster, a portly man with a florid face and a smile that was a little too wide. "Detective! Welcome, welcome!" he said, his voice booming with a forced cheerfulness. "What can I get for you? Tea? Coffee, perhaps?"

"No need," Celvise said, her tone all business. "I just need to be briefed. I will need to conduct interviews with some of your staff, and with you."

The headmaster's cheerful mask faltered for a fraction of a second. "Oh! Okay, of course," he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief, despite the cool air in the office. "But... do you need to do more? One of the other detectives... he's already taken statements from all of my staff."

Celvise was taken aback. She knew she was the first official detective assigned to this case. Did another precinct already start an investigation without telling us? she wondered.

She kept her face a neutral mask. "That is a matter of internal departmental coordination," she said, deliberately vague. "For now, can you give us permission to re-interview all of your staff?"

The headmaster seemed to shrink under her steady gaze. "Y-yes, of course," he stammered, his nervousness now palpable. "You can use my office to conduct the interviews. Whatever you need."

…

After a long, grueling day of interviews, Morhan and Celvise met back at their rune-car, the setting sun casting long shadows down the street.

"Before we start," Celvise said, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine, "did the staff at Limstar mention anything about another detective already interviewing them?"

Morhan, buckling herself in, turned to her partner with a look of surprise. "You too? Let me guess. Blonde hair?"

"Icy blue eyes, sharp jaw," Celvise added, her own eyes widening.

"Named Erwin Smith," they both said in unison.

Celvise immediately grabbed the transponder. "Control, this is Detective Celvise, badge seven-one-four. Run a name for me. Erwin Smith. Check the full Watchers database, active and inactive."

Several seconds of static-filled silence passed. Then the dispatcher's voice came back, tinny and clear. "Detective Celvise, negative on that request. There is no individual matching that name or description in the Watchers database."

Morhan looked at Celvise, a knowing glint in her eye. "Big Sal's Tavern?"

Celvise nodded, a determined smile spreading across her face. "Big Sal's Tavern."

…

They arrived at the bustling tavern, the sounds of laughter and music spilling out into the street. They bypassed the main crowd, walking straight to the bar. "Tell Forim we're here," Morhan said to the bartender, her voice low and authoritative. The bartender paused for a second, then nodded and disappeared into the back.

A moment later, a nervous-looking halfling man with shifty eyes emerged.

Celvise's face broke into a wide, friendly smile. "Forim! How have you been?"

Forim just scowled. "What do you want?" he asked flatly.

Morhan's expression was the opposite of her partner's—hard as stone. "Careful," she warned. "Just because you're my C.I. doesn't mean we won't shut down that little gambling ring you're running on the side."

Celvise, in contrast, leaned forward cheerfully. "Does Big Sal know one of his bartenders is running an illegal book? Sal is quite particular about his tavern's reputation, you know."

Forim started sweating. "Okay, okay! What do you need?"

Morhan got straight to the point. "Erwin Smith. Blonde hair, icy blue eyes, sharp jaw. What do you know about him?"

The halfling sighed, a look of grudging respect on his face. "Yeah, I know him. He's been making a name for himself lately. Some kind of low-time private detective. Hasn't even been in the city for a week, and he's already closed a bunch of small cases in less than a day. Word on the street is he's good for the poor folk, doesn't charge much."

"Do you know where he practices out of?" Celvise asked.

"Eighth Avenue, block three, number one-fifteen. A boarding house," Forim answered immediately.

"Good," Morhan said, turning to leave. She paused, then pointed a finger at the halfling's nose. "And clean yourself up next time. The 'snow' is still on you."

With that, the two detectives left the tavern, leaving a terrified Forim frantically wiping at his nose as they headed for Erwin's office.