"If I may ask..."
This was the first question Jenkins had posed since sitting down, and in fact, his first attempt to steer the conversation.
"Was this invitation from you personally, or on behalf of soone else?"
Jenkins was certain she would understand his aning.
"A true nobleman never asks such a question in public."
The woman answered.
"Oh, I see."
He nodded. A purely personal invitation wouldn't have required such ambiguous phrasing. This, then, was another case of "compulsory socializing."
"I admire your intelligence, but becoming a proper nobleman requires more than just wisdom."
"Yes, and tact," Jenkins replied. "My teacher once told that the tallest tree in the forest is the first to be broken by the wind."
"Your teacher is a wise elder."
Jenkins offered a small smile, lowering his gaze to slice a piece from his steak.
"As I see it, a proper nobleman needs the wisdom to navigate social intricacies, the tact to handle all manner of affairs, and the humility to be mindful of his station. He must also value honor above life itself and embody virtues like integrity, hope, generosity, justice, fortitude, temperance, and tolerance.
Honor is essential for a nobleman, but one doesn't possess honor simply by being noble. On the contrary, it is by possessing honor that one becos a nobleman."
"Indeed."
She looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. The white tablecloth between them was woven with fine, exquisite patterns, but they paled in comparison to the elegance of his words.
"For a mont there, I almost believed you were the scion of so ancient, noble line. Only they..."
"No, no."
Jenkins shook his head, arranging his fork and knife on his plate to signal that he had finished eating.
He unfolded his napkin with practiced grace and dabbed at the corners of his spotless mouth.
"I've never aspired to be a nobleman," he stated. "I have always had my own ambitions."
Despite the weight of their conversation, they continued to chat pleasantly for a while before taking their leave.
"If I can just cent my image as a devout believer," he thought, "then no one tactless should bother at the ball tomorrow night."
At this thought, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself inside the carriage.
The nightscape of Bel Diran proved just as uninspiring as Nolan's, and Jenkins, preoccupied with thoughts of his cat, was in no mood for sightseeing.
Chocolate, as expected, was still upset. It hadn't even touched the food he'd left out. Normally, the tal block imbued with divinity would have been enough to soothe its temper, but the block was now destroyed. He had to use the Life Pearl to placate it for the ti being.
The cat didn't love the pearl nearly as much as the tal block, but it was enough to stop it from lashing his arm with its tail.
"I rember tossing it a ball of yarn once, but it just threw it right back at . Aren't cats supposed to love those things?"
He cast a suspicious glance at Chocolate, now contentedly licking the Life Pearl, then slapped his forehead.
"I'm being paranoid. When has my suspicion ever been warranted? It always turns out I was just overthinking."
His plan was to stay in Bel Diran through the weekend, which ant he had plenty of ti to spare after the award ceremony.
The Church's other two Saints weren't in Bel Diran at the mont, so for his own safety, Jenkins had no other etings to attend.
He woke on Thursday morning, and after a brief chat with the young nun, decided to head out and attend to his own affairs.
Bishop Strick had offered him a security detail, asking if he preferred personal bodyguards or a more discreet escort, but Jenkins had declined.
"I'm rely touring the city as a visitor. I'll be perfectly safe."
He had two errands to run before he could properly start sightseeing. The Tigull Museum, which the professor had ntioned, was closer, so he made it his first destination.
The Tigull Museum was a private institution with a distinct character, its collection focused on curious artifacts from previous epochs. The admission fee was reasonable—one shilling and seven pence—and, more importantly, the price was the sa for adults and children. There was, however, no ticket price for cats.
Since he was just visiting for leisure, Jenkins felt no rush to contact Professor Burns's friend. He lingered by the display cases, his curiosity piqued by the mottled antiquities. The current epoch had lasted nearly two thousand years, aning the artifacts before him were ancient indeed.
The museum was nearly empty. A left turn from the entrance led into a curving hallway. One wall was covered in black-and-white photographs, while the other was adorned with decorative paintings.
"No claws."
He quietly warned Chocolate on his shoulder, then removed his hat and, cane in hand, looked up at the photographs. They clearly depicted an excavation site, though he couldn't discern the specific ti or location.
He stepped closer to the wall, rising onto his toes and squinting to read the caption at the very top.
"Kedru Ruins Excavation Site, 1823."
"The Kedru Ruins? I think Papa Oliver told about this..."
He murmured to himself, the mory finally clicking into place as his eyes focused on a blurry stone slate in one of the photos.
"That's right. A faceless monster from the 15th Epoch was sealed in the deepest part of those ruins. A being whose existence was on a level far beyond humanity. The entire archaeological team that found it went insane. A few managed to evade the Church and founded a secret cult to worship the creature—a cult that's still active on the continent's southern tip."
To Jenkins, viewing this over half a century later, it was a fascinating piece of history. It was rare to encounter higher beings in the material world capable of inflicting true ntal and psychological corruption. While deadly to humans, Jenkins believed studying them could be instruntal in his quest to elevate his own level of existence.
He studied the old photographs intently, wondering how many of the smiling n captured in the fras had survived to see the present day.
Chocolate, however, had little interest in history. It would occasionally brush Jenkins's neck with its furry tail, a silent prod for him to move on to sothing more exciting.
The private museum was surprisingly large, spanning two floors. The second level, however, was closed to the public, reserved for archives and research.
In this era, the practice of displaying replicas to protect originals had not yet been established—patrons had paid their admission, after all. As a result, Jenkins could see that many of the antiquities were genuinely priceless.
Thanks to his apprenticeship with Papa Oliver, he was sothing of an amateur archaeologist himself, though his primary thod of appraising an artifact was by its market value.
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