"What, that old fossil Short Winter Melon mentioned this count?!"
Count Bran had just returned to the Tree Hall after picking up two Gray Grit Crystals by the riverbank. Upon hearing Chen Yu's news, he turned pale with fright, wishing he could sprout another pair of wings and fly away at once.
"It's over, it's over. Arthur has fallen into her hands—he's doomed! She'll definitely torture him horribly, then take him apart into a pile of bones and toss them into a crucible to boil into soup."
He paced back and forth in panic, his feathers standing on end. In his mind, he had even begun picturing Arthur's miserable funeral.
Chen Yu slowly squelched closer.
"Arthur's doing fine. He didn't reveal anything about you. He's staying at an undead villager's farmhouse now, with an elf for company. He just won't be able to come back anytime soon."
"What?!"
Count Bran's voice shot up at once. With a violent flap of his wings, all his previous worry burst like a pricked bubble with a pop, turning into blazing fury.
To vent his anger, he turned and viciously pecked at the innocent wooden post beside him.
"This count was so worried! I've been painstakingly taking care of his flowers every day, making trip after trip to the lake for water! And that idiotic attendant is over there living high on the hog, eating and drinking well, with an elf girl by his side! This count is furious!"
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. His pecking grew faster, the dense thud-thud-thud sounding like war drums.
"This count has decided not to speak to him today—no, tomorrow either!"
The poor wooden post bore the full wrath of His Countship.
Chen Yu ignored him. He mounted Little Card, carrying eight stone