Leaving the stable with his horse, Vincent now had one hundred and eighty more gold coins weighing down his already-full bag of holding. He had no immediate use for them, so he decided to simply hoard them for now.

  With the wagon sold, Vincent felt untethered. He had come to the Holy Capital on a dream's vague directive, with no concrete destination in mind. He had hoped a purpose would reveal itself upon arrival, but the sprawling city offered only anonymous noise.

  Seeing no clear path, he decided to wander, letting the city's currents guide him.

  ******

  After hours of aimless riding, a pang of hunger cut through his drifting thoughts. Vincent stopped near a modest restaurant, dismounted, and began walking toward the entrance.

  But he stopped short of the door.

  A voice, faint but distinct, wove through the city's clamor from somewhere farther down the lane. It was a pleasant voice—not just in tone, but in a way that resonated in his chest, pulling at a memory he couldn't grasp.

  Drawn by an impulse stronger than hunger, he turned, his horse following with a soft snort. One step turned to ten, then a hundred, each one carrying him closer, the restaurant forgotten.

  It was a woman's voice.

  She was singing in a language other than the Holy Capital's official language.

  It was a familiar language to Vincent. The cadence, the melody of the words, brushed against a locked door in his mind. But he could not remember it, could not place it. The frustration of that near-memory was as compelling as the voice itself.

  The closer he got, the clearer the voice became. Yet, even as he finally reached the singing woman in the bustling city square, he could not place the language.

  He stopped a few paces before her and simply listened.

  "Dim-dim-dam-dada, Dim-dim-dam-dada..."

  Her voice was light and melodious, carrying a playful, bouncing rhythm. He listened, utterly still. Each word, each syllable. And she continued.

  "Dans là-haut..."

  She danced as she sang, a gentle sway of her hands and a tilt of her head, her smooth red hair flowing with the movement.

  "Sera ravi..."

  The more she sang, the more people passed. And the more coins—coppers and a few silvers—were tossed into the tricorn hat at her feet.

  Vincent waited, motionless, trying to pry the memory of this language from the recesses of his mind.

  After a few minutes, her song concluded with a flourish. Vincent reached into his bag and, with a gentle flick of his wrist, tossed a single, gleaming gold coin into the hat.

  It landed with a distinct, heavy clink. Her eyes snapped to it, then up to him, lighting up with pure delight. "Merci, Monsieur!"

  "Don't mention it," he said. "But I was wondering... what language were you singing? It sounds familiar, but I just can't place it."

  "Monsieur, c'est la langue de l'amour et de la romance!" Her voice was brimming with enthusiasm. "The language of Romance!"

  "Romance?" Suddenly, Vincent realized. It wasn't that she couldn't pronounce the letter 'R'—she was pronouncing it with a distinctive, melodic accent. There was only one language that sounded like that. "Of course..."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "Oui, oui, monsieur! The language of love! Even after the Holy Church's tongue became common, we did not forget our language and history. We still sing of love and romance with it."

  "French," Vincent said softly, the word unlocking a flood of distant memories. A beautiful language he had learned the basics of, a lifetime ago.

  "Oui, oui, monsieur!That's exactly it! French!"" Her eyes were practically glowing with shared joy and pride.

  Vincent’s eyes drifted to the unusual, slender sword at her hip. He gestured toward it. "Is that blade part of your land's art as well?"

  She glanced down at the sword on her right hip, and her face brightened further. "Oui, monsieur!" In one fluid motion, she unsheathed it, presenting the blade with joyful pride. "It is an rapier—a slim, straight sword. It may not be the best for slashing, but it is light, swift, and excellent for the thrust."

  She then fell into a graceful, practiced stance, her left hand swept behind her back. With a dancer's precision, she demonstrated a few quick, showy lunges, the point of the blade flickering in the air like a silver needle.

  "It is a weapon of art and beauty, monsieur."

  "That it is," Vincent agreed, a genuine smile touching his lips as he admired the elegant display.

  "So, what brings you to the Holy Capital, miss?" Vincent asked.

  "To explore the beauty of the world, and to show the beauty of my land, monsieur," she replied with a warm smile.

  "Exploring, huh?" A smile touched his own lips. "I'm on a similar path. Well, safe travels to you."

  "And to you, monsieur! I hope we meet again. I shall sing you another beautiful song when we do!"

  "I'd like that, miss." With a final nod of farewell, he turned.

  Glancing around to get his bearings, he realized he was near the Adventurers Guild. With a clearer purpose now, he decided to walk towards it—to find a worthwhile mission and try to upgrade his rank.

  Once he reached the guild, he dismounted and tethered his horse to a post out front, then stepped inside.

  Like before, the main hall was bustling with activity. This time, he ignored the crowd and went straight to a mission board, his eyes scanning the posted notices.

  As a C-rank adventurer, he was restricted to missions of that rank and below. A few C-rank postings caught his detailed attention:

  1. Goblin Settlement. Unlike a simple D-rank camp, a settlement is organized with a smart chieftain leading mages and warriors. More disturbingly, such settlements were known to keep human hostages, sometimes as breeding cattle or rewards since they especially likes human meat . This made it less an eradication and more a delicate, time-consuming rescue operation especially so since that settlement is new. It could take weeks, especially alone.

  2. High-Value Bounty. A prisoner with a "silver tongue" and "weak physique" had escaped. Details were scant, offered only upon acceptance. Vincent suspected the man knew state secrets, making him dangerously valuable. Even if Vincent wanted it, he doubted the guild or its sponsors would trust a newcomer with such a sensitive task.

  3. Investigation. Reports of strange, wolf-like creatures of unusual strength. Multiple D-rank parties had been mauled or wiped out. The request was for body parts or, ideally, a live specimen. The high reward and the description piqued Vincent's interest—it reminded him too much of the unnatural wolves he had fought before.

  4. Bandit Clearing. A straightforward job: a no-name group preying on merchants and travelers. It would be quick, with decent pay per head, but offered little prestige for rank advancement. A blunt instrument of a quest.

  Vincent stood before the board, weighing risk against reward, time against potential gain.

  After a final moment of consideration, his hand reached for the third notice—the one concerning the wolves—and plucked it from the board. At the same moment, another hand reached past him, taking the request for the goblin settlement.

  Out of curiosity, Vincent glanced at the person who had taken it.

  The man had long red hair tied in a practical ponytail and sharp green eyes. But what truly caught Vincent's attention was his stature: he was remarkably short for an adult, standing at least half a head shorter than the average man. Since Vincent himself was half a head taller than average, the difference was a full head of height between them.

  The red-haired man turned and quickly walked toward a counter partially hidden by a pillar. Figuring they were headed to the same place, Vincent followed.

  This counter had only two people waiting before it—a surprising pocket of calm in the otherwise bustling hall. As he drew closer, Vincent could make out their appearances.

  Two women.

  The first was clad in deep violet robes from head to toe. The fabric seemed to drink in the ambient light and mana, a telltale sign of a powerful mage. Her skin was pale, her stature slightly taller than the red-haired man. Her hair was black with a subtle purple sheen, framing eyes of a vivid, striking amethyst that now turned, along with her companion's, to regard the red head.

  The second woman wore pristine white armor elegantly accented with cobalt blue. Her hair was long, fair, and as white as fresh snow. Her eyes were a brilliant, shining blue that perfectly complemented her armor. And her face... was beautiful in a classical, almost sculpted way.