"So this place is called Rosalin, and Madara lies to its northwest? How far is it from the Nine Phoenixes?"
Brando sat on a toppled carriage and took a waterskin from the respectfully bowing guard. He took a small sip. The water was mixed with the sweetness of strong liquor and carried the fragrance of some kind of leaf, moistening his dry throat, which felt as though it might catch fire, and instantly refreshing him.
He had never been much of a drinker before, but after coming to this world, many of his habits had changed. According to Saint Osore, it was the transformation from boyhood to manhood. He had scoffed at that claim, because he knew a certain elven older sister was actually addicted to alcohol. It was merely an excuse she used to express her stance toward liquor.
Brando gazed into the distance. The night was as cool as water, and a faint breeze swept through the scattered caravan camp by the Qiusangze River, carrying a desolate air.
The goods from the carriages lay scattered across the ground. The guards had no choice but to pick up the Black Crystal pieces one by one and gather together whatever carriages had not been damaged. Even after making temporary repairs to some of them, more than a third of the goods remained. Large quantities of Black Crystal could only be piled on the ground, forming what looked like a small hill.
Their dark surfaces glimmered faintly in the firelight.
He already knew that these people were merchants traveling this road. In many parts of Vonder, merchants and bandits were hardly different. In civilized regions, they behaved properly, but once they reached the wilderness, robbery, murder, and black-on-black theft happened from time to time. No one could control them there.
The