Nuoyaji was woken by the morning light squeezing through a gap in the window. It was not harsh, but gray and hazy, with the soft whiteness of light filtered through clouds.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, quickly running through his plans for the day before rolling over and sitting up.
The bedboards let out a pained creak.
He glanced down-a shallow depression had formed in the middle of the bedboards beneath his weight. He had noticed it when he lay down last night. This bed was much older than he was, and every piece of wood spoke of the ravages of time.
Nuoyaji rolled his shoulders, opened his cloth bag, and reorganized its contents. The magic notes went in the innermost layer, wrapped in the rolled parchment map. Outside the map were two bottles of mana potion, wound several times in strips of cloth to keep them from knocking against anything. The copper and silver coins were divided between two pouches, one tucked into an outer compartment of the bag and the other hidden against his body.
An iron sword hung at his waist. It was hardly a fine weapon, but in this small border city, where there were not even ten class holders, an iron sword was enough to intimidate quite a few people.
He washed up with the half jug of cold water left over from last night, shivering as he splashed it onto his face. He wiped his face dry with his sleeve and glanced at the blurry, palm-sized bronze mirror on the wall.
The boy in the mirror had youthful features. A few strands of his light brown hair were wet and stuck to his forehead, and faint blood vessels threaded his dark brown eyes-he had gone to sleep too late last night.
There had been too much on his mind. Even his dreams had been filled with scenes from his previous life: Fuyila, Dezi, miners, black heavy armor, all jumbled together in a mess.
Nuoyaji took a deep breath, pushed down all his stray thoughts, and opened the door to head downstairs.
The inn's main room was a little brighter than it had been last night, but not by much. The fire in the hearth had gone out, leaving only a few whitish chunks of ash.
The window was open a crack. Cold wind poured in, making the tablecloths flutter slightly. The innkeeper stood behind the counter, pouring a cloudy, steaming liquid into a wooden cup. A faint scent of wheat and herbs hung in the air.
"Morning." The innkeeper pushed the wooden cup toward him. "Have something hot to ward off the chill."
Nuoyaji picked up the cup and took a sip. It tasted a little astringent, with an herbal flavor he could not quite place, but it did warm his stomach. As he drank, he considered how to phrase his question.
He had heard the name Yimulei in his previous life, but had never dealt with him directly. His impression was that the man was efficient and had a good reputation among the lower classes, one of the few people under the viscount who actually got things done. Someone like that was not difficult to persuade. As long as what you said made sense and could solve practical problems, he would be willing to listen.
"Innkeeper, I wanted to ask you about someone." Nuoyaji set down his cup, his tone casual, as though chatting with an acquaintance. "Yimulei. Do you know him?"
The innkeeper's hand paused as he wiped a table. He looked up at Nuoyaji with a trace of scrutiny, as though trying to judge why this young guest would know the name of a local adviser.
"I know of him." The innkeeper draped the rag over his shoulder. "Lord Yimulei, the viscount's chief clerk. One of the important men running things in the city. Why are you asking about him?"
"There are a few things I'd like to consult him about." Nuoyaji kept it vague, revealing no specifics.
The innkeeper stared at him for a few seconds, then shook his head, a hint of helplessness in his voice. "Bad timing, then. Lord Yimulei took some men out of the city first thing yesterday morning. The storm left the mine in a terrible state, and he had to see the situation for himself. No telling when he'll be back. Could be two or three days, could be longer."
Nuoyaji frowned.
Plans could never keep up with change.
He had intended to meet Yimulei this morning and use that connection to reach the viscount, pushing disaster relief and the grain supply routes forward from above. Now Yimulei was absent, and he could not get into the viscount's residence. That avenue was temporarily cut off.
He would have to take another route, then.
"Thank you." Nuoyaji drained the hot drink, wiped his mouth, slung his cloth bag over his back, and headed for the door.
"Hey-" the innkeeper called after him. "Aren't you having breakfast?"
"No."
Nuoyaji pushed open the wooden door, and the morning wind struck his face, carrying the smell of standing water.
Luoweida had a little more life in the early morning than at night, but only a little.
The water in the streets had receded somewhat since last night, dropping from calf-deep to ankle-deep. In some higher spots, wet paving stones had already emerged.
A few elderly residents carried wooden buckets, bending over to fish things out of the water-perhaps clothes that had been washed away, perhaps usable timber, perhaps some worthless household possession they could not bear to throw away.
More people simply stood in their doorways, staring blankly at the sky or talking in low voices, their expressions wooden and their eyes empty. The mine was this city's lifeline. More than half its people depended on it for their livelihood. With the mine shut down, it was as though their backbones had been pulled out, leaving them unable even to stand steadily.
Nuoyaji strode through the water toward the city gate. The sloshing inside his boots was quieter than last night, but it was still there. As he walked, he worked things out in his head: with Yimulei absent, he would go straight outside the city.
The mine had collapsed and miners were missing. Yimulei was surely overwhelmed right now. If Nuoyaji could appear before him at this critical moment and offer some useful information or advice, he would no longer be a "passing magic apprentice," but "someone who could solve problems."
Appearing with help in someone's hour of need would be far more effective than sending a message through an intermediary.
As for the old mine tunnels, they were on the way.
With his mind made up, Nuoyaji quickened his pace.
Outside the city, at the Magic Nexus Mine.
Yimulei stood on a pile of rubble, his brows tightly knitted and his face as dark as the sky before a storm.
The mine was in even worse shape than he had expected.
The storm had triggered a massive landslide. A torrent of mud and rocks pouring down from halfway up the mountain had completely buried the mine entrance. Broken stones, earth, and snapped timber formed a small hill nearly a story high.
The wooden headframe that had once stood at the mine entrance had been smashed to pieces. Only a few crooked posts still jutted up like gravestones.
The tracks had been twisted, buried, and washed apart. Ore carts lay overturned in the muddy water, covered in rust, as though they had been abandoned for years.
Several technicians in work clothes crouched at the edge of the ruins with plans and surveying tools, discussing something in low voices. From time to time, they glanced toward Yimulei, their eyes betraying the awkwardness of not knowing how to begin.
"My lord." A bespectacled middle-aged man with a closely shaved, blue-tinged chin approached, clutching a roll of plans. Sweat mingled with dust on his forehead, leaving black streaks down his face.
He was an engineer sent by the Imperial Mining Association to assess the damage to the mine. "The preliminary survey results are in. The entrances to main tunnels three and four are completely blocked. The collapse extends at least fifteen meters in.
"Tunnel two is in slightly better condition, but its supports suffered severe damage in the storm. It could collapse again at any moment. We do not recommend sending anyone inside."
Yimulei did not answer at once. His gaze passed over the engineer's shoulder toward the silent ruins.
He had worked in Luoweida for over a decade, rising from clerk to chief adviser. He knew every tunnel, every shaft entrance, and every support pillar in this mine.
"What about the missing miners?" His voice was somewhat hoarse.
The engineer opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The mercenary captain standing nearby walked over. He was in his early thirties, with sun-darkened skin and a suit of leather armor worn shiny. A broad-bladed short sword hung at his waist, and an old scar from a sharp weapon ran from his cheekbone to his jaw.
After the storm, the viscount had urgently dispatched a squad of mercenaries to help with disaster relief. He was their captain.
"My lord, the men spent most of the day searching everywhere they could." The captain spoke quietly, his tone heavy with something he did not want to say but had to. "Beneath the rubble, the tunnel entrances, the surrounding gullies-we searched them all. We haven't seen a single person."
He paused, as though weighing his words.
"I'm afraid..."
"If they're alive, I want to see them. If they're dead, I want to see their bodies." Yimulei cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. "Until we know the situation for certain, don't say such things."
The captain opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing more. He merely nodded in silence and stepped aside.
Yimulei raised a hand and rubbed between his brows, feeling his temples throb. He knew the captain was telling the truth, and he knew the miners buried beneath the rubble had only the slimmest chance of survival.
But he could not concede that. The moment he said "abandon search and rescue," those people would have been officially abandoned by the authorities. Their families would protest, the miners would lose heart, and the entire city's morale would fall apart at that moment.
He could not concede that, at least not yet.
"Have everyone stop and take a break." Yimulei waved a hand.
The captain nodded, turned, and shouted to the guards and mercenaries moving stones across the ruins, "Everyone, stop! Take fifteen minutes!"
A dozen or so guards and mercenaries in sweat-soaked clothes put down their stones and tools in relief. They slumped onto piles of rubble and leaned against the toppled headframe, gulping down air.
Some unfastened waterskins from their waists and took several long swallows; others pulled dry rations from inside their clothes, broke them in half, and shared them with the people beside them.
Yimulei stood on the rubble, looking past the ruins toward the distant gray horizon. The morning mist had not yet fully dispersed, shrouding the distant mountains and fields in a faint gray-white veil. Nothing could be seen clearly, and nothing could be fathomed.