By the time they left the palace, it was nearly dusk. The last rays of the setting sun glazed Chiyan City's brick and stone walls a muted gold, lending them less of their daytime grandeur and more of the vast, desolate air of twilight. The streets were still busy with people and the rumble of carriages. Fires had already been lit in the roadside eateries, and cooking smoke mingled with the smell of food, drifting through the cooling air.
Hiri was waiting at the agreed spot outside the palace gates beside a somewhat worn passenger carriage. Its black paint was chipped and faded, and the horse pulling it was an ordinary brown nag. It looked completely out of place among the ornate noble carriages nearby.
"Young master." Hiri came forward, his face weary from the long journey, though his gaze remained respectful. "Are we leaving now?"
Wharton looked west. The last streak of gold and red was fading from the horizon. Wushan Town lay in that direction, countless mountains and rivers away.
"Let's go." He nodded, his voice calm.
The carriage passed through Chiyan City's towering gate and headed south along the official road he had taken on his way there. Six years ago, he had traveled it full of apprehension and hope. Now, on his return, his state of mind was worlds apart.
Inside the carriage, Hiri spoke much more than usual, as though trying to fill the long journey with words, or perhaps to dispel some unease of his own.
"Young master, in his last letter, the master mentioned that Young Master Linley was making rapid progress at the Ernst Institute. He's already a dual-element magus of the sixth rank. That's truly remarkable." Hiri rubbed his somewhat withered hands together. "Everyone in town says the Baruch Clan is going to produce an important figure."
Wharton murmured an acknowledgment, watching the withered grass flash past outside the window.
"Oh, and in his last message, Hillman said Old John's family had transferred their shop at the east end of town. A smithy opened there instead. The smith came from out of town, and I hear he's quite skilled. The farm tools he makes are sturdy, and his prices are fair."
"As for the manor... the master has always kept it in mind. There was a great deal of rain last summer, and the roof of that old room in the northwest corner started leaking. The master personally supervised the repairs and had new gray tiles put on. He said the tiles were sturdy and would last at least ten years. By then..." Hiri paused and said no more.
Wharton turned to look at him. The old man noticed, shifted somewhat awkwardly, and changed the subject, continuing to ramble about the small affairs of Wushan Town: whose child was getting married, which grove had produced a lot of wild fruit that year, how many new wooden stakes had been added to the training grounds...
For the most part, Wharton simply listened in silence, occasionally offering a brief response. But the deliberate normality of Hiri's chatter, and the evasiveness that occasionally flashed deep in his eyes, made the tension inside Wharton grow tighter and tighter. In particular, Hiri had mentioned Linley, the repairs to the manor, and many changes around town, but had never once volunteered any details about how Hogg had been lately. Whenever Wharton asked, the old man always said vaguely, "The master is very well, just busy with affairs and has a lot to worry about," then quickly steered the conversation elsewhere.
This wasn't normal. In Wharton's memory, although his father Hogg was stern, whenever Hiri spoke of him, there had always been something specific to say: something he had discovered in the account books, for example, or a new assignment he had made for one of the young men on the training team. Never a hollow "very well" like this.
A clear point in time, one he had tried hard to avoid for six years, suddenly struck him. According to the development of the "story" as he knew it, it was around this time that Hogg persistently investigated the truth behind the disappearance of his wife, Lina, and touched upon the secrets of certain powerful figures. In the end, he was discovered and died of grave injuries. When Linley returned from the Mountain Range of Magical Beasts, he would be faced with his father's memorial tablet and the cold truth, setting him on a path of revenge and pursuit.
He had trained desperately, longing to grow stronger. Deep down, he had harbored a faint, extravagant hope that he could change something, that at least... perhaps he could make it in time. But now Hiri's evasive words were like icy needles, piercing that faint hope.
He instinctively summoned the panel only he could see in his mind, its concise data displayed in silence:
[Age: 12] [Warrior rank: 7 (normal state) / 9 (Dragonblood Transformation)] [Magical Power reserves: rank 5 Fire Element (magic model not trained)]
Rank seven in his normal state, rank nine with Dragonblood Transformation. It was an astounding achievement among his peers, and his reputation as a "genius" at the O'Brien Empire Military Academy was well deserved. But was that power enough? Could it change what had already happened or was happening now?
"Grandpa Hiri," Wharton suddenly said, interrupting the old man's chatter, "what exactly did Father say in his most recent letter? About the family, or... about himself?"
Hiri visibly froze, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the hem of his clothes. "The master... the master just said everything was well and told you to focus on your studies in the empire and not worry about home. He also... he also asked about your training progress."
"He didn't mention anything else?" Wharton pressed, his gaze calm but carrying a force that would not be evaded.
"No... nothing else." Hiri avoided his eyes and looked out the window. "Young master, it's getting late. Would you like to rest for a while? We still have a long way to go."
Wharton said nothing more and turned back to the window. Silence fell over the carriage, leaving only the rumble of the wheels and the clatter of hooves against the ground. Hiri also seemed to realize he had said the wrong thing. He fell silent and leaned wearily against the carriage wall, closing his eyes to rest, though his brow remained slightly furrowed.
A shadow of unease settled over Wharton's heart, like the gathering darkness outside the carriage.
For the rest of the journey, Wharton had the driver go as fast as possible, traveling day and night. He paid extra and asked to change horses but not carriages at the relay stations, keeping their stops as short as possible. Hiri was old, and the continuous travel was hard on him. He often dozed off without realizing it as the carriage jolted along. Wharton did not wake him, instead staying alert himself and keeping an eye on the road and their direction.
On the tenth day, the carriage passed the distinctive boundary marker and entered the Fenlai Kingdom. The dry, biting air gave way to mild humidity, and the sparse, open autumn scenery of the north gradually changed to a crisscross of fields in the south. Though autumn had already arrived, there was still plenty of green to be seen.
The closer they got to Wushan Town, the heavier the gloom in Wharton's heart became. The villages and fields outside the window all seemed shrouded in gray.
On the fifteenth day, at dusk, the carriage reached the last relay station before Wushan Town. It was a small roadside inn that provided basic food and lodging and a change of horses.
Hiri took the waterskin and went to find a well, while Wharton stayed in the carriage to sort his few belongings. He carefully put his graduation badge from the O'Brien Empire Military Academy and his small token as an imperial guest elder into an inner pocket. They might be useful, but there was no need to show them now. Finally, his hand rested on the hilt of the short blade at his waist.
His father Hogg had personally given it to him when he left home six years ago. The blade had simple lines and little decoration, but it was made of solid materials and finely forged. Over the years, whether training at the academy or honing himself in the wild, he had never been without it. His handling had worn the sheath smooth, and he had always kept the blade well maintained, its edge sharp and its surface gleaming coldly.
When Hiri returned, he carried the waterskin full of fresh water, but his face was strangely pale, and his steps were slightly unsteady.
"Grandpa Hiri, what's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" Wharton jumped down from the carriage and steadied him.
"No, it's nothing." Hiri found his footing and forced a smile, though it looked strained. "Maybe all these days on the road have made me a little carriage-sick. I'm old and no use anymore. Don't worry, young master. A night's rest will do me good. Tomorrow... tomorrow we'll be home."
Wharton watched the old man's evasive eyes and trembling hands but did not press him. He only nodded. "Then get some rest early."
That night, in a guest room at the inn, Hiri was clearly exhausted. After a quick wash, he began snoring softly as soon as his head touched the pillow, though his brow remained tightly furrowed in his sleep.
Wharton lay on the other bed, not sleepy at all. The inn's wooden bed was rather hard, and the intermittent chirping of night insects outside the window only made the night seem quieter. He listened to Hiri's even breathing for a while, then quietly got up, put on his outer robe, and slipped out of the room.
A single oil lamp still burned in the inn's main room, its light dim. The innkeeper, a stout middle-aged man, was working an abacus behind the counter by its light, checking the day's accounts.
Wharton walked over, and his footsteps alerted the innkeeper. The man looked up with a practiced smile. "Young guest, it's so late. What can I do for you?"
"Innkeeper, I'd like to ask you something." Wharton's voice sounded especially clear in the quiet night.
"Go ahead." The innkeeper put down his abacus.
"Wushan Town, the Baruch Clan... has there been any news lately?" Wharton tried to make his tone sound like that of someone making an ordinary inquiry.
The innkeeper's smile faded somewhat. He examined Wharton closely, his gaze lingering for a moment on the short blade at his waist and his composed bearing. A trace of curiosity and hesitation entered his eyes. "Young guest, are you of the Baruch Clan...?"
"A distant relative," Wharton said without changing expression. "An elder in my family asked me to pay Master Hogg a visit as I passed through."
"Oh, a distant relative..." The innkeeper drew out the words, looked around, and lowered his voice. "The Baruch Clan... sigh, things aren't so good. If you're going to visit Master Hogg, I'm afraid you won't see him."
Wharton's heart sank, and his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the counter. "I won't see him? Has Master Hogg gone away?"
The innkeeper shook his head, his voice even lower. "He didn't go away. He... passed away. It happened three months ago."
Although he had long expected it, hearing someone say it outright still felt like a heavy hammer striking Wharton in the chest. A dull ache spread through him in an instant, and his breath caught. He braced himself hard against the counter, his fingertips turning white and his knuckles protruding.
"...Passed away?" His voice was somewhat hoarse. "How... did he die?"
"They say an old injury flared up again. As for what exactly happened, outsiders like us don't know." The innkeeper sighed, genuine regret showing on his face. "The funeral was quite simple, but just about all the respected elders in town who had received Master Hogg's kindness attended. Sigh, Master Hogg was a good man. His taxes were always the lowest among the nearby towns, and in lean years he even paid the kingdom's share out of his own pocket. He never treated his people harshly. How could such a good man just pass away like that... what a hard fate."
"What about his son?" Wharton forced himself to calm down and pressed on. "His eldest son, Linley. Has he come back?"
"Young Master Linley?" The innkeeper thought for a moment. "I think he came back, but he left again after only a few days. From what the townspeople were saying, he might have gone to the royal capital, Fenlai City? We don't know exactly where he went."
Wharton took a deep breath. Cold air rushed into his lungs, suppressing his churning emotions a little. He took a gleaming gold coin from inside his robe and placed it gently on the counter. "Thank you for telling me."
The innkeeper stared at the coin, stunned for a moment, then hurriedly waved his hands. "This... young guest, it was only a few words. It's not worth..."
"You deserve it." Wharton said no more, turning and leaving the main room.
Back in the room, Hiri was still fast asleep, breathing steadily. Wharton sat quietly beside the bed for a while, looking at the old man's curled-up back by the faint moonlight coming through the window. His graying hair stood out starkly against the pillow.
Hiri knew. He must have known all along. His unusual chatter on the journey, his deliberate concealment, his evasive words, the unease hidden beneath his weary appearance... it all had an answer. He had wanted to keep it from Wharton. Perhaps it was Hogg's dying request, or perhaps Hillman had instructed him to do it. He wanted Wharton to return safely to Wushan Town, or perhaps even meant to keep it from him forever, afraid that he would act impulsively in his youth, afraid it would affect his future path of training.
Wharton closed his eyes.
His father was dead. The man who, in his memories, had always held his back straight, a weight of worry between his brows, silently bearing the burdens of the clan and the pain of losing his wife for more than a decade, was gone. Had Wharton's six years of grueling training in the north, the sweat he had shed, the injuries he had suffered, and the ranks he had desperately gained ultimately... still failed to bring him there in time?
No. A voice rang out in his heart. Perhaps you didn't make it in time to change this outcome, but at least you're no longer that helpless child who needed protection. You have power now. It may still not be enough, but at least you can do something.
He opened his eyes again. The intense turmoil that had first filled them had subsided, replaced by an icy calm. The sorrow remained, weighing on his heart like a heavy stone, but he would not allow it to sweep away the dam of his reason. He was Wharton, a transmigrator, a son of the Baruch Clan, and Linley's younger brother. He had long known that this world was no fairy tale, and that death and parting were commonplace.
Early the next morning, just as the sky began to lighten, the carriage set out again, heading for its final destination-Wushan Town.
The outline of the town gradually came into view. It seemed little changed from six years ago: the familiar stone-paved road, the low but sturdy houses, the early risers sprinkling and sweeping outside their doors. Rhythmic shouts came from the direction of the training grounds, probably a group of children doing their morning training under Hillman's guidance.
But as the carriage traveled through the streets, Wharton keenly noticed a difference. Some townspeople recognized it as the Baruch Clan's carriage, and the looks they cast were no longer simply respectful or friendly as before. They were mixed with sympathy, regret, and a certain dimness at how things had changed. They whispered and pointed, then quickly looked away, as though afraid of disturbing something.
The manor's familiar wrought-iron gates were shut tight, and a thin layer of dust had even settled on the door rings.
Hiri got down from the carriage, his steps somewhat unsteady. With trembling hands, he took a bunch of keys from inside his robe and tried twice before he managed to fit one into the keyhole. The lock opened with a soft click. He pushed hard against the heavy gates, and their hinges groaned.
The courtyard had been swept clean. The fallen leaves had clearly been cleared away not long ago, and there were no weeds on the stone path. Yet that cleanliness carried a deliberately maintained deathly stillness. There was no Hogg sitting in his usual place, looking through the account books, no sound of him giving quiet instructions to the servants, and none of the brief liveliness Linley brought on his occasional visits home. There was only the rustle of wind through bare branches and the hollow echo of their footsteps.
"Young master..." Hiri turned around. At last, he could no longer hold back, and tears streamed down his aged face. "The master... three months ago he... passed away..."
His voice choked, and his shoulders slumped, as though whatever had supported him had suddenly been pulled away.
"I know." Wharton's voice was unusually steady. He stepped over the threshold and went inside.