Nicholas sorted out the spoils of Arabella's recent victory.
With Quentin dead, she had gained over a dozen properties and shops.
Taras still wanted to give more to Arabella, but she dismissed it with disdain.
Island's temperature remained high, and with the blazing sun from early morning, it left people feeling sluggish.
Arabella wore a pair of shorts and a tank top, holding a large, pungent durian in her hands. She sat on the steps in the courtyard, enjoying it with great relish.
The durian's potent aroma was overwhelming, permeating the entire area.
Birds and animals fled from it, yet only the eater could savor its myriad flavors.
Raven, as always, stood guard nearby, unaffected by the pungent stench.
Years ago, Arabella had led her team, lying in wait by a swamp, unmoving for days.
The poisonous insects could gnaw through a person's legs, but Arabella lay there, her gaze sharp and unyielding, her focus as intense as a hawk waiting for its prey, unwilling to give up even if it meant death.
He had never seen a woman so resilient.
It wasn't until one day, when she and her subordinates were sitting around a fire in the jungle, drinking and bragging, that she casually mentioned how she had been hung from a flagpole and had only survived thanks to a blessing of rain from the heavens.
The group of outlaws around her scoffed, hissing at her boast, knowing full well that surviving such torture was a miracle in itself.
Miraculous things were often exaggerated.
Raven vividly remembered how Arabella had remained perfectly calm at that moment, smiling as she drank half a bottle of cheap liquor, the jungle shadows flickering around her, her face fragmented and cold in the dim light.
In that moment, it was as if he were mesmerized, deeply and firmly convinced that Arabella had not been lying.
Perhaps it was these terrifying, miraculous pasts that had shaped the terrifying Arabella of today.
As for Albatross, he never thought less of Arabella. To him, everything about her was beautiful, and in these rare moments of peace, when they were alone, he was in the kitchen making nourishing soup for her.
Only Nicholas was different.
Though he had been bought as a slave by Arabella, he still had no sense of his position and continued to call her by her name without any honorifics.
Scalien was the only nation in this world with vast territory, wealth, a strong populace, and true freedom.
Nicholas was taught from a young age the concept of equality among all people; it was deeply ingrained and unlikely to change anytime soon.
Arabella didn't correct him and let him call her whatever he wanted.
He could call her anything under the sun; when she wanted to act, she'd still be the ruthless Arabella.
Ever since Arabella had him working from under her command, Nicholas felt like he had become a major housekeeper.
Managing the accounts, managing the people.
"Arabella! What are you eating so early that smells this bad?" Nicholas ran down from the upstairs study, covering his nose in complete disgust.
He caught sight of Arabella, sitting on the steps and eating without any concern for appearance, and couldn't help but start nagging.
"A young lady should care about her image. Look at what you're wearing—you look like you're scavenging the streets."
Arabella didn't get angry at his nagging.
When she bought him, it was purely because of his eyes that were so similar with that young man in her heart.
She had travel everywhere, and never had she seen eyes as clear and bright as that young man's from years ago, beautiful and untouched by the slightest stain of the world.
She hadn't expected that beneath those pretty eyes lay such a talkative mouth.
It was this strange combination of beautiful eyes and a chatty mouth that piqued her curiosity; it was this curiosity that had allowed Nicholas to live unscathed until now.
Biting into the durian, Arabella looked down and inspected her attire, seeing nothing wrong with it.
Women dress up for those who delight them.
But of the meanings in that phrase, none applied to Arabella. So as long as she was comfortable, she had no other requirements.
After all, when a war breaks out, even having clothes became a problem.
Was looking good worth caring about?
Seeing her blank, unconcerned expression, Nicholas knew that words alone couldn't save this gloomy, rotten soul.
He could only sigh, cover his nose, pull out his tissue pack, and hand her a tissue to wipe her hands.
"Stop eating. Are you trying to spread this stench all morning?"
Arabella held the durian up to his mouth with one hand and said, "It's sweet. Pretty good."
Nicholas leaned back, frantically waving his hand, "Take it away. Give me your hands, I'll wipe them clean."
Arabella casually set the durian down and extended her hands, obediently letting Nicholas clean them.
At that moment, Bramwell, who had returned from Rus and been reassigned to support her by his leader, entered the room.
"Master Unknown, I'm here." Bramwell came in, dragging a huge suitcase, wearing a sun hat and dressed in a flamboyant, floral outfit, looking like a young playboy on vacation.
Seeing him smiling with bright white teeth, full of energy, Arabella waved him over, saying, "You're just in time. Race with me tonight."
At the mention of a race with Arabella, Bramwell's bright smile immediately faded.
After pulling back, he sniffed, then asked, drooling, "Master Unknown, what smells so good?"
Arabella perked up, grabbed the durian from the floor, and beckoned to Bramwell, "Come here."
Drawn by the scent, Bramwell immediately bounded over to her side.
Whenever Arabella wasn't scheming or causing chaos, she really did look like a gentle and refined young woman, making it easy for people to let their guard down.
"So, how's the taste?"
Bramwell's eyes lit up, chewing as he nodded repeatedly, "Delicious. Sweet."
Having found a kindred spirit in food, Arabella quickly linked arms with Bramwell, forming a "durian squad" and cracking open another massive durian.
The double stench forced Nicholas to retreat.
He shook his head, feeling that even actions couldn't save Arabella now.
After a few leisurely days, Arabella was preparing to retrieve goods from AE.
In fact, this deal, as it had unfolded, was shaping up to be a failed smuggling operation.
No matter the item, even a paperclip, if it was contraband, smuggling was illegal—let alone the large quantities of drugs she was transporting.
Although there was no concrete evidence, Arabella's killing of Quentin was already a raging rumor across the four nations.
The police from all four nations had their eyes on Arabella, the bringer of misfortune. She certainly wouldn't have come here just to kill Quentin without reason.
Her reputation elsewhere was already terrifying enough, and crossing the sea only suggested one thing—to smuggle goods.
It wasn't as if she had come here to settle down and start a family.
If Arabella and her group chose to follow a legitimate path from now on, coming and going freely, the four governments might simply turn a blind eye, tacitly acknowledging her legal status and opting not to break ties with her.
But if she tried any crooked moves—sorry, all paths are closed.
To prevent Arabella from making any moves, the Kewa government even cut off maritime trade with Utschs.
The only trade route between the two nations, through the City, happened to be Arabella's main base.
They'd rather lock down the sole trade route than give her any chance, showing just how notorious Arabella was in the mainland.
The four nations had enjoyed peace for a long time. Although there had been rampant gang activity, it had remained within controllable limits.
At most, it was indulgence and excess, thieves and prostitutes everywhere, brawls and fights, bribing officials to the point of excess, engaging in petty smuggling between the four countries.
There were also drug dealers and arms merchants within the four nations, but they were small-scale and scattered, never forming a real threat.
But Arabella was different.
The goods Arabella intended to move didn't need any further explanation to be understood as extremely deadly.
The citizens of the four countries couldn't withstand such devastation.
But such considerations meant nothing to Arabella.
Whatever goal she set, she would stop at nothing, using every scheme to achieve it.
Though she'd gone to great lengths to kill Quentin over Marcellus, Arabella reflected afterward that it hadn't been necessary.
At the very least—she could have waited until her goods were moved before killing Quentin.
Arabella loathed being exposed to the sunlight. She had grown accustomed to hiding in the midst of chaos, moving in the shadows, never to reach the light again
So although Arabella was a wanted figure across several inland countries, only vague descriptions of her face from the battlefield were known.
Even now, though the four countries wanted to grant her a legitimate identity, Arabella refused to accept it.
She, a rat from the sewers, would never give the cat a chance to watch her every move.
She smuggled herself in and would smuggle herself out again.
Meanwhile, people like Bramwell, who had no criminal record, could leave comfortably by plane.
The governments of the four countries only knew that Arabella was a woman and that she was out there.
But as for where she was, where she'd gone, or if she'd left—none of that was known.
When Taras received the news, he couldn't help but grin and sneer, "That woman's cunning as a fox."
