Chapter 211
Chapter 211
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 211
Chapter Title: Letters to the Wind Mage (1)
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Innkeeper Hans.
A veteran resident of Wind Hall Village for over ten years, a retired A-rank mercenary, and now the operator of the village's only inn, he quickly composed himself.
In truth, his full-force tackle had done absolutely nothing to the massive man in priestly robes standing before him, and he suddenly remembered that this fellow was a mage anyway.
When Hans had taken over this suspiciously cheap inn and settled down, he had bought a thick storybook for the decent wife and grandchildren he hoped to have someday.
He didn't want to chase away the mage and suffer some horrible retaliation. Nor did he want to leave him be and risk the man wrecking his inn with a single gesture. Better to teach him properly from the start.
Fortunately, the Professor's group had all come downstairs after hearing the commotion, so he could address them all at once.
"So.... Mage Saint Hero Professor, sir?"
"Just call me Professor."
"Y-yes. So.... How much do you know about Felix Drickciel? Surely you know about his 'letter magic'?"
"I'm not from around here. I only know he swapped eyes and an arm with that dragon brat and some tail meat. Doesn't everyone not know? Empire folk believe the superstition that talking about mages summons them. That's why even when mages cause havoc everywhere, the rumors don't spread."
Everyone nodded at the innkeeper's words, assuming of course no one knew.
"Hmm? Professor, you.... Surely you don't even know that?"
"Yes?"
"Hero, sir.... Did you train in some remote mountain village? Even if you're not from the Empire, who in the world doesn't know about the Empire's 'letter magic'!"
"Captain. Even I, who just came out of the forest into the human world not long ago, know that much."
"The Empire's flying missives.... I've heard about them from the village elders. A great mage's legacy."
Lucilla and Ottoman were one thing. But Borca and Idraasil too?
It felt like everyone knew except me.
Aldrich was giving me a look that said, 'This idiot's our party leader?' Honestly, it stung a bit. The NPCs were locals, so of course 'Empire flying letters' might be common knowledge to them. But I was a real-world resident just starting life here. Just like they didn't know what gasoline was, it was possible I didn't know their common sense.
Anyway, amid the party's pitiful stares, the innkeeper let out a deep sigh and opened the book.
"Then I'll have to explain from the beginning. Let's see...."
Rustle—
The retired mercenary Hans flipped open the storybook, a pang of sorrow hitting him at the thought, 'I figured I'd read this first to my bunny-eared grandkids by the bedside....'
"Once upon a time, long long ago, there lived a great wind archmage named Felix Drickciel...."
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"My dearest friend, Randolph."
"Don't. Please, Felix, sir, please!"
"Hmm.... Sorry. You know what kind of person I am."
Randolph feared those words more than anything in the world. Because Felix always followed them with something horrific.
"Debussy who tends to damned shepherds and squires. What is it today?"
"Well.... I felt like receiving a letter."
"Suddenly?"
"Yes. Just like always."
Randolph, the squire attached to his honor knight title, cursed his fate tied to the world's most unpredictable mage.
Sure, for a cranky mage, he treated him well. After five years together, he started calling him 'my friend Randolph' (before that, it was 'slow lump of meat'). He was a decent boss who didn't mind when they exchanged insults beyond squire-knight relations.
But as someone who had to report astronomical damage claims from each territory via magic telegraph to the palace's terrifying prime minister every day. As someone receiving dozens of urgent messages daily saying 'hang him on sight, we can't touch the archmage but we can kill you, so stop him somehow.' His one wish was for this mage to settle down quietly somewhere like a dead rat.
Fortunately, today's 'impulse that came like the wind' was relatively tame.
"Whew. And here I thought I'd aged ten years. I'm honored, Felix, sir. I'm no great scribe, but I know my letters, so until you're satisfied—"
"No no, that'd be no different from our usual [Wind Message] spells while fleeing together. I want a real letter. Prepared with pen and paper, inked with heart and soul, wandering the world with a wish until it reaches that person!"
"So.... Like the ones nobles send?"
"Yes! The kind that arrives like a gift at your doorstep while you're living an ordinary life, no warning. Traditional, romantic, isn't it? You know, as people age, they start loving this sort of thing!"
"Ah, yes, well. But there's one problem, isn't there?"
"What?"
"[Where you live]. A man who can't sleep without building a wall if he wanders too long—how could he have an address for letters? Even the couriers who track you down each time come in teams of six or more, searching like hounds. Where would you even receive mail? You don't have a home."
"That's why I'm asking you, Randolph. Got any good ideas?"
"Uh.... What if I said no?"
"Well. If there's no 'good idea'.... A 'bad one' will have to do."
"Lord Debussy."
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"For reference, the 'bad idea' Felix mentions here is like the time in summer when Felix craved snow. His squire, bedridden with fever, couldn't come up with a solution, so unable to restrain himself, Felix summoned all the northern chill. That year, the Empire's wheat harvest dropped 20%. The furious Emperor ordered the Royal Guard to capture him, and after five years of pursuit, surrounded by dozens of swordmasters, Felix had no choice but to serve as the Empire's court mage for three years."
The innkeeper was quite the storyteller, bard on the side perhaps. Even Professor, who didn't know the tale, and the party, who did, found themselves engrossed, ignoring the rustling commotion of letters outside the window.
"They let him off with just three years? Ruining a fifth of the Empire's annual harvest? That's not just food—reserves get tapped, military shrinks, unrest brews, barbarians curse the Emperor as divine wrath."
"That's what an [archmage] is. During his three years as court mage, farmers didn't need to sow seeds. Winds swept the Empire's hills and fields, scattering wheat everywhere. That's another long tale, but not important now, so moving on."
"So. How did that 'impulse' resolve in the end?"
The innkeeper pointed out the window at the dancing letters in response to Professor's question.
"As you see. In the most ideal way. After his death."
"After his death.... So he never fulfilled it before dying?"
"No, the impulse itself was the archmage sensing his lifespan ending—his final wish. He pierced heaven's secrets exchanging body with a dragon, but the arm and leg taken were symbolic. What he truly lost was that much lifespan."
Professor fetched water for the gulping, glancing innkeeper, who sipped carefully and continued, gesturing animatedly.
"According to his squire Randolph's 'Biography of Felix Drickciel' after his death, he loved wind to the 8th circle, but also deeply mourned his eternal wandering fate, unable to settle—a sentimental soul. In his final years, 'wanting a letter' expressed a wish for a home—not just for himself, but all wind mages like him."
Mages manifest inner images into reality. Stronger desire, stronger spell.
'Want a letter.' The 8th-circle archmage's lifelong yearning—for a place anyone could reach him. His final impulse.
"After his death, squire Randolph wrote in his autobiography: 'As always, he left suddenly, giving no time to prepare or grieve his passing. Instead, he left a legacy to commemorate forever.'"
"Then that legacy is....?"
"Yes. The wind mages' homeland on that stormy hill, 'Felix Home.' The building itself, a magical totem per his wish, cast one spell over the entire Empire."
Faster to show than tell, the innkeeper pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and a charcoal from the hearth.
"Let's see.... You there, mage sir. Your name?"
"Ottoman. Ottoman Bodler."
"Ottoman.... Bodler. Right, write [Hans of Wind Hall Inn, to Ottoman Bodler], then fold twice."
He shook the twice-folded paper before Professor, held it out the broken window, and said,
"Then chant the promised spell. [Carry the letter on the wind.]"
Whoooosh—!
As the innkeeper finished, fierce winds swirled....
Flick—!
Flutter, flutter flutter!
The crudely charcoal-scribbled crumpled letter rode the wind, flapping vigorously toward the hilltop.
"As you see, the archmage's spell over the Empire carries letters. It rides winds to Wind Hall, then to the mage. Anywhere sender. Palace, Lasfel marquisate, back-alley sewer, drug den. Sender, recipient, and wish for joy—wind delivers any letter."
"A great magic triggered by recipient, sender, and emotional condition...."
Impossible to imagine the imagery and spell. Mages manifest via clear understanding and imagery. Triggered by others' emotions and names? Over the entire Empire, perpetually active—even decades after death?
Beyond Professor's magical common sense.
"Anyway, those flying outside are letters gathered from across the Empire. When they flock to Felix Home, resident mages sort by destination. They fix distorted ones warped by local mana flows or misaddressed ones lingering, resending on winds."
"Morning and evening.... A day's delivery, but magic post anyone can use. Incredible."
Professor understood the 'Empire key facility' in Dana's info. Harming it counted as attacking the Empire. Felix Drickciel unintentionally built an information network spanning the realm.
Protected by the archmage's magic and all wind mages grateful for their sole haven—a secure net.
The military, economic, political benefits to the Empire were endless reasons to guard it.
'Magic post office. Never imagined Storm Hill as that. Maybe.... Not as dreadful as I thought?'
Professor pictured Felix Home. Magical construct from the archmage's remains. Letters flocking like migratory birds on winds, mages floating busily sorting—an office-like mysticism.
Better than his feared image of storm-mixer mage tower, persuading cackling wild-haired mages.
Scribble—
"Hold on. I have a question."
As the innkeeper paused, Professor about to ask more, Borca—oddly excited—cut in quickly.
"Those free-spirited mages really do that job properly? No whims making them dump them suddenly?"
"Of course. It's their sole duty residing in Felix Home. Sorting incoming morning letters and distributing. The rent for using the archmage's devoted nest."
Huff!
Borca's breath grew ragged at the innkeeper's firm words.
"So.... Anyone in the Empire can receive letters?"
"Yes."
Huff, huff!
"Anyone? Even non-citizens? Even my two sons, captured in the forest and sold here?!"
"Uh.... Probably?"
Crash!
The flustered innkeeper's tentative reply spurred Borca—he kicked open the door and dashed out. Crashing and shattering echoed outside, then the werewolf burst back through the splintered door, arms full of torn paper, live chicken feathers, ink.
Joy and desperation mixed on his face.
"Anybody who can write—please pen a letter! Sender: Borca Dalun. Recipients: Tusan Dalun, Marka Dalun! My children, captured here—let them know!"
"....Ah!"
"Oh! That's a way!"
Professor slapped his knee, realizing.
'Right! He came here looking for his kids!'
At hero quest start, choosing elf or ancient desert human—picked Empire route because of Borca.
Forgotten, but auto-progressed entering Empire territory.
Borca planned to mail his somewhere-in-Empire children to learn their fates.
With luck, replies pinpoint locations.
No reply? At least announces he's in Empire, hasn't abandoned them.
Worst case....
"Innkeeper. If.... All conditions met, but recipient doesn't exist...."
"Then.... Nothing happens."
At least, confirms the journey's end.
"....Give it here. I'll write."
Scribble, scribble scribble—
Ottoman neatly scripted Borca's words in noble-mage hand. The werewolf's trembling voice spilled long-hidden feelings, eyes misting.
Thud.
"There. Done."
"G-give it here."
Borca clutched the precious letter. Staring intently at the paper in his furry, clawed hand, he finally spoke.
"[C-Carry the letter on the wind.]"
Whoooosh—!
No sooner said than winds swirled the room, no prep time.
Flutter.
On that wind, one sheet flew back to his side. One sheet.
In the magic wind's hush, the party stood silent.
"....Damn."
"Borca, this...."
"Not a word. Not one."
Drip— drip—
Sharp claws dug into palm, blood flowed, but the werewolf stood motionless. Staring piercingly at the lone returned letter. To face the reality long approached only in painful imaginings and resolve.
Whoooosh—
Then.
....Flutter.
A small wind blew again, rustling the letter—like a death notice for his child. Unthinkingly reaching to grab it, the werewolf's hand—
Flutter— flutter—
Slashed empty air, bloodied hand. Above unfocused eyes, paper struggled upward.
Two emotion-filled letters, two magics.
"Ooh. Ooooooh...."
Watching both soar powerfully heavenward on winds, Borca finally knelt.
"Congratulations. Truly.... You endured."
Borca, stoically best at party tasks. But knowing his Empire-bound heart, Ottoman could only sincerely celebrate his two children alive.
"Uuuuwoooo! Uuuu.... Aaaah.... Uuuu...."
Out of forest fifteen years. Four wandering. Eight gladiator. Last three seeking death, captured by church, brought here.
Through those long years, worn hope's remnants streamed from his eyes. Gratitude his children survived that torment as outsiders, guilt forcing it on them—the werewolf rooted, howling long.
Just a bit more. Stay healthy till finding them somewhere here. Even if they bite his throat cursing parent-abandoner, claw his chest—just once. Once more, hold living children.
His prayer-laden letters flew strong toward the blue winter sky.
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