Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Curse of Service 2
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Calypso was convinced that the other Herald clans would challenge Azadin and get crushed.
“Ow, smiling still makes my head hurt. Feels like I barely survived death. Huh?”
At that moment, Calypso stopped in his tracks. Ahead of him, in the drought-stricken, withered forest, he sensed an unnatural presence.
[Greetings, 106th Herald Calypso.]
An artificial spirit’s voice addressed him.
“Who are you?”
[I am Voice. Arael’s Voice.]
“Ara el’s Voice?!”
[Indeed. As you can see.]
“…….”
Calypso was stunned. The Emperor’s Voice was a powerful grand magic. It organically linked all 108 artificial spirits across the continent to manage people’s petitions, relay information, and form a unified consciousness.
Only the Emperor, with his divine powers, could create such potent magic. Until now, that is.
Yet Arael had replicated it, even if imperfectly? Even for a genius like Arael, was this possible?
“What business do you have with me?”
[I have an offer you can’t refuse.]
From the shadows of the parched forest… a single crow revealed itself.
It was possessing the crow to speak?
This mirrored the Emperor’s Voice as well. To convey messages to those outside Aragas, the Emperor’s Voice often manifested by possessing birds.
But something was off about this crow. Calypso spotted the reason immediately. A massive wound gaped on the crow’s chest, and within it, an eyeball pulsed like a heart.
*********
Azadin continued calling inwardly for the Emperor’s Voice afterward, but got no response. Growing anxious as he headed toward Salasma, he came upon a dried-up streambed.
“Man, it’s really dry. It should’ve rained by now.”
Wherever Azadin looked, the farms were struggling to draw water. The eastern inland was typically divided into the water-rich west and the drought-prone east.
Lately, with no rain in the eastern inland for a month, even the western inland was drying up.
“It wasn’t this bad when I passed through the east,” Tarky said, checking his horse. Tarky’s mount was breathing heavily, parched.
“Hmm… the water’s awfully murky.”
Azadin had stopped to water his goat, but clicked his tongue at the sight of the nearly empty streambed. It was mostly mud, with fish flopping desperately.
In the stagnant pools where the flow had stopped, massive numbers of fish were clustering, suffocating to death. Nearby farmers had gathered, scooping out crayfish and fish.
“If they keep scooping like that, they’ll wipe out the fish stocks.”
“What else can they do? They’d rot anyway if left. Better to catch and eat them now. But this drought’s gonna cause real trouble down the line.”
Even Midiam sensed how serious the drought had become.
The goat panted heavily. The Herald clans preferred Kerim goats over horses. Kerim goats had superior endurance, jumping ability, and terrain traversal compared to horses. They could climb sheer cliffs, and the wax esters from their long fur served as rust-proof oil for swords, maintenance for bows, arrows, spear shafts, and more.
But with their thick fur, Kerim goats were vulnerable to heat. In hot regions, they needed constant water. In this drying land, dragging them along was becoming impossible.
“Giving it that water would make it sick.”
“What about a well? If the riverbed’s exposed, the wells probably haven’t dried up yet.”
Azadin clicked his tongue at Ismail’s suggestion.
“We’d need permission from the villagers to use a well.”
They were Heralds, hated by the people. Originally, Heralds had deep brown skin that set them apart from other Hubris humans, but with widespread intermixing, they now resembled mixed-bloods of other races. Even Midiam, of the founding clan, looked like a northern Hubris.
“Hahaha, don’t worry about that. I’m a knight, aren’t I?”
Tarky stepped forward.
“Hey! You lowly peasant scum!”
“…….”
As Tarky started bullying the farmers, Azadin quickly removed his helmet and pulled his staff from the saddle.
“Oh no, not that again?”
Ismail grimaced. The blind pilgrim act.
“If Tarky’s causing a scene and we look fine hanging with him, they’ll lump us in as his gang. We’re just pilgrims traveling together.”
“Got it.”
Soon, Tarky returned strutting proudly.
“How’d it go? Peasants melt when a knight speaks. Tell ’em to hand over their wives, and they would.”
“You’re too much, Sir Knight.”
“Huh?”
“…We’re grateful for your protection on our pilgrimage, but treating people so roughly builds bad karma. Practice the virtue of mercy.”
“Wait, what do you…”
“I’ll handle it. Excuse me.”
Azadin approached the farmers scooping fish from the stream, leaning on his staff and feigning blindness.
“Huh? What? Oh?”
“A blind man?”
“He’s a pilgrim passing through. Mind if we use your well? The knight protecting us says he got permission, but he can be rude sometimes. I worry he caused you offense.”
“Oh, that? No big deal.”
“That knight’s the border lord’s son, right?”
“Young folks can’t help it. Didn’t feel great, but what can you do?”
“But perfect timing. We’re boiling crayfish now.”
The farmers welcomed Azadin warmly.
‘From now on, send Tarky ahead only when we need rude provocation. Or the King’s Church holy knights.’
Azadin resolved this as he followed the farmers to the village.
*********
Streamside Village was fairly large, with over 700 households. In the sparsely populated north, it could pass for a town or city, but in the dense central or southern inland, it was just a village.
Still, with so many people, the central square had permanent shops, and the trading post had crane equipment for easy loading from wagons and horses.
Dried streambeds showed facilities for river transport when waters rose.
“Come on, then. Blind and wandering how?”
“I’m a pilgrim seeking miracles, under the blessings of the Three Great Archangels.”
“So young, poor thing.”
“Handsome fellow. Lost your sight in the war?”
While Azadin chatted with the villagers, attendant Midiam and Ismail watered the goat and fed it hay. Meanwhile, the villagers boiled crayfish.
Fish could be filleted, smoked, and stored as preserved meat, but crayfish were too fiddly, so they boiled and ate them on the spot. With excess to eat immediately, people’s generosity flowed freely.
“Here, have some.”
The farmers served boiled crayfish sprinkled with wild garlic and peppercorns to Azadin’s group.
“Oh, thank you. Crayfish?”
“Yeah. Water’s so low lately.”
“They’d rot anyway. Fish for smoking, crayfish right here.”
“Crayfish festival! Dig in, everyone.”
“Thank you. Welcoming travelers so warmly—you’ll be blessed.”
Azadin graciously accepted their kindness.
“Mm.”
Midiam and Ismail sat awkwardly beside Azadin.
“Feels like scamming them.”
“Yeah. Feels familiar from last time…”
Ismail disliked the situation.
When Azadin played the blind pilgrim, villagers treated them well. In turn, Azadin felt a mental debt to them.
Proud people preferred paying money—it was cleaner. Goodwill wasn’t free.
Azadin’s approach wasn’t the Herald way. He actively engaged Hubris folk without hesitation.
Heralds hated Hubris for persecuting them, but Azadin, persecuted by his own clan, saw little difference between Hubris and Aragas.
The issue was Midiam being drawn to that approach. Ismail could tell from the sidelines that Midiam held affection for Azadin.
Because she lost the duel, raising his value preserved hers?
No.
It was Azadin’s mindset—unique, impossible in Aragas—that captivated Midiam.
‘He’s an alien element. Problem is, Midiam loves novelty.’
Ismail steeled himself, watching Azadin share crayfish with Hubris folk.
*********
Azadin’s group watered the goat with the villagers’ help, ate crayfish, and rose.
“Eat if you get hungry on the way.”
“Be careful it doesn’t spoil!”
The villagers packed boiled crayfish for Azadin.
“Well then…”
Taking the crayfish after their fine reception, Azadin crossed the streambed with his group and descended the hill path. But he halted at the sight ahead.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hold on.”
Azadin pulled a wooden box from his bosom. It held the umbilical cords of children from the slave woman who surrendered during the black magic disaster—ones he’d promised to rescue.
Besides the woman’s notes, it included info from the Korasar merchant guild. Reading it, Azadin frowned.
“This is that village.”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t realize with how much it’s grown. See?”
The 700-household village was actually two small ones that expanded and merged. New buildings amid old had connected them into one.
“That’s… close?”
“Would be. No need to haul slaves far. Let’s look.”
Azadin quickened his pace.
Even without formal slavery, buying and selling children as adoptees was common in Hubris.
Putting adopted kids to work on farms or factories from childhood to boost family income was routine.
Yet adoptees differed sharply from slaves: they had inheritance rights and weren’t subject to abuse by nominal parents.
Not that it never happened, but abusing adoptees caught the King’s Church or rescue knight orders treating it as a grave crime.
Still, adoptees faced child labor risks, but legally and institutionally, they had more protections than slaves.
Conversely, those treated as slaves had zero protection—utterly exposed.
“We can’t let that happen to children in Aragas’s name.”