Carravin is a city that screams a single, relentless mantra into the ears of its citizens: Time is money.
Blumenau operates on a completely different frequency. Its very breathing seems to whisper a single, foundational truth: Harvest is wealth.
Hano steps through the wide, open wooden gates of Blumenau. There are no heavy iron portcullises here, no stern guards demanding entry transit fees or searching through personal sacks for contraband.
The immediate atmosphere wraps around him like a warm blanket. The deafening, aggressive noise of Carravin—the constant clanging of heavy blacksmith hammers, the booming cathedral bells, the shrill steam whistles, and the deep, hollow blasts of riverboat horns—is entirely absent.
Instead, Blumenau is filled with a soft, industrious harmony. The background music of the city is composed of the deep, soothing hum of heavy wooden mill wheels churning through water; the soft, rhythmic clatter of horse hooves on broad, clean timber-paved streets; the cheerful, warm bargaining of grain merchants inspecting hand-drawn samples of barley and rye; and the bright, ringing laughter of young children running through the plazas carrying woven baskets filled to the brim with fresh flower petals.
The open-air markets along the central boulevard do not sell rusted iron tools, heavy weapons, or cheap, coarse wool. They display pristine wooden bins brimming with fine white flour, polished barley, crisp red apples, vibrant pigment powders, neatly organized packets of flower seeds, wooden casks of sweet hill wine, and heavy wheels of aged, yellow mountain cheese.
Every citizen decorates their home with obsessive, joyful pride. Every glass window frame features a carved wooden flower box overflowing with bright red geraniums and blue violets. Every public square centers around a neatly manicured stone garden filled with trimmed flowering bushes and marble benches. Every tavern, inn, and bakery features hanging iron baskets bursting with fragrant, trailing vines. The entire city feels alive with vibrant, uninhibited color.
Hano walks down a wide, sunlit street paved with smooth wooden blocks that deaden the sound of foot traffic. He observes the citizens closely, his dark eyes scanning their faces with his signature, unblinking detachment.
In Carravin, the people walk with aggressive, hurried strides. They keep their heads down, their shoulders hunched, their eyes constantly calculating, measuring, worrying about shipping deadlines, tax hikes, and guild politics.
The people of Blumenau still work hard—he sees men hauling heavy sacks of grain up flour mill ramps, their muscles straining under sweat-stained shirts—but they smile easily. They stop on street corners to greet one another with warm handshakes and loud laughter. They stand in groups outside bakeries, animatedly discussing the morning weather, the expected yield of the autumn harvest, the quality of the latest wine pressing, and the blooming of the seasonal flower gardens, completely unconcerned with ducal decrees or continental wars.
The architecture reflects this relaxed, generous spirit. Carravin is built from cold, dark red brick and heavy black stone, its narrow, dark streets choked by multi-story warehouses that shut out the sky. Blumenau features broad, airy avenues lined with spacious wooden barns, timber-framed townhouses painted in cheerful yellow and cream tones, intricate wrought-iron railings, lush private flower gardens visible behind low stone walls, and wide public parks where elderly men sit under broad oak trees playing draft games.
Even the grand houses of the wealthiest grain merchants do not look like fortified bunkers; they are spacious, open villas surrounded by private orchards, where white marble fountains spray clear water over beds of blooming roses.
Night falls slowly over Blumenau, wrapping the city in a cool, lavender-scented twilight.
Carravin at night is a dark, restless beast that never truly sleeps. The river traffic continues to groan through the dark water; the rowdy taverns in the dock districts spill drunk, violent sailors into muddy alleyways; and disciplined pairs of armed guards march through the streets, their heavy iron boots ringing ominously against the cobblestones.
Blumenau simply settles down into a quiet, profound peace.
As the sun dips below the western hills, painting the sky in soft shades of orange, purple, and gold, the city falls silent. The heavy mill wheels slow their turning; the market stalls are neatly draped in canvas sheets; and the citizens retire to their homes, the warm, yellow glow of candle lantern light spilling gently through flower-framed windows.
The loudest sounds remaining in the city are the soft, soothing chirping of crickets hiding in the lush flower boxes, the rhythmic croaking of frogs in the nearby irrigation canals, and the gentle, constant whisper of the evening wind rustling through the vast, ocean-like wheat fields outside the walls.
For the first time in days, the heavy veil of cloud and industrial coal smoke disappears entirely, revealing a vast, crystal-clear night sky studded with millions of brilliant, twinkling stars.
Hano stands on a high, timber-decked balcony on the top floor of a quiet, flower-covered inn at the edge of the city. He leans his pale arms on the carved wooden railing, his tall frame relaxed, his long hair blowing softly in the cool night breeze.
He looks out over the endless dark expanse of the wheat fields, watching the starry sky reflect off the quiet water of a nearby canal.
Back in Carravin, the silence had felt strange, almost unnatural—a tense, fragile breathing room between violent riots and military crackdowns. But here, the silence is real, vast, and ancient. For the first time since he was snatched from his homeland and turned into a slave-soldier, Hano can hear the clean, unhurried sound of the wind instead of the crushing rumble of supply wagons and the screaming of dying men.
His dark, unblinking eyes scan the golden horizon lit by the starlight.
Carravin had taught him how wealth was counted—in cold numbers, ledger books, tax archives, silver coins, and iron weapons. But looking over these tranquil, fragrant fields, Blumenau reminds him where that wealth truly began.
The Blumenau region is the beating, quiet heart that keeps the entire mechanical monster of Thromium alive: endless oceans of wheat feeding millions of mouths, towering wooden granaries securing the survival of cities through harsh winters, pigment mills staining the crystal mountain streams with brilliant, swirling rivers of red, blue, and yellow, and finally, streets overflowing with bright flower boxes, manicured gardens, and open parks designed for human joy.
Hano takes a slow, deep breath of the cool night air, smelling the sweet, heavy scent of damp soil, crushed lavender, and ripe grain. A tiny, almost imperceptible tilt touches the corner of his thin lips—not a smile, but a quiet, rare acknowledgment of peace.
He turns his head slightly toward the south, looking toward the distant horizon where Flora lay under the same starlight.
Enjoy your hot baths, Captain, Hano thinks, his mind cold, sharp, and entirely at ease.
And good luck dealing with the femboy when he finds you.
Hano turns around, stepping back into his warm, quiet room, closing the flower-framed terrace door behind him, leaving the starry sky and the rustling wheat to sleep in the quiet dark.
The sun rises high and bright over the straight, pristine boulevards of Flora, casting sharp, perfectly square shadows along the white stone avenues.
Onaga Kei sits stiffly in his leather saddle, his small hands clutching the leather reins so tightly his fingers have gone numb. His horse plods along at a slow, reluctant walk, its iron-shod hooves clicking with a light, delicate echo against the immaculate, pale cobblestones.
Onaga's dark eyes dart frantically from left to right, his pale face flushed with an intense, overwhelming sensory overload. His mind is a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions, racing faster than the horse's gentle gait.
This place... it doesn't make any sense! Onaga thinks, his brows furrowed in a tight knot of anxious confusion as he stares down an avenue so straight it seems to vanish into the horizon.
Where are the alleys?
Where are the rubbish heaps?
Where are the poor people?
How can a city exist without a single pile of mud or a broken brick?
It's unnatural... it's like a giant dollhouse built by a madman!
He passes an open-air marble pavilion where a quartet of musicians in silk coats play gentle, sweeping melodies on silver flutes and wooden cellos. The sweet, rich scent of blooming jasmine, lavender soap, and freshly baked vanilla pastries washes over him in thick, suffocating waves, completely erasing the familiar, comforting smell of horse sweat, leather, and iron that he has known his entire adult life.
He pulls his horse to a halt outside a massive, white-stone bathhouse complex draped in lush purple wisteria. A carved marble fountain in the center of the plaza tosses sparkling jets of crystal water into the air, creating tiny, shimmering rainbows in the morning sunlight.
Onaga dismounts hastily, his small boots landing on the immaculate pavement. He ties his horse's reins to a polished brass hitching post, clutching his thick leather ledger tightly against his stomach like an offensive weapon.
"I have to find him," Onaga mutters under his breath, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he steps toward the broad marble archway of the bathhouse. "I have to present the consolidated logistics reports. We have work to do. We cannot waste time in... in this gilded playground."
He steps through the grand entrance. The interior is a vast, echoing sanctuary of warm, steaming air, polished white marble columns, and smooth cedarwood paneling. The gentle, liquid sound of cascading thermal water echoes off the vaulted ceilings.
Onaga walks past rows of quiet, curtained alcoves where well-dressed noblemen, wealthy merchants, and off-duty military officers lounge on soft leather couches, sipping herbal teas and receiving massages with scented oils.
And then, he sees them.
At the far end of a broad, open-air thermal pool surrounded by blooming hibiscus plants and marble statues, two figures sit in the steaming water.
Captain Comtois lies completely flat on his back in the shallow end, his massive, hairy arms stretched out lazily along the smooth stone ledge. His broad face is flushed a healthy, bright pink, his eyes closed in absolute bliss, a half-empty goblet of sweet mountain wine resting precariously on his massive chest. Every few seconds, he lets out a deep, rumbling sigh of utter contentment that ripples the clear, warm water around him.
Beside him, sitting upright on a carved stone bench submerged in the crystal water, is Captain Aldo Patriot.
Aldo rests his arms casually against the marble edge of the pool. His dark, stoic eyes are fixed on the open sky above the courtyard, his sharp, stern features appearing unusually relaxed under the warm mist rising from the spring. He wears no armor, no gray officer's coat, no weapons belt—just his bare shoulders gleaming under the golden sunlight.
Onaga stops dead in his tracks at the edge of the pool, his leather ledger held firmly against his chest, his eyes wide with absolute, speechless shock.
[He really is... he really is just sitting in a hot tub...]
Onaga's mind stammers, his worldview shuddering on its foundations.
[Captain Aldo... the iron commander... the hero of the 204th... is taking a warm bath!]
Comtois opens one lazy eye, catching sight of the small, pale figure standing stiffly at the edge of the marble tiles. A massive, booming grin instantly erupts across his broad face.
"HO! Look who decided to grace us with his presence!" Comtois roars, his voice echoing off the vaulted marble arches, making several lounging merchants jump in surprise. "Aldo! Look! The little doctor tracked us down!"
Aldo turns his head slowly, his dark, calm eyes resting on Onaga. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift occurs in his expression—not annoyance, nor surprise, but a quiet, patient acknowledgment.
"Onaga," Aldo says smoothly, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of tension. "You made good time from Carravin."
Onaga snaps out of his trance, his cheeks burning red. He takes three sharp, military steps forward, stopping right at the water's edge, stiffening his posture into a formal stand of attention despite holding a book instead of a sword.
"Captain Aldo!" Onaga announces, his voice high and sharp, ringing loudly over the soft splash of the fountains. "I have arrived with the consolidated morning inventory logs for the 204th and 205th companies! I have also brought the revised supply projections for the Central Heilop dispatch, as well as the medical ration requisitions!"
Comtois lets out a deafening, belly-shaking laugh, splashing warm water over the marble edge. "Brought the inventory logs?! Ha! Boy, you rode all the way to Flora just to hand us a stack of paperwork while we're naked in a hot spring?!"
Onaga ignores Comtois entirely, his dark, fierce eyes fixed solely on Aldo. "Captain! We have fourteen days before our mandatory return to active duty! We cannot afford to lose momentum! The revolutionary network requires constant oversight! The recruits we sent ahead—Gertrude and Lourdes—are relying on our strategic coordination! I request an immediate council to review our objectives!"
Aldo doesn't move. He doesn't reach for the book. He simply leans his head back against the warm marble ledge, looking up at Onaga with a look of deep, tranquil understanding.
"Sit down, Onaga," Aldo says quietly.
Onaga blinks, his stiff posture faltering slightly. "Sir? I... I am standing at attention to present—"
"Sit down," Aldo repeats, his voice soft, gentle, yet carrying an absolute authority that permits no refusal. He gestures to the smooth, sun-warmed marble bench beside the pool's edge. "Set the ledger on the stone. Take off your boots."
Onaga hesitates, his small fingers tightening around the leather cover of his book. He looks at Aldo's calm, unreadable face, then at Comtois, who is grinning broadly and waving a dripping hand at him.
Slowly, reluctantly, Onaga steps back. He places his thick leather ledger neatly on a dry wooden side table. He sits down on the edge of the marble pool, unbuckling his leather boots one by one, setting them aside with obsessive precision. He rolls up his dark trousers past his knees, revealing his pale, slender calves.
He hesitates for another second, then slowly dips his bare feet into the crystal-clear thermal water.
A sudden, intense shock of warm, soothing heat rushes up his legs, instantly radiating through his entire body. Onaga's toes curl in surprise. The deep, aching tightness in his feet—accumulated from days of frantic marching, running through damp stone courtyards, and riding hard on horseback—begins to melt away in a matter of seconds.
His shoulders, held in a tight, defensive hunch for hours, drop an inch. His breath, previously fast and shallow, slows into a deep, heavy exhalation.
Onaga leans back slightly, his hands resting on the warm stone tile behind him. He stares down at the sparkling, clear water rippling around his ankles, his pale face reflecting the golden sunlight filtering through the open roof.
"The water contains natural minerals," Aldo says softly from a few feet away, his tone unhurried, like a teacher explaining a simple truth to a young student. "It reduces inflammation in the joints. It slows the heart rate."
Onaga swallows hard, his dark eyes wide as he looks at his captain. "Captain... what about the revolution? What about our work?"
Aldo looks out over the pristine, quiet courtyard, where white stone columns stand framed against a cloudless blue sky.
"The work is happening, Onaga," Aldo says quietly, his voice carrying a profound, weightless calm. "Gertrude and Lourdes are moving. The supply lines are established. The Duke thinks we are resting. For fourteen days, the best thing we can do for the revolution... is to let our enemies believe we are nothing more than tired soldiers enjoying his paradise."
Aldo turns his dark eyes back to Onaga, a tiny, warm smile touching the corner of his lips.
"Look around you, Onaga. This city... it was built for people to breathe. If we do not remember what peace feels like, how will we know what we are fighting to build?"
Onaga sits in silence.
The soft, liquid sound of the fountains fills the courtyard. The gentle, sweet fragrance of blooming hibiscus and lavender drifts through the warm air. Beside him, Comtois lets out another long, happy snort and takes a quiet sip of his sweet wine.
Onaga looks down at his pale feet submerged in the warm, healing water. He slowly releases his tight grip on his own arms, letting his hands rest limply on the sun-warmed marble.
He's right... Onaga thinks softly, his mind finally dropping its restless, frantic shield.
Hano was wrong. The captain hasn't lost his way. He just... knows when to hold the blade, and when to let it cool.
Onaga closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the warm stone, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he lets himself simply take a deep, quiet breath.