Chapter 474
Chapter 474
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Last Parade (5)
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Splash
Splash—
Splash
Splash—
The vast rocky valley that spread out upon climbing the hill had become a low, rounded basin and a salt lake.
The dry wind had turned into a salty sea breeze, and the Storm Hill, no longer a hill, was now called the "Eye of the Wind."
"Looking down from this high up, it really does resemble an eye, doesn't it? A blue salt lake rippling in the center of the round, smoothly sunken basin—like an eye formed on the earth, gazing up at the sky."
"...You know quite a bit about the mages' tales. Those old stories are a far cry from the 'profitable gossip' that newsboys peddle."
"Well, sure. The news people pay for is all about what goods came in on the latest ship and how much, or which nobles slink into the back alleys."
Scraaape—
Hansen climbed down using his shoulders and arms like a rock climber, then picked up a sharp stone shard and began scraping it against a nearby rock.
"But for a newsboy with little siblings who can't sleep at night out of fear, these mysterious, useless stories are gold."
"So that's how you know so much."
"Pretty much~ Plus, us freelance newsboys get beaten up by the official ones if we hawk our wares on the busy streets. We end up working the spots everyone avoids, and somehow, that leads to chatting with the weirdest of the weird mages."
Scraaape, scritch scritch—
"Uh, um... Should I keep going with this story? Or switch to something else?"
"Keep going. It's plenty interesting."
"Got it."
From the moment we reached the hilltop, the newsboy hadn't trembled or shown fear. He must have instinctively sensed my emptiness or hollow mood. Kids are sharp at reading adults' vibes, and right now, mine didn't match a man-eating monster at all.
With the tension gone, Hansen's natural chatter kicked in like a flowing stream.
Scritch scritch, clack!
"Ta-da! It's rough, but this is what the area used to look like. Oh, you said you visited a few hundred years ago?"
"...Yeah. Well drawn."
I wondered what he was fiddling with while squatting; turns out he was scratching a picture into the rock with the stone.
A hemispherical building formed by overlapping curved pillars like giant ribs.
Gazing at the empty basin beyond the engraving of Felix Home on the rock, the absence of what was lost felt even larger.
From the boy perched on the rock flowed tales of Grand Mage Felix Drixiel and his daughter, his death and the Home's birth, letter magic, the Empire, the Saint legend, and what came after.
The moment an unfamiliar story cropped up, I pulled a water pouch from my subspace for the nonstop-talking boy.
"Do I have to drink it right here?"
"...I'll give you extra for your siblings."
"Oh, thanks. Clean water's so rare."
Gulp, gulp, aaah.
"Let's see... So the two great empires' war ended in a massive explosion that blew them both away, and Astraad, already exhausted from shielding the Home against endless airship bombings, faced that world-shattering blast too. The mages say that's when everything started going really wrong."
Hansen, wetting his throat as he spoke fluently, glanced at me then suddenly sat up straight.
No wonder he could chat with those cranky mages. He'd noticed my focus and was about to dive deeper.
"Before we go on, quick question, Mr. Mute. Do you know how wind mages are treated out in the world?"
"...Wraiths, or pilgrims."
"Ooh~ You really know your humans, sir."
Of course. Wind mages were the type who rode the magic trains most in this era.
Times change, but mana doesn't.
Wind mages still wandered aimlessly, driven by the wanderlust they absorbed with their mana.
But unlike the past, the leylines' explosion had slashed atmospheric mana, weakening spells, and wind mages could no longer fly.
Traveling the ground teeming with Mutes and raiders was suicide, and wind mages were cursed to repeat that suicide their whole lives.
Thus, [wind mana = incurable death sentence], and moreover, wind mages—unable to form families—always took one apprentice with them. Cities would bolt doors and hide kids at the sight of one, like a child snatcher had appeared.
Hence, wraiths: carrying wind mana that forced them to leave safe fortress cities for barren deathlands.
Hence, pilgrims: journeying to the one home ordained for them in the world, the sole sanctuary, Felix Home.
In this era, Felix Home was the only place wind mages could rest, magically and socially.
"So that's why a mage of Astraad's caliber obsessed over maintaining the Home."
"It's why they revere him so. Before he vanished, he was 8th Circle, an 8th Circle. My god, that's on par with Grand Mage Felix Drixiel himself."
"Impressive."
"Not just impressive! He was stuck at the Home, unable to roam and exchange knowledge with other scholars, yet reached that level through self-study! For someone with wind mana symbolizing 'freedom,' staying put for ages to become one of history's only two 8th Circle wind mages—it's a miracle, a miracle!"
"So they call him the 'Settled Wind Mage' out of respect. Unlike other winds that exist everywhere and flow freely, he circled one spot. Yet he became vaster than any wind in the world, ruling it from his seat—like the origin of endless wind. Mage Astraad Dylan Delhast is the sole wind mage who reached the end of wandering."
"...I see."
The kid had lived diligently in places I didn't know.
As a child, the cute, tragic Astraad who became the Home's pillar young.
In youth, the reliable mage overseeing Storm Hill and wind mage affairs, the leader who protected his embattled hometown by force.
In old age, always unchanging, holding that post.
Wanderer-born wind mages can't form proper families.
So they cherish the longest stay in their wind mage lives—the Home's people—as family.
Staying weeks to years, they fill the void then wander again.
"Amazing, right? Other mages grit it out, but wanderlust hits after five years max. Astraad lived there till 135! How? Mage talent?"
"...Or a gift from someone."
Like a master or father who turned all his dreams into humble miracles at death's door.
Kid, thanks to that, he held his beloved hometown for 120 years—lucky? Or stayed that long, guarding the hill his whole life, leaving no grave—unlucky?
'Lucky... I guess?'
His diligent life and death have countless 'children' rioting to find their vanished 'father.'
Those buildings crammed around the basin cradling the salt lake—chaotic, but all for magic research. Each cost a fortune, too much for possession-less wind mages.
'Come to think, High Priestess Heila's friend, Gora the mage, was in the capital earning cash post-Home evaporation.'
Home gone wholesale, wind mages—already penniless wanderers—were broke. Selling cherished necklace, ring, pendant mementos as home substitutes. Taking jobs as mercenaries, court mages, noble advisors, even hawking [Intro to Wind Magic], [4th Circle Wind Mage-Carved Four-Hole Staff] to fund facilities and manpower searching for lost Home and Astraad.
All for that one home and man that became their hometown.
They claim 'Missing, not dead!', 'No mana left, but wind remains! I feel it!' But 60+ years since Storm Hill vanished, they don't truly believe he's alive. Just 60 years too short to accept it.
****
Old memories end here. Too many pasts mean endless reminiscing.
Tidy up, do what needs doing, move forward.
Rustle—
"Oh, leaving already?"
"Going down first for a bit."
One word—"down"—and fear, anxiety, joy, relief, regret, greed flashed across the boy's face. So colorful.
"Uh... You said earlier if Mr. Mute touches Astraad's legacy even a hair, they'll grind you to dust..."
"The lord permitted it in his name. It's a deal, not a favor, so I'll take my due."
"If I didn't explain enough how obsessed and crazy the wind mages are about that clearing, give me three minutes for prime wind mage horror stories. They're not mages—they're lunatics! If their eyes roll back, even the emperor headbutting won't faze 'em!"
"It's fine. If they charge to grind me, I'll let them try. Might cause a ruckus, so wait here."
"Wha—hey! Sir! Mr. Mute!"
Swoosh!
There were weathered natural steps nearby, but mismatched for my stride, so I leaped straight down the steep basin.
"Far off, it was dizzying... Up close, it's a real spectacle."
Nearing the central salt lake, bizarre, purposeless buildings and devices proliferated. Telescopes studded with lenses everywhere, mobile carriages packed with classic mage lab gear, even magitech contraptions. Fist-sized gems on dust-caked, rusting gear; others showed recent maintenance.
"Monster. I hate people who ignore warnings."
Swoosh!
"And I don't invite hated folk home."
While touring the lab equipment forest, wind blades had draped over my neck.
The old mage from the gate.
"...Your house is a mess. Can't clean up?"
"Can't. The Home isn't just mine."
Crunch—
Wind blades dig into skin. This guy really brushes off the lord's request.
"Gonna kill me?"
"Ah, I know your tale. Ancient monster. Red Mute. Tied to Storm Hill? During the Mute species war, you raided, snapped two pillars? Barely escaped shredded, and now Home's gone, so here for 200-year grudge? Think we're weak? 'Paying respects to Astraad' means that, right!!!"
No wonder these impulsive wind mages were extra hostile. They mistook me for grudge-settling.
"Grudge, huh."
Old me would've sweet-talked: 'Big misunderstanding. As such-and-such, I've long admired Astraad, learned human hearts...' to bake the opponent soft.
"Now then."
Crack, creeeak!
"Wh-what. 4th Circle Severing Magic barehanded..."
Now, no need to sweat it.
"If you don't want gate events here, stay put."
"If even a hair of his legacy's harmed, I swear every wind in the world chases you to death! Kill me, and the news rides the wind—"
"Well said. I'm just returning a breeze borrowed from an old foe."
Flutter—
To the anxious old mage fearing my rampage, I showed a small letter from subspace.
Lip-reading 'bullshit' starting, he gawked at the paper.
"That's..."
"You recognize it. Grand Mage Astraad Villon Delhast, hand-sent in his youth."
"Hngh!"
Three things at once.
Mage's venomous eyes bulged like startled goldfish,
Wind-gathering staff for next attack dropped, freed wind bursting skyward—pop!—
"G-Give! Gimme that!"
The elder screaming 'monster, die, grind you' moments ago clung to my arm, pleading like to a family kidnapper.
"...No shame?"
"Don't care! Shame died 25 years ago at Benson House victory bash, paid 400k reals for pink tornado! G-Gimme! I'll treasure it!"
"Valuable to me too."
"Sorry! So sorry! Forgive me, sir! Just once—no, month, year loan! If Astraad's handwriting, sent via letter magic when magic lived, his wind lingers!"
"...Let go."
"C-Can't! Till you give!"
Heavens. Astraad spent 120 years coaxing these into seeming fine citizens.
"Fine. Here."
"R-Really! Thanks! You're the best monster! Heh heh hee hee hee!"
"Not yet. Got something to try."
"Aaaaah..."
He floated on wind, unshakeable despite arm-waving, so I walked to the central salt lake with the old mage dangling.
"Gonna send the letter."
"Send... Oh?!"
"Yeah. I sense mana too. Might as well try while here."
"Ooooh...!"
Grand Mage Astraad's handwritten letter, mana lingering.
Buildings gone, but wind mages feel inexplicable pull here.
No real goal. Just wanted to.
"Remember: Incantation's 'Carry on the wind.' Language differs now from 200 years ago—tone, inflection—so raise the 'carry' part like—"
"I lived that era, mage."
Facing the salt lake, letter in hand, I spoke.
Suuuuck—
Fwoooo.
Kinda tense.
"Carry on the wind."
—Gulp.
Tense mage swallows.
Salt lake ripples.
Then, faint breeze tugs letter corner.
"I-It moved!"
The paper twitched on my huge palm, as if to fly or not.
****