Home/I confined you, but I have no ill will/ch 52

52.

THUD!

A loud crash and a scream followed.

"Agh!"

The man jumped around, rubbing his forehead. Kite watched him with a pitying look and shook his head.

After a while, the man—Jack—recovered enough to stand.

"Ouch—thought I was a goner!"

"Haha—as if the great Jack would die from that!"

"Right—look at him, hitting the wall and still fine!"

"Blockhead—a real blockhead!"

At the jeers, Jack shouted.

"Shut up!"

Kite smacked Jack's head hard.

"Ack!"

After his forehead, now the back of his head—Jack rolled on the floor, clutching his skull.

"Sniff—so mean!"

Still, he recovered faster than before. He stood, looked at Kite, then turned away.

"Huh?"

He rubbed his eyes.

"Huh?"

Then he rubbed his injured forehead and said seriously.

"Did I hit my head so hard I'm seeing things?"

"No—you're not."

Kite said incredulously, but Jack wasn't convinced.

"No—the boss I know has no connection to women."

Another man, holding a drink, chimed in.

"Haven't you heard the rumors? Even the boss has a fiancée now!"

"They haven't had the ceremony yet, but he's said to cherish her."

"What—I thought that was just gossip?"

Some seemed to share Jack's doubts.

"It's not gossip."

Only when Kite confirmed it directly did they look surprised.

"Wow—she must be something!"

"Right—engaged to our short-tempered boss!"

"Time for a toast!"

They clinked glasses and drank heartily. Such boisterous people.

"This way."

Kite led Ibelin to an empty table at the edge. He pulled out her chair—and as she sat, the watching men raised their glasses again.

"Toast!"

"To the boss!"

"No—to the patient fiancée who endures him!"

They laughed heartily.

Ibelin stared at them, then turned to Kite—she had many questions. But before she could speak, a woman rushed from the kitchen and set drinks and food before them.

Tankards of cheap ale, boiled sausages, and odd-looking potatoes.

"Can you eat this?"

Kite asked her. Ale was a first, but why couldn't she? Her grandfather had enjoyed it. She raised the tankard and gulped it down.

The taste was odd—bitter, with a woody scent—but not undrinkable. She finished it.

THUD!

As she set the tankard down hard, Kite chuckled and pushed the snacks toward her.

"Drinking too fast will get you drunk."

The sausage and potatoes were undersalted—barely edible—but she ate without complaint.

It reminded her of the first time she'd killed a boar—when the meat, poorly bled, had a gamey smell they'd had to roast.

"Not bad."

She said, wiping her mouth—and the others applauded.

"Just like the boss's fiancée!"

"Fiery! Impressive!"

The woman who'd brought the food smiled too.

The crowd drank, ate, and chattered—mostly nonsense, but occasionally relevant.

"Things are strange up north."

"Yeah—they say a new leader's appeared."

"But would the cursed ones actually unite?"

"Hard to say."

Ibelin overheard and asked Kite.

"So, boss—what is this place?"

"A tavern."

"Not an ordinary one, I take it?"

"A place run by a comrade from the north. Most of us who fought together come here."

The northern battles had been long and brutal—most soldiers bore physical and mental scars. It was like a deep illness they couldn't heal alone.

Kite had given the most stable of them money to open this tavern—so they could gather and talk sometimes.

Ibelin smiled softly.

"You did a good thing."

"Not really—just what needed to be done."

Young Kite had survived the north thanks to those who cared for him—Baron Frillie and others.

"No—you did well. Truly."

She reached out and gently stroked his head.

"Ibelin?"

This was the second time someone had done that—the first was Baron Frillie, who never listened to anyone. The second was Ibelin.

But the Baron was a sly old man—Ibelin wasn't the type. She was timid, occasionally bold beyond understanding, but usually quiet. Yet here she was, stroking his head casually.

"Did one ale get you drunk?"

"Huh? I'm fine?"

Her face was already flushed tomato-red. Kite was stunned speechless. Her hand slid down to pat his cheek.

"You really did well—even if sometimes I want to hit you."

"Ibelin."

He tried to stay calm.

"You're already hitting me."

"Me? No way!"

Her hand lowered to slap his shoulder.

"Yes—you're definitely hitting me. And harder now."

"How much could that hurt?"

She pouted—and a man at the next table backed her up.

"She's right—how much could that hurt!"

"She's your beloved fiancée—just take it!"

"Right, right!"

Ibelin nodded proudly and didn't stop. She called to the woman watching from the kitchen.

"Another ale!"

"Coming~!"

As the woman hurried back, Kite shouted.

"Cancel that! Bring water!"

"Oh—but your fiancée wants ale."

"No—she's already drunk."

He said firmly.

"I'm not."

Ibelin swayed as she stood.

"I can prove I'm not drunk!"

She suddenly lifted her skirt. Alarmed, Kite grabbed it.

"What mad thing are you doing!"

But in that moment, she'd succeeded—a small gun was now in her pale hand.

"Whoa—a gun just appeared?"

"I'm good with guns—heh heh."

She rubbed the gun against her cheek, then twirled it.

"Let's see—what target?"

"What target!"

Kite tried to grab her—but she was quicker.

"Here!"

She ducked and aimed at a tankard someone had raised with a shout.

BANG! BANG!

Two shots rang out.

"Whoa!"

The tankard had a hole—the remaining ale spilled out. Two shots, but only one hole.

"Amazing skill!"

The already-drunk patrons heaped praise on her. Ibelin, equally drunk, puffed up and tilted her chin up—as if asking for more.

"Good heavens!"

Kite rubbed his forehead and confiscated the gun. In a direct struggle, his physical advantage made it easy.

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