Chapter 1015 — Manifestation

This cold winter was already half over, and for those living in the borderlands, the days had grown harder and harder.

Gesong Town was a wealthy and bustling place — at least it had been until this winter. Sitting near Winter Fort, it was one of the hubs on the road from Typhon's interior to the several trading fairs along the border; even before the so-called "transnational trade" arose, this place had been an important stop where merchants gathered.

Merchants coming and going from north and south brought considerable income; the traders made the town flourish, and after trade was opened, those sharp-nosed clever men turned the place into a land of flowing gold within a year or two, even lending it the air of a city in the making. And yet... the good days did not last long.

War broke out.

Though the fighting had not yet reached here, that prosperous scene was gone for good. Cross-border trade had stopped, merchants kept well away from this trouble spot, the key transport hubs had been requisitioned by the Empire, and the carts laden with coin and goods had been replaced by war machines and troops that ran day and night. The locals who had once made their living off passing traders now had no choice but to be "idle."

Simpson, the innkeeper, sat leaning back by the window, gloomily polishing a brass pipe in his hand. The pipe had long since run out of tobacco; its gleaming bowl turned in his fingers like a plaything. A film of moisture had condensed on the crystal-glass window beside him, blurring the street outside. The wind howled past the alleys and rattled the panes, and a little chill crept in through the imperfectly sealed cracks, making this middle-aged man, already thinning on top, shrink his neck again.

He looked up. Only a scattered few people sat idling in the inn's lobby — the town's inns were all much the same in layout; the ground-floor lobby served drink and snacks as well as receiving guests, but since this damned war broke out, about all he could sell anymore was watered-down spirits and hard, coarse cakes.

A stubbled middle-aged man sat at the table nearest him, looking one step away from dead drunk. Several empty bottles stood before him, and the pungent smell of cheap ale seeped from his filthy coat, mingled with a number of other suspicious odors.

Simpson frowned and shouted over at him: "Saville! You've had enough for today!"

The stubbled man had all but collapsed onto the table; at the shout he merely waved a hand vaguely, without even lifting his head.

Simpson shook his head, feeling he had done his duty as a "good citizen," and bent back to polishing his brass pipe — but a rhythmic sound of footsteps came suddenly from the side, making the innkeeper look up again.

His drowsy, impatient expression quickly faded, replaced by a faint smile. He saw a beautiful lady in a dark cloak over winter hunting garb about to pass along the side corridor. Her brilliant golden hair seemed to warm even this wretched winter a little, and a pair of pointed ears peeking from beneath the gold reminded onlookers of her origins.

"Mistress Sojilin, you're going out?" Simpson asked with a smile. "It's hardly fine weather out there..."

"I leave this afternoon," said the elven huntress called Mistress Sojilin, her voice carrying a faint androgynous resonance. "I thought I'd take advantage of the weather before it turns worse and see whether I can hire a carriage to the mountain pass..."

"You're leaving?" Simpson could not hide his dismay — though most of that dismay was economic. Since this damned war began, few travelers stopped here anymore, and a huntress who took no part in the war was an extremely valuable "quality guest" in times like these: she took a better room, wanted fine food and drink, was not coarse and troublesome like the soldiers passing through, and above all never fell behind on her rent... Measured in coin, this elven huntress staying here was worth far more than twelve Savilles drunk senseless.

"I'm only passing through, after all. My people are waiting for me," Sojilin said lightly, with a glance toward the door. Her elven identity was excellent cover here, for the elven outpost that maintained the Great Wall lay near Typhon's northwestern border; an elf traveling abroad appearing in this region was only natural. So long as she was careful and did not provoke the mages' sentinels and administrators in the big cities, "she" could slip easily into loosely governed border settlements like Gesong Town.

But that was no reason to relax her guard: as the battlefield drew closer to Winter Fort itself, tensions in the region were escalating. The great aerial battle three days ago had cast a profound influence over the whole course of the war; the entire Winter Fort region was turning into a front line. Typhon's intelligence agents and the security forces under the Count of Winter Fort seemed to have caught a scent and were frequently screening travelers — and she... had lingered here long enough.

The necessary intelligence had been sent out; the rangers operating inside and outside the city and the intelligence officers needing cover had all been withdrawn in batches. This place could no longer be stayed in.

"Well, I suppose you're right," Simpson said with a helpless shrug. "You should go back to your people. This crude, bloody war is no place for an elegant elven lady like you..."

Sojilin only smiled at the innkeeper's words and did not correct the error in his understanding — many humans seemed to hold this misconception, believing the elves to be an elegant, war-weary race, and that when the human world broke out in its various "ugly" wars, the beautiful elves would hide away in their Arcadian forests singing of peace and nature... This misunderstanding was especially severe in the northern regions.

In truth, however, the elven ranger corps was one of the most formidable fighting forces in the world. The Silver Empire had once carved out its vast territory by war; the Ancestral Jungle had known countless crude and bloody tribes, and the silver elves had not made those voodoo tribes sing and dance through art and music... But there was no need to explain such minutiae to a human who ran an inn near the border.

"She" merely nodded to Simpson and was about to leave, but before taking a step a sour odor drifted over from the side, making "her" stop and glance toward its source — the dead-drunk Saville had fallen asleep on the table, muttering indistinct curses in his dreams.

"He seems to have been here all these days," Sojilin remarked casually. "An acquaintance of yours, I take it?"

"Ah... poor Saville. I suppose we're on some terms," Simpson said, glancing at the table opposite and shaking his head with a sigh. "He used to run an inn too, at the other end of town. But those rich merchants coming and going turned his head, and unrealistic fantasies did him in. He borrowed a great sum, even mortgaged his own inn, to buy the use of three carriages and a franchise license... just this winter."

Listening to Simpson's sympathetic account, Sojilin could not help glancing again at the man sprawled in drunkenness.

The war's destructive power beyond the battlefield grew more evident by the day; Saville, slumped among the bottles, was only one small reflection of it.

"She" shook her head and said, as if to herself, "I hope this war ends soon."

"If that could happen, I'd thank the gods," Simpson could not help saying. He touched the fingers that had just been polishing the brass pipe to his chest a few times in a gesture of prayer. "Who knows when these wretched days will ever end..."

Sojilin made no further reply to the innkeeper. "She" drew up her hood, tightened the cords, and turned toward the lobby exit.