Volume 4 Chapter 19 Three Visitors
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
”I’ll be off, then,” said Aliona.
The next morning, after a whirlwind of preparation for the expedition to Fire Island, the party lined up at the docks of Grass Island. Only three would embark—Aliona, Isthbaran, and Leanan Sidhe. Kian, despite his protests, had been left behind.
Behind them, sun-browned sailors with corded arms hauled wooden crates onto the ferry. Grass Island thrived on livestock, so meat and dairy were constantly shipped across to the markets of Water Island.
”Safe travels, Ms. Aliona, Isthbaran, Ms. Leanan Sidhe,” Kian said, though his voice faltered. He could not hide his gloom. An unexplored jungle, rivers of molten lava, boiling springs so hot they could sterilize socks—one of his odd little dreams—were all within reach, and yet he was denied.
(Sterilizing socks? That’s a dream now?)
”My lord,” Isthbaran said, puffing his chest, “aside from the portion owed to the Kingdom of Crete Government, all treasures I discover belong to me, yes?”
”Yes. You’ll be doing most of the exploring, after all. Still, if Ms. Aliona or Ms. Leanan Sidhe take a liking to something, discuss it fairly. If it turns into a quarrel, postpone the decision and bring it back here to Grass Island.”
”Understood!”
”Not that my desires align with yours,” Aliona added. “I’m after magical artifacts, not gold and silver.”
Leanan Sidhe murmured in a low, dispirited tone. “I don’t care for objects at all. I just want to find the slave my master seeks and be released from this role…”
The plan was simple: Aliona and Leanan Sidhe would set up a base on an uninhabited island midway between Fire Island and Water Island—the same place they once exchanged the Minotaur’s Heart. From there they could ferry supplies, search for slaves, and aid Isthbaran. Aliona would handle most of the dealings on Water Island, where Azrael language was often required, while Leanan Sidhe would guard Fire Island’s coasts and support Isthbaran.
The island lay outside the patrol routes of General Balinars of Crete. With protective wards, even cooking smoke would go unnoticed. If discovered and questioned, they need only claim membership in Kian’s merchant guild.
The real risk lay with Isthbaran, who would survey Fire Island alone. He had Wolfmen’s super senses, the Black Panther Tribe’s stealth, and more than one life to his name. Even so, venturing solo into the unknown was perilous, with no comrades to rely on should disaster strike.
”Isthbaran, be cautious,” Kian warned. “Slaying a lava wyrm is only an ideal. Against a real monster, retreat first.”
”In the same position, would Sir Kian retreat?” asked Isthbaran.
Kian fell silent.
”My golem will accompany the general,” Aliona reminded. “And Ms. Leanan Sidhe will release her familiars. You’ll have support.”
”I’ll also enslave any stray winged beasts or wraiths I find. If there are bloodsuckers—like the Lamia sailors whisper about—I’ll attempt to bind them, too,” Leanan Sidhe said softly.
”Damn it,” Kian muttered. “I wanted to explore Fire Island too, with both your full support at my back.”
His teeth ground together. Isthbaran had the thrilling role, while he was stuck waiting on Grass Island for merchant guild letters—a task so quiet it bordered on boredom. It was absurdly unfair.
’You don’t actually hate quiet work, do you? You fulfilled your duties well enough in Ramsey.’
(I don’t hate it… but when someone next to you is feasting on a steak, it’s hard not to drool.)
’The merchant guild work matters. Neglect it, and the guild might collapse before it begins. Stop envying others and do your own job properly.’
(Yes, yes.)
A thirty-year-old man, scolded by a girl of fifteen. Had his birthday already slipped past? He realized belatedly that it had.
Linca’s birthday was next; he must send a gift. Sarah’s and Natra’s he didn’t know, nor Serena’s. Christy’s was September, and he had already sent her something. As for Rufna, Aliona, Isthbaran, and Leanan Sidhe, none remembered his own birthday, so he decided to send them gifts collectively at the start of the year.
”Cheer up,” Isthbaran said. “Here, take this diamond ring I won yesterday.”
”Seriously? But it’s a woman’s ring.”
”Exactly! I can’t wear it myself. Sell it, or better yet, use it for gambling. Blackjack is safest—counting cards goes unnoticed. I tried.”
”You—”
”Kian, no gambling,” Aliona cut in, her golden brows knitting.
”Casinos are forbidden, stop. If you absolutely must, we’ll go together when I return.”
”I know someone who nearly destroyed himself through reckless wagers. I won’t repeat that,” Kian replied.
He turned back to Isthbaran. “Thank you. I’ll use it for a good meal while you’re away.”
”Please do,” Isthbaran said. For all his bluster, he was impossible to dislike.
”Ms. Talia, Kian is in your care,” Aliona said.
”Leave him to me,” Talia answered, flexing an arm.
At that moment, the departure gong rang. Kian embraced each of the three in turn, then watched them ascend the gangplank and vanish aboard the ship.
It struck him—he was always the one being sent off. This was the first time he had stood behind to wave farewell.
* * *
On his way back from the harbor, he passed through the market of the fishing village. It lacked the cosmopolitan color of Water Island’s trading street, yet stalls brimmed with inland dairy and meat from Grass Island and baskets of fresh-caught seafood.
Even so, with plenty of white minotaur meat still left in his stores, nothing tempted him. Aliona, who had always used good food as an excuse to cook for him, was away on expedition and would not return for some time.
The open-air market stretched perhaps five hundred meters. Kian purchased herbs and vegetables tough enough to stand up to the barklike beef, then added a little cheese and some garam masala to change the flavor.
Talia’s voice echoed:
’Kian, about the list of letters waiting for replies—let me rattle them off aloud. First, the merchant guild has sent notice to appoint a notary for establishment. Second, a notice to appoint an inspector to review Lady Priscilla’s contributed check. Third, tax documents from the Kingdom of Crete, due once the guild is founded. Fourth, letters from the guild requesting confirmation of internal regulations. That’s the guild business. Next, we expect a reply from Mrs. Camilla, the appointment notice from Natra, and finally, word from Aliona once she completes the money transfer on the deserted island.’
His temples throbbed just listening.
(My head aches already. Don’t dump them all at once; it kills my motivation.)
’You don’t lose motivation,’ she chided. ‘You always get through it, calm as ever.’
With food slung on his back, he trudged along the coast. Behind him came the shouts of sailors and the laughter of children playing by the piers.
”I’ll write Linca, choke down some beef like resin, and then train…” he muttered.
’Kian, guildmaster? Your first duty is to wait for letters to arrive at the merchant guild,’ Talia reminded him. ‘Training is fine, but no long absences.’
”If I’m at the estate morning and evening, that should do. I’ll install a postbox at the gate—then anything not requiring my signature will be received automatically.”
Until now Rufna had handled everything. Kian realized afresh how much he owed her. Those four months of ceaseless training with Isthbaran had been possible only thanks to her diligence.
’If you’re bored, clean,’ Talia suggested. ‘Priscilla’s villa is the face of our merchant guild. A face must be kept clean, or no clients will come.’
”Still, once we secure new land, we’ll move. A proper office near the sugarcane fields or close to the guild headquarters would make more sense.”
’Even so, we’ll be here for a while. Keep it tidy. We’ll return it to Priscilla in good condition.’
”I know. I just wanted to sulk a little,” he admitted.
’Big child,’ she murmured. With a flick, she cast a spell: at the far end of the sand, near the black stone steps, a conspicuous white mailbox materialized beneath a broad roof to shield it from driving rain.
”When we give the villa back, we should ask Ms. Priscilla if she wants the box removed,” Kian said. “If she seldom visits, it’ll just collect trash.”
He sighed, climbed the stone steps, and unlocked the iron gate.
Later, he sat to write Linca. She had scrawled busy and leave me be in her last letters, but she was his future wife, and she had helped him more than he could count. Ignoring her would have been unforgivable.
He drafted careful words: concern for her health, a report that he was still as energetic as ever (though he left out the boast of being on a southern island, lest it sound like gloating), mention that she had wanted ramen so he enclosed dried noodles, and finally, an apology for pushing a heavy role on her in the new appointments—ending with I miss you.
Remembering Isthbaran’s ring and her birthday, he added a postscript: Happy birthday. Treat the ring as if it were me. I love you, honey.
Thus was born the oddest parcel: a letter, a bundle of noodles, and a ring tucked inside a wooden box.
’Won’t Natra tell her you’re in Crete?’ Talia asked.
”Ah. Probably. Whatever,” he replied carelessly.
He wrapped the box in fine cloth, pinned a card to the knot reading Happy Birthday to Linca, and considered the matter done.
If only he had written before seeing Aliona off that morning, it would have saved time. But he had been busy helping them prepare. Returning to the docks now would be wasteful—he would post it tomorrow.
For now, he simmered a pot of minotaur stew and shifted to cleaning the guild’s grounds.
First, the beach—the first thing seen upon entering the villa estate. He gathered the mess Isthbaran and the Leanan Sidhe had left scattered, dismantled his weather-worn makeshift shelter, and carried the debris to rest behind the hill.
He churned the firepits and barbecue spots with soil until the black charcoal vanished. Then, wielding his conjured grand rake, he smoothed Priscilla’s vast private beach until it looked pristine.
Perfect. He wiped his brow, only to realize the sun still blazed at its zenith. His body’s ability had grown so great that labor of this scale ended in a flash.
’Kian, the minotaur tail stew is boiling down. Water must be added,’ Talia’s bird-shaped golem announced.
”Got it,” he answered.
He looked up, nodded once, and went back to work. What had started as reluctant drudgery grew strangely satisfying. After adding water, he planned to scrub the toilet he had once disgraced in spectacular fashion.
’By the way,’ Talia remarked as he worked, ‘your calendar says the year is nearly over.’
”So it is. What a tumultuous year it’s been,” Kian said.
He paused, leaning on the brush. Bubbles from Aliona’s detergent foamed across the marble floor. His gaze wandered idly around the lavish women’s restroom.
”Last year, I didn’t even have the luxury to celebrate the Western Church’s Day of Saints,” he said softly.
’December twenty-fifth, right?’ she asked.
”Yes. We ate pancakes baked from flour, water drawn from a midnight spring, nuts, and dried fruit. I once baked cakes as a cook for parties, but I never got to eat them. Still, they let me keep leftover nuts and fruit. I soaked my hard bread in water, mixed it with those scraps, and baked it for myself. Last year, though… no one would hire me. No jobs at all. I clung to the beginner quest board, desperate for scraps of solo work,” he said, voice dim with memory.
’I’d like to taste your pancakes,’ Talia said. ‘I wonder what they’re like.’
”If I had the ingredients, I could make them.”
’But eating them would be through your body. I want to taste the holy bread with my own tongue and flesh,’ she said.
T/N: 聖餅(せいべい, seibei)—pun on “holy bread/communion wafer.”
”You want a vessel to incarnate into? I could summon Lyritisse or Ninini’s body,” Kian replied.
’Not for a while. My soul still needs completion, and I’ve sworn to serve as your right hand,’ she said, before her voice lightened again.
’So, Azrael doesn’t celebrate the year’s end?’ she asked.
”We celebrate the new year. Not the end,” he said.
’Hmm. So, unlike the Western Church, it’s not universal,’ she mused.
”No. But I heard from Isthbaran that Crete parades the royal dignity both at year’s end and the beginning,” Kian said.
That old man couldn’t speak Azraelic, but by gestures and poker skill alone he had befriended the locals. Perhaps because he had roamed as a wolfman mercenary across many lands—or perhaps Isthbaran was simply unique.
”The king of Crete is elderly. He couldn’t attend last year’s parade. Twelve years ago, he lost his queen in childbirth, and he aged almost overnight. Like Ms. Aliona says—living purpose matters. For him, she was his reason to live,” Kian murmured.
’Then who leads the parade?’ Talia asked.
”You didn’t listen to Isthbaran?”
’I was asleep. You and Aliona slip seamlessly into lovemaking these days, so I rest often,’ she said dryly.
”Other royals, I think. Truthfully, I didn’t catch it either.”
’Really… You’re supposed to be our negotiator. Pay attention,’ she scolded.
Her reproach was cut short by a violent roar from the mansion’s gate—the sound of iron bars torn asunder. A swarm of intruders poured through the barrier, their footfalls pounding. Kian’s vampire senses tracked them instantly.
”Oh no… I said I was idle, but I don’t want trouble,” he muttered.
’Not the time to complain! Clean yourself up and get to the beach!’ Talia urged.
He propped the deck brush against the stall partition, rinsed the detergent away with the waiting bucket, hastily dried his feet, and fled the women’s restroom.
* * *
”Ho there! Kian of Izerland! Kingdom of Crete Government! Open this door!”
No longer in cleaning garb, Kian now wore a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and sandals in place of missing leather shoes. At the entrance, the massive double doors shuddered with each thunderous knock.
The voice belonged to Balinars, the head of the guard who had once accosted him.
Kian already knew who it was—his vampire senses left no doubt—but each booming strike, each groaning hinge made his face sour.
”…What is it, Lord Balinars?” he asked.
”Eh? Oh! Lord Kian! Good day! Now won’t you open up?” Balinars shouted.
BANG BANG BANG!
Clearly this man was used to raids. The pounding shook the mansion. It grated on the ears, and worse, risked breaking the door. Continuing conversation like this felt foolish.
”I’ll open it if you stop. If the door breaks, I’ll bill you for repairs,” Kian said.
”Oh-ho? But this isn’t your property, is it?” Balinars teased.
Grinding his teeth inwardly, Kian unlocked the doors and swung them inward.
”This is the headquarters of the Kian Merchant Guild,” he declared, facing the sun-browned officer.
Behind Balinars stood twenty soldiers in battle-skirts, each gripping a short spear engraved with magic runes.
”I lease it from Ms. Priscilla for guild operations and residence,” Kian added, meeting Balinars’s gaze.
”Hmm? I thought you were just a tourist,” Balinars said.
”Not merely that. I am here to found a merchant guild. We already hold provisional clearance for preliminary surveys of Fire Island. Hasn’t that been communicated?”
”Oh, it has. Don’t lump us in with your Izerland bureaucracy. We’re better organized. We know you’re no tourist,” Balinars said with a grin.
(So that’s his game…)
The first time they met, the man had been respectful. Now, his tone was detached, transactional.
He drew a gilt-embellished identity plaque from his coat. “Kingdom of Crete,” he declared again. To call himself the kingdom itself—that was bold.
’But harshness to outsiders marks a competent official.’
”And what is your business? Next time, a letter of notice would be preferable,” Kian said evenly.
”Ah, yes, my apologies. Lord Scipio will explain.”
”Balinars. How many times must I remind you to address me as Your Excellency?”
The voice was sharp and fastidious. Soldiers parted, and at their center stepped an elf-blooded man clad in an Azrael-style white uniform.
At his collar gleamed a golden pin stamped with Crete’s emblem—a bull wreathed in lightning. His chest glittered with medals, incongruously adorned with tropical blossoms.
A half-elf, Kian noted, eyes narrowing at the ears, shorter than Aliona’s.
The man’s slicked-back blond hair reeked of roses—too heavy, too oily, like perfume smothering its bearer.
With gloved fingers, he adjusted the round spectacles perched on his nose. Hollow cheeks shifted as he spoke.
”An honor to meet you, hero of Ramsey, Master Kian. Or perhaps I should say Princess Maribel’s first knight—Kian of Izerland. Or should I call you Count of Dacia?”
”Call me as you please,” Kian replied.
”Then Kian Vahid it shall be.”
(Does he want to die?)
Murderous heat surged in him, sharp and reflexive. Yet months of Aliona’s patient counseling had cooled his temper. Kian betrayed nothing, only shaped his face into a soft smile.
”Lord Kian, or Count of Dacia, if you must.”
”Then Master Kian,” the half-elf said, bowing elegantly as he approached.
”I am Scipio Crete, Minister of War and Grand Admiral of Crete. I believe my subordinate Balinars owes you a debt of gratitude.”
”Indeed,” Kian said.
They clasped hands. Scipio’s touch was frail, the circulation poor, his palm cold.
”Is Umar still well? I heard he escaped Lord Jibril’s clutches.”
”I left my father fifteen years ago and have not seen him since. His affairs are not mine. Forgive me, but if we may dispense with small talk, I would prefer to hear your purpose.”
”Ho, ho, ho. You seem in quite a rush. Were you in the midst of work?”
”I was.”
”Then forgive the intrusion. We have confirmed a dangerous fugitive has fled onto these grounds. We will search the estate immediately.”
”Wait,” Kian said sharply. “What? A fugitive? There is no one here but myself.”
Soldiers surged forward, but Kian’s frame held firm. The first wave rebounded and collapsed onto their backsides.
Scipio’s eyes widened beneath his glasses. “No matter. Invoke the descent of the gods.”
”Yes, sir! Ooooooh!”
The men braced their feet, drawing magic. Blue lightning crackled from their bodies, their frames swelling to monstrous proportions.
”Out of the way! We’ll search the place!”
Now bear-like, they shoved past him, trampling across the entrance. Sand ground beneath their sandals, scarring the once-pristine marble floor with gritty rasp.
”Leave at once,” Kian ordered, his voice low and steady.
Scipio ignored him, striding past. “Search every corner! Leave nothing unseen!”
”General Balinars,” Kian said, turning, “does Scipio have the right to search private property by his own authority? Is property no longer protected in this kingdom?”
The general spread his hands. “Do not ask me. Scipio Crete is of royal blood, after all.”
”It is Your Excellency, General Balinars,” Scipio snapped, whirling, irritation seething. “How many times must I repeat myself?”
”In formal sessions, I cannot call you that. You were long ago excluded from succession, were you not?”
Scipio froze. Color flooded his pale elven face, blotching it crimson.
(So. A half-elf indeed.)
Talia’s clinical whisper threaded through Kian’s mind:
’Half-bloods often cannot breed. Half-elves especially. In the Empire of Night, such mingling was carefully controlled, like the breeding of swine.’
The truth was darker still. Elven slaves were coveted by kings and nobles precisely because half-elves were sterile. Like mules or ligers, they could not sire heirs. A king’s dalliance produced strong generals or advisors—but never rivals to the throne. Beauty, magic, and strength without the threat of succession. That was why elven bodies were so prized.
Thus, Aliona’s warning of the “Elven Domains” rang truer now. For elves who lived beyond their forests, the risk of abduction into slavery was constant. Only those as gifted and curious as Aliona or Rufna dared live in the outside world.
”This is not a formal session, Balinars,” Scipio hissed.
”Half-formal, surely,” the general said. “We stand before a high retainer of Izerland, whose own Head Magician also serves as Izerland’s Archmagus.”
”Call me Your Excellency!” Scipio’s veneer shattered, his roar shaking the hall.
Startled, several soldiers poked their heads from nearby rooms.
”…Nothing,” Scipio barked. “Continue your search.”
”Y-yes, sir!”
”Balinars,” Scipio said coldly. “Do you truly defy me?”
His eyes, like chips of ice, fixed on the general. At last, Balinars bent the knee. “Forgive me, Your Excellency.”
Scipio turned back, his movements smooth once more. “Master Kian. Forgive the spectacle,” he said.
”No matter,” Kian replied. “But tell me, Your Excellency—will you not attend the year’s-end parade?”
”The parade is tomorrow.”
”It is already afternoon. Will you not miss the last ship to Water Island? Otherwise, you must forfeit sleep,” Kian asked.
”I am exempt from the teleportation barriers. No concern at all.”
”I see.”
Though somewhat checked, Kian recovered his composure and spoke again.
”This is the house I rent for my residence. The lease contract binds only Ms. Priscilla and me, but as long as this is my dwelling, the situation changes. The lease exerts force similar to a property right. It protects me.”
”My, you seem rather well-versed in our laws. Master Kian, were you not merely traveling here?”
”I came to conduct business,” Kian said plainly. “And by virtue of the absolute effect of my rights of use, I now demand injunction against interference. Leave immediately—or produce a warrant.”
”I told you, a dangerous criminal fled here!”
”Then you will, without delay, present that warrant, will you not? Surely the claim of a fugitive is not a fabrication?”
Scipio bit his lip. Balinars laid a hand on the half-elf’s shoulder.
”Best stop now. He’s seen through all of it,” Balinars said.
”So it was just a little play to stall for time?” Scipio snapped. “Balinars, you mocked me for delay?”
”Oh, come now, spare me, Your Excellency!” Balinars spread his hands in mock defense.
”Enough. Leave this place at once,” Kian said, voice firm. “If not, I will report to the proper authorities and recount every detail at Princess Maribel’s salon.”
”Wait.” Scipio barked the word, then cast a glance toward Balinars.
”Withdraw! Withdraw!” Balinars called half-heartedly, repeating the word for retreat.
The soldiers clattered down from upstairs.
”General, we found no fugi—no dangerous criminal anywhere!” one stammered.
”The search isn’t finished!” another protested.
”Stop the search. Immediate withdrawal,” Balinars ordered.
”Immediate withdrawal,” Scipio overrode in a sharper tone.
”All of you, clear these grounds at once. Master Kian, my men have been gravely discourteous.”
”Was it not you who commanded them?” Kian asked coolly.
”Not I. This is Balinars’s responsibility.” Scipio jabbed a gloved thumb at the dark-haired officer.
Balinars stiffened into attention, his face one of resigned defeat.
”Then you will leave now?” Kian asked.
”Indeed. But tell me, Master Kian—what compels you to trade in my country?”
”Nothing special. A way to pass the time.”
”Lies will not do. You know our political turmoil. Did you come to carve away a piece of our land?”
”I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
Kian merely wanted a field for sugarcane. Scipio’s suspicions meant nothing to him.
Yet Scipio’s eyes hardened at Kian’s unruffled demeanor.
”Master Kian. As you feel gratitude toward Princess Maribel, so too do I love this country. I, Scipio Crete, am a patriot. Therefore, I will not grant you land, nor even lease you the sea itself. White territory, blue territory—it matters not. I shall never give you even the smallest fragment.”
”As you wish,” Kian answered flatly.
The careless tone made Scipio twitch at the corner of his mouth.
”I have crushed and expelled hundreds of raiders who sought to seize Crete. You too, I will drive out.”
”…”
”As long as I draw breath, I will not allow it. I will protect this Crete! Your merchant guild has no future. Remember that well, Master Kian.”
”Your Excellency,” Kian said, gesturing toward the open door. “The exit is that way.”
”Ho-ho-ho, indeed. Balinars! General—apologize to Master Kian!”
With that command thrown over his shoulder, Scipio swept out through the front entrance. Twenty soldiers followed.
”Ahh, truly sorry!” Balinars cried, bowing with exaggerated vigor. “Such a nuisance, Lord Kian.”
”Mr. Balinars, instead of apologies, could you remedy this sand-strewn floor? I spent all morning cleaning,” Kian said.
”My fault! Please, take this instead!”
Balinars produced a pouch heavy with gold coins.
Kian pulled out a magical contract. “That will not suffice. From this moment, you and your men are forbidden entry into guild grounds without my consent. Even with a warrant, even in emergency.”
”W-what…”
”You don’t seem to realize who I am. I could spread your ill repute across Izerland. And, incidentally, I correspond with Cardinal Homolka of the Western Church.”
”…”
”Given the… ‘political climate,’ would it be wise to make me your enemy?”
”So you do know…” Balinars muttered.
In truth, Kian knew nothing, but let the officer think otherwise.
At last Balinars sighed, signing the glowing parchment. Now neither he nor his men could trespass.
”I thank you for recognizing an independent state, Captain of the Guard,” Kian said.
”Please, don’t tell Scipio,” Balinars murmured.
”If you are dismissed, I’ll hire you as a clerk. I was thinking of taking one on.”
Balinars’s face soured, but he left in silence. His men’s presence retreated beyond the private beach.
”Ugh…” Kian groaned as he looked down the corridor.
’This will take a full day’s cleaning,’ Talia sighed.
The raid had left the hallway blanketed in sand, doors flung open. Likely cupboards had been rummaged through as well. It was the very picture of official misconduct.
”I’ll lend a hand with magic,” Talia said, summoning a little wind and rousing a golem to labor. She felt her reserves of mana grind down as it worked.
”Thank you. Honestly, this is unbearable,” Kian said. Shoulders slumped, he flung the front doors wide, letting dust stream out into the sea breeze before beginning the long task of restoring order.
* * *
By the time Kian had finished clearing the wreckage left behind by Scipio and the Balinars on the first floor, another visitor appeared.
Truth be told, he had had more than enough for one day. Yet when a sweat-drenched sailor emerged beside the gatepost, Kian reluctantly stepped beyond the iron fence.
The man’s errand was simple: a large shipment had arrived, addressed to Kian.
The sender was Mrs. Camilla.
Not long ago, Kian had written to her, instructing that the Leanan Sidhe’s slave purchase be downgraded in quality. He had passed that letter to the skeletal captain at the time of the Minotaur heart’s exchange.
It seemed Priscilla had been quick to deliver it.
The sailor, unable to unload his next cargo, pleaded with Kian to collect the goods at once.
Thus, against his will, Kian found himself bound again for the docks.
He sprinted across the beach at full speed, reaching the pier to first deliver a parcel addressed to Linca into the hands of the ferry captain. Talia fretted, wondering aloud if it was safe—after all, the package contained an expensive ring.
Then came the heavy labor: lowering from the ship two monstrous wooden crates, each the size of the small craft once sunk by a giant sea serpent. And there were two of them.
Alongside the crates came a thick sheaf of papers, likely Mrs. Camilla’s reply.
Kian dragged the cargo to a stretch of sand nearby, pausing to consider how best to haul it back to the villa. That was when a distant shout carried across the shore.
”Hey, Prince! Where are you off to?” a man called.
”Hey! Princeee!” the same voice rang again.
”Wait there a moment, if you would! I’d like a word with that Azraelian gentleman beside you,” the man added, his tone calm.
The voice was steady. A man’s voice.
Kian tore his gaze from Camilla’s shipment and turned. Striding toward him was a silver-haired man with the ears of a wolf, sunglasses perched on his face.
”Hey, Prince!” the wolfman shouted again.
”Stay there! Wait just a moment!” he insisted.
(Wolfmen…?) Kian thought.
While Kian regarded the stranger with suspicion, the so-called “Prince” was already upon him.
The man spread his arms wide, his youthful, well-cut features breaking into a radiant grin.
”What a glorious day this is,” the wolfman said. “Greetings, a pleasure to meet you, unknown Azraelian. Hah-hah-hah-hah! Truly, today is a marvelous day.”
Notes:
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Serena – Wolfmen Girl
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Camilla – A woman; the subject of the chapter; her body was used to seal Erynys’ soul.
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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