Apocalyptic Reign: The King of the Underworld Rules Even in Death

Do you have any last words?

At the sound of that voice, the man gently opened his eyes.

What came into view was a stark, soundless room devoid of windows. As he observed his surroundings, numerous vacant stares were directed his way. They dug into him, much like the handcuffs on his wrists.

And right in front of him stood the infamous thirteen steps. The rope, more worn and ragged than those in movies, was tied into a noose. It seemed to be eagerly awaiting the man's arrival.

This wasn't just a feeling; it was waiting—because soon, at that very spot, the man's life would come to an end.

. . . What's so funny, you bastard?

The prison officer standing at his side shot him a sharp glance.

Unbeknownst to the man, he had been smiling unconsciously.

He shook his head quietly, composing himself as he resolved to answer the guard's question honestly.

However, upon reflection, composing his final words was difficult.

He had lived doing as he pleased; it had been a thoroughly satisfying life.

Despite his origins as an orphan, a social underdog, he never hesitated to employ any means necessary in his continuous pursuit of freedom. He gathered allies from similar backgrounds, either eliminating or using obstructive authorities, securing an unshakeable position in the underworld. Eventually, he found himself part of an organization known as the Mafia, and spent countless years among their ranks.

Glancing at his aged hands, he realized—everything in this world was within his grasp.

He’d amassed enormous wealth. Lain with countless women. He was revered more than any historical figure of the past.

It seemed like a truly fulfilling life. Even now, as he stood before his final curtain call, it was just another part of his plan. His death was merely a ritual of succession he had orchestrated.

Even after his death, his power would be seamlessly transferred to his beloved family. A new evil would be born from his death, seamlessly inheriting control of this world from the shadows.

Thus, the man felt no regret about his life coming to an end; only satisfaction with how he'd lived.

So, he had no particular last words to share—yet the prison officer before him appeared to be dissatisfied.

The guard glared at him as the man spoke with a smile.

Are you displeased? That the villain before you seems content as he faces his end?

. . . What's so funny, you bastard?

I thought so. Villains are always supposed to receive judgement at the end of their stories, aren't they? And their end must be miserable, smeared with regret. That’s the universal moral view you've all decided on, isn't it?

Indeed, the tales that existed in this world were just so.

Not just novels, but many well-known stories among the people were about promoting virtue and punishing vice. They revolved around heroes who defeated evil. The man had always doubted this.

Promoting good and punishing evil was all well and good. He understood that such stories were preferred in general society. He did not even particularly dislike them.

No, he did not dislike them, but at the same time . . .

What a waste.

Hey, you . . . How much are you earning now?

The prison officer's expression turned puzzled at the man's abrupt question.

Well, you don't have to answer. John Brown. Thirty-four years old. Prison officer. In your sixteenth year of service. Wife’s a nurse, two years your junior. Your daughter turns six this year, and both your parents are alive and well. you've got no arrest record. You’re highly regarded at work as a serious and exemplary man. I hear they’ve even started discussing a promotion to chief warden for you this year.

The prison officer—John Brown's—eyes widened in shock.

His face seemed to ask how the man could possibly know that, but to the man, it would be more unnatural not to know.

Why would he think the man wouldn't know about his own overseeing officer? It did not end there, either. He was aware of everything, from the family structures of everyone here to what they ate yesterday. He had multiple collaborators within the prison walls, some even in this very room.

Deputy warden, making roughly four thousand five hundred dollars a month. So, roughly an annual salary of sixty thousand dollars, huh?

. . . What about it?!

The man chuckled lightly at John's agitation.

You studied diligently, graduated from college, worked wisely, abstained from alcohol and women, followed the law for thirty-four years, and finally built up status and wealth. That's what it means to be deputy warden, earning about sixty thousand dollars a year.

. . .

In contrast, I barely went to school, never held a decent job, drank like a fish, and slept with a different woman every night. I kept breaking the law for decades, and in the end, I ended up—

At that point, the man could no longer contain himself; he lifted his face.

As the boss of the world’s largest mafia organization, earning billions of dollars a year. What you make in a year is mere pocket change to me.

The man let out a loud belly laugh, and John was unable to bear it any longer.

Enough!

He pulled a sack over the man’s head.

The man felt a jolt, as though someone had shoved him from behind, and began ascending the stairs.

Listen, John. This world is made for us bad guys; we always end up with the most. It’s just that you don't see it because people like me, the major villains, control everything from behind the scenes.

Shut up!

Doesn't it seem twisted? A man like you, all buttoned up and serious, walking the straight and narrow, makes sixty thousand dollars after a proper career. On the other hand, scum like me, living as I please, ends up with unimaginable wealth. That’s the reality of the world you live in right now.

I said, shut up!

He was pushed again with a thump, and felt a rope being slipped around his neck.

The stiff, coarse rope prickled his skin, but the man continued to speak, undeterred.

That’s why I think it's such a waste.

For instance, the man had recently read a book where someone died and was then reborn with memories of their past life. He thought the setup was interesting enough, but since the protagonist was inherently good, he just ended up doing good deed after good deed.

Reflecting on it now, it seemed like such a waste.

The man had lived as he pleased, but naturally, he had struggled to reach his current position. It took time, and above all power, to climb this high.

But suppose, just suppose, like that fairy tale, he could start life over again.

Suppose he retained his current personality and memories in that new life.

I would—without hesitation—walk the path of evil once more.

The world was comprised of both black and white, bleeding into shades of gray where the two met. It could never return to pure, unsullied white. If there was justice in the world, evil would naturally accompany it. Once he had known this murkiness, this dirtiness, it was utterly impossible for a man to turn his eyes from it and live an honest life.

Thus, even if the world condemned him as a great evil, the man would once again aim for the apex of the path he walked upon. Even if it led again to a tragic end, he would laugh in the face of death, having lived the life he believed in.

And this time, he would not let anything important slip from his grasp.

3, 2, 1!

So if he were to be born again, he'd prefer a rotten slum. A place most akin to a landfill, with no hopes or dreams, where no one would help, and where one must turn to crime to survive. In a world where justice was considered the main road, he would create an apocalypse of evil, directly opposing it.

So, while he had never believed in such a thing, he sent a quick prayer to the convenient entity of God.

Please, if I am to be reborn again . . .

Just don't make me a good person, don't make me something so dreadfully dull.

With a loud clunk from below, a sensation of floating enveloped his entire body.

Ah, he thought indifferently, this must be the end.

Conditions have been set. Reincarnation will commence following confirmation of death.

An unfamiliar voice seemed to echo in his mind.

If one were to sum up the life of a woman named Saphia Servine in a single word, it would undoubtedly be glorious.

Orphaned by a plague at the age of ten, she and her younger sister were forced to live in a convent. It seemed she was destined to live and die as an orphan and a pauper. However, she possessed an exceptional talent for the sword and an indomitable sense of justice greater than most.

At fifteen, her talents caught the eye of a local noble. He recommended her for the kingdom’s knight order entrance exam. She succeeded, gaining admittance into the prestigious order of the Knights of St. Ordo, eventually being knighted—a story straight out of a medieval fantasy.

Those who believe shall be saved. Upon becoming a knight— an object of public admiration— Saphia reaffirmed her commitment to justice and faith, vowing to protect her younger sister and become a person of integrity.

How many years had passed since then?

Though Saphia's chivalrous path was gilded by what should have been an auspicious start, it was now tarnished by dark clouds here in the northern industrial city of Hügel Line.

What is this talk of reducing the planned number of guards?!

Her voice echoed loudly in the corridors of the Order barracks, bustling with people clad in silver armor.

The people around her paused to turn their eyes to Saphia, but they quickly looked away, returning to their duties.

They appeared not so much uninterested as numbed by the familiarity of the scene.

They were probably thinking, "Not this again."

The knight commander standing before her, scratching his head and looking annoyed, was likely thinking the same thing.

It is just as my message conveyed. Is there a problem?

The man who spoke was Korel von Siegel, the man commanding the city's garrison and a knight of noble birth. He let out a conspicuous sigh. Despite holding the title of knight commander, his slender frame was ill-suited to the grand armor and overly decorative sword he wore, emphasizing the gap between the person and his possessions.

In contrast, Saphia was a commoner by birth but strikingly beautiful. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and shone like melted sunlight, and her well-proportioned features and sharp blue eyes captivated both men and women alike. She and Korel were both in their mid-twenties, but the figure she struck in her robust armor was earned through years of training and study, and had always drawn many eyes even when she was younger.

Saphia, who had risen through the ranks on merit from a common citizen, and Korel, who had been seated in power by noble influence, were complete opposites in both appearance and origin.

She knew all too well that Korel disliked her for these reasons.

But that did not mean she could just stay silent about her superior's barbaric actions.

There are nothing but problems. Originally, the plan was to allocate two full companies of knights for the escort of this supply convoy. What reason could there possibly be to reduce that number to less than three platoons?

The supply convoy she spoke of was that of a merchant group that periodically transported goods like gold, food, and clothing to the capital as a form of tax payment.

Four times a year, the resources accumulated in this city were transported as taxes to the capital, escorted by personnel from the garrison where Saphia served as deputy commander. This year had been especially bad; in multiple incidents, bandits had attacked the convoys, stealing goods. It had become a significant issue. Therefore, an increase in the number of escorting knights had been planned, but moments ago, Saphia learned of their reduction instead.

Reducing personnel in the face of such material damage was normally unthinkable.

With the escalating tensions with our neighboring countries, I've revisited discussions with headquarters. Unfortunately, the consensus was that it's not ideal to reduce the presence of knights in this border town, even temporarily. Please understand.

Then we should request additional reinforcements from the capital. It’s risky to cut down our numbers now, especially when this shipment includes such crucial items. If anything happens to the shipment, our nation will suffer the consequences, will it not?

Don't be absurd. They have their own issues to handle. They can't afford to allocate personnel to every single supply route just because there might be a raid along it. No one can be certain a raid will actually occur.

But it has already happened three times—

That's exactly why we should be the ones to prevent it. Are you suggesting I go begging for help because we can't handle the defense ourselves? Do you intend to tarnish my reputation as your superior?

No, that's not what I meant . . .

Korel, visibly irritated, interrupted Saphia, who then fell silent.

In the face of reprimand by her commander, Saphia had no choice but to still her tongue. After all, as the deputy commander, her influence was limited.

Saphia clenched her jaw in frustration.

A few additional troops are being dispatched from the capital. I've also managed to get your participation in the upcoming escort approved. Please be content with that. It's hard enough managing without you, even temporarily.

Saphia frowned at Korel's words.

He spoke truthfully. After all, as deputy, she was handling duties and planning that should be the commander’s responsibility, not to mention training the knights. Losing her, even temporarily, was a significant blow to Korel, who reaped the benefits of her work and reported them as his own to his superiors.

However, no gratitude was forthcoming.

. . . Thank you for considering my opinion.

Given her position, that was all she could say for now.

You should be more aware of your responsibilities as the deputy commander. You've been strangely charitable with the vulgar slum dwellers downtown. Do try to remember that you're my subordinate, won't you?

Korel looked down at Saphia's bowed head, and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Well, I'm counting on you, Gleaming Princess of the Knights of St. Ordo.

Korel patted Saphia's shoulder and then walked away down the corridor.

Saphia kept her head bowed for a while after he left, but once Korel's presence had completely faded, she straightened up and turned around.

She felt a lingering sense of unease, but she shook it off and walked silently through the bustling barracks. Exchanging brief greetings with passing subordinates, Saphia pondered the recent orders once more.

This doesn't feel right . . .

Something was definitely amiss. Not only had their requests for more soldiers been denied despite multiple attacks, but the fact that there were attacks at all was suspicious.

In the year since Saphia had been assigned to Hügel Line, there had been three scheduled transports, all of which were attacked. She had planned each route, and only shared the details with Korel and a few others to guard against intelligence leaks. She even changed the routes each time—yet the attacks still occurred.

As a result, the credibility of the local Stationed Knights in this town was at rock bottom.

The Stationed Knights were essentially a state-run security force, dispatched to cities without a standing army by the capital in exchange for compensation. In simple terms, they were mercenaries who protected the city for money.

Despite this, three separate raids had taken place on their watch. Of course, the City Council—the city's municipal government—was greatly displeased. They had every right to be; the knights were not fulfilling the duty they were being paid for.

If it weren't for Korel's influence as a noble's son and the financial reparations he had made, the Order would likely have been dismissed after their third failure. This was something Saphia had to be grateful for. Even though it meant she couldn't afford to strongly oppose Korel's unreasonable demands. There could not be a fourth failure. Next time, they had to prevent the attack.

Although the supply transport plans are extremely privileged information, they’re still leaking out. The logical conclusion must be that one of those select few in the know is the source of that leak . . .

But what was to be gained by leaking that information? Only the bandits stood to benefit. If cargo was stolen, the merchants would suffer losses, and the knights would be blamed. Even if Korel was the leak, it would only worsen his own position. After all, he was already paying reparations, and there was seemingly no advantage for him in this.

But she still couldn't help but feel there was something more behind Korel's easy decision to give up on reinforcements. What exactly was he thinking? Who was the real traitor? Saphia shook her head, as if to dismiss these thoughts.

This won't do . . .

Why had it become necessary that she contemplate such things?

It was her drive for justice that had led her to become a knight, but now she found herself compelled to doubt that very justice.

But indeed, in the years since becoming a knight, she had seen much of the world's darker realities.

Superiors dabbling in corruption. Noble factions colluding with criminal organizations. Criminals set free simply because they were the children of the elite. Even the Order Saphia belonged to was rooted in the vested interests of the nobility.

Nowadays, this country—this world—was riddled with such affairs. Greedy nobles oppressed the people to protect their interests, and the resulting widespread poverty became a breeding ground for new evils. Power-wielding villains crawled continuously from the woodwork. There were even criminals who had tacitly been allowed to rule autonomously, known as the Designated Dangerous Individuals or The Black Holders for short.

In this god-fearing world, such things must not be tolerated. If there was another attack, whatever the underlying reasons, Saphia resolved to stop it.

Big sister!

Just as she reached this conclusion, a voice sounded from ahead, making her look up.

There, coming to meet her at the entrance of the barracks, was her only family and dearest sister—Yona Servine. Her silver hair, tied in twin tails, fluttered as she energetically waved her arm, the entirety of her small body swaying with the movement.

The tension on Saphia's face naturally faded to a look full of tender love.

Yona. Have you come to pick me up?

Yes. Are you done with work for today?

I am. I was just about to leave; let's head home together. We can do some shopping in town on the way.

Okay!

Yona lept full-force into Saphia's arms, who marveled at her younger sister's weight.

She had gotten so big. It was only natural; she would be turning thirteen this year, after all.

Yona was her only family; her beloved sister, with whom she had survived becoming orphans. Saphia felt a wave of protective instinct wash over her. She hugged her little sister closer, gazing up at the evening sky, tinged orange in a precursor to sunset.

What is justice?

It was a question she had posed to herself countless times since becoming a knight, and yet she still had no clear answer.

Nevertheless, Saphia would continue to walk the path she believed in. No matter what evils emerged from the depths, she would never yield.

She had lived her life believing in God and justice. And above all, she lived for the sake of her most beloved family—her sister.

The man felt something drip onto the tip of his nose.

He could hear someone's voice, distantly. The stench of stale mud assaulted his nose, and the slight pain in his body's joints gradually brought him back to consciousness. As the world around him slowly came into focus, he recognized the sensation of awakening from a deep sleep.

. . . Oh, you're alive?

A clear, feminine voice. As he opened his eyes, he was met with a set of beautiful, jewel-like irises.

A girl of around sixteen or seventeen sat looking down at him. With her piercing golden eyes like those of a wild black panther, she was undoubtedly beautiful, though ragged, dirty clothes covered her frame, and her limbs were thin as dry twigs. She likely had not bathed in a while; her pale skin was grimy, and her long, deep-purple hair was unkempt at the tips.

Behind her, two other people of similar age were looking at the man with the same look on their faces.

You mean he wasn't dead?

The man who spoke wore a black bandanna, and there was something flippant in his demeanor. Perhaps he had recently escaped from jail; his muscular arms bore shackles with broken chains dangling from them. His thick, unruly reddish-brown hair was forced back by the tightness of his bandana, and though his youthful face retained a hint of immaturity, arrogance and intensity dwelled in his eyes.

However, the girl standing quietly next to him was a stark contrast. With a frail physique and pale hair, she was silent with her downcast gaze fixed on her hands. Curious, he snatched a glance to see she was manipulating a thin string, seemingly playing cat's cradle.

Three very different individuals—yet all bore the telltale signs common to orphans.

They formed a semicircle around the man, and one of them was patting him down. Honestly, it was clear what was happening, but the man decided to ask anyway.

What are you doing?

Looking for food or money.

The long-haired girl, still rummaging through his pockets, casually muttered this.

Ah, so you are indeed in the midst of thievery. I suppose that means I shall have to file a report. I wonder where the local self-governing body might be.

How disappointing. I thought you were dead. Picture this: the belongings of a man fallen mid-stride become a source of sustenance, so that a frail, innocent beauty like me may live to see another day. Doesn't it make for a lovely story?

Indeed. However, I happen to be alive, unfortunately for you.

So it seems. You also don't appear to have anything of value, not even stale crumbs, so I guess our whirlwind romance ends here.

The girl shrugged her shoulders in disappointment and stood gracefully. She looked away from him, as if she had lost all interest in him, and brushed the dust and sand off her knees.

While thinking what a bold child the girl was, the man swept his eyes over his environs, attempting to assess his situation.

What is this place?

It was clearly some sort of ill-kept residential area, with dilapidated houses and crumbling buildings scattered about. People lay in the streets—as the man himself had been—as if it were a natural thing to do, and uncollected trash littered the roadside. A constant stench of decay filled the air, and children shifted through the mounds of trash, scrabbling after the mice that fled from beneath the detritus.

Though he did not know exactly where he was, such scenes were familiar to the man.

What do you mean? The slums, obviously. The forsaken sector of Hügel Line. A nice little dumping ground for those of us with nowhere else to go.

The boy with the bandana shrugged his shoulders as he spoke.

Ah, the slums. He had spent time in such places in his childhood; he knew them well.

But the real question was, why was he here? He was sure he had been hanged. He could clearly remember talking to the guard John, the sensation of his feet of floating, and the force of gravity tugging around his neck. If his memory was correct, he should definitely have been dead.

Yet, here he was, alive. Not only that, he found himself thrown into an unfamiliar slum with no memory of what led him here.

I remember . . . my name.

Leo. Leo F. Blood.

Though he had many identities, that was the name he had used most recently.

Then what about the calendar? Leo decided to ask the girl standing beside him.

Hey kid, what's today's date?

Who you calling a kid? I’m already eighteen. You look younger than me, or maybe the same age, if I’m being generous.

The same age? Ha! I'm happy to be seen as youthful, but aren't you overdoing it with the flattery a bit—

While saying this, Leo casually looked at his right hand and stopped mid-sentence.

His hand was that of a young boy, gaunt and clearly malnourished, much like the girl in front of him. Even considering that, the skin was certainly not his own; it lacked the wear acquired over the course of his full sixty years.

Suddenly, his gaze fell on a nearby puddle. Peering into it, he caught a dim reflection on the surface of the shallow, dimly lit water: disheveled black hair, a gaunt face with hollowed cheeks, and a vacant look. The only feature that Leo could make out distinctly was the pair of red, sharp eyes staring intently back at him from the mirror world.

The reflection in the water was of a young boy, someone Leo had never seen before.

By the way, about the date; it doesn't really matter to someone living in the slums like me, so I don't bother to remember. What year of the divine calendar is it now, I wonder.

The girl answered as the man rose to his feet beside her.

Hügel Line, Divine calendar . . . He had been hearing unfamiliar terms sprinkled here and there for a while now.

As he stood to his full height, he could tell that it did not differ greatly from that of the girl, clearly indicating his body was not the same as before. The simple explanation would be that this was a dream. Yet his joints ached, he felt dizzy from malnutrition, and a relentless hunger pained him persistently, as if the growling of his stomach was teaching him the difference between dreams and reality.

Where exactly was he? Why was he here? And why had his body changed so drastically? He had an endless number of questions.

But for now, he would push those thoughts to the back of his mind.

Thinking could wait. Right now, Leo was hungry. He needed to take immediate action to preserve his life. In other words . . .

Food.

What?

I'm starving. I want something to eat.

The trio of orphans exchanged glances at Leo's sudden declaration.

After just three minutes on foot through an alley filled with trash and foul smells, they emerged onto a bustling main street not far from the slum where Leo had collapsed.

The street bustled with robust, well-dressed people, and the shouts of merchants attempting to entice customers to the various fruit and clothing stalls that lined the road sounded all around them. The area, brimming with people and vitality, fit the image of a shopping district perfectly.

As Leo walked, observing the street that reminded him of a Western European city, he felt slightly out of place. Turning to the three trailing behind him, he spoke.

Nice town. Thanks for showing me around.

Whatever.

The blunt response came from the long-haired girl who had been searching Leo's pockets earlier, since introduced as Idora. The bandana-clad boy walking beside her was Weiss, and trailing behind the pair was a white-haired girl who apparently had no name, likely because she was an orphan.

Leo had bluntly asked for a place to eat, and though these kids had led him silently to the main street, they must not be acting purely from the kindness of their hearts. Their appearance made clear their status as slum dwellers living day-to-day, constantly hungry and always prioritizing their next meal. Idora and the others were likely interested in what Leo would do, possibly seeing an opportunity to seize some food for themselves.

Yet, Leo purposefully feigned ignorance of their ulterior motives and continued the conversation.

Are you three friends or something?

Nah. We know each other because it’s a small slum, but we don't usually hang out. I mostly act alone, and so does Idora. The three of us just happened to run into each other.

. . . This girl has been skulking around me for some reason the past few weeks, though.

Idora's gaze shifted to the nameless girl. It was unclear if she realized she was being talked about; she made no response, just continued to fiddle with the thread in her hands.

They were slum dwellers struggling day-to-day, just as Leo had surmised. Even now, as they walked, the surrounding people looked at Leo and his disheveled companions with something resembling scorn, a fact that the group was all aware of.

Wealth disparity and discrimination were deeply rooted in this city. Leo felt a sense of nostalgia deep inside him.

Who's in charge of this city?

. . . Huh? What do you mean by who?

There must be someone, right? A lord or a chief, someone who officially manages this city.

I dunno. I think the lord is some nobleman.

That’s right. But actually, the city’s autonomous ruling body is supposed to be run by the City Council. It’s composed of representatives from the guilds and influential citizens, the so-called 'urban nobility'.

Leo nodded at Weiss's and Idora's explanation.

I see.

The realm granted lords land to manage and delegate. It was either feudalism or an absolute monarchy; either way, it was a set of values from a time before modern Europe, when royalty and nobility still existed. He had guessed as much from the overall cityscape and the architectural structure seemed to hint at that, and now it seemed his hunch proved correct. Secretly, he was moved by the sight of what was once known as the glorious yet dark medieval era.

Why are you asking all this? Aren't you from this city?

Idora was slightly suspicious of Leo's reaction, as if he was seeing the city for the first time. Indeed, for him, it was the first time he had laid eyes on it.

I don't know. I can't remember. Guess I have amnesia.

. . . Amnesia?

I remember nothing but my name, Leo. I have no idea what sort of place this world is, what's happening in it, or who exists here. Probably hit my head or something.

It was a bit of a stretch, but he setted on that cover story for now.

Even if the part about amnesia was a lie, it was undoubtedly true that he knew nothing of this world. It was a slightly unreasonable lie, but it was the only explanation he could offer at the moment.

However, in that case, the orphans' assumption that, Leo might know a way to get food would evaporate into thin air.

Realizing this, Idora raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to speak, when Leo accidentally bumped into a passerby walking in the opposite direction.

Oops . . . my apologies.

Tch . . . Watch where you're going, you brat!

The well-dressed, broad-shouldered man suddenly shouted at them angrily. He looked down upon Leo and his companions' shabby appearance, clicking his tongue in obvious disgust. He brushed off the spot where they had collided and glared down at them contemptuously.

Slum rats, huh . . . How dare you deprived scum come out to the main streets!

The man hurriedly bustled away, huffing in displeasure.

Leo tilted his head as he watched him walk away out of the corner of his eye.

Deprived scum?

Deprived scum?

Ironic, isn't it?

It was Idora who spoke, her voice tinged with irritation as she looked over her shoulder at the affluent man's back.

This place, just one or two streets away from the slums, overflows with food and money, yet none of it ever makes its way to us. Being born just one street away means our lives are completely different.

It’s a damn unfair world. Those born as nobodies usually die as nobodies.

Weiss shrugged, agreeing with Idora's words. Listening to this, Leo turned his gaze back to the street and muttered.

Ain't that right.

Her words rang true. It was a common misconception that, through effort, anyone could work their way to success. There were those not even afforded the opportunity to try. This was a society where learning and growth depended purely on luck, yet expected equal outcomes regardless of the disparities. As humanity proudly erected a big beautiful sign labeled ‘equality,’ they pretended not to see those suffering in its shadow.

Even if everyone was provided with platforms of identical height, the people atop them would be able to see different scenery contingent upon their personal height. Equality was not about rescuing the weak; it was a massive sieve that excluded all but the strong.

Street children like these had fallen from that sieve. This shopping district—just a street away from the slums—was, in a way, a microcosm of this world. While the world might be 'equal,' it was certainly not fair to the weak. Leo knew this better than anyone.

Well, if that’s the case, there’s still something we can do about it.

. . . Something we can do?

At Leo’s words, the nameless girl spoke for the first time, her voice as delicate as the tinkling of a hand bell.

Yes, there was a way. Admittedly, the world was not kind to those who fell off its tracks. To even get a meal in the slums required begging, and the public’s reaction to such a thing was harshly critical. Many cringed at their unhygienic appearance, while others openly attacked them verbally. That was what it meant to be excluded from society’s tracks.

But, conversely, one may think about it from a different angle. If the world excluded them from its framework, then they were also not bound by the world’s rules. The outcasts had their own ways of living. Whether these ways were viable in this new world or not was the first thing he needed to test.

So, you guys. Aren't you getting hungry?

Leo’s sudden question made the three of them exchange glances.

Well, if there’s something to eat, I wanna eat it, but . . .

Where can we even eat? You lost your memories; surely you don't have any leads, right?

No leads. But, I do have money.

Money? And where exactly did you—

Idora's sentence was cut short. She suddenly stopped speaking, caught off guard by something Leo was holding in his hand.

It had been a while since Leo had done that—since his childhood days in the slums, but surprisingly enough, his muscle memory remained. It seemed that no one else present had noticed what Leo had done.

The object dangling from Leo's hand—a brown pouch tightly bound with a string, was something he had discreetly lifted from the man's pocket after bumping into him earlier.

The true nature of the bag and its contents were clear without needing explanation; Idora and the others undoubtedly understood what this was and where it had come from.

With the trio gaping in awe, Leo smirked slightly.

So, what are you all in the mood for?

The wallet dangling from Leo's hand made a delightful clinking sound, as if flaunting the richness of its contents.

The tavern was in the midst of the afternoon rush. Tables and chairs haphazardly arranged without any thought to their placement filled the tavern with barrels and mugs randomly strewn across the floors and counters. Unique paintings by artists unknown lining the walls and the flickering lamps added a curious charm to the place.

In the tavern, where rugged-looking men made up the majority of the patrons, the clinking of glasses served as accompaniment as Leo and his companions relished their first meal of the day.

How is it? Tasty?

Leo, whose order hadn't arrived yet, turned his attention to the three across from him who had already started eating.

. . . It's passable.

That was Idora’s response as she took a bite of her stir-fried vegetables. Though she claimed it was . . .

Passable.

the speed at which her food was disappearing spoke volumes. Weiss, happily gnawing on a piece of meat next to her, seemed truly content.

However, the nameless girl hadn't touched her food. She stared doubtfully at the stir-fried meat and beans on her plate, seemingly unsure if she was truly allowed to eat it.

What's the matter? Don’t hesitate, go ahead and eat—

Leo was about to call the girl by name, then remembered she did not have one.

It wasn't rare for people to be nameless in the slums. Many were abandoned before being given names by their parents, and in a life with minimal human interaction, names were often unnecessary. Some—like the old Leo—would choose their own names, but many lived and died nameless.

Nevertheless, having a name to call her by would make conversations easier.

Yuki.