Chapter 9

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter Title: The Princess Only Deals in the Real Thing 18

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“You have a granddaughter, don't you, Michele? What kind of person is she?”

“Aren't you in a profession you shouldn't be if you're interested in my granddaughter?”

“What do you take me for? I'm asking how she is as a successor. I'm just curious if she's someone you can trust to run this pawnshop.”

“Well. If my granddaughter takes over the pawnshop, it'll be one of two things.”

Michele chuckled as he replied.

“Either a spectacular failure or a spectacular success—nice and noisy either way.”

Michele's words were rarely wrong.

It was already noisy, so half of it had come true. The question was, would it crash and burn or thrive?

As he pondered, there was a knock at the door.

“Cardinal Cresens, it's time for your meeting.”

“Right. I'll be there soon.”

Cresens set down the music box and pulled off his raincoat.

Beneath it gleamed a robe of deep purple—the color reserved for cardinals—with a strange gray cloth draped over it.

Cresens let out a hearty laugh.

“No wonder they call me a thief.”

He'd come with a towel wrapped around his neck.

As Cresens removed the towel, he thought of the woman who fired back at every word he said.

She seemed to evoke not just handkerchiefs but towels as well. He muttered to himself.

“I'll return it soon. See you then.”

I'm just too curious whether you'll fail or succeed.

Cresens's pale green eyes sparkled.

“Ugh, my eyes sting.”

It was the aftermath of that potent spray they'd said would last at least two days.

Thanks to the holy water, though? It had subsided after a few hours.

Her eyes were still red around the edges in the mirror, but whatever. She'd brought some holy-water-infused water in a flask just in case, but she probably wouldn't need it.

'How many women with shady backstories come and go from auction houses anyway? Perfect cover for hiding my identity.'

Running into Lionet folks would be trouble, so she had to conceal herself as best she could.

In that sense, the auction house was unexpectedly ideal. Because...

'Everyone's wearing masks.'

It was a rule born from cases of collusion and threats among high nobles.

With faces hidden so no one knew who was who, they bid solely by number.

'Sure, clothes or accessories might give someone away...'

But get caught colluding, and you'd be banned for life. Everyone played it safe.

In short, everything at the auction house boiled down to one thing.

'Money.'

Rank, title, age—all equal before gold coins.

A world where only the highest bid won. Her heart pounded with anticipation.

She twisted her hair up into her hat and donned a large mask before heading to the entrance.

A guard with a friendly smile but a brutally massive build blocked her way.

“Good evening, ma'am. Welcome to the Philosophy Auction House. What brings you here?”

“I'm here to sell.”

“Understood. This way, please.”

“Yes. Oh, can I watch the auction after my sale's processed?”

“Of course. You can't bid, but you're welcome to observe from the viewing seats.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Philosophy's nighttime auction wasn't just any sale. It was a public spectacle, an event.

Maybe that's why even the waiting sellers were dressed dazzlingly, like exotic birds.

In contrast, she stuck out in her plain clothes and shabby bag—despite standing at the very end—for all sorts of reasons.

Glances. She felt them.

“Hah.”

After the earlier arrivals went one by one.

When only she and the man ahead remained, he clicked his tongue and spoke up.

“Hey. Do you even know what this place is?”

Not like he was asking out of ignorance.

She replied indifferently.

“Hm? The sellers' waiting room at Philosophy Auction House?”

“That's not what I... whatever. Place is fine otherwise, but this is the problem. They let in any mutt or mongrel without checking identities, just because they claim to have something to sell.”

'Idiot?'

Of course—auction houses evaluated items, not people.

Could a gem consigned by a ragged beggar turn out fake?

In the end, it was the object, not its owner, that went on the block.

Besides, if open access for sellers was inefficient, money-driven Philosophy would've changed it long ago.

'Doesn't know why Philosophy sticks to it. Must've only come once or twice, picking up weird ideas somewhere.'

“No matter how thorough the item inspection, what's the point without vetting the people?”

“Vetting the people?”

“Yeah. Whether you found it or stole it...”

The man in the fox mask scanned her with smug disdain.

“Can't put precious consignments next to junk of unknown origin. Not that you'd pass inspection anyway.”

Anything else, maybe—but thief? No way.

Not after pepper-spraying a would-be burglar that very day.

Linking his snide tone, stiff neck, and words together, she smirked.

She could guess why he was picking on her, of all people.

“Then why not come during the day?”

The man whipped around.

“Night auctions are public events anyone can join, but daytime ones are private invite-only. If you want to deal with 'screened' folks, just come then. ...Oh. Unless.”

She covered her mouth with her hand.

“You've already been 'screened out'?”

'Inferiority complex.'

Strutting like he knew it all when he didn't, silent around others but picking fights when alone.

Obvious. At best, a fallen noble or sidelined branch family loser.

Intimidated by the flashy crowd, taking it out on her.

Bottom line: not worth the time.

'Feeding his bruised ego and pride like this. Pathetic.'

Spot on, apparently—he flew into a rage.

“What did you just say? Do you know who I am? Some nobody like you, mouthing off? If I wanted, I'd crush you in a—”

Folks who talked like that never had real backing.

Ignoring his rant, letting it go in one ear and out the other, she suddenly tilted her head.

'But how'd a supposed fallen noble get something worth auctioning?'

And he called it a “precious consignment.”

Not his own, then. Someone's orders or proxy bid?

'Has some backing, huh. Could it be...?'

A possibility flashed by.

What if his backer was Lionet?

Maybe not, but no harm suspecting.

The bellowing man quieted as the burly guard entered.

“Next, please.”

Staring at his back, she stood casually.

Pretending to sip water, she edged to the door—his loud voice leaked from the hall beyond.

“What item have you...”

“Skip the greetings. Just check it and say pass or fail.”

“Procedure requires we ask how you acquired it. Please provide supporting documents, receipts, and ID—business card or papers.”

“Argh!”

The fuming man snapped.

“Can't you tell at a glance? Acquisition details for this ancient tome? Consigned to me. Papers? Here—tons of 'em, pick the right one. ID? I've been here before!”

“No exceptions for anyone.”

“Damn... whatever. Remember this time: Carlos Golt! That's me!”

Carlos Golt.

'Got it!'

Memories from her past life surged—every article on the Pressripe Empire, especially Lionet-related, devoured over and over.