Delicate, Yet Shamelessly Freeloading [Quick Transmigration] Chapter 90

Chapter 90: The Child from the Pay-to-Win Parenting Game (7)

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There was neither the awe of a child amazed by magic nor the fear of an adult who instantly recognized black magic.


Instead, what caught Shui Que’s attention wasn’t the transformation of a villain into a black rat, but rather those grimy traces on the ground.


And truly, they were quite striking.

 

Barefoot, what had once been clean feet were now smeared with mud around the ankles.


Shui Que stared at him without blinking.


The magician stood silent for a moment, then reluctantly pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket—white and neatly folded.

 

He was about to use the handkerchief to wipe it clean, but Shui Que stopped him.


His eyes sparkled with expectation. “You have to use magic!”

 

The magician had never encountered someone like this.


This child knew it was magic, yet wasn’t afraid?

 

According to rumors, wherever wicked black mages went, misfortune followed.


Even if such talk had been fabricated by the Holy Court to prevent the masses from falling prey to the greed of alchemy—any magic not sanctioned by the Holy Court’s so-called “white magic” was heresy.

 

But Shui Que didn’t know the difference between white magic and black magic.


He was simply witnessing a scene straight out of a fairy tale.

 

If someone could turn a black rat into a human and back again, surely they must have some kind of cleansing spell, right?

 

That was what Shui Que assumed, and unknowingly voiced aloud.


The magician glanced at him with a look that was hard to describe—somewhere between amused and exasperated.

 

Cleansing spell? That was pure Holy Court theatrics.

 

He lowered his eyelids, his azure eyes avoiding Shui Que’s gaze. A pool of crystal-clear water formed in the palm of his hand.


He tipped it, letting the cool water trickle over the feet.


Then he used the handkerchief to wipe them clean.

 

“All done,” the magician said calmly.


Not a speck of dirt remained on the ankles.

 

[He’s so thoughtless! It’s autumn in August, use warm water for my baby’s foot bath!]


[I’m calling the cops! Game developers, are you dead?! Why didn’t you drop the ultimate gift pack in this emergency? Something like: ‘Pay 9999 coins and instantly level up to lv.99 and beat up all the bullies’!]


[Such an old-school web game ad-style gift pack, but honestly practical. @SemiStudio, my big bro is talking to you, what are you waiting for? Hire him as a lead dev right now!]


[@SemiStudio, my big bro is talking to you!]

 

By the time several apprentices gathered around, Guan He had already clicked every available option on the game interface. The shop was completely empty. Other than food, books, and a rename card, there was nothing for sale—not even a single dagger.

 

A game popup appeared: [Reminder: Regulated weapons cannot be purchased for underage characters.]

 

Guan He: ???


[Game studio! You child traffickers! I’m reporting you all and sending the whole dev team to jail!]

 

While the bullet chat went wild, the flute player returned, leading a white deer.


As soon as he let go of the reins, the deer collapsed sideways on the grass and stopped breathing in the blink of an eye.

 

Butchering couldn’t be done inside the carriage—it would stain everything with blood.

 

The flute player seemed completely unaware that the apprentices who had once filled the meadow with chatter were now gone.


He never paid attention to anything unrelated to feeding the young vampire.

 

“Move aside.”

 

He said to the magician standing at the back of the carriage.


The magician stepped aside, and the flute player entered.


He looked at Shui Que the way someone would gaze upon a chirping hatchling in its nest—there was a trace of gentleness in his cold features, “Are you hungry?”

 

Without pausing, he stepped over the cloak on the floor and reached inside to grab a wooden bowl.


He hesitated for a moment, then added a spoon.

 

He picked up Shui Que and placed him on a bench by the edge of the grass.


The folded cloak was doubled up beneath him, so Shui Que’s feet wouldn’t have to touch the grass directly.

 

The dagger flashed coldly as it cut clean across the white deer’s neck—an efficient technique, not unlike how one would bleed a wild pheasant.


Warm blood gushed out, flowing along the rim of the bowl and collecting inside.

 

Shui Que watched the process, completely puzzled.


Then the flute player brought the full bowl of deer blood to his lips.

 

It was still warm, releasing faint wisps of steam in the morning air.


Shui Que looked at the bowl, then at the flute player—utterly incredulous.

 

What was this?


Was it meant for him to drink?


Was this a warning? Or a test to get him used to the knife’s edge life of a wandering circus?

 

The strong metallic scent of blood hit him. Shui Que turned his head away, face crumpling. “I don’t want it.”

 

The flute player asked, “Aren’t you hungry?”


Even if he was, he couldn’t just eat raw, bloody meat…

 

Shui Que shut his eyes tightly and shook his head like a rattle drum. “I’m not hungry anymore, not hungry! Take it away!”

 

The flute player withdrew the bowl and looked at Shui Que, puzzled—like he was dealing with a picky eater.

 

The magician washed the white handkerchief, dried it, folded it into a perfect square, and returned it neatly to his pocket.


“Maybe the brat prefers cooked food.”


A young vampire who didn’t like raw meat or veggies.

The flute player accepted the suggestion and awkwardly began preparing the deer meat.


The campfire was burning beautifully—greyish ash, with logs popping and crackling as they burned.

 

Suddenly, Shui Que whispered, “Your hand… it’s bleeding.”

 

It wasn’t that he was concerned about his kidnapper’s health.


There was just a mouthwatering scent in the air.

 

The venison wasn’t even on the fire yet.


So… that scent seemed to be coming from the flute player’s hand.

 

Unconsciously, Shui Que swallowed. Since waking up, he had only taken two sips of that coarse grain porridge. His mouth was bland, his throat parched, and he was starving.

 

The flute player saw those unblinking eyes fixed on him.

 

He brought the bleeding fingertip—cut accidentally by the dagger—to Shui Que’s lips.


Sure enough, like a lamb, the boy began licking. His cheeks turned a rosy pink.

 

So his adopted son wasn’t like him—not a vegetarian vampire.


One less thing in common. Was that disappointing? Hard to say.

 

He withdrew his hand. Shui Que looked up at him, pitiful and longing.

 

Another slash of the dagger. Crimson blood spilled like a river bursting through a mountain gorge, dribbling and splashing onto the grass.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Shui Que’s pupils shrank in fear, ready to shout a warning. But then the flute player raised his wrist to the boy’s lips—and nothing else mattered.

 

Shui Que hastily pressed his lips to the wound. His single fang sank into the blood vessel beneath the skin.

 

It was his first time tasting this kind of food. He ate greedily and messily, but his small mouth couldn’t keep up—more than half of it spilled onto the ground, wasted.

 

The magician watched with great interest.


“What a messy little brat.”

 

His lips were red and wet, his cheeks flushed with satisfaction—almost indecently so.


He looked like he might start purring at any moment.

 

Only when the flute player tied the gauze tightly and crudely wrapped up the wound did Shui Que come back to his senses.


Had he really just grabbed someone’s hand and bitten into it like that?

 

The flute player’s black eyes turned crimson and calmly asked, “Are you full?”


Shui Que nodded honestly, and even thanked him out of habit. “Thank you…”

 

The flute player rubbed the gauze, now soaked red. “Mm, you’re welcome.”

 

Putting together all the strange events and the flute player’s odd reactions—


Shui Que finally understood—

 

He was an evil vampire!

 

Before he could fully process that revelation, the flute player carried him back to the carriage and carefully examined the development of his little fangs.


Due to his position, he had to tilt his small face upward, leaning against the flute player’s chest. From this angle, he could see the shape of the curtain fluttering in the forest breeze, the translucent light, and the shifting shadows of the sun.

 

The performer who had been gone for nearly an entire morning stormed back in a fury.


His leather soles crushed the grass, green sap staining them thoroughly.


“You damned undead!” the performer slammed a crumpled piece of calfskin paper onto the wooden table. “These missing person notices are flying all the way to horses’ asses! Why did they sober up so quickly?”

 

The notice only described the features of the traveling circus and included an image of Shui Que. But since each sheet of calfskin had to be written and illustrated by hand, and time was short, the portrait lacked precision. The drawing only bore a slight resemblance—two or three points at most—to Shui Que, so the focus for identification was mainly on clothing.


The performer had no intention of reliving the days of being hunted by the Holy Court.


Among all the members of the circus, including those Black Rat apprentices, he was the only one who genuinely wanted to perform in peace, expand the troupe, and tour the continent of Arlantia!

 

“Right.” The performer suddenly remembered and looked around the carriage. “Where are those dumb Black Rats?”

 

Only one apprentice remained up front, the one driving the carriage—a mole, who was somewhat more well-behaved than the big black rat.


The magician, holding the calfskin paper between his fingers, scanned it quickly and casually explained, “I threw them into the river.”

 

The performer didn’t know how those Black Rats had provoked the magician.


But he didn’t want to dwell on it either. If the Black Rats were gone, there would be White Rats and Grey Rats to replace them.

 

What mattered now was avoiding the soldiers and trainee knights under the count’s command. Soon enough, the count, out of fatherly concern, would likely escalate things to the Holy Court.

 

Shui Que craned his neck curiously to look. Seeing his effort, the magician tilted his wrist to lower the notice right in front of Shui Que’s face.


He recognized the handwriting—it was Dorian’s.

 

Struggling within the arms of the flute player, Shui Que said, “My family is looking for me. I want to go back…”

 

“No!”

 

Surprisingly, it was the performer who reacted most strongly. He anxiously paced in place, muttering to himself, “They must’ve already reported to the Holy Court. There’s no turning back—”

 

If they returned Shui Que now, they might be caught in a pincer move by the count’s escorts and the Holy Court’s knights.


This wasn’t just a simple case of kidnapping a young noble anymore. With the flute player’s lullaby involved, it had become an incident of heresy and dark magic—a direct provocation against the Holy Court.

 

If they were captured by the knights, and the flute player insisted on talking about the blood clan’s godfathers and godsons, the entire circus would be burned as part of the Holy Court’s purge of monsters.

 

The magician and the flute player could likely escape, but the performer—he didn’t know black magic!

 

He thought it over from every angle and painfully gave up on the rest of the year’s touring plans.


“We’ll return to the Weiss Mountains ahead of schedule,”

 

He decided.

 

The Weiss Mountains stretched between the continent of Arlantia and the Far East. The outer forests were blanketed with deep green moss, and bizarrely stacked boulders were scattered throughout. Twisted tree roots grew among the rocks, forming dense, tangled branch webs. A careless human could step into a swamp deep enough to swallow them whole.


It was a nest of monsters.

 

No matter how crazed the Arlantia continent became over silk from the East, no kingdom would dare send knights to occupy the Weiss Mountains. Even the neighboring Kingdom of Tuva, despite its proximity, treated the mysterious mountains as something beyond human strength—like ants trying to shake a tree.

 

Thus, Eastern silk and porcelain had to go around the mountains, carried by packhorses and camels through the desert below, then transported via the inland sea in southern Tuva to reach various kingdoms on the continent.

 

Once they entered the depths of the Weiss Mountains, not even the Holy Court’s knights could follow.

 

Having made his decision, the performer had the mole apprentice whip the blind horse, heading eastward.

 

“But just past Dockshire to the east is the Castro Diocese…”

 

He hesitated again.

 

The Castro Diocese was one of the key bishoprics of Archbishop Sarre of the Kingdom of Tuva—virtually the core of the Tuva Church.


Wasn’t that like walking straight into the Holy Court’s lair?

 

The performer had no desire to see knights of the Holy Court plastering missing notices all over the city.

 

The magician drew the oak blinds closed, dimming the light inside the carriage.


His sapphire eyes grew darker.


“The notice says the targets are a traveling circus and… the young heir of the Louis family.”

 

Dried eucalyptus leaves drifted out from a cabinet, floating midair and spontaneously combusting without flame.


Ashen smoke swirled and steam rose.


The fog thickened to the point where only vague human shapes could be made out.

 

Shui Que saw the magician kneeling, drawing something on the floor. He didn’t know where the man had gotten the cypress branch, and the symbols he drew didn’t resemble any script from the Arlantia continent.

 

When the carriage emerged from the forest and saw daylight again, heading toward the outskirts of Castro—


The blind horse had turned into four sturdy, well-groomed stallions marching in step.


The spacious carriage now had a base made of painted oak beams, a roof covered with leather patterned in golden lilies, and brightly colored carvings all around.


It looked like a miniature palace on wheels.

 

Travelers driving packhorses, farmers pushing carts with baskets of eggs on their heads, and pilgrims marching tirelessly were all heading toward the Castro Diocese.

 

As the carriage passed, it kicked up dust along the road.


Maybe they were nobles, or perhaps merchants traveling across the continent selling silk and leather.


People speculated.

 

Just then, a majestic warhorse galloped by. On its back rode a knight clad in iron-leaf armor—his polished plates gleaming under the sun.


The emblem on his horsecloth bore the Holy Cross and a griffin.

 

A trainee knight of the Holy Court, a student of Virginia, assigned to protect pilgrims along this road leading to Castro.


People bowed their heads in reverence.

 

A clever inn apprentice waited outside the Castro city walls, calling out to passersby: “Sir, need a room? Where are you from? Staying overnight?”

 

The tall warhorse slowed after crossing the bridge.


A Holy Court knight!

 

The apprentice’s eyes lit up. He abandoned his previous customer and rushed forward, grabbing the reins with excitement. His face beamed. “Sir! Care for steak or a mixed meat pie? The White Swan Inn’s specialty!”

 

The young knight lifted his visor from the side buckle, revealing a handsome face. He smiled, “Be careful, don’t let the hooves trample you.”

 

At the gate, soldiers were inspecting incoming and outgoing carriages.


A silk curtain lifted, and a security pass issued by the archbishop to major merchants was handed out.

 

Ared caught the scene out of the corner of his eye. He halted the motion of closing his visor and looked through the window, deeper into the carriage.

 

A wide-brimmed hat decorated with dove feathers and lilies concealed most of a pale, delicate profile. Eyelashes cast downward, soft platinum hair drooping gently.


A high-necked blouse with layers of fine ruffles wrapped around the neck, a brocade short cloak in lake green tied at the chest, and a golden velvet gown folded richly as he sat. His hands nervously clutched the embroidered silver lotuses on his skirt.

 

He looked like a princess straight out of a puppet play.

 

He was looking back in his direction.


Aried’s breath caught.

 

So beautiful.

 

The eyes were so big, their color like sweet maple syrup.

 

Shui Que couldn’t speak, so he anxiously blinked at the young knight outside.

 

Aried thought his presumptuous gaze had offended the person inside the carriage. He dismounted, standing tall beside his warhorse like a sturdy tree, removed his helmet, and bowed.

 

He expressed his deep apology, “I was disrespectful, my lady.”

 

His hint having failed, Shui Que glared at him in frustration.

 

The flute player, seated beside him, said, “Alright, Alice, stop looking outside so much.”

 

He had already grown quite used to calling Shui Que by his alias.

 

Yun had once mentioned in a letter that if she had given birth to a daughter, the flute player’s goddaughter would have been named Alice.

 

The magician sat opposite them, pulling the curtain closed with a half-smile and said, “Young lady, the dust outside will get into your eyes.”

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Huge shoutout to @candycorns2 on Discord for commissioning this! The chapter will be posted regularly, show your support for Ciacia at Kofi.

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