Chapter 124: A Child

Galloping swiftly from the Whitewater River dock in New Cecil, they were just a day’s ride from Tansang Town.

In the final stretch, Gawain and his three companions veered off the main road, using the cover of the trees to approach the stone bridge just outside Tansang. They then slipped into hiding on the southern side of the bridge, keeping watch on the town’s main gate across the way.

“Notice anything? The town seems to be under martial law,” Pittman muttered in a low voice as he peered toward the gate. “No pedestrians on the bridge, and there are way too many soldiers posted at the gate. Plus, there are a lot of boats docked by the riverbank—looks like they’re being held there.”

From the shadows beneath a nearby bush, Amber’s figure emerged. “I watched the main road for a long time just now—no caravans or travelers passed through. The lockdown’s probably been in place for at least two days…”

“Looks like as soon as Golden-Eyed Pilger’s ship left, the town sealed itself off,” Gawain analyzed. “Byron was supposed to stay in Tansang to keep recruiting serfs. He’s too conspicuous to slip away now that the town’s on lockdown. No wonder we haven’t heard a thing.”

Amber gave a grim look. “You don’t think something’s already gone wrong, do you?”

Gawain shook his head. “Judging by the gate, it’s just a restriction on movement. The town’s order seems intact. Byron’s a mercenary—too slick to get caught out in a situation like this.”

“Ahem The problem is, how do we get in?” Pittman coughed twice. “Tansang’s hemmed in by rivers on two sides and mountains behind. The only entrance is that stone bridge and the gate—both under the soldiers’ watchful eyes. We can’t just stroll in.”

Even the straightforward Sir Philip shook his head. “We don’t know what’s going on inside. If the cultists have already taken control of Viscount Andrew, showing ourselves would only alert those villains.”

The young knight was rigid but not foolish.

Gawain narrowed his eyes, and instantly a mental image of a high-resolution satellite map formed in his mind.

“There’s a path from the Tansang mines that skirts the east side of town and leads behind it, right up near the castle district,” Gawain said, opening his eyes. “But crossing the river is still a problem. Wait—who’s that?!”

Suddenly, Gawain sensed a faint, furtive presence nearby. He whipped his head toward it and barked a question. Only then did Amber notice the “out-of-place shadow” flickering among the surrounding foliage. She drew two daggers, spinning them in front of her. “Come out! We’ve spotted you!”

The forest fell deathly silent. Moments later, a bush beneath a tree rustled twice, and a dirty, disheveled little head poked out. It was a boy, no older than ten, with tangled, sun-bleached hair that looked like it hadn’t been cut in years. He wore a patched, ragged set of rough linen shorts and a shirt—typical poverty. Years of malnutrition had left him pale and thin, stunted in growth. But his eyes—bright and lively—shone with a spark no adult from his class possessed.

Yet now those big eyes were clouded with a faint mist of terror. He stood frozen, trembling slightly, seemingly forgetting to run.

“A child?” Sir Philip frowned, utterly unprepared to find a sneaky figure skulking in the woods was such a young boy—no sign of any magical aura either. The knight’s code urged him to protect the weak, softening his expression, but his military training kept his hand firmly on his sword’s hilt. “Don’t be afraid—come here slowly.”

The boy suddenly let out a terrified cry and bolted.

“You’re carrying a huge sword—of course he’s running!” Amber scoffed, eyeing Philip like he was a fool. Then she vanished into the shadows. Moments later, a startled shout came from the boy’s fleeing direction. The bushes in front of Gawain stirred again, and Amber reappeared, gripping the boy’s collar. Shadow magic at its finest—this girl’s ability to chase down a fleeing child was like having a personal teleport.

The boy was easily caught, likely after a brief trip through the shadow realm. He was so frightened he stood there stunned, completely forgetting to run. His fear only deepened, and Gawain thought he might burst into tears any second. But the boy clenched his face tight, biting his lip, refusing to cry—just staring at the strangers before him with wide, scared eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Amber quickly soothed. “We’re not bad people…”

Gawain shot her a sharp look.

“No, wait—we’re not bad people,” Amber corrected herself, then apologized to Gawain. “Old habits from my past job, still haven’t kicked it…”

“We won’t hurt you,” Sir Philip placed a hand gently on the boy’s head. “See? I’m a knight. I’ll protect you.”

The boy shivered at first, but Philip’s words calmed him a little. He nodded, half understanding.

Gawain took the chance to ask, “Are you from around here? Why are you wandering in the woods?”

The boy jumped back, startled by Gawain’s towering two-meter frame and square-jawed face.

“Don’t be afraid—he’s my lord,” Philip quickly reassured him. “He’s a good and honest man.”

Amber noticed the boy hadn’t said a word the whole time and muttered, “Could he be mute?”

Gawain was about to dismiss the idea when Pittman frowned and stepped forward. The old druid gently grabbed the boy’s chin, pried open his mouth, and examined inside carefully.

“His tongue’s been cut out,” the druid said after a moment’s silence. “At least two years ago.”

Gawain’s words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what expression crossed his face, but Amber visibly shrank back. Gawain clenched his anger. “Why would such a small child be punished like this?!”

Even the brutal, backward medieval laws wouldn’t cut out the tongue of a child under fourteen. Not even the notoriously harsh Blood God Church believed children that age could be guilty of “verbal crimes.”

Pittman shook his head. “The cut is skillful, with traces of magic used. This isn’t punishment—it’s a mute servant. Probably a slave owned by some wealthy merchant. Those merchants often do this—they keep mute servants as personal attendants because they can’t speak or write. Unless the master encounters a soul mage, their secrets stay safe.”

Gawain was speechless.

Before he could say anything, the mute boy suddenly fixed his gaze on Sir Philip’s breastplate. Grabbing the young knight’s arm, he pointed frantically at a symbol on the armor, shouting unintelligibly.

Philip was at a loss. The young knight had no experience dealing with children and spread his hands to show he didn’t understand. But Gawain noticed what the boy was pointing at.

“Have you seen this emblem before?”

The boy nodded vigorously, pointing harder at the crest on Philip’s chest.

It was the Cecil family crest.

Something clicked in Gawain’s mind. He pressed, “Where did you see it?”

The boy gestured wildly, mumbling indistinct sounds, unable to communicate clearly. Growing more anxious, he jumped onto a nearby rock, pointing desperately in a certain direction.

Then he jumped down, grabbed Gawain’s hand, and shook it hard.

“You know where it is. You want us to follow you?”

The boy nodded earnestly, pleading with his eyes.

Gawain exchanged looks with the others. Without much hesitation, they decided to follow the child.

Of course, Gawain had thought it through—wondering if this was a trap set by cultists, or if the boy was coerced or manipulated. Those deranged cultists were capable of anything. But some risks had to be taken. In this situation, following the boy was the only option.

They quickly left the main gate of Tansang and slipped into the woods behind the town, following the Whitewater River southward for a short distance. Then Gawain realized where the boy was leading them.

There was only one landmark along this path: the Gorlin Mill, southwest of Tansang. An old watermill on the riverbank, once owned by the Leslie family, now long abandoned and dilapidated. The area around the mill was known as a haunt for vagrants and petty thieves—though with the town on edge, those riffraff had likely fled.

Sure enough, after a short walk along the forest path, the sound of water lapping against the shore grew louder. Emerging from the trees, the group saw the watermill ahead, built in the traditional Ansu style.

“Ah—ah!” The mute boy pointed toward the mill, then at Philip’s crest, indicating the person bearing that emblem was inside.

The four of them surveyed the terrain, raised their guard, and cautiously approached the mill.

Halfway there, a strong, familiar voice rang out from inside:

“You’re back again! I told you a hundred times! Leave this place! Head south along the river to find the Cecils and seek their protection! Or just throw me out, set me on fire in the open! But whatever you do, don’t stick around with me! You’re not only mute—you’re deaf too?!”

(End of chapter)