Chapter 306: Chapter 306

"By the way, has anyone used A-01-1-0034, Mr. Prankster's Replica Shop, yet?"

Jenkins was still dwelling on the matter.

Pops was in the middle of breakfast. He had apparently gone out very early that morning, because just as Jenkins arrived at the shop, cradling his sleepy cat, Pops was returning.

"Miss Bevanna went there once," Pops replied, "but I'm not quite sure what she did."

Pops speared a piece of meat from his porridge with a fork and dangled it in front of Chocolate. The cat slowly turned around and settled down facing the other way.

"What does that cat of yours usually eat?"

Pops chuckled and popped the meat into his own mouth.

"Oh, just regular cat food."

Pops pursed his lips discreetly before asking, "Didn't you run into that shooting incident last weekend when you were getting the cat its city residence permit? Has Mikhail said anything more about it?"

"She apologized when she came to pick up the Ouija board yesterday evening," Jenkins explained. "Then she invited me to a private party."

"I did. She seemed incredibly sorry for getting me caught up in all that..."

As he said it, Jenkins realized just how inseparable the whole ordeal was from Miss Mikhail. At the time, however, he had been too preoccupied with plotting revenge against the maid to consider anything else.

"Maybe she wants to compensate me for something at the party next week..."

The thought sent his mind racing, and he began to ponder recent events related to the "lost military documents," "Marquis Mikhail's secret," and "Miss Miller's investigation."

"A party? That's excellent. Miss Mikhail's friends are noble ladies, too. You should learn how to conduct yourself around such women."

Pops continued to ramble on. He glanced at the antique shop's entrance and, seeing no customers, added meaningfully:

"Even if you can't find a suitable marriage prospect right away, you can start by getting comfortable around the ladies. Finding a female friend you can get to know more... intimately... would be very useful for your future."

Jenkins pretended not to understand and focused on the silverware in his hands.

"Once I truly become a god, I'll have everything," he told himself. "There's no need to actively pursue these things now."

Jenkins didn't consider himself an ascetic; on the contrary, he occasionally indulged in fantastical daydreams. But he knew what he truly wanted. If he could become a pseudo-god with his own divine domain, capable of producing his own divinity, then everything he desired would be within his grasp.

That was a far more appealing pursuit.

That evening, as he was reading on the rug before the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, Miss Miller paid an unexpected visit.

A man of some propriety, he made the excuse of changing into more suitable attire for a guest, hastily tidying the living room by moving a few inappropriate items into a ground-floor guest room before finally letting her in.

Miss Miller was carrying the same khaki bag as always, but this time she brought good news: she had found a market for Jenkins's potions.

"It's not an Enchanter who wants to buy them, but an ordinary person," she said. "A very wealthy ordinary person."

That was her report. She took three potions from Jenkins as the first shipment. If the transaction went smoothly and the client was satisfied with the effects, she would transfer the sales contact to Jenkins before she left Nolan.

He mused, "So this is the benefit of having friends, huh?"

He was not only pleased to have found another source of income but also began planning how to repay Miss Miller for her help.

The next few days were exceptionally peaceful. Most of the letters sent to Eldron had reached their destinations, a fact made clear by the steady stream of deposits appearing in his bank account.

Events were unfolding exactly as Jenkins had predicted. If this trend continued, he would no longer have to worry about sending and receiving letters. He could simply sit at home as deposits from the citizens of a distant kingdom flowed automatically into his bank account. What could be more wonderful?

"Wait, Jenkins, you're not planning on keeping this money! You are not a fraud!"

He had to remind himself of this often.

Morning in Eldron was much like morning in Nolan, except that as the City of a Thousand Trees, its air was far superior.

A sleepy young Hangeton crawled out of bed, fished a pair of shoes out from underneath it, and slipped them on. He splashed a handful of water on his face and headed out the door. Follow current novels on n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net

Just like any other day, he loitered on the streets, wondering where he could scrounge up a few marks to get by. If he got lucky, maybe he could even pay a visit to Banana tonight...

A shout from the distance snapped the young man out of his fantasy. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he trotted over to the mouth of a nearby alley. A few other young men, dressed similarly and with cigarettes dangling from their lips, were leaning against a wall, waiting for him.

"What's the score? Same as usual?"

Though they were just street punks, the spirited youth put on an air of bravado, greeting his companions with slang as if he were a real gangster, a boss who prowled the darkness.

A boy in a shabby gray cap squatting at the base of the wall replied with the same "gangster" swagger.

Little Hangeton joined their ranks, leaning against the wall and fishing a cheap, still-smokable cigarette from the inner lining of his coat.

"Hey, pal, you got a match?"

he asked one of his companions. The tall, lanky youth glanced at him and rubbed his fingers together. "One copper."

Little Hangeton did his best to look disdainful, tossing back his straw-colored hair. He held the cigarette horizontally under his nose, took a sniff, and then looked toward the oldest of the group—their nominal leader.

Not that a bunch of punks really needed a leader.

"Looks like everyone's short on cash these days," the leader remarked with a chuckle, the scar on his face twitching. Rumor had it he'd gotten it during a brawl, and that very scar was one of the reasons the others accepted him.

The young men started chattering all at once.

"Who isn't short on marks?"

"Well, I heard about something great," the leader announced. "You send some money to an address in Nolan, and before you know it, you get a hundred percent return."

As he spoke, the leader ground his half-smoked cigarette into the damp earth, which looked as if someone had taken a piss there in the middle of the night.

Such a wasteful gesture made an envious expression creep across Little Hangeton's face.