Chapter 239
Chapter 239
Chapter 239
Translator: True Detective
Chapter 239 – This Boy Has the Eyes of a Saint
The morning sunlight slanted across the surface of the sea, shimmering with a silver halo.
Each time the ship’s hull cut through the waves, that halo trembled slightly, as though the ocean itself was breathing.
The sea breeze carried a chill that even the sunlight could not dispel.
On the second deck of this fairly large merchant ship bound for Lilorom City, the wooden furniture and ornaments looked delicate and cozy. Viscount Francis sat at the dining table, in front of him a brocade tablecloth was spread out, silver cutlery neatly arranged.
The middle-aged man wore a dark gray suit, with gold-thread embroidery of his family’s crest. Though his gaze carried a trace of fatigue, his immaculate appearance still exuded dignity and elegance. His long fingers still bore faint marks of once wielding a sword.
He gently lifted a forkful of smoked salmon, placed it in his mouth, and while chewing, his brows remained slightly furrowed.
It was not because the chef’s skills had failed today.
Sigh, this year the Imperial Capital will be hard to deal with.
He sighed inwardly but did not speak it aloud.
The Protos Empire had seventeen provinces.
Lilorom City lay in the remote southwest province, already one of the poorest, and if not for its coastal location, it would be little more than a fortress town hidden in the forest.
Now the Protos Empire stood on the brink of war with the Aetherthalan Kingdom and its allied nations to the northwest. A full-scale northern continental war could erupt at any time, needing only a spark to ignite a century’s blaze.
Though for southern hinterland cities like theirs, the flames of war might not reach this far, once it began, conscription, taxes, and all such burdens would be crushing for small, remote territories like theirs.
Worse still, the empire’s most absurd decision was to recruit the Resurrection Church.
To conspire with a tiger may seem, in the eyes of those in power in the capital, a clever move—keeping the beast close for intimidation. It indeed instilled great fear in the northern nations. But for common folk, it was undoubtedly a disaster.
Even border cities like theirs felt unsettled with Resurrection cultists roaming the streets.
At that moment, a knock at the door broke Viscount Francis’s train of thought.
“Is there any arrangement this morning?”
At his words, a young man dressed like a commander walked in slowly. He was Francis’s secretary and also his bodyguard.
“Viscount, that guest has woken up.”
The secretary’s calm voice reported.
Francis slowly swallowed the food in his mouth, nodded, and said,“Good. I understand. Prepare some light tea and fruit to be sent to his cabin. I’ll come by shortly.”
For someone who had survived a shipwreck and likely had gone long without eating, it was best to begin with fruit, vegetables, and water before heavier food.
Recently, magical storms had been raging across the sea, forcing imperial passenger and merchant ships to halt their southern routes.
The closer one sailed toward the central sea between the northern and southern continents, the more frequent the disasters became.
According to imperial investigation reports, disaster scholars generally believed it was because two terrifying beings had fought to the death in the southern seas. Their uncontrolled clash of magical power had stirred violent magical waves, worsening the natural magical disasters.
“Yes, my lord.”
The secretary bowed slightly and left the dining room.
Not long after, Francis finished his breakfast. He set down his cutlery, dabbed his lips with a napkin, straightened his tie, and rose, leaning on his cane.
Originally, this trip east to visit old friends in a major port city and conduct some business had been nothing unusual. But now, there was a small twist of fate.
Last night, during the raging storm, giant waves had threatened to swallow their merchant ship again and again. But for these seasoned sailors, such weather was not uncommon.
Suddenly, a loud “thud—” echoed across the night, piercing through the roar of the storm.
The experienced crew could tell immediately from the sound—it was wood that had struck.
Peering down, they spotted a fragment of a ship’s hull. But astonishingly, clinging to it was a boy.
This boy, appearing around seventeen or eighteen, seemed like fortune’s favored child, firmly gripping the floating timber as the current carried him. Miraculously, he drifted right beside their merchant vessel.
Even more incredible, the impact had not harmed him at all, as though some power of force magic had guided him to the ship.
The sailors braved the storm to pull the boy aboard.
Viscount Francis immediately ordered the ship’s doctor to treat the boy’s wounds and care for him as best they could.
The boy’s brown hair was smooth like silk, and his attire was unusual, as though he came from a faraway land.
Normally, they should not have rescued someone of unknown identity.
At this turbulent time in the Protos Empire, one could easily be branded “cultist” or “traitor.”
But Viscount Francis had always trusted in the guidance of the Goddess of Fate, and in the principle that good and evil reap what they sow. At least, until this boy’s identity was certain, Francis would not harm him.
Sigh, if in two years life here truly becomes unbearable, I’ll take Zestira to the southern continent. At least there they won’t foolishly brand the Goddess of Fate’s church as heresy.
Francis sighed as he looked out at the storm-tossed sea.
His daughter had long suffered prejudice in the empire because of her demonic traits. If worst came to worst, he could abandon their noble status and start anew in the south.
Even though few nations there treated demons as equals, at least unlike the Protos Empire, simply concealing demonic features was not a capital crime.
He walked to the door, pulled open the heavy cabin door, and stepped into the red-carpeted corridor lit by whale-oil lamps. The flickering light gave one the warmth of home, even at sea.
His steps were steady, but his mind was still occupied.
Finally, he arrived at the guest’s room, where the secretary waited. After a brief word, Francis nodded, then knocked.
“Come in.”
A gentle voice answered. Francis opened the door and entered.
The room was simple yet well-furnished, carrying the mixed scent of seawater and damp wood.
There, a brown-haired youth sat at the bedside. His striking green eyes caught attention at once. A bandage covered his left eye, more bandages peeked from his black suit sleeves, wrapping from wrist to elbow, and more wound around his chest.
His magical strength seemed only at first tier.
He did not look like a seasoned warrior, his skin delicate.
And yet his vitality was astonishing—despite such mortal wounds, he had clung to life.
The secretary had said that at first the boy’s language was incomprehensible, but he carried a translation magic card, and so communication soon became possible.
Though Francis had yet to speak with him, the very first glance at the boy convinced him—
He was not a bad person.
For his gaze was clear, naturally carrying compassion and contemplation, yet none of it was for himself.
It was only for the suffering of all beings.
That was the gaze of a saint.
(End of Chapter)