Chapter 907: A New Breeze in the Mosswood Forest
Sunlight filtered through the towering canopy, casting bright beams that danced among the crisscrossing branches and leaves. On the forest floor, dappled patches of light speckled the leaf-covered path. Suddenly, an unknown small creature darted out from the bushes, its tiny footsteps rustling softly.
From nearby shrubbery emerged a short, childlike male gray elf with short gray hair. He wore the simple brown tunic common among the Mosswood Forest inhabitants. A thick cloth sack was slung over his shoulder, and tools for gathering herbs hung at his waist. The sunlight caught in his gray eyes, giving them a faint, gentle gleam.
With a soft rustling, several other gray elves appeared from the bushes and the path. They gathered together, beginning to inspect the day’s harvest.
One of the elves approached the short-haired male and casually said, “Rupert, I’m moving to the city tomorrow.”
Rupert’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why?”
“Didn’t you hear? The chieftain is calling on the young and strong who yearn for a new life to gather in the big city,” his companion explained. “We’ve landed a huge order for alchemical materials from the Cecil Empire. Scholars have set up large herb fields and distillation factories around the city. City jobs are far more respectable than picking fruit and honey in the forest.”
“I’ve heard, but I’m not going. I’ve lived in the woods most of my life. I’m not used to the noisy city atmosphere.”
“Figured you’d say that,” another companion came over, patting Rupert’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you—when we have free time, we’ll come visit.”
“You’re going too?”
“We’re all taking a chance. The chieftain is wise, and we’ve decided to follow her call. Maybe everyone can have a better life.”
One by one, the companions left, leaving Rupert standing alone at the forest’s edge. He stood there, lost in thought for a moment, then moved to the side of the path. Agile as ever, he climbed onto a large rock. From this vantage point, he hesitated before gazing into the distance—
Beyond the dense forest, on the open clearing at the edge of the woods, a beautiful city stood quietly beside the Wendini River. This was Windsong, the proud capital of the gray elves.
For centuries, the diligent gray elves had rooted themselves in the Mosswood Forest. This ancient city had grown alongside them. In the past two centuries, the wise Whitebloom family had led reforms that breathed new life into Windsong. Once content to live quietly in the forest, the gray elves suddenly realized their talents in commerce. The booming herb and alchemical raw material trade quickly made Windsong the most important commercial hub in the northern Ogure tribal lands.
More and more gray elves abandoned traditions passed down through generations, leaving the forest for the city. Through trade routes, they spread across the western continent, changing many outsiders’ perceptions of their small, fragile race. They brought unimaginable wealth to the Mosswood Forest. Today, Windsong was more prosperous than ever. Newly built districts bustled with merchants and representatives from various races. The gray elf chieftain, Lady Wenna Whitebloom, presided over the city’s heart. Like her wise father before her, she led the land toward greater wealth and strength every day.
Yet not all gray elves had abandoned tradition. Across the vast Mosswood, dotted with dozens of dense groves, many still clung to a secluded life in harmony with nature. As roads and towns claimed key forest junctions and opened trade routes to the human world, these traditionalists became like hermits in modern society—an alternative in the tide of civilization, maintaining their old ways, increasingly out of step with the times.
“Maybe… it’s time to leave the forest…”
A tall Red Valley messenger rode along the Wendini River road, entering the city before noon.
The familiar cityscape relaxed his mood. Wearing a cloak bearing the Whitebloom family crest, he led his horse through Windsong’s bustling southern market. Vendors shouted in various dialects, their voices rising and falling. Colorful flags fluttered in the breeze, lining the lively streets.
Short gray elves were everywhere, mingling with tall orcs, Red Valley people, humans, even dwarves and fae. In this market, mainly for small and medium herb trades, merchants haggled over prices, calculating tomorrow’s deals, scheming under the rules, handling every copper coin with both generosity and stinginess.
The messenger passed through the busiest section. A squad of soldiers marched past at the market’s edge, their gleaming armor and powerful mechanical crossbows making even these small warriors look formidable.
A carriage that had arrived that morning was stopped by merchants. It bore the Cecil Empire’s emblem. A red-faced human merchant boasted loudly about his long journey along the trade route. Laborers busied themselves unloading goods. Someone cracked a crude joke in a fast eastern dialect, setting off a chorus of laughter.
At the market’s far end, a gray elf merchant sold scraps of fabric—machine-woven cloth from Typhon, transported thousands of miles by Cecil’s magi-trains. Though large trades were controlled by upstream merchants, small lots still trickled down to local sellers.
A group of stout dwarves gathered at the fabric stall. One pinched the plain, cheap cloth with a frown, but another was swayed by the low price and began bargaining.
The messenger pushed through the lively, nearly noisy street and headed toward the chieftain’s longhouse. Passing the square in front, he saw workers—humans and gray elves—busy constructing something. A massive crystal device stood tall, its metal base gleaming in the sunlight. Rune plates awaited assembly across the plaza.
Curious children clamored at the square’s edge, drawing a crowd of onlookers. Several tall orc mercenaries helped the guards maintain order. These strong warriors, covered in fur and bearing feline features—eyes, ears, tails—carried intimidating battle axes but could only smile helplessly at the enthusiastic citizens.
The chieftain’s longhouse stood on the square’s opposite side. Its tall tower and balcony flew the Ogure tribal flag. The messenger crossed the plaza, glancing with interest at the nearly finished crystal device.
A deep yet gentle voice spoke beside him: “The magic energy obelisk brought by the Cecilians. Once it’s erected, most of Windsong will have bright magic crystal street lamps. No more worries about the old western streets catching fire from overturned lanterns.”
The messenger turned to see a female orc warrior speaking to him. Her feline eyes, ears, fur, and tail blended with distinctly feminine features—a striking, rugged beauty among orcs.
“Lady Morelina, I’ve brought letters from the east,” the messenger smiled. “International correspondence.”
The orc smiled, sharp teeth gleaming. She pointed toward the longhouse. “Blessings of the ancestors, Mr. Todd. The chieftain’s inside. She’s been waiting for those letters a long time.”
The messenger thanked her, passed the soldiers at the plaza’s edge, and ascended the ramp between the longhouse and square. Servants awaited at the door, guiding him inside.
After walking down a long corridor, he reached the lord’s reception room on the second floor. There, before him, sat the gray elf chieftain Wenna Whitebloom. Sunlight streamed through a row of neatly arranged diamond-shaped narrow windows, casting sharp patches of light and shadow across the room. The wooden desk, cabinets, chairs, and shelves were all slightly smaller than typical human furniture. The petite, childlike gray elf sat in a high-backed chair that still seemed large for her, smiling warmly at the messenger.
“Todd, I’ve been waiting for you—I thought you’d have come back yesterday on that alchemical supply train.”
“Sorry, I was delayed a bit handling customs in Tenlin City. The Cecilians are still adjusting their administrative procedures, and the clerks aren’t very experienced yet,” the messenger lowered his head, then pulled out a thick bundle and handed it to the chieftain. “Here are the letters you’ve been waiting for.”
“I don’t really blame you. Compared to a few years ago, letters from the human world reach Mosswood much faster now,” Wenna smiled, weighing the bundle in her hands. Her brow twitched. “Sigh… that child still writes so much…”
The messenger couldn’t help but smile. “The young lady is skilled at expressing her feelings in writing.”
“You just came from there. Tell me—how is Meri doing in Cecil?” Wenna blinked, not rushing to open the thick stack of letters. “Has she adapted to life among humans?”
“From what I’ve seen, she’s doing as well there as she is in Windsong,” the messenger nodded. “Rather than saying she’s adapted, it’s more that the Cecilians truly treat other races equally. Cecil City is friendlier than I imagined. Many races and nations visit the city, even those theoretically at odds with Cecil, like the Typhon. All kinds of people gather there, just like the market in Windsong. Everyone lives well, without discrimination based on race or customs.
“Of course, their laws apply equally to all. Even elves and dragonborn, considered honored guests and allies by the Cecilians, are imprisoned if they break the law. In that sense, we can be more assured of the young lady’s safety—she’s always been a law-abiding, well-mannered child.”
The messenger analyzed the situation with such calmness and clarity that it was clear his role here was more than just a simple courier.
“Dragonborn?” Wenna raised an eyebrow. “We did receive news about the diplomatic ties between the Cecile Empire and the Holy Dragon Principality… but I never expected those reclusive Dragonborn to emerge from the mountains so quickly. I thought it would be at least next year before any true Dragonborn visitors appeared in Cecile’s cities.”
“We once tried to open the gates to the Holy Dragon Principality’s mountain ranges,” Todd said, “but the journey was long and their customs so different that we never succeeded. It seems Cecile’s merchants are better at ‘knocking on doors’ than we are. From what I’ve seen, not all Dragonborn are closed off or conservative. At least those living in Cecile City don’t seem much different from ordinary folk—and they get along quite well with the Cecilians. Let me think… they even have a rather amusing way of greeting their close Cecilian friends…”
The messenger paused to recall, then gestured with his hand: “Oh, it goes like this—raise your hand as if holding a wine glass, then shout, ‘Friend! Frost Resistance Potion! Dun dun dun!’ and finish by miming a big gulp.”
Wenna Whitebloom stared dumbfounded at Todd’s reenactment for a long moment before shaking her head in bewilderment. “The Dragonborn’s customs are truly unfathomable… no wonder they can survive in such freezing lands.”
She then lifted her gaze. “But those details don’t matter. The key point is that now we have a chance to do business with the Dragonborn. Maybe I should discuss this with Schwark. Go notify him—tell him to come by this evening.”
“Yes, leader.”
The messenger Todd left the room, and only then did Wenna Whitebloom turn her attention to the thick bundle of letters before her. After staring at them for a while, the gray elf leader finally reached out and sighed deeply. “Sigh… after all, they’re my own… It would be nice once the magical network signal with the Cecile Empire is connected…”
She pulled out the first letter and opened it. The elegant handwriting caught her eye:
“Mother, I’ve been living in Cecile City for a while now. It truly is an incredible place…”
…
“What an incredible life of adventure…”
Gawain set down the thick ancient tome in his hands and rubbed his eyes softly, murmuring to himself.
Over the past few days, whenever he had time, he had been studying this ancient book. Now, he had finally finished reading the records of Modril Wilde’s adventurous career.
He had gained much lost knowledge from history, and the map hanging in his study now bore many new marks—big and small—that deserved attention.
After days of reading, the one thing he most wanted to say was simply that sigh of amazement.
Modril Wilde… truly deserved the title of the greatest adventurer in this world, perhaps the greatest of all time.
The news had already been sent to the North. Victoria Wilde had learned that the family’s lost treasure had been recovered. Besides expressing surprise and gratitude, she said she would bring this book with her when she came to the imperial capital to report before winter. Until then, the book would remain on Gawain’s desk.
The book was definitely to be returned to the Wilde family—Gawain had no intention of keeping it for himself. After all, the most important thing about the book was the knowledge it contained, and that knowledge could be copied. The precious original carried its owner’s memories of their ancestors and should be returned to its rightful place.
But before Victoria arrived in the capital, before returning the book, Gawain felt it necessary to confirm some details mentioned in the text with someone.
After stretching to ease the fatigue from long hours of reading, Gawain looked down at the mithril ring on his finger.
It had been a while since he’d chatted with that Miss My Little Pony. He wondered if she might be interested in Modril Wilde’s adventure records…
(End of chapter)