Chapter 216
Chapter 216
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 216
Chapter Title: Letters to the Wind Mage (6)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
“Professor, your face looks terrible.”
“You look half-dead yourself, Ottoman.”
“The self-loathing... it just won’t stop.”
.
.
.
.
Haaaaah—
Huuuuh—
Groooaaan....
It was late lunchtime. Following Astrad’s guidance to the cafeteria, the Professor spotted Ottoman and Borca with their heads buried on the table.
It wasn’t hard to figure out why the place was empty.
Kwarung!
Shwaaaaa!
A storm was raging outside. A quick glance revealed robes flapping wildly amid a ferocious typhoon fierce enough to hurl small rocks through the air.
‘They’re really having a blast out there.’
“Still, how did you manage to pull it off, Ottoman? In this bone-dry rocky wasteland without a drop of water. Are you just tired?”
“It’s not exhaustion... it’s just... this crushing self-loathing....”
The Professor nodded toward the outside, prompting Ottoman to let out a sigh that seemed to cave the earth and bury his face in his hands.
“As you said, it’s an area with barely any moisture. Notum’s spells don’t create water—they just borrow natural forces to shift rain clouds. In a completely parched zone like this, it’s impossible. Even limiting it to localized rain for their games—mere mist-level stuff—was no easy feat. I had to scrape together every last drop of available water.”
“You’re complaining, but it sounds like you nailed it. Was the aquifer shallower than expected? Or maybe a misty ravine nearby?”
Urrrrung!
Gazing out at the thunderous storm, the Professor couldn’t help but admire Ottoman’s prowess. Sure, whipping up winds like a maniac could force air currents into a storm eventually, but that crucial starting catalyst had come from Ottoman’s own hands.
Rattle! Flap—
A savage gust blew the window open, rain splattering in, and Ottoman flinched away in horror.
“I told you. I squeezed out every ‘available’ and ‘unavailable’ drop. No matter what I did, water wouldn’t gather, and those lunatics were starting to mutter, ‘Is this guy a fake mage?’ I was desperate. Desperate....”
For a moment, Ottoman’s eyes gleamed through his fingers like a man who’d stared into some Cthulhu mythos horror—someone who’d glimpsed an unspeakable truth.
“You know how any inhabited place has some discarded water around? Back then... all I could think was surviving those maniacs ready to tear me apart. And so, I discovered water even there. Aaaaaah....”
“Discarded water... huh?”
To drive the point home for the still-clueless Professor, Ottoman pointed right at the source of the storm’s catalyst in this arid hellhole.
The Professor’s lower belly.
A horrific realization twisted the Professor’s face.
“No way... that...!”
“Aaaaaah, you can’t possibly understand that sensation. Diving into a banquet of filth and sewage pooled in some dank crevice beneath this building! The imagery I conjured to draw water from there... Aaaaaah! For the first time in my life, I felt shame at being a water mage!”
Like Ottoman, the Professor scooted to the opposite side of the open window.
So the raging storm outside was purified sewage. A shitstorm, literally. No wonder it hit hard mentally.
Ottoman shoved his untouched jerky forward with a mournful look. On closer inspection, neither he nor Borca had touched their meals.
“Why’s Borca looking so down?”
“He’s been through the wringer too.”
“Huh? What’s a werewolf got to do here?”
The Professor shot him a quizzical glance, but Borca just turned his head away, as if he didn’t want to talk. Ottoman explained instead.
“Surprisingly, he stuck around longer than us. As you know, this place crams every fantasy those wanderers have about a ‘home.’”
“Yeah.”
“The issue was Borca shifting to wolf form at the request of a young mage. Half the ones hounding me to hurry up with the rain latched onto him instead. Said they’d always wanted a dog at home.”
“A dog? Like a pet?”
Bang!
“That’s right! A pet!”
At the trigger word, Borca—who’d been quietly seething—slammed the table.
“Treating a proud forest clansman like a dog? The ultimate insult! And these people, of all folks, should be furthest from worldly prejudices! They did it with pure, heartfelt sincerity—calling me a ‘dog’ from the bottom of their souls! Grrrrr! Kuugh!”
Whoa. This one’s no joke either. While Ottoman overflowed with pure love for water and had to dredge up decades of filth from a cesspool valley, Borca got pampered until his racial pride was ground to dust. In real-world terms, it was like clueless kids swarming a black guy yelling, “Wow! Blackie! Uncle, I love cotton too!”
“If it weren’t for the mission—if I could ignore the mission, if I didn’t owe these letter mages my life... I’d rip out their eyeballs, cut out their tongues, string ’em into a necklace—”
“Got it, got it. You’ve suffered too, Borca. Eat something and pull yourself together. At least the food here’s decent.”
“I already ate. What those ‘dog lovers’ prepared. They fiercely debated whether raw or kibble was healthier for the pet....”
Thud.
The Professor instinctively placed a hand on Borca’s shoulder. The werewolf was on the verge of tears.
“A horrific place.”
“Truly horrific.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Grrrr....”
Beneath the chill autumn gale, under skies where mages cackled and soared, the three men exchanged heated glances. A unique camaraderie overflowed among them, like soldiers who’d survived the same battlefield horrors.
Let’s see.
So these three guys were the Losers’ Club.
“Oh my! Yggdrasil! What’s that?”
“A gift from Alneka. She said it was from long ago, when mingling with the world tree’s branches. She thought I’d need it more now that I’ve left the forest and things are tough. Contrary to the rumors, she was so refined and elegant. Her tea was exquisite.”
“Hohoho! Right? I was flustered when all these mages swarmed me at first, but they’re such nice people! I got introduced to some fine nobles. To keep ties with high wind mages this long, their patience must be saintly. The more good connections, the better. Lots said they’d come to the engagement party. You know? They’ve got warm baths full of hot water, and evenings where mages gather to play music! Let’s go sometime, together!”
“Not a bad idea, Lucilla. Notum, did you enjoy it too?”
“Right, pointy-ears. Grrk. Wind-folk fun. Magic like shamanism in spots. Lots to learn both ways.”
That side was the Winners’ Club.
Unlike this lot—mired in sludge-pumping gloom and monster treatment while choking down dog chow—the three women looked thoroughly pleased.
Envy bubbled up watching their radiant, giggling approach.
“Hello, hero! Ottoman, Borca! Why the long faces?”
“...You don’t wanna know.”
“Not table talk. Eat up.”
“Hmm, judging by the vibe, it wasn’t all great. Where’s Aldritch?”
“That guy had business and went off alone. Looked off... but probably nothing. Last I saw, he was clutching a stack of parchment.”
Parchment, huh. Aldritch must’ve gone to send letters. Makes sense—he’s from the Empire, so he’s got connections.
And so, the six minus Aldritch gathered at the table. Polar opposite moods, but they’d all gleaned something about this place.
“Now then, time to hear from you, Professor—the most important part. Don’t tell me we busted our asses charming those weirdos for nothing.”
“What happens to us now? The hot air balloon? Can we head to the elf forest?”
Borca and Ottoman stared with venomous glares screaming, ‘Never again—let’s bail ASAP.’
“Haaaaah....”
“No sighing. Makes us nervous.”
“Well... sorry to disappoint.”
Sadly, his answer dashed their hopes.
“For now, the balloon can’t launch.”
“Why!”
“Grrrr! How!”
“Mutes. Mutes.”
“Mutes? Like the borderlands raid?”
“Not quite... things are going south. Not raids—permanent garrison.”
“Where?”
At Ottoman’s panicked voice, the Professor pointed upward.
“There. Small bird-type Mutes patrolling the skies nonstop. Every evening with the chill winds, they cull whatever shows up, but they keep coming endlessly. Not huge numbers, not strong fighters, but they respawn the second you look away. As long as they’re watching, no balloon to the elf forest. Risk of the evil god spotting the world tree.”
“Damn....”
Low groans rippled across the table.
“Isn’t the sky the wind mages’ domain? Especially near this archmage’s legacy—everyone’s magic should be twice as potent.”
“Yeah. They wipe ’em out whenever spotted. ‘No bird shit on the house’—they’re all in. Astrad says they nab 400-500 a day, but come next morning, they’re back like clockwork.”
“Hmm... regular, endless waves....”
“Nest, right?”
“That’s my thought. Some Chamber Maid’s nested nearby, cranking out these bird Mutes.”
1st grade, Chamber Maid (household drudge). Nest, nanny—proxy mother Mute type.
The others, save Yggdrasil and Lucilla, had tangled with one before, so they quickly deduced it.
After Ottoman’s quick nest rundown, Lucilla chimed in brightly.
“Then the fix is simple, right? Smash the nest, mop up stragglers, and balloons fly again. Even mages can’t ignore economics.”
“Lucilla, you didn’t see, but nests crawl with tough Mutes. Last infiltration—”
“Aaah, no, Ottoman. We’ve leveled up since. Smashing one nest? No biggie now. That’s not the issue. The issue is....”
The Professor raised his fork, pointing out the cafeteria’s vast expanse. Beyond the storm and flying mages stretched endless rocky ravines.
“You think we know which crevice it’s in to go trash it?”
“Ah.”
“...Crap.”
The group followed his gaze outside. Bleak rock valleys stretched forever—a natural labyrinth like copy-pasted terrain.
“Phaaa....”
Scraping his bread with the fork in frustration, the Professor finally spoke.
“Yeah, this mission’s search-and-destroy focused. Gotta comb every dry crack, lop off that Chamber Maid’s head for our world tree balloon tickets.”
“Sounds insanely time-consuming....”
Nods all around.
“Blind rush? By the time Eastern Three Nations fall and Empire’s seriously pondering tribute trade with Mutes. Not about succeeding—about speed.”
Finding an enemy outpost in a Grand Canyon-scale rock zone. A Chamber Maid needs minimal space—like a bell tower’s top room—to root and produce.
‘And no clue how many. 400-500 daily? One Maid handles that easy with expanded artificial wombs in a big base. But it’s only been 4 months—won’t be that scale. Multiple small nests. Mid-size: two. Small: up to five.’
Lordric needed reinforcements yesterday—time’s not on their side.
“S-so what do we do? We’ve got some spare cash—hire help to boost search teams....”
“Won’t cut it. Rabble get shredded silently by 4th-graders. I agree on more searchers, but....”
Quests always had a loophole. This one flaunted it outright.
Here’s where the Professor’s dilemma kicked in.
“Not regular searchers—special ones...?”
“Well, obviously—”
Crash!
Thud! Clatter—
Splat!
“Heeheehee! Slipped! Hihi! Hi, guests! Thanks for the rain! Floor’s clean—scoop and eat!”
Squeeee!
“...That’s who you mean.”
The answer was obvious, but oh so loathsome.
The Professor pointed at the missile-like flier who’d crashed the table, upended it all, then breezed off.
“They say wind’s everywhere and nowhere. Wind mages are unmatched scouting masters. We need their help.”
“Uh... think those types help just ’cause we ask? So... footloose and fancy-free?”
“That’s why we butter ’em up right. Like today.”
At the Professor’s words, Ottoman and Borca’s faces crumpled like crumpled paper.
****