Black Owl stood up, his black construct armor gleaming coldly in the dim stone house.
He emerged from the corner, skirted the pile of hay and rags Fuyila had spread on the floor, and headed for the doorway. His boots struck the dirt floor with dull, rhythmic thuds.
Fuyila crouched in the corner, still clutching the bread with two bites taken out of it, and raised her red eyes to watch Black Owl's back.
"Are you leaving?" Her voice was quiet, carrying an indefinable feeling. Not reluctance, not fear. She was simply asking.
Black Owl did not answer.
He pushed open the crooked wooden door, walked out, and disappeared into the morning light.
Fuyila tilted her head, watched the wooden door still swaying slightly, and blinked.
Then she stuffed the last bite of bread into her mouth, stood up, dusted off her skirt, and crouched down to spread out the hay Black Owl had disturbed underfoot.
Once she finished, she stepped back twice, tilted her head to look, and nodded. Then she returned to the corner, wrapped herself in the cloak, and curled into a ball.
Mom said to go south.
But south was very far away.
She could stay in one place a few more days.
Outside the city.
Black Owl stood on a damaged stretch of city wall, his sealed faceplate facing the city. Morning light spilled over the eastern ridgeline, washing the entire city in pale gold.
The floodwater had receded considerably. What had once reached people's calves now only reached their ankles, and in some higher places, dry stone paving had even emerged.
People trudged through the water, old people leaning on walking sticks, women carrying children, men shouldering tools, moving forward one step at a time. They moved slowly, but they did not stop.
Dezi stood amid the crowd with a roll of parchment in his hand, checking a list of names. The parchment was densely covered in names, some marked with circles, some with crosses, and some struck through.
His brow was slightly furrowed, his lips moving as though he were silently counting something.
Several men who looked like miners waited nearby. Some held shovels, some carried waterskins, and some leaned against the wall smoking. They were waiting for Dezi to finish writing on that sheet so they could leave the city together and head to the mine.
So, where was the protagonist?
Sunlight slanted through the window, spreading a patch of warm gold across the oak desktop.
Several things sat on the desk-an ink bottle, two quill pens, a neatly trimmed stack of writing paper, a half-burned oil lamp, and several letters already sealed with wax.
One was particularly thick, with a line of elegant calligraphy on the envelope. The recipient's name belonged to an important figure-the very person who had happened to appear in Stone Watchtower Town and happened to be willing to help Luoweida.
Nuoyaji sat at the desk and rubbed his eyes.
His fingers ached slightly from holding a pen for so long. Ink stained his knuckles, and the quill's metal holder had rubbed a red mark onto his thumb.
His eyelids felt heavy, drooping as though filled with lead, but he dared not sleep. There was still so much to do.
He had spent the entire night writing the letter to that important figure. Not because he did not know how to write it, but because he had to weigh every character, every word, every punctuation mark. The letter could be neither too humble nor too arrogant.
It could neither make Luoweida seem too miserable-too miserable, and the recipient would see it as a bottomless pit that could never be filled-nor seem too optimistic. Too optimistic, and the recipient would think no help was needed.
He revised it seven times. Yimulei read through the final version, remained silent for a long time, then said, "You write better than I do."
Nuoyaji neither demurred nor looked pleased with himself. He simply folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, dripped a few drops of scarlet sealing wax onto the flap, and stamped it with the copper ring on his thumb.
I really never expected her to appear in Stone Watchtower Town.
Nuoyaji leaned back in his chair, tipped his head up, and gazed at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. Its crystal pieces glittered in the sunlight like countless tiny stars. He searched his memories for everything he knew about that important figure-from his previous life and this one.
He had known her in his previous life, not merely "heard of her," but truly known her. They had worked together more than once. During the empire's most chaotic period, when the Demon God's followers tore open a breach in the southern front, she had mobilized her territory's private troops and forced that breach shut.
She was that sort of person-you could not say exactly how much power she held, how extensive her connections were, or how deep her schemes ran, but you knew one thing: whatever she said, she could deliver.
Of everyone Nuoyaji knew, no more than five could do that.
Her territory was not large, her private army was not numerous, and she did not rank among the empire's ten foremost nobles. Yet her name carried more weight along the southern border than those of many high-ranking central officials.
Not because she was rich-though she certainly was-but because everyone knew she could be trusted. In the empire's filthy quagmire, trust was scarcer than gold and more precious than armies.
Nuoyaji had dealt with her many times in his previous life. From their initial probing and sizing each other up to later fighting shoulder to shoulder and entrusting their backs to one another.
Their relationship could hardly be called friendship, much less an alliance. They were more like two people struggling through the same mire, reaching out to give the other a hand when they saw them approach, then each continuing on their way.
There was no need for thanks or repayment, because you knew that the next time you sank into the mire, she would reach out too.
In this life, Nuoyaji had not expected to meet her so early. In his memories of his previous life, she had only truly become active after the War of the Kings.
That war had left the empire's south riddled with wounds. Amid the ruins, she had picked up the pieces, rebuilding the shattered territories step by step.
But now, why had she appeared in Stone Watchtower Town the very day after the storm ended? A small border town far from her territory, far from the imperial capital, far from anywhere she "should" have been?
And judging by her expression, she had not come to provide disaster relief.
Nuoyaji recalled seeing her in Stone Watchtower Town yesterday. She had stood at the granary entrance, several guards in close-fitting black clothes behind her, her gray-blue eyes resting calmly on him.
As though looking at someone familiar, yet also at a stranger. She had listened to him, remained silent for a moment, then asked a question that sent a chill down his back.
"What year were you born?"
Nuoyaji had frozen for a moment, then given his birth year. She nodded without asking another question, turned to the steward behind her, and said, "Give them grain at the prices from before the storm." The steward opened his mouth to say something, but one look from her silenced him.
Nuoyaji had not thought much of it at the time, assuming she was confirming something. But reviewing it afterward, he felt something was wrong. Her question had not sounded casual. It had seemed more like she was verifying something.
Something involving age, years, and time. She was confirming whether he was "that Nuoyaji." Which Nuoyaji? She could not say. But she wanted to know.
Nuoyaji frowned.
In his previous life, their first meeting had taken place several years later, in a small city besieged by rebels. By then, she had heard his name, and he had heard of her deeds.
They had no "intermediary," no mutual friends, no correspondence-they had simply met on the battlefield, exchanged a few words, then each returned to fighting their own war.
That encounter had been natural, unstructured, random, like two boats drifting through the night for a long time before finally catching sight of each other's lights.
But this life was different. In his previous life, he had never heard of her appearing here at this time. Had the storm changed her itinerary?
Or had she always been going to come, and he simply had not known in his previous life? Or had something he knew nothing about quietly happened under cover of the storm?
What a headache.
Nuoyaji tapped his fingers lightly on the desktop twice.
Nuoyaji rubbed his temples, pushed down those tangled thoughts, and straightened up again. Whatever she had learned, and however she had learned it, at least the outcome was not bad.
They had obtained the grain. No one in Luoweida would starve to death for now, and that was enough. As for the rest... that could wait.
He drew another sheet from the drawer and laid it on the desk. It was fine parchment, smooth and delicate, absorbing ink evenly-the best kind in the viscount's study.
He picked up the quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote a line at the top of the sheet.
Kehulier.
The ink spread across the parchment, forming a rounded letter with slightly feathered edges. Nuoyaji looked at the name, remained silent for a moment, then wrote another line beneath it.
A Qiu.
Chaluoke.
Lufuna.
Nuoyaji looked at those four names and remained silent for a long time.
They had all been his comrades in his previous life. Some had known him very early on, some had only met him much later, some had stayed with him to the end, and some had left early.
But they all had one thing in common-when Nuoyaji needed help most, they had stood beside him without asking why.
Now they were all somewhere out there. Alive, but Nuoyaji did not know where they were.
Kehulier should have been serving on the empire's northern border, or only recently discharged. A Qiu should still have been in that forest, living in the little wooden cabin she had built herself, leading a peaceful life apart from the world's strife.
Chaluoke should still have been in that mine, swinging his pick, digging ore, drinking cheap ale...
Nuoyaji sighed.
No rush. They were all still safe. The storm had not taken their lives, the empire's turmoil had not fully erupted, and the Demon God still slept underground. He still had time to search, little by little.
He folded the sheet and slipped it into his innermost pocket, the kind that rested against his chest.
Just as he reached for the next sheet, a knock sounded at the door.