Chapter 136

A desolate wind swept across the fields in late autumn, after even the harvest had long been brought in.

It was the hour when twilight began to fall. Darkness, arriving a step ahead of night, stained the edges of the horizon black, casting a melancholy air over the land. The wheat fields, their reaping long finished, lay bare and ruddy under the fading light.

The vegetable patches between the furrows had already been cleared as well, and the weeds that bent whichever way the wind blew had turned yellow or dried to a brittle brown. Even the trees, once proud with their lush summer foliage, now stretched thin and bony shadows across the ground.

Through that scene, steeped in the desolation of a dying season, walked a lone man. What he wore was little more than a threadbare collection of rags, patched beyond counting, and a rope tied around his waist.

His linen garment had lost all trace of its original shape. In such biting weather, his bare feet, red and raw, were unshielded by even a scrap of cloth. But he walked without complaint over a rough path that would have been harsh on the soles even with good boots.

Though the sun was nearly gone, he was making his way not toward a village where people might live, but up a quiet, lonely hill.

The hill path was one seldom trodden. Wide enough for a single cart to pass, it was unpaved, as was common in the countryside. More than that, the ground was uneven, strewn with jagged pebbles and stones that jutted out irregularly, making each step a cautious one. With the sky darkening by the moment, visibility was poor, and the road all the more treacherous.

Still, he walked on steadily. Thanks to that persistence, by the time the last traces of the golden sunset had faded and the dim twilight had settled over the land, he reached his destination.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Before him rose a high wall. It bore no ornament, yet its height, twice or thrice that of a grown man, lent it an oppressive air.

Though it seemed out of place, this was a monastery. The Cloistered Monastery of Saint Eustace, located in the Trenolin Diocese, on the outskirts of the capital.

The wall stood firm and forbidding like a fortress rampart, repelling all intrusion, whether of worldly temptation or of steel and gunfire. Indeed, in the days of the Old Kingdom, the monastery had once served as a stronghold. The impression that first crossed his mind, then, was not entirely mistaken.

He knocked upon the gate and waited for some time.

Bang, Bang, Bang!

But as the wind grew thinner and the darkness thickened until he could not see a hand before his face, he could no longer remain waiting idly. He raised his staff again and knocked upon the monastery door.

He did not call aloud for a reason. The ones inside the monastery had taken vows of silence; shouting would not have brought an answer.

-Creak

On his second round of knocking, his patience was at last rewarded. The small side gate beside the main entrance opened, and a bald-headed monk peered out. In his plump hand, he held a small lantern, illuminating the darkness.

AOtwC Pnw rfxnP, Pnw JMOv PMMv fO Pnw JgO’T gWWwgCgOkw gOt ndOx Pnw rgOPwCO MO g WMTP Yj Pnw xgPw. snwO nw Jgtw g TfxO bfPn YMPn ngOtT PM kMOZwj nfT JwTTgxw.

‘This is a cloistered monastery. No visitors are permitted.’

GCJft Ifqy LNyqDNqJ ENI N IRJhfNL oOzJ DIJz NoOyq mCOIJ ECO CNz mNXJy FOEI OA IfLJyhJ. GCJ oNy ECO CNz XyOhXJz XyJE mCfI. dJ NyIEJtJz fy Xfyz EfmC CfI OEy IfqyI.

‘Contemplation is more important than prayer, and the practice of faith is dearer than contemplation. Greetings, brother. I have come to beg a night’s shelter. I am a fellow brother on the Thousand Days’ Way pilgrimage, following in the footsteps of Saint Eustace.’

EIT PfJs iTNLiBTB IQP mQdI AUAqQGQfJ. Wd mLA Jfd ILiB df ATT mIp. nffsQJN Ld IQA ILQi, dfUAYTB gp dIT mQJB, dIT NiQPT iUJJQJN BfmJ IQA JTGs, LJB GITTsA LYiTLBp ifUNITJTB gp dIT GfYB, LJp fgATiaTi PQNId dLsT IQP Sfi L aLNiLJd. HUidITiPfiT, NQaTJ IQA LddQiT, Qd mLA fJYp JLdUiLY dILd IT mfUYB gT Af iTYUGdLJd df gTYQTaT IQP.

But unlike an ordinary beggar, there were two conspicuous things about his attire. He leaned upon a smooth, well-worn wooden staff nearly his height, and above all, his feet were bare.

The wooden staff was stained all over with green dye; it told the monk that this was no mere beggar but a priest on pilgrimage. The monk dropped his gaze as though to confirm that fact.

Then the man’s battered bare feet came into view. More than half of his toenails were broken or gone, and the tops of his feet were a graveyard of old scars. Calluses on the soles had formed ridges like the heels of boots, so thick they looked as if they might be cut away with a blade if need be.

Such feet could not have been deliberately created even if one tried. They were the traces of time that could only come from walking for countless days. He truly was a ‘Pilgrim of Silence,’ one who had sworn in complete silence to follow in the footsteps of Saint Eustace, visiting the sacred sites scattered across the continent.

‘What should I do? Our monastery is currently in a retreat period…’

The monk, having confirmed the man’s identity, wore a troubled expression. A retreat was a period in which all daily duties were suspended, and one disciplined oneself in meditation and prayer, a very important time for any monk. Upon hearing this, the pilgrim merely nodded as if to acknowledge his understanding.

‘Oh, so that is why your reply was delayed. My apologies for disturbing the monastery.’

‘Not at all, brother.’

‘It is a bold request, I know, but could I perhaps remain for just one night? Descending this hill now would be far too dangerous. The path up here was already treacherous in the dark. I do not seek lavish treatment, only a roof to shelter from the night dew and a scrap of bread to eat. A bed is unnecessary. Even a haystack will suffice.’

‘……’

Even during a retreat, it was rare for a pilgrim to be refused. The man, clearly seasoned by the long journey, seemed aware of this and, moreover, possessed another means of persuasion that the monk could not easily reject.

‘Oh, and I almost forgot. This is a letter of recommendation from Abbot Bianconi, head of the monastery I belong to.’

From within his clothing, the man carefully produced a tattered parchment, worn at the edges. As he said, it was indeed a letter stamped with the abbot’s seal, humbly requesting that his traveling brother be taken care of along the arduous path. No monk worth his name could dismiss a pilgrim who presented such a document. The monk, concealing his initial reluctance, nodded.

‘Given your circumstances, I suppose I have no choice. Come inside.’

‘I am grateful for your generous permission. May Saint Eustace’s blessing be upon you.’

The man tucked the letter back into his folds and offered a simple, sincere smile. The monk, who had been gazing down at his head with a cold eye, softened his expression and guided him inside.

Once they entered, the door slammed shut, and the latch clicked into place. That night passed in profound silence. However, the next morning, though he should have set out at dawn to continue his pilgrimage, the man did not leave the monastery. Nor did he depart that afternoon, nor the following dawn.

By the second day, those who had been observing cautiously realized the man who had entered the monastery had vanished without a trace. They released a pigeon into the air. Riding the shadows of the mountains, the bird hovered in the sky a few times before finding its direction, and then began flapping its wings powerfully toward its home.

***

“Uuaaah–.”

A faint scream drifted through the damp, stone walls.

This place was one of the many safe houses owned by Anti-Chevalier. Due to the nature of their work, which required considerable secrecy, some soundproofing was installed, but even so, whenever torture was carried out, occasional cries would leak out like this.

Apparently, the soundproofing could not fully withstand the cries of someone subjected to torture so horrific that it was almost impossible to even speak of it.Good heavens, that will ruin his throat. Might as well have put a gag on him.Victor shook his head without much emotion as he decrypted the encoded dispatch from the pigeon post.

“Damn it-”

Then he discovered a crucial piece of information and leapt to his feet. The news the Emperor had been waiting for was finally confirmed. Normally, he would have had to contact first and wait for an audience, but today, by coincidence, the Emperor was present at the safe house.

Victor hurried down the hallway toward the room where Ebroin V was staying. The guards at the Emperor’s door recognized him and offered him a polite greeting.

“Your Majesty, it is Adelphe.”

“Come in.”

With a simple self-introduction, Victor was allowed to step before the Emperor. The Emperor had dragged a comfortable armchair close to the fireplace, his legs resting on the footrest, and was silently observing the flames.

He seemed lost in deep thought.

“Your Majesty, a report has just come in. The Shadow Hands have confirmed the location of the ‘monastery.’”

“… Was the information the Nightwings chirped about true?”

The Emperor, with a vague expression as if he had just returned from a dream, paused to consider Victor’s report before finally asking a question.

“It appears to be accurate. Three individuals, each tortured in separate chambers, all pointed to the same place. The subordinate sent to cross-check has disappeared as well. The location is certain.”

The Emperor nodded silently at his words. Victor, seeing the signal, politely handed over the dispatch he was holding. Ebroin V, adhering to tradition, unrolled the thin scroll with his fingernails and skimmed through its contents.

“Trenolin Cloistered Monastery, you say. IfWerecall correctly, it should be quite small.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Normally, it housed about forty to fifty monks.”

“Then what happened to the monks who were originally there?”

“There is no confirmation on that point.”

“So, they were massacred, then.”

The Emperor murmured quietly, his gaze dark and terrifying. The number of his own subjects slaughtered by these people while roaming his empire already exceeded fifty.Rodom’s Silver Fox, was it? Hmph, a vile little assassin indeed.The Emperor firmly resolved that he would one day make that wretched woman pay back this debt in full, with interest.

“Then, even if we pack in as many as we can, we are looking at maybe two to three hundred. Has any other location been confirmed?”

“I am afraid not, Your Majesty. While checking the Trenolin Cloistered Monastery, we also examined other monasteries that had not yet been reviewed, but all other places are clean. This location is the only one showing any signs.”

“Then where are the remaining people?”

“I… I am not certain of that either. Based on the information we have gathered so far, there is no trace to be found.”

Victor admitted the truth with difficulty, his words barely leaving his lips. The Emperor, who had come here seeking solitude to organize his thoughts, now felt as though he had taken on an additional burden. He tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, attempting to sort the situation in his mind.

T/N:We have finally reached the last volume of this novel. There’s not much time left until the story is fully complete, with two arcs, an epilogue, and two side stories remaining. This arc itself will be concluded within eight chapters… Truthfully, I don’t want to let go, but you all deserve to see the ending as soon as possible, so I will be working hard! If you want to be notified each time a chapter is released, feel free to join myserverand choose your roles accordingly. Thank you so much for reading!