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Chapter 08
“Wow…! So many people!”
Come to think of it, it was Antoine’s first time at a market.
He pressed himself against the carriage window, exclaiming over and over, “Wow! Wow!”
“Fish! Fish! Fresh clams too!”
“Buy flowers! Monsieur, just one flower, please!”
“Is this man crazy? You want me to pay for these puny, shriveled carrots?”
“If you’re not buying, get lost!”
Uh-oh. The harsh words and cursing of bargaining customers probably weren’t a good influence on Antoine.
I quickly pulled him away from the window.
Compared to that chaos, Rière had proper stores and a more refined clientele—it was much cleaner and more comfortable.
‘When I realized my family had fallen and I could no longer shop in Rière, it felt like the world had ended…’
Looking back now, that was just the spoiled whine of a sheltered child. There were no discounts or clearance sales in Rière, period!
Passing through the Lipomé street market, the carriage stopped at the entrance to Rière Street, and the door opened.
Guided by Uncle Guillaume, Antoine and I were first greeted by a heavenly aroma.
“Bread smells so good!”
“The guild makes it fresh every morning.”
“Why?”
“Because if anyone unlicensed tried making it and got sick or overcharged customers, it’d be a disaster.”
“Hee… I want to eat bread.”
Antoine tugged my hand, only half-listening to the explanation.
After barely three steps, he stopped and let out a cry from deep within his stomach.
“Wooooow!”
Finally, we’d arrived.
We were at a shop selling toys crafted by guild-affiliated artisans.
Not the rough wooden swords a country farmer whittled as a side job, but smooth, training-grade wooden swords.
Dolls with ceramic bodies and cotton-stuffed arms and legs, dressed in tiny silk dresses, complete with shoes, gloves, bags, even makeup.
A toy soldier set made of pewter caught Antoine’s eye, and he bolted toward it, rocking a wooden horse behind him.
“Go ahead, choose whatever you like.”
Uncle Guillaume rubbed his hands together, face alight with anticipation.
Then, almost instantly, he disappeared into the store following Antoine.
Somehow, the adults seemed more excited than the child…
But what I was looking for wasn’t in this shop.
I pretended to browse casually, planning to slip out unnoticed.
That’s when it happened.
“That damn brat! Hey! Stop right there! Thief! Catch that thief!”
A loud crash came from the bakery, followed by enraged shouting.
“Move! Get out of my way!”
Someone was charging through, shoving neatly dressed passersby aside.
Tattered clothes, shoes so worn his toes peeked out, a face streaked with sweat and soot, hair so grimy its original color was unrecognizable.
And eyes that shone a bloody, crimson red.
The moment I saw those eyes, I recognized the boy.
“Bastian…?”
“Hey! Move!”
Why are you here, now of all times?
I froze, stunned, only realizing a beat too late what he shouted, and let out a scream.
“Ahhh!”
But it was already too late.
Bang!
Stars flashed before my eyes. My back and head throbbed as I hit the floor, and tears pricked my eyes.
Amid the commotion of worried onlookers, a still-girlish, prepubescent voice spat curses like gravel.
“I said move!”
Bastian, who had collided with me and fallen, groaned and struggled to get up, the impact having left him dazed.
“I got you! You brat, can’t you get up already?”
“Ahhh!”
A baker came running, wielding a rolling pin like a club, grabbed Bastian by the collar, and mercilessly slapped the boy’s cheek.
Smack!
I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. What are they doing to a child?!
Yet Bastian never let go of the bread clutched in his arms.
Shouldn’t someone stop this? Why is everyone just watching?
“You filthy street urchin!”
“Tch, nothing can be done with scum like this.”
Not one of them showed pity or sympathy for Sebastian.
Perhaps they looked at him as one would at refuse, with nothing but contempt.
A hot surge rose in my chest.
“Enough!”
My body moved on its own. As the baker hesitated, I shielded Bastian behind me.
The baker, almost hitting the young lady of the Charmeuse estate with his rolling pin, huffed and glared at me—or more accurately, at the boy I’d hidden behind me.
“You alright?”
I turned my head to check Bastian.
His cheek bore clear handprints, and blood smeared around his mouth, his once-handsome face in shambles.
Yet his eyes—so vividly alive—still burned with life.
Those blood-red eyes glared at me, and finally he spoke.
“And who are you, sticking your nose in? You white mold thing.”
“….”
Should I have let him take another hit?
Introduce him to Father or Uncle Guillaume now? Convince them, “Buy low, it’s the perfect moment!”?
Or better yet, whisk him to the palace and declare, “Look at these crimson eyes! Proof of royal blood!” Maybe that’d work more effectively.
In the original story, Sebastian Bellueur was the typical “bad boy” type.
As talented as he was, his cruel and cold temperament prevented him from acknowledging his feelings, causing him to mistreat Colette and eventually be defeated by Antoine.
Putting aside thoughts of karma, I believed his temperament stemmed from a miserable childhood.
No wonder the saying goes that generosity comes from abundance.
Now, however, it was clear: Bastian had been withered from the start.
“Step aside, miss! Someone like you deserves to have your hands chopped off immediately!”
Wasn’t this a little much for stealing just one piece of bread?
…Then I noticed the bread he stole was huge—a rustic loaf as big as Antoine’s upper body. He really managed to swipe that?
No, now was not the time to marvel!
“Wait! Even so, this is too harsh for a child. I’ll buy the bread myself. Let him go.”
“Huh?”
The baker’s eyes widened. I seized the opportunity to pull out a handkerchief.
“Stay still.”
I moved to wipe the blood from his mouth, but Bastian flinched and stepped back.
He looked like a feral cat, fur raised, wary, and it broke my heart.
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean it.”
Carefully, I reached out my hand. He flinched but didn’t resist.
Summoning courage, I stepped closer.
Bastian froze in place, blinking, still fully alert, ready to bolt if necessary.
Up close, his condition was worse than I imagined.
His face was pale, completely drained of color, hollowed under the eyes, cheeks sunken.
As someone experienced, I could tell this wasn’t just a day or two of hunger.
His clothes, worn and oversized, looked as if he had just grabbed whatever was available. His nearly worn-out shoes had flown off somewhere during the commotion, leaving him barefoot.
The Bastian I knew would never lose his poise, even before a king.
But the boy before me was a tiny animal, driven to the brink, left with only raw survival instincts.
Seeing him like that, heat and anger rose in my throat once again.
