Back then, Venti had just “debuted,” his reputation still small, but his skill in playing simple tunes had already charmed some of Belobog’s more traditional aristocrats.
They hired him to play background music at their soirees, paying him enough to cover a month’s worth of wine.
Venti had no objections to such a straightforward business arrangement—he would go, perform, then enjoy the free food and drink.
Yes, free food and drink were always the real incentive—
Along the way, he had “met” a few political bigwigs of Belobog. Of course, it was a one-sided acquaintance—he only knew their faces.
Looking back, if not for the Supreme Guardian’s uniquely esteemed position preventing her from attending private banquets, he might have run into her even then.
But although the Supreme Guardian couldn’t attend, her chosen successor could.
After all, for all the Guardian’s grandeur, she still needed to fund City Hall and the Silvermane Guards.
And those two bottomless money pits devoured funds like flowing water, especially the latter—after a decade of resource pouring and population losses, it was finally ready to strike back at the frontlines.
Without such lavish funding, who would risk their lives out there?
It sounded cynical, perhaps, but it was a reality of the world.
History had seen other Supreme Guardians toppled, and if she was to exercise ultimate power, she couldn’t overstep certain boundaries.
And so, where did the money come from?
First, the common folk, who knew little and could be reliably taxed. Second, the noble families of the Architects.
The former could be harvested regularly, but with the latter, the approach had to be more delicate.
The Architect families were long-established, holding wealth beyond the average person’s dreams and commanding significant market influence.
Companies like “Belobog Heating,” “Belobog Automotive,” and “Belobog Trade” commanded such power that even the Guardian had to tread carefully.
These were not people she could strongarm like the lower district. The upper echelons had their own intricate alliances.
Only through a mix of reward and respect could these relationships be managed.
Thus, sending her close confidante and successor to these events wasn’t strange at all.
In fact, things best left unsaid by the Guardian could be voiced by Bronya with far more grace.
After all, Bronya was young, at an age where mistakes were still permissible. The Guardian was not—she could never err, and if she did, it was because those interpreting her will had misunderstood.
Under this dynamic, these nobles would often probe the Guardian’s stance, adjusting their strategies accordingly. It was as fair as could be.
Bronya’s first encounter with Venti came after one such “negotiation,” where she spotted him just as he finished playing and sat down to eat.
His joyful savoring of the banquet fare made it abundantly clear that he was, indeed, enjoying the food.
To young Bronya, it symbolized this:
Regardless of one’s social class, as long as one worked hard, under the Guardian’s guidance, there would always be a full meal.
So long as she followed the Guardian’s paved path, she would surely lead her people to a happier future.
But just as she was about to leave, a snide laugh interrupted her thoughts.
She turned toward the sound, where a notorious playboy from Belobog’s aristocracy was sneering at Venti, who continued blissfully enjoying his meal.
Bronya paused, and the older nobleman accompanying her also frowned, noticing the young man’s rudeness and preparing to scold him. But Bronya raised her hand, signaling him to stay silent.
The young aristocrat, oblivious to his audience, sauntered over to the unsuspecting bard. Venti, noticing a shadow blocking his light, looked up.
“Oh, hello. Can I help you with something?”
He met the aristocrat’s displeased gaze, baffled. Had he accidentally stepped on his toes?
As their eyes met, the aristocrat lifted his head arrogantly, giving a derisive snort.
“A lowborn will always be a lowborn. Put a refined instrument in a monkey’s hand, and it’s still nothing more than a vulgar beast.”
“Wow, that’s pretty harsh.”
Confused by the stranger’s hostility, Venti wondered if this was a rival bard.
But he hadn’t crashed anyone’s party—why did he deserve this?
With the growing attention of onlookers, Venti chose not to escalate, standing up with a polite smile.
“It seems there’s been a misunderstanding. We wouldn’t want to disturb others’ enjoyment of the banquet, so perhaps we could talk outside?”
“I have no interest in conversing with a lowlife.”
“Then…why approach me in the first place?”
Now more perplexed than ever, Venti thought, Why do these people insist on looking down their noses at others? Is there some appeal in showing off their nostrils?
“Still don’t get it? Your pitiful understanding is on par with that of a lowly animal.”
The man’s expression twisted in disgust.
“Allow me to clarify. Seeing someone like you at an event for people of stature, forcing others to endure your noise… it’s nauseating.”
Venti’s smile faltered as he took a small step back, keeping his tone civil.
“While I’ll admit I’m hardly raking in enough for a lavish lifestyle, calling my music ‘noise’ and ‘torture’ seems a bit… rude, don’t you think?”
“Rude? Don’t make me laugh! Do you really not understand who’s being rude here?”
Taking Venti’s retreat as a sign of cowardice, the aristocrat leaned in further, sneering.
“You imagine yourself a virtuous artist, humble yet aspiring to reach the heights of music. But to me, you’re nothing more than a shameless charlatan, filling others’ heads with nonsense about the outside world.”
He grabbed Venti by the collar, his patience wearing thin.
“Listen closely. If I see you here again, I’ll have the Silvermane Guards drag you out into the snow—”
“Oh? And just what are you planning to ask the Silvermane Guards to do?”
A woman’s voice, sharp and tinged with anger, cut through the tension.
“To throw this godless spreader of lies into the blizzard, of course!”
The man snapped without turning, only to falter as the elegant scent of Osmanthus wafted toward him. He spun around, stunned.
Standing before him was Bronya, the Guardian’s successor. Her graceful figure, framed by piercing silver eyes that shone like polished steel, was charged with a controlled fury that only heightened her natural dignity.
“L-Lady Bronya, what brings you…?”
“Enough evasion. I just witnessed your crude treatment of this poet, not to mention your audacity to threaten him with the Silvermane Guard’s authority. Care to explain yourself?”
And thus began the fateful connection between Bronya Rand and Venti, in this curious rescue—of sorts.
—
T/N: Osmanthus…
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