890
Heavy snow fell over the city. A black-haired young man sat in a café beside the street. He had the appearance of someone from the Northern Continent, with gentle features, and looked a little shy. Breathing warmth onto his hands, he scribbled briskly in his notebook:
"December 15, 1350. This is my third day in Utopia."
"Dear Mother, I am writing this beside the radiator in a café. Please tell Father that my journey has been going very smoothly so far."
(A brief exchange of pleasantries and description of the surroundings)
"...This city is no different from the places I have visited before, but from what I have observed, it is certainly not a village on the Loen border. Judging by its latitude and climate, it should be within the Feysac Empire. The mountain ranges do not match those around Mirminsk, either. This city called Utopia should be in the Feysac heartland, at the foot of the Antal Mountains..."
"Yet its residents make extensive use of a mixture of Feysac, Loenese, and the Northern Continent's common tongue. I asked a waiter at a local café about this, and his answer was: 'Utopia is an emerging tourist city, and because of its special geographical location, it receives visitors from different countries.'"
The black-haired young man rolled his eyes around, picked up his coffee, and took a sip, letting out a thoroughly satisfied sigh.
He leafed through the travel journal he had written over the past few days. As the pages turned, a name happened to flash past on the flyleaf:
Everett Abraham.
He took another sip of coffee before setting it down, ordered a piece of cake from the waiter, then continued writing in his soft calfskin notebook in elegant Intis script.
"Still, please do not worry about me. I