Chapter 11
As evening fell, instead of a brilliant sunset, the sky was a somber, leaden gray, dark and oppressive. In the damp air, a storm was brewing.
Veris appeared at the gate of Albion and headed straight for the Mercenary Guild.
Nelson sat in the front hall, his calm face revealing no sign of anxiety, only the repeated rubbing of his thumb and forefinger hinting at his restless heart.
A storm was approaching, and the weather could change in an instant. After returning here, the mercenaries quickly went to their rooms. At this time, only Nelson and the receptionist in charge of registration and reception were in the lobby of the Mercenary Guild.
When Veris entered, a visibly relaxed expression appeared on his face. The bard, not intending to keep him in suspense, nodded to Nelson, then went over and picked up his things.
“Are you sure? Should we go check again…” Nelson’s expression wasn’t good, but he still asked Veris if they should go and compare Arnold’s footprints again.
“No need, I’m sure it’s him,” Veris said, glancing outside. “I’m going back now. Let’s wait for news from the church.”
After all, they weren't the only ones investigating the Amberley monster riot; in fact, the church's personnel were the main force.
After rolling up the dried manuscript and putting it into his small bag, Veris walked out of the Mercenary Association, his pace quicker than usual. He could already hear the sound of heavy rain falling on the fields in the distance. He figured the tavern would be empty tonight; it was customary not to work on rainy nights. Veris was absent-minded, his thoughts somewhat chaotic.
He thought about the tavern for a moment, then about the Amberly Beast, but soon he was struggling with the fact that if his guess—that the seven gods had revived—was true, then the trouble that followed would be more difficult than anything he had encountered in hundreds of years.
With thick-soled shoes crunching on the gravel path and rain pattering against the leaves, Veris opened the door to the attic just before the downpour began.
Then keep the dampness and noise outside.
The room remained dark, but the sound of a storm outside drifted in, and a flash of lightning added a touch of dread to the cramped space.
Veris sighed and, for the first time ever, lit two lamps, which at least made the attic a little brighter.
He is still very serious when it comes to work.
The night had just begun, but the storm outside showed no signs of ending.
Veris spread out the paper, the shadow of the quill pen falling on the yellowed paper. The paper in the grocery store was actually not of good quality; the ink often bleeds into patches, making it look quite unsightly.
From a very early age, Veris had been intentionally controlling the speed of his quill.
But tonight, he stared at the rough paper with its visible wood grain, holding the pen, and hesitated to write a single symbol.
The history of bards dates back to ancient times; they existed long before the Orlando era.
Icarus was not as peaceful as it is now back then. It was a land of fragmented forces, racial conflicts, gods attacking each other, and the manipulation of fate. War and famine were the themes of that era.
But bards already existed at that time.
Some people choose to wander without a fixed abode, but many more poets will purposefully stay with a certain power, singing praises to the big shots there in exchange for the resources to survive.
There was no paper or pen, and no intention of taking notes.
Passed down orally from generation to generation, these ancient stories have been passed down for hundreds of years, and this group of eccentric people, like wild grass, deserves much credit for that.
Veris had heard the legend of Poseidon, the god of the sea, when he was a boy. Later, after experiencing various events, a new era began and the entire continent was in ruins. Decades later, he went out by chance and still heard the story of Poseidon.
In the story, the Poseidon Palace is so exquisite and magnificent that it is as if it were carved from a single crystal. Merfolk carry huge seashells and move through it, while corals pile up and spread in the corners, just like when he first heard it a hundred years ago.
Before the establishment of the Kingdom of Lotheran, human faith was controlled by the seven great gods. Although people now believe in the Orlando religion, Veris still feels that this is not what he wants.
To be precise, he hasn't found what he's looking for yet.
The purpose of unifying people's beliefs was to facilitate post-war reconstruction and boost people's confidence.
The storm outside grew increasingly fierce. Veris held the quill pen between his long, slender fingers and tapped the table lightly with his fingertip. Amidst the deafening thunder, the entire attic was utterly silent.
There was probably also the lampstand, where the occasional crackling sound came from the flame licking the lamp oil.
Veris composed himself, picked up his pen again, and wrote the first line with remarkable ease.
He still controlled the quill pen, and the characters that landed on the rough paper were still beautiful and neat, a complete visual treat as they flowed down the line.
Beginning with the story of the pharmacist's murders, Veris would pause after a while, pondering how the pharmacist committed his evil deeds and what was unusual about the people he killed.
Apart from the idle waiter at the tavern, everyone else was an outsider.
The longest the person lived in Albion was only a little over a year.
Pharmacists specialize in killing outsiders.
Having figured this out, Veris wrote quite smoothly from then on, deducing a complete murder story from certain observed clues.
This was certainly not the kind of poem he usually wrote. Veris looked at what he had written and noticed that he had added a lot of scene descriptions between the lines out of habit, but these were not serious.
This page was written for the church personnel in charge of investigating the Amberley monster riot.
After Veris finished writing in one go, he picked up the paper and cast a small spell. The ink on it dried instantly. Of the few everyday spells he could remember, this was the most practical.
The paper he was holding between his fingertips was so fragile that Veris never dared to use too much force. He began to wonder if the paper sold in the capital was of the same quality.
In this kingdom, paper and pens are most commonly found in the homes of the church and court officials, followed by noble families. However, even noble families don't necessarily care much about literacy. Their ancestral titles can guarantee them a life of plenty, because nobles rarely achieve great things in the court, and many choose to just get by.
They would ride horses and hunt, go to the opera, or hold dances, or even listen to the bards tell them vivid and interesting stories. If they were in a good mood, they would give them a reward. But if you asked them to read the words, they would be very reluctant.
Throughout the kingdom, most areas have become peaceful and prosperous during this century-long transition, but the illiterate population remains alarmingly high.
In fact, even Veris's colleagues, the other bards, did not know many words—of course, few of them were illiterate, and they would always write a few words to record the poems they sang.
The church's charitable literacy classes are spread throughout the continent and have had some effect. However, when it comes to learning, if you don't touch it for too long, you will forget it. Some children who attended literacy classes as children did not become pastors, and they gradually forgot their literacy class experience as they grew up.
For a hundred years after the founding of Lortheran, Veris pondered whether Lortheran would be seen by future generations as a civilization similar to the pre-Orlando civilization, perhaps a thousand years or a few hundred.
Civilizations can crumble and fall apart over time.
Among the immortals, Veris was quite young, but he had already glimpsed the cruelty of history, so he had been searching for a way to ensure the continuation of civilization.
The storm pounded against the closed windows, which were sealed with magic circles—the result of young Sylvain's practice, yet already surpassing the abilities of most magicians.
Veris put down the yellowed paper. The story written in black ink was not presented in the form of poetry. He tapped the table, and his heart began to beat faster.
There is something that he will discover very soon.
Historians' records, merchants' travelogues, and bards' magnificent long poems—each character seemed to come alive, dancing on his desktop.
Veris leaned back, his back pressed against the hard chair, he closed his eyes, the sound of wind and rain, lightning and thunder filling his ears, but his mind hadn't been so active in a long time.
The attic contained countless books and scrolls, recording a wide variety of complex things. Veris counted them in his mind and found that none of the books contained a complete story.
He looked again at what he had just written, and a strange light suddenly flashed in his heterochromatic eyes.
“No rush…” Amid the clamor of the wind and rain, the bard muttered to himself, “First of all, we must get the paper of good quality.”
Unlike the story collections of church pastors, he thought that the public might need some stories that were not mixed with any religious beliefs and were closer to their lives.
That was by no means a story tailor-made for the powerful and wealthy by bards.
Veris realized that perhaps his followers needed their own stories.
A note from the author:
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