Hui led Orlando through that narrow passage and pushed open the door at the end.
Behind the door was a room.
Orlando stood at the entrance, frozen for a moment.
The room wasn’t large, but the things inside made him feel like he’d walked onto the wrong set.
On the wall hung a round glass clock with a polished brass casing, the dial printed with a line of text—Osteria Federal Clock Factory.
In the corner stood a metal cabinet, its white painted surface stamped with the same Federal trademark.
On the table sat a thermos, the stainless steel kind, rarer than gold in the Eldron Empire.
The most absurd thing was the light on the ceiling.
An electric lightbulb.
In Eldron, where electricity hadn’t even been popularized yet, even the Emperor’s palace used magical crystal lamps.
“Where did you get all this?”
Orlando walked in, his eyes sweeping over those familiar industrial products.
He’d left the Federation almost half a month ago, and seeing these things out of nowhere gave him the illusion of being “home.”
Hui followed him in and casually closed the door.
When it shut, it gave a soft click, the door frame and wall fitting seamlessly.
Soundproofing was probably decent.
“I used to be a merchant from Osteria.”
Hui walked over to the metal cabinet, opened the door, and took out two ceramic cups.
“A merchant?”
Orlando flipped down his cloak hood and surveyed the room’s furnishings.
The table was an iron frame with a wooden board top—classic Federal factory style—with screws under the four legs to adjust the height.
Back when he worked in Silverport City, his office desk was the same kind.
“So what are you doing in Eldron?”
Hui placed one cup in front of Orlando and kept the other for himself.
He didn’t pour water right away.
Instead, he pulled out a chair next to the table and sat down.
The chair was also Federal-made, a foldable iron tube chair with a canvas seat cushion.
“My company went bankrupt.”
His tone was flat when he said it, as if he were commenting on the nice weather.
“Came to Eldron to regroup.”
Orlando glanced at him.
Regroup in Eldron?
A merchant whose company had gone bankrupt, coming to Eldron to start over?
He almost laughed out loud.
“You sure?”
He pulled over another folding chair and sat down.
The chair creaked under his weight but held solid.
“Doing business in Eldron? Are you serious?”
Hui tilted his head.
“Does sir see some problem with that?”
“Plenty of them.”
Orlando leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.
His stomach gave a soft growl, but it was better than before—the dragon blood inside him had temporarily calmed down.
Probably because the Federal vibe in this room relaxed him a little.
What kind of place was Eldron?
A place where nobles called the shots.
Did nobles respect merchants?
No.
In their minds, merchants were just nouveaux riches, stinking of copper coins, unworthy of entering their circles.
You have money?
Sorry, money can’t buy you a title.
You want investment?
Nobles would rather bury their money in their gardens than invest in a merchant.
During those two years in Silverport City, he hadn’t learned much else, but he’d picked up the Federation’s whole chain of contempt for the Eldron Empire to the letter.
Federal citizens looked down on the Empire’s aristocratic system; Empire citizens looked down on the Federation’s “lack of rules.”
The two sides had been rolling their eyes at each other for two centuries.
“Sir probably thinks I can’t make it in Eldron.”
“Then why did you come?”
“A bankrupt man doesn’t have many choices.”
That answer was honest enough to leave no room for argument.
Orlando was silent for a while.
Hui poured water from the thermos and pushed a cup over to him.
“Sir’s name is Orlando, right?”
Orlando’s hand froze in midair.
The cup was still at his lips.
He slowly lowered the cup and lifted his eyes to look at Hui.
Across that Federal-made iron table, the two stared at each other.
Hui’s expression was still that gentle, harmless look, his heterochromatic eyes betraying nothing.
“How do you know who I am?”
Hui picked up his own cup and took a sip.
His movements were unhurried, as if he hadn’t noticed Orlando’s wariness at all.
“I once had some dealings with the Royal Dragon Hunting Squad.”
He said.
“So I’ve seen sir’s portrait.”
Orlando didn’t respond.
Portrait.
An image flashed through his mind—the wanted poster on the bulletin board.
An oval head, one eye higher than the other, a stupid-looking smile.
If Hui recognized him from a “portrait” like that, then Hui’s eyesight must be sharper than a dragon’s.
But the problem wasn’t the portrait.
The problem was—
‘Weren’t you supposed to be dead, Orlando?’
He threw the question out, watching Hui’s reaction.
Hui’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
“There is indeed such a rumor.”
Hui set down his cup, his fingertips tapping lightly against the ceramic wall, producing a crisp ding ding sound.
“But rumors are often a bit distant from the truth.”
“You’re pretty calm about it.”
Orlando said.
“Seeing a dead man sitting right in front of you doesn’t surprise you at all?”
“Sir.”
Hui smiled faintly.
“People who often hunt dragons always carry a bit of dragon aura. Because dragon hunters need to get close to the dragon to kill it.”
He paused.
“Coming back from the dead isn’t the strangest thing among dragon hunters.”
Orlando stared at him for three seconds.
Then he pulled his hand back from behind his waist and picked up his cup again.
“Fine.”
He said.
“I’ll accept that explanation.”
But in his mind, he was thinking about something else.
‘This guy said he had dealings with the Royal Dragon Hunting Squad. He knows who Orlando Dellfort is. And he said something about ‘dragon hunters carrying dragon aura.’
‘Every sentence sounds fine on its own.’
‘But put together, something feels off.’
‘Like a puzzle missing a piece.’
Orlando drained the water from his cup and stood up.
The dragon blood inside him had mostly settled, the hunger receding to a tolerable level.
He decided to stop thinking about Hui for now.
At least not right now.
“Do you have any food here?”
He asked.
“I haven’t eaten anything since last night.”
Hui stood up too and pushed his chair back under the table.
His movements were as quiet as ever; even the iron chair legs scraping against the ground made hardly any sound.
“Sir, follow me.”
He led Orlando out of that room, down a short hallway, and through another door.
Behind that door was a larger room.
Orlando stood at the entrance, genuinely stunned this time.
The room was about half the size of a Federal factory canteen in Silverport City, with five or six long tables and matching benches.
The table tops were stainless steel, the benches iron frames with wooden slats.
At the far end was a row of serving counters, topped with several large metal trays.
Under the trays were hot water baths for insulation.
Beside them, on a shelf, were stacked plates and bowls and chopsticks, and a large soup ladle stood upright in a metal bucket.
The air carried the smell of stew.
Potatoes, onions, carrots, and meat.
Orlando’s stomach let out a rumble louder than any before.
He chose to ignore it.
“What’s this place called?”
He walked over and picked up a metal tray.
The tray was stamped iron, divided into several compartments—exactly like the ones in the Silverport City factory canteen.
Hui followed him in.
“You can call this place the Red Sun Brigade.”
“Red Sun Brigade?”
Orlando lifted the lid off the first metal tray.
Inside was potato stew with meat, thick broth, the chunks of meat cut large—classic Federal style: whether it tasted good or not, at least it filled you up.
He gave himself two full ladles.
“Did you come up with the name?”
“No.”
“I’m just the vice-captain here.”