Chapter 318: Coming Home

Three carriages bearing the Cecil family crest rolled through the streets of the royal capital. In the lead carriage, the witch Gipri lifted the window flap, her eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and caution as she took in the city around her.

Born and raised in the impoverished, backward southern territories, Gipri’s world had once been nothing more than the dark, filthy gutters of a small town, cramped, dilapidated slums, and piles of stinking refuse. Before she met “Big Sister” Amber, that was all she knew. Yet, like most people from Ansu, she had heard stories about this grand capital—tales spun by passing bards, boastful adventurers, and shrewd merchants. From their words, she had painted a mental picture of towering, majestic walls, opulent cathedrals, stately noble mansions, and the king’s own “Silver Keep,” its walls gleaming with silver leaf.

Back when she was just a streetwise witch and con artist skulking in the gutters, she knew that with her status and skills, visiting the capital was impossible. Not just visiting—the mere act of stepping into a larger town risked capture by the local lord and a public flogging. But fate, as she often liked to say when hooded and shuffling tarot cards to fool adventurers, is a strange thing. Now, she wanted to say it to herself: by some twist of fate, she had become a respectable person, loyal to a great noble, and the capital that had once existed only in her imagination was now right before her eyes.

It was indeed as grand and magnificent as the bards and adventurers had said.

But it was also old and dirty in every corner.

Gipri frowned as she saw filth lining the streets, and even inside the towering walls, the slums were no less shabby. Along the way, she spotted ragged poor folk and “scum” being driven off by soldiers. Her idealized vision of the capital was crumbling bit by bit.

This was truly a magnificent ancient city, worthy of being the heart of Ansu in both heritage and scale. Yet Gipri found herself preferring the clean, orderly streets of the Cecil domain, the vibrant people, and the law-abiding officials there.

Still, she remembered the mission she had been given before departure, and so she carefully masked all her emotions behind a poised, graceful smile. She lowered the carriage window flap and turned to the young arcanist sitting opposite her. “Mr. Santis, shall we head straight to the duke’s residence?”

Santis hesitated, his mind unsettled, then finally said, “I think… I want to go home first.”

He quickly added, “Of course, the duke’s mission is more important. If you think it’s inappropriate, we can go to Number Four Crown Street first…”

“No need for such formality, Mr. Santis,” Gipri smiled gently, like a true apprentice mage from a minor noble or wealthy merchant family. “By the duke’s orders, you are in charge of this operation. Pierce and I are here only to offer advice and assistance. You should act according to what you think is best.”

“Alright… alright,” Santis nodded, still a bit uneasy, averting his gaze from the “witch” opposite him—her flaxen hair cascading over a black dress, her delicate, alluring features composed and unreadable. “Then we’ll head to Cross Street first. The other two carriages can go to Number Four Crown Street separately—the streets on Cross Street are narrow.”

The tall, lean man sitting beside him interjected, “Mr. Santis, if our carriage can enter Cross Street, the other two can as well. I suggest having the two follow along. When you go home, you should be as conspicuous as possible. It’s a matter of posture.”

Santis blinked, then nodded. “Ah, yes, Mr. Pierce.”

Pierce, the quick-footed guard, rapped on the wooden panel at the front of the carriage and called out to the driver, “Cross Street!”

The three carriages turned a corner and entered the commoner district of the capital.

Santis felt his heart flutter uneasily, a restless sensation gnawing at him. He took a deep breath, and a cold gust carrying a strong fishy stench invaded his nostrils. They were passing through Sturgeon Street, where the smell of fish was so overpowering it masked even the foul odors of human waste in the alleys.

Though it was winter, the stench lingered, soaked into every brick of the street, making him want to gag.

He couldn’t help but open the window flap and peer out.

Familiar sights greeted him.

Low, cramped, and chaotic houses piled up like layers of moss beneath the city walls. The cold weather meant only a few scattered vendors were out, and pedestrians were scarce. The few faces he saw were blank, numb—like walking corpses, their expressions frozen by the biting cold and malnourishment. Yet these same people would suddenly “come alive” when a noble’s carriage passed by. Almost instantly, they would prostrate themselves, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Their reaction was so swift it seemed instinctual.

Santis frowned as the carriage left Sturgeon Street and entered the slightly better Cross Street district.

Cross Street was home to the middle-class “citizens,” those with some status and wealth. Compared to the slums of Sturgeon Street, the houses here were noticeably taller, and the people walking the streets looked more alert.

They didn’t have to prostrate themselves before noble carriages, but they had to immediately step aside and bow low enough that their heads were well below the carriage windows. Commoners had to do this to avoid casting their filthy gazes on the nobles who might peer out.

Only in the wealthier, baptized districts—where the respectable, church-blessed citizens lived—were people allowed to simply stand by the roadside and bow in greeting.

Rules here were naturally stricter than in the wild borderlands.

Born in Cross Street and now a second-level arcanist, Santis was the “most successful child” of this neighborhood. His rank was the highest any resident here had achieved. In the past, no matter how poorly he fared or how much he was ostracized in the Mage Guild, he had always returned home with pride. But now, seeing his neighbors bowing their heads so deeply, all he felt was frustration.

Nothing had changed here. It was exactly the same as when he left.

Last year, Cross Street was like this. Ten years ago, it was like this. A hundred years ago, it was like this!

Yet in the Cecil domain, a single year was enough to build a city, to teach illiterate children to write their own and their parents’ names, to drive back the monsters from the Gondor Wastelands twice over!

Santis brooded on this, then suddenly spotted a little girl staring blankly in their direction from a street corner.

She wore a neat but worn dress with a single patch, her hair tied into two tidy pigtails. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she clutched a bulging cloth sack in her hands.

She seemed to have just stepped out from an alley and hadn’t yet realized she needed to bow to the noble carriages. Instead, she looked at them with a dazed expression.

Santis was taken aback, then called out, “Peipei!”

But before he could say more, the girl suddenly darted away, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Who was that?” Gipri asked curiously.

“My sister,” Santis replied, his tone strange. “Why did she run?”

The girl quickly crossed the street and hurried into a house that looked slightly newer than the others. Inside, a middle-aged woman wearing an old cotton jacket and apron was grinding herbs in the center of the room. Hearing the noise, she looked up in surprise at her daughter. “Peipei? Why are you back so soon? Did you give the herbs to Mr. Vane?”

Then she noticed the cloth sack in the girl’s hands and frowned. Before she could scold her, the girl stammered nervously, “M-mom! Three big carriages came outside! They’re nobles! The carriages had… had crests, just like the one brother drew on the letter he sent last time!”

The woman froze, then her hand trembled, dropping the pestle to the floor.

She didn’t pick it up, instead standing quickly and locking eyes with her daughter. “Are you sure? Was it really that crest? The sword and plow?”

The girl clutched the sack tighter, nervous and scared. “I’m sure…”

“That’s the Cecil family crest… The duke’s men… Did you see anything else on the carriages? The coachman’s hat or clothes pinned with death daisies? Were the horses wearing white-petaled ribbons?”

The girl seemed frightened by her mother’s questions and fell silent. At that moment, the door to the inner room opened, and the man of the house came out, having heard the commotion. “What’s going on? I heard noise outside.”

“Honey, the duke’s men—three carriages…” the woman twisted her hands anxiously. “Do you think something happened to Santis? I told him the Dark Mountains are dangerous, to be careful, but he always writes in his letters…”

“Calm down,” the man said. “Santis is only a second-level arcanist. The duke wouldn’t send three carriages just to notify us…”

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

The man and woman stiffened instantly, holding their breath as they stared toward the door. The little girl near the door nearly jumped.

The knocking continued. The girl hesitated, then instinctively moved toward the door.

“Wait, I’ll get it.”

The man said this as he stepped past his wife and daughter to the door.

He opened it, and a cold wind blew in. Standing there was a tall, slender figure.

The little girl, standing behind her father, cried out happily, “It’s brother!”

(End of chapter)