Northern Main Continent, Frisland.
During the daytime, bright sunlight bathed the sky in endless blue without a single cloud. In the northern reaches of the world—yet still distant from the polar ice caps—lay a vast gulf surrounded by land, forming part of the northern Lightfall Continent. Within this gulf, tranquil waters sparkled under the sunlight, and nestled at its southernmost and most landward point stood a beautiful city: Aransdel, the capital and largest metropolis of Frisland.
North of the main continent was the expansive Aurora Sea. Beyond it, deep in the far north, loomed the eternally frozen Polar Ice Continent, a forbidden zone to life. This continent served as the core from which massive ice sheets extended in all directions, advancing southward onto the land until halted by the warm ocean currents from the western Starfall Sea.
The geography of the northern main continent was highly complex. Its coastline twisted and turned, forming numerous small bays and peninsulas. South of the Aurora Sea lay countless islands, scattered as if fragments broken off from the northern mainland—densely packed in the south, thinning out toward the north.
These islands housed many human settlements and were once home to countless kingdoms. In ancient times, many of these kingdoms were notorious for their brutal and savage piracy. Even now, they remain inhabited. Though fragmented into various nations, the islands and northern mainland coasts are generally referred to collectively as the “North Sea” region.
Aransdel was situated at the deepest part of the North Sea's largest gulf, the Dragon Severance Bay. A natural deep-water port, it was flanked by the inland-flowing Bearbank and Swordblade Rivers, sitting where both rivers met the sea. Combined with an extensive man-made canal network, this geographic advantage made Aransdel the most vital economic and trade hub in the North Sea region—and the capital of Frisland.
Under the bright sun, Aransdel’s largest port, Northwind Harbor, bustled with noise and excitement. Citizens from all across the city gathered in droves along the broad docks. Crowds pushed and whispered eagerly, their gazes fixed northward. There, at one of the berths, a massive church warship was moored.
Onboard the warship—equipped with sturdy hull and heavy artillery—a tall boarding ramp extended down from the towering hull. As ceremonial music played below, a white-clad figure appeared at the top of the ramp. Amid thunderous cheers from the crowd, Vania Chafferon descended with a smile.
“Phew… finally, this kind of scene again…”
As she stepped down the ramp, Vania couldn't help but reflect. She had experienced similar scenes many times a year ago, though back then she'd felt a bit nervous. Now, fully accustomed, she faced the crowd without fluster—and even found it comforting.
“Compared to Holy Mount… I really do prefer this kind of atmosphere…”
So she mused silently. Vania had lived on Holy Mount for quite some time now. That place was solemn, oppressive—even though it radiated a constant sense of piety, it was also utterly desolate. At Holy Mount, aside from the occasional conversation with Ivy, she rarely had anyone to talk to. Meetings with others—Amanda included—were strictly official. Her main outlet remained Dorothy, whom she stayed in touch with via the Literary Sea Logbook.
To Vania, the heavy atmosphere of Holy Mount wasn’t exactly repulsive, but she clearly preferred the livelier, more vibrant environment before her. Though noisy and troublesome, it brimmed with life—something especially resonant for her, a Crimson of the Holy Mother Path.
Taking a deep breath and relaxing her mood slightly, Vania resumed her descent. Guarded by attendants, she stepped steadily onto the specially-laid dock platform and continued forward, where she soon spotted a row of unfamiliar figures.
Among the group—comprised of both men and women—some were dressed as secular government officials, others in clerical garb. Standing at the center was a woman dressed in a high archbishop’s robe, crowned, holding a staff. Her face bore mild wrinkles, but her black hair and kind expression gave her a benevolent air. She smiled warmly as she watched Vania approach.
“Welcome, Sister Vania.”
“Thank you for your welcome, Archbishop Sinclair.”
As they drew near, both women bowed courteously and clasped hands. Just beyond the police barrier, camera flashes burst continuously. Reporters on the outskirts excitedly captured the moment, while others without cameras feverishly jotted down their conversation.
“Sister Vania, I’ve long heard of your deeds. Your compassion and contributions left a deep impression on me. I’ve always hoped to meet you in person—such an outstanding young representative and rising pillar of the Holy Church. By the Lord’s grace, that wish is finally fulfilled today,” said Archbishop Sinclair with a smile as she held Vania’s hand.
“You flatter me, Your Excellency,” Vania replied with an equal smile.
“I am but a humble servant of the Lord, merely fulfilling what I ought to. The true pillars of the Church are those like yourself, who steadfastly uphold their posts.”
“Hoho… you’re too modest, Sister Vania. For the Church’s renewal and development, people like you are far more useful than us old relics. It’s been over a thousand years… The Church desperately needs your kind of fresh vitality. To be honest, when I first heard you’d ended your pilgrimage and returned to Holy Mount to get involved in a heresy case, I was quite worried. But seeing you resume your pilgrimage today has truly eased my heart…”
Still smiling kindly, Sinclair released Vania’s hand and continued warmly. Vania nodded in reply.
“Thank you for your concern. It was just a minor misunderstanding. Under the saints’ wisdom, everything has been clarified. Restarting the pilgrimage is once again my sacred duty.”
“It’s been cleared up? That’s wonderful to hear… In that case, allow me once again, on behalf of Aransdel, to welcome you. Sister Vania, this isn’t the place for discussion. We’ve prepared your lodgings—please, come with me.”
With that, Sinclair gestured invitingly, and Vania followed without hesitation.
Outside the cordon, many reporters hurried to follow along the perimeter, hoping to snap more photos and catch a few more lines of conversation. Already, some of them were crafting their own interpretations for why Sister Vania’s long-paused pilgrimage had resumed—and why she had come to Frisland.
…
Still daytime—while Aransdel’s port was bustling with excitement due to the arrival of the star nun, Vania—in another part of the city, the equally lively train station held a very different scene, where a man stood alone.
On the busy train platform, a tall, lean man wearing a dark gray trench coat and a short-brimmed hat stood amid the crowd. His deep-set eyes and hooked nose gave him a sharp profile. In one hand, he held a modest-sized suitcase, and his penetrating gaze swept over the hectic surroundings. Not far behind him, a massive steam-belching train had just come to a halt, and passengers were steadily pouring out of its opened carriages.
With one hand, he lit a cigarette. Having only recently disembarked, Ed took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift away. Carrying his suitcase, he began to walk slowly through the crowd on the platform. Though he had just disembarked, Ed didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the station. The exits were too crowded, so he chose instead to stand off to the side, observing the scene around him.
From Ed’s perspective, the platform he was on was unusually packed, far more so than at most stations he’d seen. The exits were clogged with people. Amid the sea of heads, several station workers stood atop makeshift wooden platforms, trying to direct the crowd and maintain order.
To Ed’s experience, the current crowd density was second only to the World Expo period back at Tivian Station. However, Tivian’s station was larger, with wider passageways and more exits, making it much better at dispersing crowds. By comparison, this station felt far more congested.
After watching for a moment, Ed strolled over to a nearby station worker who had just gotten off shift and was resting wearily. Offering him a cigarette, Ed asked in fluent Frislandic.
“Is there some sort of event going on in the city? Why are there so many people getting off this train?”
Because he had been riding in a first-class private compartment, Ed hadn’t realized just how crammed the other carriages had been. The young station worker paused briefly, took the cigarette, and replied,
“No event. It’s always like this. You must be from some small place, huh? You’ve gotta understand, this is the most prosperous city in all of the North Sea. Even without any special occasion, our station’s crowds are on a whole different level compared to those little towns.”
Lighting the cigarette, the young man explained while puffing. Hearing this, Ed turned his gaze to the makeshift wooden platforms set up for crowd control.
“It’s always like this? Then why don’t they widen the platform or build some permanent control stations? Those rickety platforms look like they’re about to fall apart.”
He asked with a touch of curiosity. The youth took another drag and exhaled before replying.
“Eh… who knows what those officials are thinking? This whole station’s layout is a mess. Quiet areas are too quiet, busy ones are overworked. A bunch of useless eaters, that’s what they are…”
Grumbling, the young man muttered while glancing off to the side. Ed followed his gaze and looked across to the opposite platform.
There, he saw a completely deserted platform—no trains, no passengers, not even staff maintaining order. A stark contrast to the chaos on his side.
“That platform’s so empty… is it just that no trains have arrived yet?”
Ed asked curiously. The young man shook his head.
“Nope… trains never arrive there. It’s an abandoned platform. I’ve worked here for years and not once has a train ever stopped there. Totally useless. No idea why they even built it. If those officials had time to build that thing, they should’ve just expanded this side instead. Would’ve spared us the daily crush.”
Waving the still-burning cigarette, the youth complained plainly. Ed, intrigued by his words, continued to study the empty platform.
“Thanks for the help. Rest up here for a while.”
Ed said his farewell, and under the youth’s slightly puzzled gaze, he slipped quietly into the crowd.
Though the flow of people had slightly eased, Ed didn’t immediately head for the exit. Instead, he circled to the far side of the crowd and, using a deft and practiced gait, avoided all lines of sight. Without drawing a single glance, he crossed multiple tracks and platforms until he finally arrived at the platform the youth had called a waste.
Standing alone on the deserted platform, Ed surveyed his surroundings. It was indeed a scene of desolation—scattered trash, thick dust covering some benches, even tufts of stubborn weeds sprouting from the cracks between tiles. Clearly, the platform hadn’t seen use for a long time.
Strolling quietly across the run-down platform, Ed spotted a rectangular sign hanging from one of the columns. A large arrow on it pointed down the track, toward a specific direction. The sign read:
“Toward ______.”
Staring at the glaring blank in the sign, Ed paused briefly. After glancing around again, he approached the platform’s edge and jumped down onto the track.
He crouched and closely inspected the rails corresponding to this abandoned platform. To his surprise, while the platform was coated in dust, the rails themselves—fastened with wooden ties—were immaculate and gleaming. Not only were they spotless, but they shone so clearly that Ed could see the sky reflected in them.
Frowning slightly, Ed reached out and performed an enchantment over the track. As he examined the metal for rust and felt its smoothness, it became clear—these tracks, unlike what one might expect of a disused line, showed all the signs of frequent use.
Finishing his inspection, Ed withdrew his hand, stood in silence at the rail’s edge, and turned to look in the direction the sign’s arrow had pointed—the direction left blank on the board. After staring silently for several seconds, he turned away and leapt back up onto the platform.
Then, as quietly as before, Ed returned to the main platform, merged into the now-dispersing crowd, and exited the station, stepping out into the street.
It was there Ed first laid eyes on the streets of Aransdel. Compared to the broad avenues of Tivian, the buildings here seemed a bit lower, the street-facing facades narrower, and the shopfronts more vividly colored. Greenery—neatly trimmed—lined both sides and the center of the spacious road. Overall, the city gave off a more cheerful, welcoming air.
After lingering at the roadside to admire the view for a moment, Ed began trying to hail a ride. He watched several standard hired carriages roll past before narrowing his eyes and raising his hand to flag down a rather different-looking carriage.
This particular carriage was a dim grayish-yellow—like the color of packed earth—and noticeably larger than the usual hired cabs. Wooden boards had been nailed to the back, and many parts above the wheels were reinforced with visible sheets of metal. At odds with the rest of the carriage, the coachman’s seat held an old man with a white beard, who politely removed his hat in greeting.
“Good day, sir. Please, climb aboard.”
Hearing this, Ed opened the door, brought his suitcase inside, and settled into the seat. Once the door was shut and he was seated comfortably, the old coachman spoke again.
“Honored guest, where would you like to go?”
“Hm… I’m here as a tourist. Could you take me around to some free sights in the city—wherever you think is worth seeing?”
The old coachman responded immediately, smiling at the request.
“Ah, a sightseeing tour. Well, sir, what kind of attractions are you interested in? There’s plenty to see in Aransdel.”
Ed thought for a moment before replying.
“Hm… historical and cultural sites, I suppose. Preferably ones a little farther from the busy central districts. I plan to visit those areas later.”
“Ah, I see. That’s doable. There are still quite a few such spots on the outskirts worth seeing, though we won’t be able to cover them all in one afternoon. I can select a few highlights, but just so you know, they’re not exactly close together. As for the fare…”
“No need to worry about that. Just go wherever you think is best.”
Ed spoke generously. Upon hearing this, the old coachman smiled and said,
“Very well then, please make yourself comfortable.”
With that, the coachman flicked the reins, and the two horses pulled the distinctive carriage onto the road, setting it in motion.
Inside the carriage, Ed looked out the window with a relaxed expression, taking in the unfamiliar sights of this foreign city. On the streets, he noticed that not all the shops were open—many were shuttered. Some idle young people loitered outside the closed storefronts, while others sat on the roadside looking despondent. As they passed a post office, Ed saw a number of mail carriers holding up signs in protest.
After a while, the scenery outside shifted. The buildings vanished, replaced by a long, glistening river. Small boats dotted the water’s surface, and not far off stood a stone bridge spanning both banks of the current.
“If you’re traveling around, sir, you might want to try going by boat later,” the coachman suggested.
“To improve logistics, Aransdel has dug many canals—intertwined with natural rivers. Getting around by water has its own charm.”
That caught Ed’s interest.
“Many canals, huh… sounds like your city’s leadership takes transportation seriously.”
“But of course! Aransdel has always been a key trade hub of the North Sea—it's the heart of the Northern Trade League. Through Aransdel, all of Frisland—no, the entire North Sea region—is interconnected. Goods from all over are distributed here to the rest of the North Sea.”
The old coachman spoke with clear pride. Ed considered his words for a moment before replying.
“So it’s the center of the North Sea, huh… But lately, hasn’t the economy here been struggling a bit?”
“Struggling? What makes you say that, sir?”
The coachman paused, sounding surprised.
“Just some things I noticed,” Ed said casually.
“A lot of storefronts were closed, some unemployed-looking drifters were hanging about, and even the post office had employees protesting. And you—you used to run long-distance routes but now you’re doing local hires. Taken together, these point to some economic issues in the city.”
Still sitting calmly, Ed made his observation. The old coachman, surprised, replied.
“How did you know I used to run long-distance routes?”
“Heh… it’s easy to tell. Your carriage is a dull gray-yellow, not the standard color for city cabs. It’s not pretty, but it hides dirt well, suggesting it was meant for rougher, dirtier roads outside the city.
“It’s also larger than typical cabs, and it’s clearly been modified both inside and out. I’d bet the cabin was once configured to carry more passengers. Your wheels also show more repairs than usual, meaning it’s been through tougher roads and heavier use. So I figured this carriage was originally used mostly outside the city.”
Ed explained with a smile, and the old coachman nodded in understanding.
“Oh… that makes sense. You’re right, I didn’t originally use this for hired rides. It was built for rough countryside roads. I’ve been meaning to replace it, but money’s tight, so I had to make do.”
He spoke with a touch of helplessness, and Ed asked on.
“So why did you suddenly stop doing long-haul routes and switch to local hires?”
“Well… hmm… it’s been a while, I can’t remember exactly. I think it was because the route I used to take got damaged and was abandoned? Something like that.”
He scratched his head as he recalled, and Ed followed up.
“Do you remember where that route used to go?”
“Hmm… can’t recall that either. Getting old, you know, my brain’s not what it used to be. I forget all kinds of things now. Please forgive me, sir.”
Hearing this, Ed fell into a thoughtful silence before asking again.
“I’m guessing… you’re not the only coachman in Aransdel who’s had to switch careers like this?”
“Ah, that’s true. Like you said earlier, Aransdel’s economy has hit a few rough patches recently. Some people have lost their jobs or had to change trades. There are definitely other coachmen like me. I can name a few who used to run the same routes as I did.
“The economy has gotten a bit better these past few weeks, but a few months back, it was really bad. Many long-haul coachmen either switched jobs or sold their carriages outright. Even the postal service was affected—tons of couriers were laid off overnight. Like you saw earlier, people are still protesting outside the post office now.”
As the old coachman steered the carriage, he spoke on, and Ed responded thoughtfully.
“Sounds like the postal and transport industries in Aransdel weren’t doing too well for a while…”
“Mhm… you’re right, sir. There were definitely problems in those sectors. But it wasn’t all bad news, and not everyone was affected equally,” the coachman replied.
Ed tilted his head curiously.
“Oh? For example?”
“Well… the freight runners, for one. While us passenger drivers had a tough time, those hauling cargo? They were practically untouched—business as usual. Not only did they not lose work, many of them actually saw more orders than ever. A bunch of my colleagues who lost their jobs have started converting their carriages for freight, and I’m thinking about doing the same.”
As he maneuvered the reins, the old coachman spoke plainly. Ed’s eyes gleamed with interest at this.
“Freight transport, on the rise? Do you know which routes are especially busy?”
“There’s a lot of them—Derrick to Aransdel, Aether to Aransdel… Really, it’s just point-to-point freight lines between Aransdel and other cities across Frisland. All sorts of routes, and from what I’ve heard, they’re all about equally busy—none of them stand out in particular.”
As he listened to the coachman’s explanation, Ed rubbed his chin in thought.
“All… about the same, huh…”
And so, Ed remained seated in the carriage as the old coachman guided him through a sightseeing tour of Aransdel. After crossing several canals and visiting a few city landmarks, the carriage gradually made its way toward the outskirts.
The farther they got from the city center, the sparser the buildings became, giving way to open natural scenery.
The coachman took a small road that wound up a gentle hill. Once they reached the top, he gestured for Ed to disembark. As Ed stepped down, the coachman pointed toward the distance—and Ed was greeted by a picturesque view.
Beyond scattered groves of trees, lush green grass rolled out across the hills, stretching to meet the horizon beneath the blue sky. Waterways extended from the city to encircle these vibrant fields, and a number of tall windmills stood proudly among them, their blades turning slowly in the breeze. The sky, grass, and water blended together in perfect harmony, accented by the elegant windmills and the soft wind. It was the kind of view that lifted the spirit.
“See that, sir? That’s one of our windmill villages. Foreign tourists love visiting these places. Beautiful, isn’t it?” the coachman asked, gesturing ahead. Ed smiled in reply.
“It really is. You’ve got quite a few windmills around here, don’t you?”
“You bet. Aransdel has more windmill villages than anywhere else in Frisland. Back in the day, during the harvest season, when other places couldn’t keep up with the grain, they’d ship it all here. This used to be Frisland’s main grain-processing hub.”
Hearing that, Ed raised a brow.
“And what about now?”
“Now?”
The coachman chuckled.
“Now it’s the grain-processing capital of all Frisland—and maybe the entire North Sea region! Ever since those massive factories and industrial machines were built to the east, we’ve become the strongest force in food production around here. And it’s not just wheat anymore.
“Fish, wheat, fruit—everything gets processed here into canned goods, bread, wine, you name it. Then it’s sold throughout the North Sea, and even globally. The Aransdel brand is famous, you’ve probably heard of it. All thanks to our thriving food industry—it’s our pillar.”
The coachman beamed with pride as he spoke. Ed nodded and responded with a smile.
“I see… You know quite a lot, old sir. You’re very well informed.”
“Hah! But of course—I’ve been a coachman for most of my life. When you’ve driven as many passengers as I have, you hear things, pick things up. It’s no surprise I know a bit more than most.”
Clearly pleased by the compliment, the coachman grinned. After a while longer enjoying the hilltop view, the two returned to the carriage, and the coachman drove them onward.
He continued showing Ed the scenic outskirts, the carriage rolling farther and farther until they passed by a massive, vine-covered fortress in ruins. The structure was decayed, overtaken by vegetation.
“Sir, this is Nailpen Fortress—a rather obscure landmark that regular tour guides don’t usually include,” the coachman said as he pointed to the fortress, just as Ed stepped out of the carriage and began observing it.
“Nailpen Fortress? I think I see… some remnants of church insignia on it. Was this a Church facility?”
Ed asked.
“Sharp eye, sir. Yes, this was Church property—once home to Aransdel’s Inquisition. You may not know this, but we had a major heretical uprising here once… Something called the ‘True Saint Sect’ caused quite a stir throughout Frisland.”
At this, Ed raised an intrigued eyebrow.
“An Inquisition? So the Church dealt with heretics here?”
“That’s right. That heresy was spreading everywhere at the time. The Church sent people to track them down, caught thousands, tens of thousands even. They locked them up in here. And they didn’t just imprison them—they interrogated, tortured, executed… When I was a kid, I could still hear screams coming from inside as we passed by.
“The Church was arresting people daily back then. It got so bad that the whole city—no, all of Frisland—was gripped by fear. Every day, people were dragged in—and those who came out were lying down… many didn’t come out at all. They were buried here. People say if you dig around now, you can still find bones. It was terrifying. Countless innocent people, who weren’t even heretics, died in there…”
The coachman lowered his voice as he spoke, and Ed paused briefly before asking.
“So… why was it abandoned?”
“Because of Lady Sinclair, of course!”
The coachman’s eyes lit up at the question and he answered without hesitation.
“Lady Sinclair came here decades ago, representing the true will of the Lord, and she put an end to centuries of wrongful arrests and executions. She didn’t just release the innocent and compensate them—she declared the corrupt inquisitors, who abused the Lord’s name for their own crimes, as the true heretics. She had them arrested, put on trial—many were even sentenced to burning at the stake. It was cathartic for the people.
“For centuries, Frisland had been ruled by the wicked hands of the Inquisition. It was an age of terror, where no one felt safe. But Lady Sinclair brought it to an end. After righting those injustices and punishing the guilty, she shut down this fortress, a symbol of fear, and established a new Inquisition in its place. She is the savior of the people of Frisland—a true servant of the Lord. To honor her and those innocents who died here, a monument has even been erected on this site.”
As he spoke, the old coachman pointed to another direction, and sure enough, Ed saw a tall, black memorial stone standing in the distance.
Following the coachman's gesture, Ed slowly walked up to the monument and read the inscription engraved on its surface:
"This monument is dedicated to the innocent lives lost here—and to the one who ended the tyranny of heresy, the true Judge of the Lord: Sinclair & Vambas."
“Vambas? Why is there another Church member commemorated here alongside Sinclair?”
Ed asked curiously, his eyes still on the inscription. The coachman quickly responded.
“Oh, that! The one named Vambas, from what’s been passed down, was another Inquisitor who came to Frisland together with Lady Sinclair. It’s said the two of them jointly put an end to the tyranny of the Inquisition in Frisland. But since Lady Sinclair stayed and became our Archbishop while Vambas eventually returned home, we’re far more familiar with Sinclair.”
The coachman explained frankly, and Ed nodded silently in response.
After a brief exploration of this remnant of Frisland’s dark religious past, Ed returned to the carriage. The coachman resumed their journey, continuing the tour through Aransdel’s scenic outskirts. After a winding route, they began heading toward the sea.
Before long, they arrived at a steep seaside cliff. At the edge of the grassy slope along the coast, the coachman brought the carriage to a halt and gestured for Ed to disembark again, pointing into the distance.
“Look, this here is Dragonshoot Cliff—Aransdel’s most perilous and towering coastal cliff. See that over there, sir? That’s the oldest building in Aransdel.”
Squinting into the distance, Ed followed the coachman’s finger and spotted a crumbling stone tower at the edge of the cliff. The structure was broken in half—the upper portion nowhere to be found.
“What is that?”
Ed asked as he began walking toward the fractured tower. The coachman answered plainly.
“That’s Frostwatch Tower. Legend has it that long, long ago—far earlier than Nailpen Fortress—there was a vast, evil heretic cult that sailed here from the northern seas. Their heretic king invaded and conquered all of Frisland. They say those heretics were fierce, wild, and feared no death. They built numerous fortresses in ancient Aransdel, but nearly all of them have vanished. This half-collapsed tower is the only one left.”
As he explained, the coachman walked alongside Ed toward the structure. Upon closer inspection, Ed saw that the tower was exceedingly primitive—perhaps due to its ancient age. It seemed to be constructed from rough, blocky stones, piled together without any sign of intricate carving or ornamentation.
Approaching carefully, Ed examined the old tower. After circling it, he finally spotted a few crude carvings on an unremarkable stone—symbols that bore no resemblance to modern Frislandic writing.
Committing the markings to memory, Ed continued his inspection. In front of the tower, he found a ring of stones arranged around a pile of recently charred blackened wood. At the center stood one large, upright log—scorched black—upon which rested a similarly burnt helmet.
Looking closer, he noticed the helmet was different from typical designs. It featured decorative bull-like horns attached to the rim.
“What’s all this…?”
Ed asked. The coachman, acting as guide, answered immediately.
“Those are remnants from the Dragonburn Festival. You probably haven’t heard of it, but it’s a traditional holiday around here—we burn the Tyrant Dragon in effigy to pray for peace and happiness.”
“Tyrant Dragon?”
“Yep. There are a lot of interpretations, but the most common one says the Tyrant Dragon refers to that heretic king I mentioned earlier. He supposedly breathed frost and transformed into a monstrous dragon that plunged the entire North Sea into endless winter—thus, the name Tyrant Dragon.
“According to legend, the Tyrant Dragon once ruled the North Sea, but was eventually defeated by the Lord and fell into Dragon Severance Bay. Ever since then, the people of Frisland burn effigies of the Tyrant Dragon in winter to ward off the bitter cold. They make a figure out of burlap and straw, place the tyrant’s helmet on it, pile up the firewood, and burn it during a communal gathering.
“This tradition is widespread across Frisland. Originally it was just a winter festival, but over time, people added more things they wanted to banish—misfortune, illness, bad luck—so the festival became more flexible. Now it’s often held multiple times a year. One was just held here recently. Since this tower is said to be a relic of the Tyrant Dragon itself, lots of people like to come here for it.”
The coachman explained patiently beside Ed. Listening, Ed fell silent, his gaze settling on the charred, horned helmet.
…
Across the ocean...
Daytime, on the east coast of the New Continent, in New Jacques, one of the most prosperous colonial cities.
At the bustling port, amid the noise and crowds, stood Nephthys, dressed in a sun hat and sunglasses, a suitcase in hand. She looked around intently, clearly searching for something. After some time scanning the area, she finally spotted her target.
“Phew… finally.”
With a long breath of relief, the travel-weary Nephthys quickened her pace toward the familiar brown-skinned young man waving at her from afar. The man smiled upon seeing her.
“Found you at last, Miss Thief,” said Kapak bluntly, and Nephthys nodded in response.
“Mhm… So, what’s the plan now? You booked me a room, right?” she asked.
After a long voyage, all she wanted was a proper bed. But Kapak looked slightly flustered at her words.
“Booked a room? Ah… about that—sorry, Miss Thief. According to teacher’s instructions, we’re on a tight schedule. We need to head to the Ancestral Valley immediately. The Grand Wild Rite is expected to begin in about a week. Teacher has already gone ahead—we must hurry.”
Karpak explained quickly. Hearing that her long-awaited rest was now off the table, Nephthys stood stunned. It took her several moments before she responded, bluntly.
“W-We’re going right now? Not even a break? Isn’t that a bit extreme!?
“And… and you said we need to get to this Ancestral Valley in under a week? If I remember what Scholar said correctly, your sacred land is way deep inland on this continent, right? That whole region’s undeveloped wilderness—no railroads, nothing! Are we even going to make it there in time?”
Her confused protest was interrupted by a loud, boisterous male voice.
“Haha! No need to worry, pretty lady! With my dragonship, we’ll get there in no time!”
Startled by the sudden voice, Nephthys turned to its source—and saw a spectral male figure floating in midair.
It was a broad, brawny man who looked to be in his thirties or forties. His long beard was divided into three braided strands, stained with what looked like dried blood. He wore a tattered suit of chainmail, a round wooden shield strapped to his back, and several arrows lodged in his body. On his head sat a horned helmet—one horn broken.
“Lord Harald! Please don’t manifest in public like this!”
Karpak pleaded urgently.
“If any Silence Beyonders see you, it’ll be trouble!”
Nephthys stared, stunned.
“Th-This spirit is…?”
“This spirit was specially summoned by teacher to help us reach the Ancestral Valley. He is Lord Harald… a wild spirit,” Karpak explained.
Nephthys’ eyes widened.
“A wild spirit? There are human wild spirits?”
“Yes… Most wild spirits take animal forms, but there are some in human form as well. They’re typically the remnants of human souls,” Karpak said.
“Lord Harald here was once an invader of this very continent. But after his death, he repented and became a guardian of the land.”
At that, Harald waved dismissively and barked loudly.
“Repented? Bah! Don’t spread lies, brat! I’ve never once repented invading your pitiful lands! I was the Northern Emperor, the Death Dragon, the Frostbound Sovereign, warrior of the great Inut!
“Plundering the weak is my birthright! Regret? Never! I only turned on that disgusting so-called King of Souls of yours to settle a personal grudge. That’s all. No repentance involved!”