🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter 10
A god’s attribute was an indispensable condition.
There was a reason they were called God of Fire, God of Water, God of Light.
Either their very existence was made of that attribute, or it had played the greatest role when they ascended to godhood.
For whatever reason, a god was always the embodiment of their attribute.
That was why.
It wasn’t so difficult to locate the place where the god Dante spoke of was sleeping.
“If it’s the God of Fire, then he cannot help but respond to flames. Even if his divinity has been stripped away and he has lost his godhood, that much remains unchanged.”
At Milleon’s words, Dante nodded.
The reason he had suspected the god was related to fire was because the god had been discovered after a wildfire had broken out.
“If we sweep the mountains with soldiers carrying great torches, we will surely find a trace.”
“…I see.”
In truth, Dante had not planned on mobilizing soldiers. He had only intended to take Milleon along, perhaps Patrick and Elaine as well.
It wasn’t desirable for too many to witness the moment he obtained the sacred flame.
The only concern was that he had been given no more than a single day.
“Still, with knights, it should be manageable.”
The physical prowess of a knight far surpassed that of an ordinary soldier. It might even be faster to move with a small group of knights than to march with a noisy mob.
“It’s already late. Let’s spend the night at that village ahead.”
“Agreed.”
It was a village at the foot of Mount Kalotes, where the sacred flame had first been spotted by a local herbalist.
*
Fran dragged himself into the village, utterly worn out.
He had spent the whole day combing the mountain, yet found nothing. Naturally, fatigue weighed all the heavier.
“Hey, Fran! Why do you look half-dead?”
“Don’t talk to me. I feel like I’m going to keel over any second.”
“Judging by that face, another wasted day, eh? How about giving up this herb-picking business and becoming a woodcutter instead?”
The others around burst into laughter.
There was no malice in the words. They were spoken in jest, but beneath them was a genuine concern. Fran knew that well enough.
“Hmph. Cutting wood is for you muscle-bound oxen. A delicate man like me is far better suited to gathering herbs.”
“Delicate, he says!”
The woodcutter slapped his forehead in mock despair.
“Come on then, delicate man. Let’s get some ale with us brutes. No wives waiting at home, so let’s drink till dawn!”
He beckoned with a hearty laugh.
Fran sighed, pretending reluctance, but in truth he had been waiting for that invitation. He followed them with quick steps.
The village was small, but had all it needed: an inn, a tavern, even a pub that served decent beer. For men like Fran and his companions, it was the perfect place to wash away the day’s weariness.
“Tonight’s on me. Drink all you want!”
“What, since when are you rich?”
“Collected all the debts today. A few drinks are nothing now—”
The woodcutter’s words trailed off.
At the village entrance, a strange silhouette had appeared.
“What’s that?”
“Looks like… a cow? And a cart?”
“Not a merchant caravan. They came earlier in the day.”
Fran, too, turned his gaze toward the entrance.
“…Nobles?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What noble would come to a backwater like this?”
But as the figures drew closer, doubt turned to unease.
The ‘cow’ was in fact a horse, the ‘cart’ a grand carriage. Three armored knights escorted it, with soldiers following behind.
Too modest a procession for great nobility—yet too extravagant for anything else.
Anxious murmurs spread.
Nobles… Has any peasant ever fared well after crossing paths with them?
The carriage halted before the group. Fran considered kneeling, but the silver-haired knight at the lead spoke first.
“Does this village have an inn?”
The villagers’ eyes widened in disbelief at the knight’s polite tone.
“Y-yes, over there.”
Fran quickly pointed at the shabby building that served as the village’s only inn.
“Thank you.”
The knight smiled faintly and turned his horse that way.
“Why are they here?”
“Is trouble coming?”
Fran could only share their unease. Something about this felt like the end of their quiet lives.
“Lord Dante, we’ve arrived.”
The carriage stopped before the inn, and the knight announced respectfully.
Click.
The well-oiled door swung open.
A child?
Out stepped a boy of perhaps ten, accompanied by a young maid.
“Reserve rooms. No—take the whole inn. The soldiers must rest comfortably.”
“As you command.”
The boy, addressed as Dante, issued the order with the poise of a seasoned lord.
“Is that brat the noble?”
“Quiet, unless you want to lose your head.”
The villagers whispered fearfully. Fran kept his distance but continued to watch.
“A quiet place indeed.”
“Quite so.”
The maid spoke, and the young noble’s expression shifted into something… nostalgic.
Fran stifled a laugh. Nostalgia? At ten years old?
Still, he knew better than to linger.
“Let’s go drink. Staying near them is asking for trouble.”
His companions agreed quickly.
But then—
“You there.”
The boy’s voice froze them in place.
Fran swallowed hard and turned.
“Y-yes, my lord?”
“I have a question.”
“O-of course!”
The woodcutter bent almost double, grinning stupidly in terror. Fran bowed as well, already plotting his escape into the mountains if things went ill.
“Is there a herbalist in this village?”
Fran felt every eye on him. Slowly, he raised his head. The boy’s gaze was fixed directly upon him.
“M-my lord… that would be me.”
“You are the herbalist?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How many like you are there?”
Why was he asking this? Was someone ill?
Fran stammered out, “I—I’m the only one.”
The boy nodded.
“Good. Come closer.”
The command carried a weight beyond his years. Fran’s legs moved against his will, though each step grew heavier.
Should I run?
He recalled a tale he had once heard—about a noble who demanded a legendary herb. The herbalists, unable to find it, were punished by having their arms severed.
Cold sweat drenched his back. Escape was impossible. Three knights stood by, men who were not merely human but something far greater.
Fran bowed deeply before the boy.
“W-what would you have of me?”
“There is something I must find in Mount Kalotes. I require your help.”
Fran’s face paled.
His worst fear realized.
“There are no spirit herbs here!”
“Hmm?”
The boy tilted his head, but Fran rattled on, desperate.
“This mountain is nothing but scrubland! No spirit herbs, not even decent common ones! If you seek such things, you must go to the Murshiga Range, or the Kraman Range! Yes, that’s where you’ll find them!”
Words poured from him like water.
“If those are too far, then there’s Izelatn Mountain nearby—many legends speak of herbs there! I can even introduce you to another herbalist!”
The boy blinked.
“So, Kalotes has no spirit herbs?”
“None at all!”
Fran nodded vigorously.
The boy considered, then spoke evenly.
“I see. That may be so. But it has nothing to do with me.”
He reached out and patted Fran’s shoulder.
“For I am not seeking spirit herbs.”
“…Eh?”
Fran’s eyes widened. If not spirit herbs, then why seek a herbalist?
The boy glanced around at the listening villagers.
“Too many ears here. We’ll speak inside.”
He turned toward the inn.
“Follow me.”
The command brooked no refusal.
Fran turned, desperately seeking help from his drinking companions.
But they were gone. Every last one of them had fled.
“Some friends they are…”
With the look of a man about to cry, Fran trudged after the noble child into the shabby inn.
