An Unwritten Story [LitRPG, Evil MCs]

The two of them walked side by side through the capital city, their steps unhurried, their shadows stretching long beneath the warm lantern glow.

Though night had fallen, the city shimmered as brightly as day, drenched in an amber radiance that pooled along the cobbled streets like liquid sunset.

Laughter rose and fell in warm, ambient currents. Crowds pressed along the avenues in a restless tide, merchants called out their final bargains of the evening, and children darted between adults like sparrows weaving through carriage wheels.

Somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at silver strings, the melody threading through the noise like a hidden seam stitching chaos into something almost harmonious.

Noa slowed his pace, his gaze drifting toward a particular corner of the street. Vionette followed his line of sight without a word.

Paper lanterns swayed gently above a semi-permanent wooden booth wedged stubbornly between brick and stone, looking as though it had claimed its territory by sheer force of will. The soft illumination painted the stall in rich shades of orange and red.

Columns of smoke drifted into the cool night air, carrying the rich aroma of charred meat and sizzling oil—a scent that wrapped around the senses and tugged at something hungry.

“Fresh! Hot! Last batch of the night!” the vendor roared, his voice slicing through the street like the opening beat of a festival drum.

The boiling oil answered him in a sharp, popping applause while his heavy knife struck the wooden cutting board in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

Tak. Tak. Tak.

“Let’s go there,” Noa said, already reaching out to capture Vionette’s hand before the suggestion had even fully settled between them.

Wait—you idiot—

Her thoughts stumbled for a second, but her fingers were already caught securely in his. His grip was warm, firm, and entirely shameless.

The stall owner—a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man wearing an apron stained heroically with layers of sauce and past victories—grinned wide enough to count as a brilliant business strategy. His eyes sparkled with the seasoned confidence of a man who had witnessed countless confessions unfold beneath the amber lantern light.

Noa hopped onto a wooden stool with boyish ease, the frame creaking in mild protest. Vionette lowered herself beside him more deliberately, adopting her usual carefree posture that somehow still managed to look gorgeous.

The vendor’s grin deepened the moment he saw them settle side by side.

“Ahhh, a young couple?” he teased, turning a cluster of skewers with effortless flair. “Extra spice makes for unforgettable memories!”

“Two small skewer plate sets, please!” Noa replied, raising two fingers before flashing the vendor a smooth wink.

Vionette glanced sideways at him, a faint smile forming on her lips. We’re not a couple yet, you know?

The vendor’s hands moved with practiced magic. Skewers flipped over the open flame, their rich glaze bubbling and caramelizing beautifully. Savory dumplings hissed loudly in the shallow oil, and the knife maintained its steady rhythm against the board.

“Here you go!” The man slid two small wooden plates across the counter, pride swelling in his chest. “Fresh off the fire! Four skewers each—and not a single burnt edge!”

Thick steam rose in delicate spirals from the lacquered meat, the glossy glaze catching the lantern light like polished amber.

“Eat up while it’s hot!” the vendor insisted, nodding with satisfied authority.

“Mmh!”

Noa leaned forward and took a bold bite without wasting a single second, looking as though he had been waiting four long years for this moment. The explosion of flavor struck him instantly—sweet, smoky, and seasoned with memory. His eyes widened, a sudden shimmer reflecting in his purple irises.

It had been four years. Four years since he had tasted something so beautifully ordinary—not the highly priced delicacies of Earth, nor the flawlessly prepared, aristocratic meals of a fantasy castle. Just normal, raw street food.

Vionette caught his expression, the dancing lantern light reflecting in her crimson eyes as she watched him. She turned fully toward him, propping her elbow on the wooden counter and resting her cheek against her palm, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Then, she lifted her own skewer.

“Mmm…” She took a small bite.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then—

Her cheeks flushed scarlet, the tip of her nose turned a bright pink, and even the outer edges of her ears burned a furious red. Tiny beads of sweat broke out at her temples. Her eyes snapped wide as a violent heat exploded across her tongue like a dragon waking from slumber.

“KYAAH! Hot! Hot! Hot!” She stared straight ahead, her eyes refusing to blink.

Noa turned his head toward her, his expression melting into a look of quiet delight. “Heheh~ are you not good with spices?”

“Hahah!” The vendor laughed heartily, handing her a tall glass of ice-cold water. “It happens sometimes, miss!”

Vionette, her tongue sticking out slightly as she fanned her mouth frantically with both hands, snatched the glass with a level of desperation that defied all royal decorum.

Gulp—Gulp—Gulp.

After draining the entire glass in one go, she slammed it back down onto the counter with a heavy thud, though her cheeks remained puffed out adorably.

“It’s not that hot,” she insisted, turning to glare fiercely at Noa. “I was just caught off guard!”

Is it the tsundere Vionette now? He thought to himself.

Noa didn’t burst out laughing this time. Instead, he held her defensive gaze with a curious smile—one that didn’t seek to tease her, but simply admired the view. “You were so cute just now~”

Vionette’s lips parted slightly, her eyelids drooping halfway as a completely different kind of warmth flushed her face.

At the same time, Noa shot the vendor a serious look out of the corner of his eye. The vendor returned it with equal gravity. Their expressions hardened instantly like two veteran generals standing over a war council, staring each other down with intensity.

Then, without a word, both men smirked and gave each other a hidden thumbs-up beneath the rim of the counter.

Thank you, my guy!

I got you, brother!

Noa looked back at Vionette. “I’m sure the first skewer was just seasoned a little too aggressively. Try the others. They should be fine.”

Mmmm? Vionette’s eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion.

“Well… alright.”

She set the offending skewer aside and lifted another, her mouth hesitant as her hand brought it close. She finally leaned in, taking the smallest bite possible.

Chew.

The meat yielded tenderly to her teeth. Rich oil burst softly against her tongue, but this time, the searing heat was masterfully balanced—the complex spices woven seamlessly with notes of sweetness and deep smoke. Her eyes widened again, but differently this time.

“Mmmm~” One of her hands drifted to her cheek as she lifted her chin slightly, her eyes closing in pure bliss. A genuine, radiant smile curved her lips. “This is…”

For Vionette, a queen of a kingdom and a woman who had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth back on Earth, this was her first time experiencing a street skewer.

“This is amazing!” she declared, holding the skewer triumphantly toward the night sky.

“Right?” Noa asked, his purple eyes locked onto her face.

“Mmh-hmm!” She nodded rapidly, her eyes closed in contentment as she began to eat in earnest, her mouth happily full.

Instinctively, they each lifted another skewer and extended their hands toward one another. The wooden sticks crossed cleanly in midair like twin blades meeting in a playful duel.

“Let’s eat,” they said in perfect unison.

The vendor, already turning a fresh batch of meat over the roaring fire, smiled knowingly to himself. He didn't need to ask them for their next order.

***

“C’mon!”

“Grip harder!”

“Hold the line! Hold it!”

The gambling den smelled of alcohol, spilled ale, and the distinct, lingering dread of lost wagers.

It was a chaotic sanctuary where hope was gambled away in coin form, and pride cracked much louder than breaking bones.

Wooden tables, reinforced with iron plating, bore the scars of decades of desperate champions slamming their triumphs and failures into the wood. Dusty chalkboards lined the walls, tracking the current names of the champions.

Kaelen sat at a table, one foot planted firmly forward, his elbow resting upon the metal plate. His posture was straight yet deceptively relaxed—the alignment of a man who understood exactly how much force his body could generate.

Sitting across from him was a bald, muscular brute whose forearms resembled tree trunks, his knuckles covered in white scar tissue that served as badges of his former victories.

The brute grinned, his teeth yellowed. “You look way too calm for someone about to get his wrist snapped.”

Kaelen’s ocean-blue eyes rested unblinkingly on the man. He flexed his fingers once, a slow and deliberate movement, before locking his hand into the opponent's grip.

“Ready?!” someone roared from the surrounding crowd.

“Break his arm!”

“Put some back into it this time, you bald bastard!”

“Don’t let the pretty boy take the pot!”

Behind the inner circle of spectators, coins clinked rhythmically as hands rapidly exchanged currency.

“Everything on the blue-haired guy!”

Lucien smiled as he slid his bets across the counter with a smooth click, still dressed in his noble attire that looked entirely theatrical inside this den of gamblers.

He was perched to the side on a high wooden stool near the betting counter, his legs casually crossed and his elbows resting against the wood. A few regular gamblers stood beside him.

“You’re losing this one, kid!” a gambler barked, aggressively slamming his own wager down.

Thud.

Lucien immediately leaned in, bumping his forehead against the old man's brow in a sudden burst of heated rivalry as they both gritted their teeth.

“Oh yeah, old man? Just shut up and watch!”

“I am watching, you brat!”

“Three… two… one—” the referee began, the tension skyrocketing as both participants tightened their muscles.

“Go!”

The match commenced, and the surrounding crowd exploded.

“PUSH!”

“SNAP HIM!”

Rose stood a few paces away, clutching her coin pouch dramatically against her chest like a mother shielding her firstborn child from harm.

“I should just quit as the head maid and come work here,” she muttered, her cheeks flushed as she hugged the currency tight. “Get the hell out of the way, baldy—you’re going down!” Then, she threw her head back and screamed.

...And all that sweet, beautiful money will be ours. Heheh~ She squeezed the pouch against her cheek with affection.

Kaelen’s grip tightened, veins surfacing along his forearm like drawn bowstrings. At the same time, his massive opponent's arm began to tremble. Then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—the muscular brute’s hand began its descent toward the table.

THUD!

The moment the man’s knuckles slammed against the metal plate, a stunned silence fell over the entire room. A heartbeat later, the gambling house detonated in sheer noise.

“HE ACTUALLY BEAT HIM?!”

“The reigning champion just got crushed!”

“Pay up! Pay up!”

---

Meanwhile—

The King of Spades is already gone, and a Jack was placed in the last round. All they have left in Spade are two sevens, the Queen, and a nine. That idiot locked his Queen as his final defense. Which means—

Vionette elegantly placed her card—a Jack of Spades—over the group of the Ten of Clubs, Seven of Spades, and Queen of Diamonds.

—I win!

“The winner is Vionette Crimvane!” the dealer announced loudly, her voice echoing across the room.

“Damn it…”

“The princess won again?”

“My money!”

In this card game, before the match begins, a player must select a suit out of the four. Then that chosen suit—and its opposing suits—becomes the royalty and nobility for the duration of the round. This round, Spades reigned supreme. So no matter the rank inside the suit, only a spade could defeat another spade.

Vionette had calculated every single card that had already been played, along with every card yet to appear in the deck, guaranteeing her own victory.

Unlike Kaelen’s display of overwhelming strength, she had intentionally planned a narrow victory to ensure that challengers would keep lining up to play against her. Of course, if luck failed her entirely and she didn't draw a single card from the supreme suit, it would result in a total loss—but she enjoyed the gamble.

Noa lounged beside her on the same plush crimson cushion, his legs crossed comfortably in a loose figure-four posture. His right arm was draped over her shoulders as he enjoyed a glass of fine wine served by the attentive staff.

Neither of them had bothered to hide their identities by wearing masks or cloaks. Freedom did not wear a disguise.

And as Vionette had told Noa on the day they first met, she had no desire to build a kingdom that would imprison her beneath the chains of public image and royal expectation. She wanted to build a kingdom they could enjoy.

They currently occupied the second floor of the gambling house, a luxurious floor reserved for the wealthy and the reckless. Below them lay the first floor, where Kaelen, Lucien, and Rose were currently celebrating their winnings, oblivious to the fact that their queen was sitting a ceiling above them.

“There’s so much noise coming from the first floor. Is some shit happening down there?” Noa asked, lifting his wine glass to his lips.

“Yes, sir,” the attendant holding the silver tray answered respectfully. “It appears a new champion has taken over the arm-wrestling tables.”

“I think it's about time we head out,” Vionette said, placing her cards face-down on the table as she stood up.

“Yeah. My reward comes first.” Noa set his wine glass down smoothly.

What the hell is this reward? A flicker of suspicion crossed her expression as they began to descend the staircase, the surrounding gamblers bowing respectfully as they passed.

---

At the wooden bar lining the far wall of the first floor, Lucien sat at the center, with Kaelen to his left and Rose to his right, alcohol flowing freely between them.

THAM!

Lucien slammed his wooden cup violently against the counter. “…I know, right?! They’re always like, ‘do this, Lucien,’ or ‘do that, Lucien.’ It’s exhausting!”

“Tell me about it! I had to assist that walking catastrophe,” Rose complained loudly, throwing her arms out wide in a dramatic gesture. “That idiot looked like a saint when I first met him. Then out of nowhere—boom, Satan’s disciple! No, he might be Satan’s teacher instead!”

“‘Go pay with your salary to stay in a tavern,’ he told me that day,” Kaelen muttered miserably, his forehead pressed flat against the cool wood of the table as he replayed Valric’s old orders in his head. “Like, what do you even mean by that? It’s a mission for the dukedom! Why would I waste my money?!”

Rose nodded with solemn empathy. “And then your entire month's salary is just gone by the time the mission wraps up, right? I know the pain.”

“I didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to my girlfriend before being dragged out here…” Lucien mumbled into his arms, his voice thick with liquor.

Noa and Vionette slipped past the bar, their backs turned to the trio. They heard the voices—but they failed to recognize the speakers, given how much their tones had been warped by heavy drinking.

“Why do I feel personally attacked right now?” Noa muttered through gritted teeth, his eye twitching slightly.

“I know, right? Their voices sound a little familiar too,” Vionette murmured, crossing her arms over her chest as if hit by a sudden, freezing chill.

“Nahh~” Noa waved his hand dismissively, shaking off the weird sensation. “We probably just drank a little too much tonight.”

“By the way, Blackie, where exactly are we going now?” she asked, shifting the subject.

When they were preparing to journey back here from Blackmoor, he had begged her for a reward. She had given in, agreeing to do whatever he wanted for a single day, and this 'reward' seemed to involve her too.

“A good place,” Noa replied, flashing her a wink.

“Aha…” Vionette turned her head slowly toward him, leveling him with a deadpan stare.

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