The morning sun streamed into Erwin's small boarding house room. In the tiny kitchen nook, Soma was a whirlwind of motion, pans sizzling, a knife moving with impossible speed. Sebas stood by the doorway, observing, a placid but puzzled expression on his face. Soma kept talking to the empty air.
"No, no, you can't add the thyme that early, it'll overpower the shallots!" he'd argue, before pausing, a look of intense concentration on his face. "Okay... yes, if I brown the butter first, that might work. A beurre noisette base... intriguing." He would go mad with frustration one moment, then his face would light up with intrigue the next. But one thing was certain: he was having a very intense debate about cooking with someone who wasn't there.
Sebas turned to Zero, who was leaning against the doorframe. "Master Zero," the butler asked, his voice low. "Did Young Master Soma perhaps eat something... wrong... today?"
Zero chuckled, a weary but amused sound. "Well..."
…
Soma was still laughing, tears streaming down his face as he pointed at the useless [Background Character] card in Zero's hand. "PFFFFFT! OH MY GOD, YOUR LUCK IS ACTUALLY CURSED! AHAHAHAHAHA!"
Zero gestured with both his middle fingers to the ceiling. "FUCK YOU, CECIL, YOU INTERN BASTARD!" he roared. He continued to swear at the sky while Soma laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach to keep from collapsing.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Soma finally caught his breath. "Alright, alright," he said, puffing out his chest. "Let me show you how someone with protagonist luck does it. After all, I'm the main character of this café."
Zero just sulked, slumping over the bar counter.
Soma took the second pack, the one with Cecil raising a beer, and tore it open. The first nine cards dissolved into [+10 Magical Energy] each, flowing into Zero. The tenth card, however, glowed a little brighter before dissolving. [+100 Magical Energy].
"Oh wow," Soma said, impressed. "That's useful."
"Whatever," Zero grumbled from the counter.
Soma laughed and revealed the final card. It glowed with a warm, golden light, revealing an illustration of a small, determined-looking rat in a chef's hat.
[Remy]Character Origin: Ratatouille (Pixar Movie)
Description: A small rat with a colossal passion for fine food and an extraordinary sense of taste and smell. He dreams of becoming a great chef, despite the obvious challenges.
Traits: Grants the user a form of divine inspiration for cooking. Subtly guides the user's hands and palate to create the perfect dish, balancing flavors with an almost supernatural intuition.
This time, it was Zero's turn to laugh. He shot up from his sulking position. "AHAHAHAHAHA! YOU BECAME A RAT! DO YOU WANT SOME CHEESE? DON'T WORRY, WE HAVE A LOT OF SELECTIONS IN THE BACK! AHAHAHAHAHA!"
Soma's face was sour. "At least it's a chef card," he said defensively. "I still count this as a win."
"Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that," Zero said, wiping a tear of mirth from his own eye. He walked over to the espresso machine, pulled a shot, and then pricked his finger, letting a few drops of his dark blood fall into the cup. He slid it over to Soma. "Here. From what Erwin experienced, you'll need my blood to fuse another card."
"Thanks," Soma grumbled. "But I don't mind tearing your arms off after you laughed at me like that." He drank the espresso in one gulp, then pressed the [Remy] card to his forehead.
He groaned as the card dissolved. He began to glow brightly, his shape contorting, shrinking smaller and smaller until, with a soft poof, he had become a small, black rat.
Zero's laughter intensified.
The rat then dissolved into a pool of swirling blood, which coiled upwards and rapidly reformed back into Soma's human body. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's good," he said, his eyes wide with discovery. "It's strengthening my knowledge. My French cuisine is... more refined now."
"Ciit, ciit, ciit," Zero squeaked, mockingly.
Soma was about to retort when he suddenly screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the empty space above his head. "A FAT GHOST!"
Zero looked at where Soma was pointing. "What?"
"THERE'S A FAT, TRANSPARENT CHEF GHOST FLOATING RIGHT THERE!" Soma yelled. "HE'S TELLING ME I OVER-SALTED THE PHO LAST NIGHT!"
…
"So yeah," Zero explained to Sebas in the present day. "He's not crazy. He's just getting cooking advice from the spirit of a dead French chef that only he can see."
Just then, Soma pointed an accusatory spatula at the empty air in Erwin's kitchen. "What do you mean, 'anyone can cook'?! That's a bold-faced lie and you know it, Gusteau!"
…
Erwin woke with the sun, the events of the previous night a cold, hard stone in his gut. He dressed, slipping a heavy pouch of coins into his coat pocket. It was a small amount for Sebas, whose grip on the city's underbelly was already expanding, but for Erwin, it was a necessary tool.
He arrived at the hospital, the sterile scent of healing potions doing little to mask the underlying smell of sickness and despair. He walked the long, quiet hall and saw them—Elisa's parents, huddled together on a bench outside their daughter's room, their faces etched with exhaustion and worry.
The moment the mother saw him, she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him. She cried, her words a choked, desperate stream of "thank you" over and over again. "We owe you everything," she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "If it weren't for you, our daughter would be… would be—" She choked up, unable to finish the sentence. The father could only stand beside her, bowing his head repeatedly, the simple gesture conveying a depth of gratitude that words could not.
Erwin, his face a mask of gentle sympathy, gracefully accepted their thanks. "Why are you out here?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be with her?"
"We're still waiting for her to wake up," the parents explained.
Erwin frowned. "Didn't the healers already tend to her last night when I brought her in?"
The father shook his head, a look of weary resignation on his face. "No healers stay at the hospitals, sir," he said. "They are... independent. They usually reside in their own mansions and only come when they are called."
"Let me check with the nurse," Erwin said, his tone hardening.
"Please, don't!" the mother pleaded, grabbing his arm. "We don't have the money to hire a healer. We can't afford it."
Erwin placed a reassuring hand on hers. "You don't need to worry about that," he said, his voice calm and confident. "I have some connections who can help."
He walked with a steady, purposeful stride to the front desk. "I require a healer for patient Elisa," he said to the nurse, his voice polite but firm.
The nurse didn't even look up from her paperwork. "You're not the guardian, are you? I already asked the parents. They can't afford one."
The casual, bureaucratic dismissal irked Erwin. He slammed his hand on the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet hall. He then tossed the heavy pouch of coins onto the desk. It landed with a loud, definitive clank of gold. "Get me the best healer in this duchy," he commanded, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. "Before the sun is high in the sky."
The nurse, taken aback by the sound of real gold, stared at the pouch, then at the cold, icy blue eyes of the man before her. The amount was more than enough. She immediately scrambled to her feet and bowed.
Erwin straightened his hair and coat, his composure perfectly restored, and walked back to Elisa's parents.
…
Time passed. Seconds became minutes, and minutes stretched into agonizing hours. Erwin sat with the parents, the tapping of his shoe on the floor the only sound in their silent vigil.
"It's usually like this with the healers," the father said meekly, trying to fill the silence. "They operate on their own schedules. They show up when they feel like it." He gestured vaguely, a look of bitter acceptance on his face. "And since they can charge whatever they want for a few seconds of work... well... why should they care about being on time?"
After nearly six hours of waiting, a commotion erupted near the hospital entrance. The small crowd in the waiting room parted like water before a ship. And then, he walked in.
He was a man draped in opulent white and gold robes, golden rings and necklaces gleaming under the light. His fat fingers were adorned with expensive, gaudy jewelry, and his bloated figure barely squeezed through the hospital doorways. His round face was caked in excessive perfumes and powders, an arrogant sneer permanently fixed on his lips.
The healer stepped into Elisa's room, his robes swaying dramatically. He glanced down at the small, unconscious girl, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Is this the thing?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
Erwin watched the people around him. The nurses, the other patients, even Elisa's own parents—no one reacted. No one flinched at their daughter being called a "thing."
The healer let out an exaggerated sigh and hovered a fat, ringed hand over Elisa's body. A soft, golden glow spread from his fingertips. The bruises faded. Her breathing steadied. Her wounds closed. In just a few seconds, she was healed. Her parents immediately rushed to her side, bowing to the healer. "Thank you! Thank you!"
The healer sneered. "To be called away from my morning meal just to heal a peasant," he scoffed, adjusting his gold rings. Then, without another word, he turned and left. Just like that.
Erwin stood perfectly still, watching the man disappear down the hall. He clenched his jaw. His fingers tightened into fists, his knuckles turning white. For the first time in a long while, he had to actively remind himself: 'Stay calm. Stay composed. Keep your cover.'
He took a slow, steadying breath. Then, finally, he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
"This world is even more fucked up than I thought."
…
Erwin arrived at the precinct well past noon, the frustrating and infuriating wait for the healer having thrown his entire schedule off. He walked up to the front desk.
"Erwin Smith. Here to see Sergeant Lomare."
The receptionist, a woman in her mid-40s with glasses too big for her face, barely glanced up. She pulled a visitor's badge from a drawer, slid it across the counter, and jerked her head toward the hallway. "Follow the escort."
Sergeant Lomare was waiting for him in his small, cluttered office. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, a testament to a long and sleepless night. "Welcome, Erwin," he said, gesturing to a chair. "I've already given the order to take the suspects into custody, actually. Sorry for not informing you, but I needed to move fast before word got out."
Erwin felt a wave of relief. "No need to apologize, Sergeant," he said. "Just make sure to interrogate them carefully. The evidence is circumstantial until we match the prints."
"Listen," Lomare said, leaning forward, his voice low. "I'm grateful for your help here. But there's more to this case than we thought, and as a Watcher, I can't divulge much."
A wry smile touched Erwin's lips. "Then why are we in the privacy of your office, Sergeant?"
Lomare chuckled, a tired, humorless sound. "It's not fun talking to sharp people. Or maybe I've just gotten too used to the nepo-tectives." He sighed, the humor vanishing. "Anyway, there's a complication. This case... it might be taken over by the Magic Towers."
"Magic Towers?" Erwin repeated, the name instantly familiar from the books he had read in the Royal Library. They were the seats of power for the Athenean Concord.
"What do you mean by that?" Erwin asked, feigning ignorance.
"I'm sure you know," Lomare said, eyeing Erwin's sharp, foreign-style suit. "Since your accent sounds like you might be from the Concord yourself. There are protocols. We 'mortals', as they so kindly call us, can't touch any case that has a direct connection to magic."
"You're kidding," Erwin said, though he was beginning to understand. He remembered Celvise's pale face when she saw the runes on the trapdoor.
"So what can we do?" he asked.
Lomare sighed and looked out the window of his office, down at the interrogation rooms where the newly arrested teachers and the headmaster were being processed. Before he could answer, a new figure entered the precinct's main lobby. A man in the elegant, flowing robes of a mage. He walked with an arrogant stride, and as he reached the main staircase, he didn't bother to take the steps. He simply floated up to the second floor, directly to Captain Kilpo's office, and closed the door behind him.
Lomare's face fell. "Seems like we don't even have time to interrogate them."
Sure enough, less than five minutes later, Captain Kilpo's door flew open. The fat, greasy-haired captain came out shouting. "Release the suspects in the missing child case! Effective immediately! The matter will be handled by the Magic Towers!"
"Are you kidding me?!" Erwin snarled, his hand instinctively balling into a fist. He was about to storm out of the office and confront the captain, the mage, anyone.
But Lomare's hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder. "Don't," the sergeant warned, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "Protesting will do nothing but make it worse. The Towers can make life very difficult for the victims' families if they feel their authority is being questioned."
Erwin froze, his body rigid with a cold, suppressed fury. He was trapped, not by a lack of evidence, but by a system designed to keep people like him, and the families he was trying to help, completely powerless.
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**