The Wind's Gathering Place (1) — The Closing of the Chapter
The steppe does not ask you which road to take. You can go anywhere here.
“Almost there, Vesta.”
The youth called Vesta furrowed his brow at the man’s words.
“There’s nothing around us to see for that.”
It was exactly as the boy said. Not a single building, not even a tree in sight.
Nothing but endless grassland, a true wilderness stretching in all directions.
“Just grass. Is this really the elves’ land?”
“Hmph. How impertinent of my student to doubt his master. Have I ever been wrong about the elves?”
*Tsst.*
Vesta clicked his tongue in irritation, but he could not refute the man’s statement.
After all, the scholar was an expert—perhaps the foremost expert—on the elves, and especially on the steppe elves.
*Insane human.*
The master was a madman.
He despised humans even as a human himself, yet harbored a vague, obsessive longing for elves.
In short, he was a man who should never have been born human.
“Indeed. If we pass through here, we should encounter the steppe elves.”
A spark of madness gleamed in his eyes. If the elves saw him, they would surely mistake him for one of their own hunters.
*How different could it be?*
In the vast Empire, countless men pursued international marriages. But few, if any, dreamed of one with an elf the way this master did.
Honestly, he was sick.
“Even if we meet them, will the situation turn out well?”
*As long as they don’t kill us, that would be fine.*
“Nomads don’t treat guests harshly. They aren’t orcs, and we’re not slaves.”
The master smiled wryly at Vesta.
“And I’m here. Among humans, who speaks the elven tongue as fluently as I?”
The scholar was undeniably an excellent elven speaker. He had poured countless hours into mastering the language, as if it were the most superior of tongues.
*Even now, he’s speaking elven.*
The master refused to use human speech even in daily life, as though elven were the only worthy language left in the world.
Because of that odd habit, Vesta had been forced to learn elven as well.
He could still remember the day it began.
[Shall we begin?]
[?]
Back then, Vesta had felt nothing but bewilderment—and a strange sense of facing something utterly unknown.
*Even if they accept you, there are limits.*
“First, we should be cautious, but considering their culture…”
“Why did you stop speaking?”
“Look there.”
When Vesta turned his gaze in the direction the master indicated, a group was approaching on horseback. The dust obscured details, but the riders had the unmistakable air of Empire men—yet something far more traditional, far more wild.
“Elves. Steppes elves!”
The master shouted the word in elven with pure delight.
Riders approaching like that, and the man reacting this way.
What sorcery could turn a human being into such a monster?
Vesta was once again fed up with this scholar.
Unlike his master, the youth remained tightly on edge.
Vesta had never held a particular interest in elves. He had simply been an orphan with nowhere to go, and the master had taken him in, calling him “student” and bringing him along.
[What should I call you now? Hmm… being a widower isn’t great. If I remarry with kids attached, it’ll be a mark against me. Wait—do elves dislike widowers too?]
[Well, anyway.]
[Kid. From now on, call me Master.]
Most Empire men would fear steppe elves. They were the conquerors of the wild plains—born riders who had spent their entire lives galloping across the grasslands like living beasts of prey.
Vesta watched the distant riders, arrows already nocked, and his expression twisted.
Something was going wrong.
“…Master. Something feels off.”
“Elves… elves…”
*Wrong.*
The language wasn’t working.
“That’s not an elf.”
Vesta’s face drained of all color.
“Master! They’re not elves!”
They were riding sleek, long-haired steeds clad in tough leather, a proud people. Most people would think of steppe elves at once. But there was one more race living on the grasslands.
“Orks! Orks!”
“Huh?”
“Mounted orks, what do we do…”
Orks.
In books and legends they were the eternal punchline, the buffoonish target of endless ridicule. In reality, the situation was far grimmer.
They were warriors who knew how to fight. And not just any warriors—human-level warriors.
They possessed the capacity for true warfare.
Especially the steppe orks. There was no exaggeration in saying their danger level was absolute.
Strictly speaking, they were not nomads. They did not herd sheep or drink goat’s milk. They lived only by taking.
If there was one purely predatory race in this world, it was them.
They tamed wild horses to ride, used wolf-like creatures of the plains as hunting dogs.
A cursed people who drank blood instead of milk.
Even if they tried to flee with the master, the situation was already hopeless. The orks were closing in far too fast.
Vesta gritted his teeth and prepared to fight.
The orks grinned with lips curled back.
“Uuruuruuuruuuriaaa!”
The orks roared. The sound was so guttural that any normal man would have fallen to his knees in terror. It resembled the howl of a beast.
*Six of them.*
With just Vesta and the master, the odds were impossible. Common bandits they might have managed, but these were all mounted cavalry.
No matter how he looked at it, victory was impossible.
*How did the orks treat captives again?*
Perhaps surrender was the wiser choice. Would they really eat them?
“Uuruuruuuruuuruuuriaaaaa!”
*Probably.*
Vesta revised his plan. If captured, he might end up stewed into soup.
He had no idea the master’s stubbornness would bring them to this.
“Are you ready to fight?”
Vesta asked the sweating master.
No answer. Had he fallen into panic?
“Master?”
He stared blankly in another direction.
“…Elves.”
Again with that elf nonsense. Vesta frowned.
“Elves! Elves! Not now!”
The master ignored Vesta’s outburst completely and merely raised a finger, pointing the way he had been looking.
By now, Vesta had begun to sense something amiss.
When he turned his head,
the sight before him was exactly as his master had described—except somehow far more terrifying.
“Ah…”
How could anyone mistake such beings for orks?
They charged across the grasslands with unyielding dignity, long hair whipping like horse manes, as if trailing comets.
They were women riding as if the very wind itself followed them.
“That’s… elves.”
When the women appeared, the orks could no longer hide their confusion. Their movements grew frantic, like foxes spotting an eagle’s shadow.
Their panic reached its peak when the elves began loosing arrows.
The orks howled and scattered like prey animals.
Vesta recalled one fact from the past.
The Empire’s army that once marched to conquer the grasslands had met its end in exactly this manner.
*Thwip.*
Arrows whispered through the wind, drawing blood.
They were savage.
*Whoosh!*
In an instant, the orks pierced by arrows tumbled across the grassland floor.
Horses reared and spun in circles, creating a thick veil of dust.
One ork bared its fangs and let out a pained cry.
Coincidence or not, Vesta’s eyes met one of them.
*Whoosh—*
“Urgar.”
The eyes burned with killing intent. Vesta instinctively drew his weapon.
The ork yanked the reins hard, forcing its horse to sprint despite its labored breathing.
“What are you saying, you bastard?”
The moment of collision drew near. Vesta’s grip on the hilt tightened.
Right before impact, Vesta clenched his teeth—
and the ork simply passed him by.
Vesta turned in shock, but the ork had already scooped the master onto its horse.
From the very beginning, it had been aiming for the master, not him.
Vesta reached out, but the moment the ork had decided to flee, capturing its rider was impossible.
The master stretched out a hand and shouted.
“Elves—el—!”
All Vesta could do was watch his master being carried away in despair.
“What… what are you going to do with him?”
*Swish.*
Staring at the empty horse’s tail, a vast shadow fell over Vesta—large enough to cover him entirely.
“Ah…”
He was afraid to turn around. Slowly, painfully, he looked back.
Behind him stood elves on horseback, their eyes fixed upon him with an intensity that left him uneasy.
They were beautiful, yet something inhuman lingered in their gaze.
“…?”
He could not read their expressions. Vesta, growing increasingly uneasy, tried to speak in perfect elven.
Precisely, he had tried.
“I… thank you…”
A rope suddenly snaked around his neck.
*…What?*
Something was wrong.
*This feels like a noose.*
No way…
“Please release me.”
He spoke to the elf woman as pitifully as he could.
The elf answered with a bright, warm smile. Vesta smiled back along with her.
*Shhhk—*
With masterful hand movements, the woman pulled the rope. The noose tightened in an instant.
“Ah…”
The moment of absolute crisis had arrived.