Chapter 348: Changing Winds

After the month of Revival arrived, the weather in southern Ansu began to warm rapidly.

For those working at the harbor docks, this was a welcome change.

As temperatures rose, the frozen riverways started to thaw. The moisture once locked in ice and snow melted into trickling streams, which gathered into brooks and rivers, eventually joining the glacier-fed waterways flowing down from the mountains. With the water levels rising, more merchant ships began to ply the rivers, and these comings and goings sustained the dockworkers—known colloquially as “mules”—who labored on the piers.

Sam was a longtime resident of Tansan, a mining town whose history stretched back a century. When the town first built its outer walls and the docks had only two piers, his ancestors were already working as “mules” on those docks. The trade passed down through generations—from his grandfather to his father, and now to him.

Over the past hundred years, his family had witnessed all the changes in the town. But for most of that time, the town had remained almost unchanged—the same walls, the same piers. The mines in the hills and the farmland beyond the walls could only support a limited population, and the lord’s domain was small. So once a town reached a certain size, it might stay that way for centuries. Sam’s grandfather’s proudest memory—the story he loved to boast about—was seeing a third pier added to the docks and a mill built on the southern edge of town.

But in the past two months, Sam had watched three new piers, two trading houses, four warehouses, and a large new bridge rise up in the southwestern corner of Tansan.

He felt that the things he would witness in his lifetime might surpass all those his ancestors had seen combined.

Ore production in the hills had multiplied several times over in just a couple of months. The number of merchant ships on the river had increased accordingly. Strange machines and magical devices were being brought into town. Rumor had it all this was connected to the newly established “Cecil Domain” downstream along the Baishui River. The local lord had apparently struck a lucrative deal with Duke Gawain Cecil, and the entire town was prospering as a result.

But Sam didn’t understand much of this, nor did he care. His focus was on his work at the docks—and thankfully, there was plenty of it.

As an old hand and respected leader among the “mules,” Sam held a special position in this increasingly busy place. Though they all took orders from the dockmaster, the dozen or so mules answered to him. That was the most “respectable” thing about his job.

Early in the morning, after emerging from his damp, pitch-dark shack, Sam hurried to the docks to direct his crew loading and unloading cargo.

With the Baishui River rising, larger ships had begun to dock. Most came from the northern Carol Domain or the Holy Spirit Plains, laden with spices, tea, and fine cloth. Once unloaded, these goods were hauled by wagons to the town’s residential district and the lord’s castle. The empty ships were then refilled—mostly with ore—and sent downstream to the Cecil Domain, where the shipowners made a handsome profit.

“Move your hands and feet! It’s early morning, don’t act like you haven’t eaten!” Sam barked as he paced the slick, mist-soaked pier, overseeing the mules unloading cargo. His red nose twitched in the damp air, and the faint scent of wine stirred his appetite. This ship carried not only bolts of cloth but also half a hold of fine wine. One barrel had cracked during the river journey, leaking precious Carnar grape wine. The shipowner stood by the gangplank, sighing in frustration—he’d likely have to compensate the merchants for the loss. Meanwhile, the crafty mules jockeyed to carry off the broken barrel, hoping to sneak a few sips when no one was looking.

Sam shook his head. He wasn’t about to risk a whipping for a taste, but he didn’t stop the sly ones either. If luck was on their side, they’d get to brag about the wine back at the tavern; if not, a few lashes was a small price to pay.

Another ship approached the dock. Sam looked up and saw its tall, broad deck and red-painted hull. His sharp eyes caught the open hatch covers below the waterline, where several pairs of eyes peered out anxiously.

Those fearful, curious gazes weren’t sailors. Sam smirked—he knew what kind of “cargo” that was.

Probably slaves, or refugees hitching a ride from the north. Either way, it was the same.

Since the new Cecil Domain had been established in the south, these “passengers” had become a common sight on the river. Except during the winter freeze, several ships packed with people passed through daily. No one knew how much land or food the new domain had to support so many.

Sam didn’t like these human cargo ships—they rarely brought work for the mules. The shipowners usually took money from slave traders or Duke Gawain Cecil himself to transport people to the Cecil Domain. Their stop in Tansan was just to replenish fresh water and provisions.

Sometimes, though, some shipowners carried other goods alongside the people, who were crammed into the same holds as cargo. In those cases, there was at least some work to be done.

Just then, the dockmaster waved at Sam from afar, pointing toward the red-hulled ship that had just moored. Seeing the signal, Sam stopped daydreaming and hurried over.

The ship was secured, the gangplank lowered, and a man in a brown cotton jacket—the ship’s captain—stepped out and nodded at Sam. “Get a few quick-footed mules. Unload all the wine barrels from the hold.”

Sam called over enough men, then climbed aboard with the captain to the hatch. Peering inside, he saw the hold packed with barrels, leaving barely any room for people. The anxious faces he’d seen earlier were those of people huddled in the narrow gaps between barrels—gaunt, pale, and worn.

Sam frowned. These people had barely enough space to sit, let alone lie down. He had no idea where they came from or how long they’d been trapped in such conditions. One thing was clear: to the captain, these people were worth less than the wine.

Strangely, they weren’t ragged slaves or destitute refugees. Some even wore decent woolen clothes. Where had they come from?

While his men worked, Sam struck up a conversation with the ship’s boatswain standing nearby. He didn’t dare speak to the shipowner—that was a man of true standing. But as a dockworker, Sam knew that knowing the ships’ secrets was good fodder for boasting back at the tavern.

“Them? From the Holy Spirit Plains,” the boatswain spat to the side. “Refugees.”

“The Holy Spirit Plains? That’s a long way off!” Sam’s eyes widened. “Why come all this way?”

“They’re Blood God worshippers, and a few from the Shadow Sect,” the boatswain said casually. “Apparently, some in their local church were in league with heretics, so even regular churchgoers were suspected of heresy. The Holy Light Church’s tribunal has been burning thousands of them alive. They couldn’t survive there anymore, so they sold what they had and fled.”

He shook his head. “Three died on the way. They were afraid of disease, so they threw them in the river.”

Sam’s skin prickled at the mention of heretics. Looking back at the “passengers” in the hold, his gaze grew uneasy—as if some of them really were heretics in disguise.

“Don’t look so scared,” the boatswain chuckled, noticing Sam’s expression. “They won’t get off here. They’re being sent straight to the Cecil Domain. But whether Cecil wants them is another matter. After all, they’re tied to heresy… If not accepted, they’ll be dumped out in the wilds. Still better than being burned alive.”

Sam wiped his red nose, feeling a strange discomfort.

He himself was a follower of the Blood God.

The warm breeze that had begun to blow now seemed to chill again.

At the same time, in the only Holy Light Church of the Cecil Domain, Priest Light finished his morning prayers.

A devout believer and passionate preacher, Light’s strong, imposing figure often misled people into thinking he was a man of violence. But he knew better—he had never liked using force, especially not against his own people.

The Lord of Holy Light protected the world, teaching mortals healing and exorcism to safeguard life. The essence of the Holy Light path was protection, not destruction. That was why Light had trained his body—to be able to fight evil with strength beyond the Holy Light’s power, so as not to sully the sacred force meant to comfort and protect.

This was his conviction. He knew it was a bit foolish, but he had no intention of changing.

Yet a letter delivered to the church a few days ago troubled him.

After cleaning the prayer hall, Light sat in the front pew and took out the letter from the Holy Spirit Plains. He read it again:

“…Evil breeds, heretics flourish… Ignorant worshippers of false gods pollute the pure faith of the world… The Lord desires this land to be cleansed, to restore purity by eradicating the confusion and false beliefs in mortal hearts…

“…Therefore, all who reject the guidance of the Holy Light and deny the Lord’s teachings… are heretics…”

He crumpled the pristine paper, then smoothed it out and folded it carefully.

Looking up at the bright stained-glass window and the shining statue of the Holy Light above, he whispered, “Lord, is this truly your will…?”

(End of chapter)