Step 1:
Perform the translation internally:
She looked at the newspaper.
It had been a while since she woke up.
Enrique hadn’t said a word, still staring at the newspaper as if he’d never finish reading it.
Olivia still felt a bit surprised from the last time she saw him when she bought a hot dog:
This guy had so many newspapers, he was just reading newspapers, and now he’s still reading newspapers.
Just as she was wondering if Enrique would keep reading until dark, he stood up from the wooden chair.
The chair legs scraped a short, sharp sound across the wooden floor.
He tucked the newspaper under his arm, picked up the coarse clay cup, and walked to the door.
The door was an old wooden one, with a vertical crack running from top to bottom, patched with a thin piece of wood nailed over it.
It looked like it had been there for years.
He pushed the door open gently, the hinges didn’t squeak, and then he closed it just as quietly.
‘He said he was waiting for someone to come back. Who is worth waiting for? Forget it, I’ll stop thinking about it. Let me check this room first…’
Olivia threw off the blanket and sat up.
She looked down at the stitches on her sleeve—crooked, some too loose, some too tight, with a large, rough knot at the end of the thread.
She turned up the cuff.
The color of the thread didn’t match the fabric at all.
It was a dark gray thread, probably ripped from one of Enrique’s old coats.
The stitching was crude.
It was clear he was trying to mend it for her and had done his best, but it felt like he used to often mend clothes for others, it was just…
He hadn’t done it in a long time.
She climbed off the bed.
Her feet touched the wooden floor.
The boards looked polished from years of use.
She didn’t have shoes on—she must have lost them in the alley.
Well, it didn’t matter.
Most dragons didn’t wear shoes anyway.
She took two steps barefoot.
The floor let out a faint creak under her soles.
The room wasn’t big.
A wooden bed, a wooden chair, and the coarse clay cup sat on the bedside table, still steaming.
An oil lamp hung on the wall, its wick turned very low.
It used the most ordinary kerosene, not the magic lamps common in the city.
‘Why would anyone use a kerosene lamp? Logically, magic crystal lamps are cheaper and work better…’
In the corner stood an old wooden cabinet.
A galloping horse was carved on its door.
Then she turned and saw the opposite wall.
It was covered in photographs.
A whole wall full of them, most cut from newspapers, the paper already yellowed with curled edges, held to the wood with clear tape.
The years had faded the photos slightly.
The same person was the subject of every single one.
Some were black and white, some color, the ink already smudged with age.
Masiweiluo.
The earliest photo was taped in the top left corner.
Masiweiluo looked about ten years old, her short brown hair not yet tied into a ponytail, riding a horse in the Silver Lance Knight Order’s training armor.
The armor pieces were too big, the pauldrons sliding down to her upper arms.
She wasn’t looking at the camera, but at the direction of the horse’s ear.
The photo next to it showed her around sixteen or seventeen, brown hair in a ponytail, holding a cavalry lance taller than herself, standing at the edge of a muddy arena.
Her face and hair were covered in mud, only her eyes were bright.
In the bottom right corner was a photo from her adult years, a formal match group photo.
She wore silver-white armor, the lance standing upright at her side, a faint curve at the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but the moment before a smile.
Olivia took two steps forward, her feet making another creak on the floor.
Handwritten notes were tucked between the photos.
The handwriting was forceful, every character seemed carved into the paper.
“Silver Lance Knight Order entry exam.”
“Special Tournament preliminary round one. Won.”
“Seventy-two matches.”
“First cavalry lance thrust.”
“Passed today…”
The cabinet wasn’t empty.
Through the gap in its door, she could see rows of trophies crammed together.
Some were silver, some copper, some just a wooden base with a metal plate.
The bottom shelf held a few stacks of old newspapers, their edges poking out from the cabinet door gap.
Olivia stared at the wall for a long time.
‘Is this old man a fan of Masiweiluo?’
An image formed in her mind—Enrique sitting on a bench, spreading out his newspaper, his lantern placed on the ground.
And during the matches, he wasn’t in the stands, but outside, cutting out reports about Masiweiluo, pasting them one by one.
He said, “I can’t be bothered to draw my sword for this kind of stuff,” then he cut a demon in half with one slash.
He said, “Alright, we’re done, let’s go, don’t bother me,” then he carried her home and mended her sleeve.
She pulled her gaze away from the wall.
The window was across from the bed, a small square window with no curtain.
Grayish light from the sky came through the glass.
Birds chirped outside, not the sparrows of Genitswa City, but a kind of bird with a longer, slower call.
The air smelled of dry grass and earth mixed together, different from the lemon scent of the inn’s cleaner, different from the smell of sweat mixed with metal in the arena.
This place didn’t feel like Genitswa City—the city was full of neon signs and magic terminal ads.
This room didn’t even have a single magic lamp, only an oil lamp.
He wasn’t the kind of poor person who couldn’t afford magic.
He gave off the feeling of someone who could live well without needing magic.
‘A small town outside the city. This place is far from Gevanitz.’
‘If Enrique has a job in Gevanitz City, doesn’t he have to run several kilometers to work every day?’
‘That’s insane!’
‘Wolfgang isn’t like Osteria with its industrial development, car industry, and magic-driven engines.’
‘So how does he get to work every day?’
‘Well, the overall layout of this room is far worse than my room in Skyreach City.’
‘This room feels more like a hero who once shone, eventually fell into decline, and now lives here in seclusion.’
“This is whose room?”
She muttered to herself.
The door pushed open again.
Enrique stood at the entrance, still holding the coarse clay cup.
“There’s water boiling downstairs. If you want to wash your face, go down yourself. The stairs are on the left side of the hallway. The third step creaks, so step lightly.”
He walked to the bedside table and set the cup down.
“It’s an empty room no one uses. You’ll sleep here for now.”
Then he turned and walked out.
The newspaper was still tucked under his arm.
A small blade of grass clung to the cuff of his dark coat, probably brought in from outside.
Olivia looked again at the photo of Masiweiluo covered in mud.
The brown-haired girl held a lance taller than herself, her face and hair smeared with mud, but her eyes were bright.
She stared at it for a few seconds, then followed him out barefoot.
“Is this outside the town…”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s outside the city.”
“But this is so far from Gevanitz…”
“I walk every day. Consider it morning exercise.”
“Morning exercise?”
Olivia felt like her worldview might collapse.
‘Walking several kilometers every day as morning exercise? Is he a knight?’
‘But even knights don’t push themselves this hard!’
No matter how you looked at him, he seemed like an office worker.
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