The Ball of Long Ago VII

Brando turned around and saw the child who had crashed into him. The boy had already fallen onto his bottom on the thick, soft carpet in the hall. He was about seven or eight years old, with black hair and large, dark eyes beneath small, sharply angled brows. An unusual determination lurked in them. The little boy looked at him uncertainly. He wore the kind of silk page's outfit commonly worn by children of noble families, along with white fitted trousers and pointed boots inlaid with gemstones and gold foil. A silver serving tray lay scattered beside him, with various dishes spilled all over the floor. Reddish-brown sauce slowly seeped into the carpet.

Time seemed to freeze for a moment.

Replacing that valuable camel-hair carpet would certainly cost a fortune. Carpets of this craftsmanship were produced only in Silver Bay. Merchants used slave beasts to carry loads of such exquisite plush textiles across the desert, traveling tens of thousands of miles to reach Eluin, all for the enormous profits they could sell for—profits more valuable than gold. This strange thought flashed through Brando's mind. The little boy looked somewhat familiar. Brando narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember where he had seen him before, when a gentle voice interrupted, "Sir, I'm sorry."

Every pore in Brando's body seemed to contract. His muscles and skin tensed together as he stiffly raised his head toward the voice, then he froze in place.

A noble couple stood there, dressed in clothing suited to this era—the simple yet refined style of the Haibeiluo Dynasty, which the upper-class Wind Spirits had imitated during the late period of Eluin's Renaissance. As they helped the little boy to his feet, they gave Brando an apologetic smile. "Su Fei, apologize to this gentleman. Look at you—you've dirtied