Chapter 291: Behind the Grand Facade

The vessel finally eased into its assigned berth in Carac.

Alfred’s ship descended with practiced precision, mana thrusters dimming as it aligned with one of the many elevated docking platforms that surrounded the city’s massive port district. The moment the clamps locked into place, the scale of Carac became impossible to ignore. Towers rose in layered rings beyond the harbor, stone and mana-forged metal intertwined, banners of neutral authority fluttering high above streets already crowded with movement.

Trafalgar stepped forward, resting his hands on the railing.

The first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the city itself—but the ships.

Docked beside Alfred’s vessel were two colossal airborne constructs. One belonged to the Dvergar, and even at a glance, it was clear why their craftsmanship was feared across the world. The hull was broader and denser than Alfred’s, layered in interlocking plates of rune-etched alloy. Reinforced mana conduits ran openly along its sides, pulsing with steady light instead of hiding beneath decorative plating. It occupied two full docking platforms on its own.

’Bringing something like that near an active war zone is madness,’ Trafalgar thought.

Then another thought followed. ’...Or confidence.’

The Nocthar vessel lay on the opposite side—sleeker, darker, its silhouette sharp and predatory. Where the Dvergar ship radiated brute engineering dominance, this one favored intimidation. Its wings curved inward like blades, shadows clinging unnaturally to its surface despite the surrounding mana lamps.

Smaller flying ships drifted around them—transports, merchant vessels, escorts. Comparing those to Alfred’s ship would have been unfair.

Comparing them to these two would’ve been an insult.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly. ’Now imagine a hundred of these in the sky...’ The image formed easily. And he didn’t like it.

Footsteps approached from behind.

"So," Alfred said casually as he came to stand beside him, hands on his hips. "We’ve arrived, lad. You can head down whenever you’re ready. Security’s going to be strict—immigration checks, identity confirmation, the usual. But your father notified them well in advance. Shouldn’t be any trouble."

Trafalgar nodded. "Figured as much."

Caelum appeared a moment later, silent as ever, standing just behind Trafalgar’s right shoulder. "Alfred is correct. The city authorities are informed, but formal presentation is still required. From this point onward, Carac will be... cautious regarding your presence."

"Meaning I’ll be watched," Trafalgar replied flatly.

"Yes."

Trafalgar didn’t seem bothered. He straightened slightly, gaze still fixed on the city.

"Fine. I’ll grab my things first."

Caelum inclined his head. "As you wish, Young Master."

Trafalgar returned to his cabin without hurry, the low hum of the ship vibrating faintly through the walls. The corridor was busy—crew members moving crates, securing equipment, voices overlapping in practiced efficiency—but none of it held his attention. His thoughts were already elsewhere.

Inside, the room was exactly as he had left it. Clean. Orderly.

And not empty.

A travel case rested neatly on top of the bed.

Trafalgar stopped just inside the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly. He hadn’t packed anything. He hadn’t asked anyone to.

He closed the door behind him and approached.

The suitcase was sturdy, reinforced along the edges. Practical. When he opened it, he found neatly folded clothes—nothing flashy, nothing noble-branded. Travel wear. Neutral tones. Clothes meant to blend in, not stand out. Beneath them was a small leather pouch, heavier than it looked. Coins. A decent amount, by the feel of it.

On top of everything rested a single envelope.

He didn’t need to check the seal.

"...Caelum," he muttered.

No one else wrote like this. No decoration. No flourish. Just his name, written clearly, efficiently.

Trafalgar picked it up and broke the seal.

’He really does call me Young Master no matter how many times I tell him not to,’ he thought, more amused than annoyed. ’At this point, I don’t even mind.’

He unfolded the letter and began to read.

There was a residence prepared for him—naturally. A room reserved in the Hotel Grandioso under his full name: Trafalgar du Morgain. Full access. Full security. No complications.

And then, immediately, the warning.

A clear recommendation not to sleep there.

Instead, Caelum had selected a modest motel on a back street behind the hotel. Less attention. Fewer eyes. Safer. A place where information moved freely and nobles rarely looked twice.

There were additional notes at the bottom.

Mercenary hubs. Taverns. Local bulletin boards. Places where rumors gathered before they ever became reports.

Trafalgar lowered the letter slowly.

’Of course,’ he thought. ’Flashy protection draws just as much danger as it repels.’

He exhaled softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

’Having you as my right hand really is unfair to everyone else.’

He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket—not because he would forget the directions, but because habits like that kept you alive.

After closing the suitcase, Trafalgar slung it over his shoulder and stepped back into the corridor.

Alfred was waiting near the ramp, arms crossed, watching the organized chaos with a relaxed expression.

"So," the old man said, glancing at the luggage. "Looks like you’re all set."

"Seems that way," Trafalgar replied. "Try not to fall apart while I’m gone, Grandpa."

Alfred barked out a laugh, waving him off. "Just don’t take too long. I’ll be right here."

With a final nod, Trafalgar descended the ramp, blending into the flow of arrivals.

Immigration waited ahead.

Immigration in Carac was nothing like the rigid, ceremonial checkpoints of the great capitals.

The moment Trafalgar stepped into the designated arrival zone, he felt it—the density of mana, the overlapping presences of countless races, cultures, and power levels compressed into a single space. The port was vast, layered with platforms and walkways spiraling outward from the landing zones. Above him, floating vessels hovered in controlled lanes, while below, crowds flowed like rivers guided by invisible hands.

Humans, elves, beastkin, dwarves, scaled races he couldn’t immediately name—Carac lived up to its reputation as a true neutral city.

No banners of the Eight Great Families were displayed.

Only the emblem of Carac itself, engraved into stone and metal alike, and the subtle authority of the Council of Sages of Velkaris, whose influence ensured that neutrality here was not merely a claim, but a law enforced without mercy.

Trafalgar adjusted his grip on the suitcase and joined the immigration line.

He could have skipped it.

His status alone would have allowed him priority passage, an escort, perhaps even a sealed corridor. But attention was the last thing he wanted. Information gathered quietly was worth more than any declaration of power.

So he waited.

The line moved faster than expected. Multiple counters operated in parallel, each staffed by officials trained to process arrivals efficiently. No shouting. No chaos. Just practiced routine.

’Already better than Earth,’ he thought dryly. ’At least no one’s pretending they’re on a coffee break.’

When his turn came, he stepped forward and took the seat across from the clerk.

She was an elf—young by elven standards, silver hair tied neatly behind her back, pale skin untouched by blemish, green eyes sharp but professional. Her uniform was formal, understated, designed not to draw attention.

"Good morning," she said smoothly. "Welcome to the city of Carac."

"Good morning," Trafalgar replied.

"We’ll need your identification and a few routine questions."

"Understood."

He handed over his identification without hesitation.

The moment her eyes scanned it, her posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Straighter back. More careful movements.

Trafalgar du Morgain.

The seal of House Morgain was impossible to miss.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them.

"What brings someone of your standing to Carac?" the elf asked carefully.

Trafalgar met her gaze, expression unreadable.

"That’s not your concern."

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten.

He simply stated it as a fact.

The elf held his gaze for a second longer... then nodded.

"I wish you a pleasant stay in Carac."

She returned his identification and gestured toward the exit.

No further questions.

No announcement.

No attention drawn.

Trafalgar stepped out into the streets of Carac with his suitcase in hand, immediately swallowed by movement and noise.

The city was alive in a way that felt different from Velkaris. Not louder—just denser. Races mixed without pattern or hierarchy: humans, elves, beastkin, dwarves, half-bloods whose origins were harder to place. Vendors shouted over one another, carriages rolled past alongside mana-powered transports, and overhead, the distant silhouettes of flying vessels drifted between docking towers.

Carac felt tense beneath the surface. Alert. Like a city holding its breath.

He stopped near a crossroads and approached a passerby. "Excuse me. Do you know where the Hotel Grandioso is?"

The man blinked, frowned, then pointed vaguely to the left. "Uh... that way? I think."

Two streets later, Trafalgar asked again.

"Hotel Grandioso?" a woman repeated, tilting her head. "You might want to go right. Or straight. I’m not sure."

He exhaled quietly as he walked on.

’Some things really don’t change, huh,’ he thought dryly. ’Different world, same terrible directions.’

After a few more attempts—and a few wrong turns—the skyline opened up.

The Hotel Grandioso was impossible to miss.

The building rose proudly above its surroundings, not quite a tower but tall enough to dominate the district. White stone reinforced with gold-lined mana channels reflected the afternoon light, and banners embroidered with elegant sigils hung from its upper levels. The entrance alone was wider than most inns entirely, framed by polished columns and guarded by staff dressed in immaculate uniforms.

’Yeah... this one screams money.’

Trafalgar entered without hesitation.

The interior was exactly what he expected—marble floors, soft ambient mana lighting, the faint scent of expensive incense. The air itself felt curated. He approached the counter, confirmed his name, and watched the clerk’s posture subtly change the moment Morgain was spoken aloud.

Efficient. Polite. Almost reverent.

Everything was prepared. Everything was perfect.

He didn’t linger.

Stepping back outside, Trafalgar circled the building, following Caelum’s instructions to the letter. The further he walked, the narrower the streets became. Light dimmed. The noise softened—not gone, but muted, replaced by quieter conversations and the distant hum of the city rather than its roar.

Then he saw it.

The motel sat alone on the street, squat and unimpressive. The sign above the door flickered weakly, one rune dimmer than the others. The stone was worn, the windows simple, the entrance unguarded.

Functional. Honest. Invisible.

Trafalgar stopped in front of it and glanced back once—just enough to see the edge of the Hotel Grandioso rising above nearby rooftops.

The contrast was almost insulting.

He sighed. "Seriously, Caelum?" he muttered. There was no real irritation in his voice. Just resignation. ’I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

After a brief pause, he adjusted his grip on the suitcase and pushed the door open.

The motel creaked softly as he entered.

Not luxurious. Not impressive.

But it would do.

And that was enough.