The past was built upon collecting unique characteristics.

"If Charlotte is simply allowed to grow up like a flower in a greenhouse, under the protection of her family..." Earl White paused, as if it would take a lot of courage to say what he was about to say.

"I'm just afraid that she will inevitably wither away in the end."

At this point, he covered his face with trembling hands.

Ava listened quietly, her hands, clasped together on her skirt, unconsciously tightening.

She was originally the child of a maid in the family. Earl White personally selected her from among the servants, trained her, and promoted her to the position of head maid.

In the process, she practically watched Charlotte grow up, so it would be a lie to say she had no feelings for the young lady at all.

All direct members of the family are "disciples," a foundation that has been passed down for nearly a century.

But his own daughter awakened to the "gardener" destiny, a rare and mysterious path that some ancient records refer to as the "cursed path."

Whenever he thought about his inability to change this fact, Earl White felt deeply powerless and saddened.

Because "florists" are special!

Unlike other extraordinary destinies, it cannot circumvent the effects of the "core" through certain means. No matter how much protection it is given, the fate of the holder seems to be predetermined.

How vast are the resources he can access? Every time Charlotte goes out, he instructs his daughter to bring the best protective magical items, each of which is worth a fortune, and some are even disposable or time-limited consumables.

It's fair to say they're "burning money" every single moment.

But if burning money really works, he would rather exhaust all his assets just to win a single act of mercy from the ethereal "fate"!

"Your Excellency," Ava said, breaking the long silence.

"Please trust your own choice, Miss. The gardener is indeed special, but so is your daughter, Miss Charlotte."

……

Bet City, South Wharf District.

At the entrance to Port Phillip, Morian stopped and carefully examined his attire.

Wearing a brown vest and beret, with his ID card casually hanging in front of him, along with paper and pen, and an inexpensive camera without film.

Today, I'm playing the role of a reporter.

Walking along the port road, the sea breeze was blowing in his face. Morian suddenly looked at the huge dome not far away, which was the central station of Bet City. The platform was still crowded with people.

The station is surprisingly close to the port; when the train starts moving, you can even see the sea view through the windows, including cargo ships on the move.

He departed from that station yesterday, taking a train to St. Christine, and shortly after, he took a return trip, a journey that left him feeling exhausted.

Under the midday heat, even the sea breeze felt like a heatwave, yet many people were still busy in the area.

Beside the stacked shipping containers, an elderly man hunched over, sweeping the ground with a broom. Further ahead, several workers swung hammers, forcefully striking the loose wooden planks on the ground. With each strike, the screw on the plank would go deeper.

Morian didn't want to disturb these people who were busy making a living, so he went straight to a sailor's tavern that had been around for a while. The tavern was built on the edge of the dock, in a slightly remote location, and it wasn't very big.

A low fence surrounds the perimeter, presumably for protection. The roof is a gable-shaped wooden structure, on which several seabirds perch and call out from time to time.

However, what truly made Morian pause briefly was the pile of brewing jars at the tavern's entrance.

Those were two rows of earthenware jars, perhaps to release the gases produced during fermentation; none of the spouts were sealed, but rather left open.

Then he witnessed an impressive scene.

Seabirds on the roof flapped their wings, and a puddle of grayish-white excrement fell onto the roof, then slid down the eaves and landed squarely in the open wine jar.

With a "thump," the feces splashed water and then slowly sank into the liquid.

Morian's lips twitched almost imperceptibly; he had already made up his mind.

Hmm, I'd better not drink the beverages here...

He took a deep breath, quickly composed himself, and pushed open the door to enter.

The tavern was noisy, filled with the strong smells of alcohol, sweat, and tobacco. It could only accommodate a dozen or so tables, and now there were hardly any seats left.

Most of these sailors or workers wore rough work clothes, and some even took off their shirts, revealing their tanned upper bodies, which looked quite dashing.

Morian's gaze swept over the people, secretly selecting those who seemed easier to talk to.

At a table in the corner sat two men, one bald and the other with a thick beard, drinking with a plate of peanuts.

Morian walked to the empty seat next to them and sat down, raising his press pass as if he were a long-time friend having a drink with someone he knew.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." He gave a professional, friendly smile.

"I'm a part-time reporter for the Bay City Daily. Would it be convenient for me to do a brief interview?"

The bald man turned his head, looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes full of undisguised impatience.

"Do you think we look like we're in a convenient place?" the man asked in a rough, unfriendly voice.

"Get out of here! The dock area isn't a place for a pretty boy like you."

The other party's attitude caused Morian to cut short what he wanted to say, but the refusal was also expected. He simply calmly took back his press pass and gave a different set of words that he had prepared beforehand.

"I'm here to cover the recent strike in the dock area."

"If the workers are striking because of unpaid wages, the newspaper would be happy to speak out for you and make the facts public."

This sentence is like a key, unlocking the switch of a certain heart box.

The two men exchanged a glance, and their attitudes instantly reversed completely.

"Are you really a reporter from the newspaper?" the bald man asked again, his tone much gentler.

"Genuine and authentic." Morian smiled and showed off his press pass, specifically pointing to the "Bey City Daily" stamp on it.

Seeing this, the bearded man next to him also softened his attitude.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Reporter," he called to the bald man. "Ham, don't just stand there, quickly pour this gentleman a drink!"

The bald man named Ham then realized what was happening and quickly picked up a wooden cup from the table, filled it with a large glass of ale, and pushed it in front of Morian.

The deep yellow liquid swirls in the glass, with a thin layer of foam floating on the surface, emitting an alcoholic smell.

"Thank you, but I don't drink." Morian politely declined, gently pushing his glass back to the center of the table.

I especially don't drink the alcohol here.

Just thinking about the scene at the doorway makes my stomach feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"Don't you like it?" the bald man asked, his brow furrowed. "Or do you think the alcohol here is too cheap and you're not used to it?"

As he spoke, the guy picked up the glass of wine that had been pushed back to him and gulped down a large mouthful.

"I think the wine here is delicious; it has an indescribable wild flavor."