Chapter 76

He walked to the side of the street to avoid the slushy mire pooled in the middle, only to be met with a wall of filth dumped in careless heaps. Someone had relieved themselves against the wall, and the musty smell of stale urine stung his nostrils. It mingled with the sour rot of waste and decay, forming a stifling and indescribable stench.

The refuse piled up along the street was nothing short of a gathering of the world’s discarded filth. Manure that could be sold to collectors, such as horse droppings or dog feces, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were ample displays of half-digested vomit, chicken bones flung from windows, the curled carcasses of dead sewer rats, and the maggots that writhed over them in grotesque abundance.

Had one of those high-ranking noblemen, ever fond of their fine boots, set foot here by mistake, he would have turned and fled at once, if only to spare his footwear the indignity.

As he ventured deeper to avoid the filth as much as he could, the street gradually grew brighter. The streets were brightly lit, even brighter than the ones I’d been through before, and from every direction came the echoing laughter of drunken men and women being flirted with like an unending refrain.

Even past midnight, the street remained brightly lit, bustling with life. The drunken revelry peculiar to the red-light district flowed through the entire street like an intoxicating current.

If La Lune, located to the east of the capital, was the domain of the nobility, then the southwest was its exact opposite, the domain of the poor. No matter how tightly controlled, slums sprang up like poisonous mushrooms, and so, even in the capital, they dotted the city in several places. Among them, the most notorious was the ‘Waning Moon District’, widely known as the capital’s largest slum.

There were many precautions one had to take when visiting the Waning Moon District. If you head southwest after passing the bridge of Galswint the Great that crosses the Salpine River, you will see the‘Miracle Square’that can be said to be the district’s symbolic heart.

This square, said to be the site of more miracles than any other place in the capital, was famed for granting powers that could open the eyes of the blind or allow the lame to walk. However, its limitations were plain: miracles that occurred in the evening often reverted by the following morning.

If one was lucky enough to pass through the plaza without being accosted by beggars, the next concern would be one’s pockets. For beyond that lay the street known commonly as the ‘One-Armed Street’, a notorious haunt of pickpockets. It was not uncommon to encounter those missing a hand, as most of them were thieves who had been caught in the act and punished on the spot.

Only after guarding one’s purse and remaining vigilant for a good while could one finally reach the pride of the Waning Moon District, ‘Cat Street’.

Cat Street, where one could find plump young maidens to old women with sagging breasts, was a red-light district famed not only in the capital but across the entire empire for catering to every conceivable taste.

They sold girls as young as ten and women as old as eighty, and for those who sought something different, men were available too. Those with common preferences could simply visit one of the brothels lined openly along the main street. Those whose desires were harder to admit aloud need only slip into one of the alleyways and find a more discreet establishment.

“Oh my, such a handsome man. What brings someone like you all the way here?”

“Bitch, can’t you tell? He’s here to give me a good time.”

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As the young, well-built man entered the alley, the prostitutes standing along the edge of the street began to swarm him. Unlike courtesans whose company could cost as much as a mansion for a single night, the cheapgisquetteswho lifted their skirts for a silver coin wore makeup so heavy it obscured their real skin tone, grinning coquettishly as they pressed half-exposed breasts against his arm.

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He went down the street to avoid the prostitutes until he arrived in front of a building. The building, nearly twice the size of the surrounding brothels, bore a sign above the entrance that proudly read ‘Monsieur Champrineau’s House of Pleasures.’

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While waiting for someone to come out from inside, he turned to glance at the display window beside the entrance. Behind the fogged and dusty glass hung a printed poster. Still vibrant and unfaded, suggesting it was freshly posted, the print proudly announced that <The Tragedy of Galano – A Story Too Sad to Watch Without Tears>would begin its run tonight. Though the place looked at first glance like little more than a facade, it seemed the theatre held performances with surprising consistency.

“The show has started.”

Even after waiting for quite some time, no one came to the door, so he knocked once again. Only then did a man finally appear, wearing an expression of irritation, and uttered with theatrical grandeur a line more fitting for the Imperial Opera House.

The man, who had no business with the play, pulled a metal coin from his pocket and flipped it to him. The other man caught it with a look ofWhat’s this now?, but the moment his eyes landed on the front of the coin, engraved with a three-headed crow, his expression changed.

“I have come to meet the owner of the coin. Show me in.”

Though clearly suspicious of this unfamiliar visitor, the man couldn’t ignore the coin’s significance.

“Wait here a moment.”

The man went inside to verify the authenticity and returned not long after, now noticeably more polite. He quietly led the guest inside.

The interior of the theatre was just as ostentatious as its exterior. A grand staircase made of oak was lined with a cheap red-dyed carpet, and overhead hung an oversized candelabrum meant to imitate a chandelier.

Raucous laughter and whistling can be heard from beyond the wall, as if the performance were already progressing in full swing. The man led him up to one of the box seats built on the second floor.

Incredibly enough, there truly was a box seat in the midst of this third-rate theatre located in the heart of the red-light district. When the door, fashioned impressively from heavy oak, was opened, the back of a man came into view. He was laughing uproariously, one ankle hooked over the railing.

He was dressed, surprisingly for a place like this, in a fairly decent justaucorps, though his cravat hung loose, his shirt collar was undone, and not a single button had been fastened.

The man, who had been enjoying the show in a padded chaise longue, glanced up when his back was turned and raised one hand in a gesture of recognition.

“Well, if it isn’t the real Hawkeye. What brings you to dry land when you’re usually chasing seagulls?”

It was a well-known fact that Eugène’s nickname is ‘Hawk Eye’, but this man was the only one in the empire to call his nickname in the style of the Confederation of Five Nations.

Eugène answered the man, taking off the hat he had been wearing low to cover his face.

“It has been a while, Hunter. How have you been?”

At his casual greeting, the man who called himself Hunter flashed a grin, a wolfish gleam in his one remaining eye.

“Of course, my friend.”

Hunter, or Chasseur.

This man with a black eyepatch, known as Hunter in the open sea and Chasseur within the empire, was a well-known figure even among those who dominated the nightlife of the empire. He and Eugène had known each other for a long time.

They first met when they were teenagers and had spent half a year together, parting ways due to circumstances beyond their control. Even so, they had kept in touch over the years, meeting every so often.

That said, it would be inaccurate to describe the two as friends, as Hunter had put it. It would be more appropriate to say they maintained reluctant ties in case a problem arose that only the other could resolve.

“Why don’t you come sit here? You’ve probably had nothing to look at but seawater outside a cramped cabin every day. Might as well enjoy a bit of culture for once.”

Hunter patted the empty seat beside him, inviting Eugène to join him. Eugène removed his hat and placed it on the rack, then walked over and made his way to the seat beside him. When he sat down without a word, Hunter turned his attention to the stage, smiling broadly.

A group of actresses stood before a set designed to resemble a shabby farmhouse. Their skirts were so short that even the poorest women wouldn’t wear them, and their tops cut so low their nipples were nearly exposed. Everything about them was so much more revealing than the prostitutes outside.

“Still, he’s no match for a strapping farmhand, is he?”

The line came from one of the women, delivered with a nasal tone. Responding to her was the actress with the most attractive face among them. Dressed in an outfit even more suggestive, as if she were the lead, she scoffed and replied with feigned haughtiness.

“You wish. Don’t get me started. After a whole day of sowing seeds, they treat nighttime the same way, just another field to plow. Think all there is to it is spreading a woman’s legs and thrusting in like digging dirt. But you know what our noble lord is like? He tends to my spring like he’s sipping from a sacred well.”

The face and body were decent, but her delivery was awful, and her lines were easily the worst of the lot. The actress spoke in crude, unfiltered innuendos more fitting for the bedroom and lifted her skirt for all to see.

The actress’s snow-white legs were revealed nearly up to her thighs, exposing smooth curves. Even as she held up her skirt, she crossed her legs ever so slightly toward the audience, almost as if she were flushed just recalling the things her‘lord’had done to her.