Golgotha Kingdom — Aurelia City
The market of Aurelia pulsed like a living thing.
Voices rose and fell in waves—vendors shouting prices, customers haggling with sharp tongues, coins clinking against wooden counters. The air carried a mix of spices, sweat, and fresh bread. Arguments sparked at nearly every stall; irritated buyers accused merchants of overcharging, while shopkeepers fired back, defending their goods with equal stubbornness. It was loud, restless… alive.
Above it all, dark green flags swayed gently from buildings on either side of the street. Each bore a simple emblem—a golden crown set cleanly at the center. No elaborate patterns, no excessive detail. Just a symbol of authority, quiet yet undeniable.
Amid the crowd, a weathered notice board stood slightly off to the side of the main road.
Pinned to it was a poster.
Four figures stood side by side, crudely sketched. Their bodies were outlined, but their faces were left blank—smudged, as if the artist either didn't know them… or didn't want them known. It resembled the bounty posters sailors whispered about in distant ports, yet something about it felt more ominous.
At the top, in bold ink, it read:
The Arcanians
Reward: 15,000 Gold Coins
Mission Rank: S
A half-bald man with a thick beard paused in front of it, squinting slightly.
Oswin Pike stepped closer, folding his arms as he let out a low whistle.
"Would you look at that… the reward's gone up again."
Beside him, another man was already there, shifting through the crowd before stopping at his side. Roland Cooper leaned in, scanning the poster.
"Yeah…" he muttered, brows knitting together. "Last I remember, it was barely scraping a thousand."
Oswin clicked his tongue. "They're getting bold. Just a few months back, all I heard were petty thefts in Coltern City. Now?" He gestured vaguely toward the road beyond the market. "They're hitting major trade routes."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"If this keeps up, traders like me won't be worrying about profit anymore… we'll be worrying about dying on the road from hunger."
Roland glanced at him, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.
"Oh? So you're a trader."
Oswin gave a tired smile. "Unfortunately."
Roland nodded slowly, turning his gaze back to the poster.
"Then you've picked a rough time to be here. Word is, they've already taken over the eastern routes—the ones leading straight to the capital."
Oswin let out a dry chuckle. "That explains why I'm stuck in this city." He raised his hands slightly in a half-hearted gesture. "Not that I'm complaining. Aurelia's beautiful—easily the finest among the four major cities."
His expression soured.
"But those taxes…" he muttered.
That earned a laugh from Roland.
"Tell me about it. I've lived here thirteen years, and they still sting every time."
Oswin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Now that you mention it… the difference is ridiculous. Just entering the city cost me a hundred silver. And trading rights…" He paused, trying to recall. "What was it… twenty gold?"
Roland's head snapped toward him.
"Twenty?! Since when?!"
Oswin blinked, then winced.
"Ah—no, no. My mistake. Ten. It's ten." He let out an awkward chuckle. "Still high enough to hurt."
Roland relaxed slightly, exhaling.
"For a second there, I thought the Gramont family had raised it again."
Oswin frowned slightly.
"The Gramonts? What do they have to do with taxes?"
Roland gave a small, almost absent nod.
"They handle it here. The tax system, I mean."
Oswin blinked, clearly not expecting that.
"…Isn't that under the duke? Or the king?"
Roland hesitated, then gave a short, quiet exhale.
"Sounds strange, yeah. But that's how it is."
Roland glanced around—left, then right—eyes scanning the passing crowd. Only after a moment did he step a little closer.
"Well…" he said quietly, lowering his voice, "it's not something people say out loud."
Oswin's curiosity sharpened. "Go on."
Roland leaned in just enough to be heard.
"Rumor is… the Gramont family runs this city."
Oswin's brows furrowed. "Runs it? What about the king?"
Roland gave a faint shrug.
"On paper? Sure. But here…" His lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. "The crown might as well belong to the Gramonts."
Oswin looked around, noticing the flags again—the dark green, the golden crown. There were more of them than he had first realized.
"…So that's why," he murmured. "I thought it was just because they were the highest nobles here." He shook his head slightly. "Seems like there's more to it than that."
Roland straightened, his tone returning to normal.
"Like I said, just rumors. No one really knows what's happening behind closed doors."
Oswin let out a long sigh, stretching his shoulders.
"Well… rumors or not, they won't fill my coin pouch." He glanced up at the sky. "It's almost eleven. Got a big client coming in the evening—I should start preparing."
He offered a polite nod.
"Thanks for the conversation. Makes a new city feel a little less unfamiliar."
Roland smiled lightly.
"Anytime. Take care."
Oswin returned the nod and turned to leave, already blending back into the crowd.
"Ah—wait!"
Roland's voice cut through the noise.
Oswin stopped mid-step and looked over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
Roland paused, like he was deciding whether it was worth saying at all.
"…Hey," he called out, a little quieter this time. "If you're here to trade—just be careful around one of the Gramonts."
Oswin stopped and turned back.
"One of them?"
Roland scratched the side of his head, irritation creeping in, but less sharp—more tired than angry.
"Yeah. There's a young one… goes around making things difficult." He shrugged. "Nothing you can't guess. Noble family, too much authority, not much restraint."
Oswin's expression shifted, more attentive now.
Roland continued, glancing briefly at the people passing by.
"He takes interest in traders sometimes. If that happens, your fees don't stay what they're supposed to be." He gave a dry, almost resigned smile. "Ten gold can turn into… a lot more, depending on his mood."
That was enough to make Oswin frown.
"…I see."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Oswin asked, simple and direct,
"So‚ what's the brat's name?"
Roland then replied.
"Lucien de Gramont."
The noise of the market didn't fade all at once—it thinned out.
Voices grew distant, swallowed by the wider streets. The tight clusters of stalls gave way to broader roads, cleaner stone, fewer people. The green flags still hung from buildings, but here they were spaced with intention, not clutter.
And then, at the heart of it all—
The mansion.
It rose behind high iron gates, painted in a deep, almost muted red that stood apart from the pale stone of the city. A boundary wall encircled it, tall enough to cut it off from the world outside. Inside, it was a different space entirely.
Wide gardens stretched across the grounds, carefully maintained. Rows of trees cast long shadows over trimmed grass, their leaves barely stirring. A narrow lake curved along one side, its surface still, reflecting the red walls like a painting.
It didn't feel like it belonged to the city.
It felt like the city had grown around it.
—
Inside, the dining room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, falling across a long table set for lunch. Plates, cutlery, and crystal glasses were arranged with precision. Servants stood at a distance, lined along the walls—present, but silent.
Only four people sat at the table.
At the head sat Rodric De Gramont.
A middle-aged man with short black hair slicked neatly back. A thin scar cut across one of his eyebrows, giving his already sharp face a harsher edge. His posture was straight, rigid. Even at rest, he looked tense, as if something unseen weighed on him.
To his left sat Miola De Gramont.
Her appearance was striking in a different way. Pale—unnaturally so. Her skin almost seemed devoid of color, her long silver-white hair falling neatly over her shoulders. Yet none of it diminished her beauty. Her lashes were long and dark, like natural mascara, framing calm, unreadable eyes.
Beside her sat a small boy.
Leto De Gramont, ten years old.
Unlike the others, he carried life in his expression. His hair was a mix of black and white, uneven but fitting. He ate without restraint, focused entirely on his meal, as if the heavy silence around him didn't exist.
At the far end of the table sat the last of them.
Lucien De Gramont.
Sixteen.
Black hair fell to frame his face, stopping just above his shoulders. His eyes—sharp, red—were half-lidded, distant. He hadn't touched much of the food in front of him.
The air around the table felt… strained.
Only Leto moved naturally. The rest sat in quiet detachment.
No one spoke.
This again…
Lucien picked up his knife and fork, his gaze resting on the plate in front of him.
Playing the role of someone I can't stand.
The blade slid through the fish with quiet precision.
No… that's not it.
A faint pause.
I just don't like this kind of life.
His expression remained unchanged, but his grip tightened slightly.
Arrogant. Self-indulgent. Doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants… not caring about anything beyond himself.
He cut another piece, slower this time.
I understand it. I can act like it.
A small, almost invisible shift in his eyes.
But I still hate it.
He brought the piece to his mouth and took a bite, chewing without much thought.
And yet… I keep doing it.
His gaze lowered faintly.
Being kind. Being decent… that used to mean something.
A brief silence lingered in his thoughts.
Now it doesn't feel the same.
He continued chewing, slower now.
It's been… five thousand eight hundred forty-four days in this life.
No change in his expression.
His chewing slowed, then gradually came to a stop.
No one knows untill now.
His gaze lowered slightly.
That this is my fourth time… being born into a different body.
A brief pause.
Fourth.
The thought settled in, quiet and heavy.
Silence returned.
Then—
He stopped.
Completely.
The fork lowered. His jaw tightened slightly.
Without a word, Lucien set the utensil down, reached for a cloth, and brought it to his mouth. The half-chewed piece of fish disappeared into the fabric. He folded it neatly and placed it beside his plate.
"…Hey."
A servant stepped forward immediately.
"Yes, sir?"
Lucien didn't look at him.
"I'm fairly certain I asked for steak today." His tone was flat, almost bored. "If I remember correctly, I told Calipso myself."
The servant stiffened slightly, then nodded.
"My apologies, sir. I'll have this replaced at once—"
He reached for the plate.
Before the servant's hand could reach the plate, Lucien exhaled—slow at first, then sharper, like something inside him had snapped.
His gaze lingered on the fish for a fraction longer.
This shouldn't even be here.
A small detail. A simple instruction. Something that should have been handled without thought… without error.
And yet—
His fingers tightened slightly against the table.
They can't even get this right.
In one abrupt motion, he shoved the plate aside.
The plate flew off the table, crashing against the wall. Porcelain shattered across the floor, the sound echoing through the room.
"How many times do I have to tell you all about this?" Lucien snapped, his voice rising with clear irritation.
His gaze shifted toward the male servant, cold and unamused.
"I don't eat fucking fish."
Leto flinched, his attention snapping toward Lucien.
But before he could speak, Miola's voice came—soft, steady.
"Open your mouth."
A spoon gently pressed toward him, distracting him before he could dwell on it. Leto blinked, then complied without protest.
Rodric didn't react.
Not to the noise. Not to the broken plate.
He simply slid his glass slightly to the side and said,
"Wine."
A servant moved instantly to fill it.
Nothing more.
Lucien pushed his chair back and stood.
"Calipso!"
His voice cut through the room, sharp and impatient.
He turned toward a nearby servant.
"Where is he?"
The female servant lowered her head slightly.
"In his room, sir."
Lucien stepped toward the door.
Then—
"Sir… Calipso has been unwell since last night. It might be best not to disturb him."
The words hung in the air.
Every servant in the room went still.
A few glanced at her in shock. Even the one pouring Rodric's wine faltered for a fraction of a second.
Lucien stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
His gaze settled on her.
Those red eyes—calm, but carrying something heavier beneath—fixed in place.
Miola watched him quietly.
For a moment, it seemed like he would walk forward.
The servant took a small step back, hesitation clear in her movement.
"Please don't cause a scene here, Lucien," Miola said.
Her voice wasn't loud.
But it cut cleanly through the tension.
"This is a place to eat."
Lucien looked at her.
Held it for a second.
Then, without a word, he turned away.
"Calipso!"
The shout echoed again as he walked out.
Only after the doors closed did the servants breathe.
Relief spread quietly through the room, subtle but unmistakable.
In the hallway, Lucien walked on, his steps even, unhurried.
…I'm irritated.
The thought sat there, clear and undeniable.
Over something this small.
His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened slightly.
It's stupid.
He knew it. There was nothing about it worth this kind of reaction.
And yet, the feeling didn't fade.
If anything, it lingered—quiet, persistent.
So why is it still there?
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Why am I getting angry… and taking it out on Calipso?
The thoughts lingered in his mind, but his steps didn't stop.