Ch.163Report on the Downfall of Charity (5)

It was past breakfast time, but too early for lunch—that awkward in-between hour.

Yet the place was still quite crowded.

It was hardly what you’d call a proper restaurant. Set in the middle of a large workshop where nets and ropes were repaired, the warehouse building had walls knocked through to accommodate round tables, backless chairs, wooden barrels, and crates.

In places like this, unlike the grand cities of the Empire, you don’t choose your food—you pay and eat whatever they serve you.

Since they need to feed many people, the dishes tend to be stews and soups—cheap ingredients that can be stretched to fill many bellies.

Today’s meal was boiled mussels, with cheap wine to cut the fishy smell, and the meat topped with parsley powder and inexpensive cheese.

Thanks to the generous broth, the wide-open mussels were still hot. Hot enough for the cheese to melt and envelop the mussel meat.

No separate utensils were provided—you simply used one mussel shell like tongs to eat the meat and cheese, then like a spoon to drink the broth.

The salty, somewhat greasy flavor might become tiresome, but this establishment added peperoncino peppers to the boil, giving it a spicy kick.

The peppers were halved with seeds removed, just enough heat to prevent the food from becoming bland.

But this alone wasn’t enough to satisfy the stomachs of drinkers. While well-prepared mussels are certainly delicious, they don’t fill you up.

So the mercenary captain slipped a few more coins to the server who brought the food.

Shortly after, the server returned with a sizzling iron plate.

It held bread spread with garlic fried in olive oil—good enough on its own, but when dipped in the salty mussel stew broth and eaten in one bite, it completed a satisfying meal.

This was clearly not a place for tourists. It was a restaurant for locals, for those who actually lived in Venelucia.

Perhaps that’s why there were no tourists to be found. Most patrons were fishermen who had returned to port at dawn and finished their work, or laborers eating an early lunch before their busy afternoon shifts.

All their faces were flushed—having drunk to endure the night’s hard labor, they were now drinking again to help them fall asleep.

But Kain noticed others as well.

Groups of two or three men and women. On the surface, they appeared to be enjoying their meal in front of steaming pots, but occasionally they shot sharp glances in his direction. One, two… six tables. Fifteen people in total.

Their postures were straight, their attire neat. No alcohol on their tables, like strict disciplinarians. They also had toasted bread on their tables.

Mercenaries. They must be subordinates of Antonello Montone, the mercenary captain sitting across from Kain, wiping his mouth.

“Would you like more?”

“It’s enough.”

Not because he was full. For Kain, who hadn’t had a proper meal in days, this was precious nourishment.

But eating too much would make it difficult to respond properly if the surrounding mercenaries decided to attack.

That was one way to neutralize a dangerous person—feed them until their guard is down, then strike.

“So. Where did you learn to speak like that?”

Antonello leaned back and asked. Unlike the others, he sat in a proper chair with a backrest. The workshop workers had respectfully provided it for him.

“On a ship.”

“You don’t look like navy.” Antonello raised an eyebrow. Kain smiled slightly.

“What’s the navy way of fighting?”

“We’ve already fought, haven’t you?” Antonello scratched his chin.

“The Venelucian navy isn’t what it used to be. They’re all too stiff.

When the wind is calm, that’s fine, but when a storm hits, those rigid fellows are the first to be blown away.

Knowing when to bend is part of the natural order.”

Kain thought of the four men he had met earlier. They didn’t look very old.

Whether they had retired voluntarily or been dishonorably discharged, they must have gladly stepped down because mercenary work offered better prospects than the Venelucian navy.

‘Promising soldiers giving up promotion to join mercenary groups.’

Not a good sign for Venelucia. At least two years ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable. Antonello’s words further confirmed Kain’s suspicions.

“I’m not particularly worldly, but your fighting style is closer to shipboard combat.

Maintaining your own balance while breaking your opponent’s. It’s not pretty fighting, even as flattery, but things done in water always look ridiculous when viewed from land.

How awkward would swimming on dry land look? You…”

Sharp gray eyes scanned Kain.

“You don’t look that old, and yet. As far as I know, there’s another group that fights like that.”

“Who?”

“Pirates.”

Kain burst into laughter, slapping the table.

“Do I look like a pirate to you? The strange bunch who greet people with ‘Ahoy, aye, aye!'”

“You don’t look like one at all,” Antonello also laughed, leaning back.

“That’s what makes it stranger. The age of pirates is already over. Let me see, was it five years ago or six when the last pirate captain was buried upside down in the sand? During the reign of our respected Niccolo Dandolo, the Doge.”

Niccolo Dandolo. Beatrice Dandolo’s father and political rival.

But what he had wanted to end was his daughter’s political life, not her actual life.

After his only daughter died, Niccolo showed signs of mental derangement before throwing himself from a high window.

“I’m not in a position to say this, but those times were peaceful.”

“During Niccolo’s reign as Doge?”

“Strong navy. Strict order. All criminals were thrown onto ships of fools, and traitors were executed. Even his own daughter.

Of course, it’s regrettable that everyone had to be more ascetic than the clergy, but I think everything ran properly back then.”

Instead of answering immediately, Kain wiped his plate with a piece of bread. He wanted to save every morsel, and also needed to calm his suddenly excited mind.

“That’s surprising. Wouldn’t a mercenary captain have more opportunities when the world is in chaos?”

“That’s for rookies.” Antonello pointed to himself with his thumb.

“I am a ‘condottiere.’ A ‘condottiere,’ mind you. I’m on a different level from those run-of-the-mill ‘mercenary captains’ sprouting up everywhere.”

Antonello seemed to have strong pride in his background. Even though this “renowned condottiere” was currently treating the man who had demolished his subordinates to a meal.

‘High pride but lacking substance. An aging, obsolete lion.’

So Kain casually asked:

“What about ‘Leonardo the Charitable’? He seems to be the most famous mercenary.”

“Ha!” Antonello frowned. But soon he rubbed his hands together with a bitter smile.

“Let me ask you something first. Do you think you’re lucky?”

“Are you asking me?” Kain questioned.

“Yes. Luck. Do you have the kind of powerful luck that can make even fate itself surrender?”

“That’s not very relatable,” Kain tilted his head and leaned back. Antonello licked his lips and placed his palm on the table.

“Judging by your reaction, you don’t know. When that time and moment comes, your body knows first. You realize, ‘Ah, this is the moment of my life.’

But believe me. Such a moment will definitely come in life. A desperate moment. Your mind becomes crystal clear, and you see just one thread before your eyes.

A thread that will disappear if not seized now. That’s the time of luck that can make even fate kneel.

Leonardo is a man followed by such powerful luck. He’s beyond the point of being merely ‘lucky’ or being sneered at for it.

If you’re lucky once or twice, that’s coincidence, but if fortune always accompanies you like a guardian spirit, then you are truly, as Venelucians say, ‘one who rides the waves with great courage.'”

Kain expressed disbelief, and Antonello told him about Leonardo’s character, with a bit of criticism mixed in.

From the Empire’s perspective, Leonardo was merely an opportunist.

He had been a pirate, then worked as a privateer captain, then accidentally joined the Crusades and even earned the honor of being one of the Seven Heroes. Now he had returned home and continued his fame as a mercenary captain.

But the Venelucian perspective was different.

They agreed with the Empire that he had conducted himself appropriately at each turn and achieved success, but while the Empire saw him as “a man without principles,” Venelucians respected him as “rational and brave.”

“If he were an ordinary human, he would have been bound by such things. Morality, principles, and the like. Those things constrain people. Niccolo was flawed in that respect. Unfortunately.”

“Flawed.”

“He could have been perfect by executing his daughter who defied him. If only he hadn’t clung to trivial matters.

In fact, wasn’t hiring the Crusaders to stab the Empire in the back a great achievement? No one else could have thought of that.”

The excommunicated Crusaders. The story of the Fourth Crusade, which stabbed the Empire in the back at Niccolo Dandolo’s instigation. Kain trailed off, seemingly uncomfortable.

“But isn’t that a bit underhanded?”

“That’s what makes it such a brilliant move. It was regrettable, but it was a bold move nonetheless.”

Kain didn’t get angry.

He was familiar with the Venelucian way of thinking. He had received training at the Security Bureau in preparation for long-term assignments, and had been conducting operations here for two years.

‘From an Imperial perspective, it’s incomprehensible. But Venelucians only believe in the benefits right in front of them.

The Empire has solid ground to stand on, but they have the sea, where a downpour might come at any moment. The idea that they might be dead or alive tomorrow—such extreme thinking has shaped their values.

Their tendency to cling to material things and their fear of nature and cruel fate that they cannot control. If you don’t understand these two extremes, you can’t understand Venelucians.’

Verneith’s teachings rang clearly in his ears.

Not all Venelucians are pleased about “hiring” the Crusaders. But even they wouldn’t deny that it benefited the allied nations. They are that kind of people—those who separate practicality from principle.

“I understand,” Kain shook off his emotions. He pulled himself together as he kept getting distracted.

Digging into matters concerning Beatrice and Niccolo now would yield no benefit. Now that he had returned, he needed to think coldly, just like them.

“From what you’re saying, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such ‘powerful luck.’ But I feel like I might be seeing a faint thread. Have I met a noble person?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Antonello answered ambiguously.

“It depends on your choice. From what I can see, you don’t seem like someone who’s lived in the city for long. Your fighting style is old but effective, just like the old ways.

But despite your appearance and fighting skills, your actions are quite strange. Dressed like this, you visited the most respected cane maker in the city, and that cane maker went into such a rage that it surprised our ’employer’s daughter.’

And that cane maker has a subtle past.”

“That’s right,” Kain replied while looking around the shop.

He was considering what to grab and where to throw it to escape from this place. He regretted leaving his iron cane leaning against the workshop wall.

Antonello’s tone deepened.

“You. You were a member of Beatrice’s Rose Party, weren’t you?”