This morning, the thirtieth day of the eighth month, year 1300 of Terre, I once more immerse myself in the library of Tarif. The phrase immerse myself may sound leisurely, yet to me it resembles more a silent military camp, where the battle is not waged with spear and sword, but with paper and ink. The scent of aged wood from the shelves mingles with a faint mustiness, and at times a trace of cooled candlewax drifts in, weaving an air that is at once ancient and—secure. Such security is rare in Mikhland, and thus I seize upon it without reserve.
The place I always choose lies in the hidden corner by the eastern wall, where light from a narrow pane falls slant upon the desk—bright enough to read, yet never blinding. Here the stillness is so complete that I may hear the touch of another's brush upon parchment at the tables across the hall. To others, this is silence; to me, it is the murmuring undertone of thought itself.
At this hour, I deem Joon-soo must be at his bakery, perchance testing some new batch of wafers. To recall him is to recall the day I first set foot in that shop. The first impression? A display that borders on ostentation, yet arranged with such reason that it unsettles me. The menu holds only cakes of Earth, aimed clearly at the nostalgic hearts of those once tied to the old world, and at the curiosity of Mikhland folk who care little to learn but much to taste. Yet it is not the cakes that most draw the eye—it is his oven.
Not the great brick furnaces of Terre, but a gleaming box of metal, towering higher than two men, spanning five paces in breadth—some eight chi, seven cun, and five fen by measure. Within, five steel trays are stacked, each ample enough to bear dozens of smaller pans. If it be his xu-cakes—the treat he is famed for—I reckon one firing yields three thousand pieces.[Three thousand in a single round, three rounds in a morning—that is nine thousand cakes. Enough to feed an entire regiment in a day. Whether he ponders this when crafting the device, I know not. Yet I see with clarity its power in supply. Should he sell to the armies of Mikhland, profit would flow like a river.]
He serves also coffee, milk, and of late, tea. He claims it is "to give patrons a fuller experience." To me, it is naught but the tactic of pressing more sales, cloaked in the guise of courtesy. Even the names of dishes bear his cunning. Tiramisu, he renames sumirati. To the ear, it is strange; yet the memory of the original stirs, and thus curiosity drives purchase.[The essence is unchanged; only the robe is altered. A stratagem as old as trade itself, yet few care to notice.]
From Joon-soo's shop, my thought strays to the others within The Strays. Many remain veiled to me. Shinji—the Japanese one—is sealed tight as a locked chest, appearing at rare occasions, then fading once more. The three youths of Vietnam—companions of Veritas—likewise. With none of them have I spoken more than ten sentences.
The Strays, as we stand, are but a loose web of allies. Each follows his own course, joining hands when compelled, else fending for himself. It is little different from every man for himself. Yet if we truly mean to become a true company, this ignorance of one another will be our fatal flaw. A band that does not know itself is no better than a vessel patched from boards that were never shaped to fit—let a single strong wave strike, and it shatters.[No. Such a fate must not be ours.]
I have seen too many pacts dissolve—whether through mistrust, through ignorance, or through mere silence. And in war, at times the wary glance of a comrade may be as perilous as the blade of a foe.
Thus I consider seeking them, speaking with them, even sharing labor—not for the shallow bonds of camaraderie, but for gathering of knowledge.[To know them is to lessen hazard. To discern where they are strong, where weak, how they may react. And most of all—to know when trust is possible, and when caution must be the shield.]
I lift my eyes to the light shifting upon the table. Half the tome lies yet unread, yet my mind has already stepped forth from the library, striding toward the plan of the afternoon.[Perhaps, the hour has come to weave tighter the strands of our bond.]
The morning light now turns to a warmer gold, slanting through the high windows of Tarif's library, casting long streaks across the old wooden floor. The sound of my turning page stirs faintly in the hush as I close a treatise on governance. From my seat in the eastern corner still lingers the scent of aged oak and the fine dust upon the book spines—the true fragrance of a library morning.
Within, my thoughts reckon. Shinji, with his reclusive nature, most likely still hides himself in that biome of cherry blossoms he has shaped with his own hand—land ever in bloom with pale petals, adorned with bonsai trees trimmed to near-perfection. He lives slowly, shunning conflict, dwelling in harmony with nature. Such a man, if summoned, may come a day late and no harm be done. We once shared meals, once joined hands to banish evil spirits at his own request. Though shallow, such bonds suffice for me to speak to him.
The three youths of Vietnam—companions of Veritas—I know only scraps: names, ages (fourteen, nearing fifteen), homeland. Beyond this, their figures are but blurred silhouettes in our gatherings. To call them comrades is yet far too generous.
As these thoughts drift, a figure steps softly into my sight. Neva. I recall Aldo once received her not as a book, but as a "gift" from some provincial mayor of the Central Lands—his name and realm I have not cared to remember. A former slave of this soil, not of Earth. Aldo once cursed this affair, yet let it pass. Now the girl has become more self-standing—or at least freer—for Aldo seldom commands, leaving only the words: "Do as thou wilt." Neva follows us, yet binds herself to none.
[Aldo names people terribly.]
She stands a few paces away, her posture somewhat hesitant. The golden light falls upon her, drawing a faint gleam in her dark brown eyes.
I raise my voice, even, unhurried:— What seek you of me?
Neva replies slowly, her tone light as a passing breeze:— Of late… I have made a few decisions for myself.
I feel little interest, yet courtesy compels me onward:— And what decisions be these?
Her gaze falls; her hands entwine gently:— I begin to go to church… to read the Scriptures, to find myself anew… Nay, perhaps to seek a new Neva!
I arch a brow, tilting my head slightly:— You follow the Catholic faith?
She shakes her head, and her long hair shifts with the motion. Then Neva explains of a peculiar branch of Christendom in Mikhland—Jane-Brianism—yet in truth still Roman Catholicism, only here named after two Earth-born slaves who brought the creed hither eighty-eight and sixty-one years past.
I nod, murmuring:— You are unlike the rest of our band.
A faint flush warms her cheeks; her eyes sink, flustered. I cannot restrain a quiet laugh.— In The Strays, none holds to any faith.
She looks up, tilts her head, her voice probing:— Then Aldo, Veritas, and their friends… are they all unbelievers?
I lean back upon the chair, gaze drifting to the ceiling. Within, two thoughts weave.
[To call them "atheists" is true in the bare sense, yet not complete. They trust not in God, nor bind themselves to doctrine. Yet to say they believe in no force beyond men is false. In this land, the existence of what lies beyond human grasp is as plain as the air. Their faith is not in religion, but in lived encounter.]
[If I speak too fully, Neva will set her creed against theirs, and the talk will sour into fruitless debate. But if I answer too lightly, she will think I slight her question.]
After a pause of weighing, I reply:— Not so. They believe not in God. Yet surely they believe in the presence of powers beyond mankind.
Neva holds silence for a beat, then hesitates:— I… have other matters I have decided on, which I would speak to you.
Inwardly, I sigh, but I let only the faintest breath escape, lest she notice.
[A former slave like Neva, though freed, still carries the old habit of one denied choice—when she cannot bear to bring her concerns to Aldo, she turns instead to me. Troublesome, indeed. Yet if I do not listen, she will retreat further from making her own choices, shun society, and fall into dependence. A weak link in our chain.]
Thus begins my inner struggle:
[If I hear her now, my time is lost, and my meeting with the other three delayed…]
[But if I refuse, I break her chance to practice confidence.]
At last, I lean forward slightly, giving a small nod:— Speak on, then.
Within, I only wish to cry out: "Pray, speak swiftly, for I must away to meet the other three!" Yet my face still holds the same faint smile, flat as a wall that lets no feeling through.
The morning light still spreads gently through the library's window, casting upon Neva's face a grace both tender and pure beyond words. Her cheeks flush softly, swelling like the petals of a peach blossom newly opened, set against a skin smooth and fair as pale sand by a distant blue sea. Those sapphire eyes gleam with innocence tinged with wonder, and her long hair falls lightly upon her shoulders, stirring as though it answers the subtle breath of the wind.I think to myself—such a maiden, fair as this… Yet suddenly I recall Aldo's ledger within my pouch, wherein he notes with care the rations for Neva: fresh fruits, berries, oysters, lean meats, green vegetables, dark rye bread… Aldo is stern, yet thorough in her care; even if one does not fall for her, one must at least respect his diligence.
As these thoughts pass, Neva speaks softly:— Of late… I begin to read poems, short tales, and to study numbers: addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.
Her voice is gentle, guileless as a cool breeze, yet in her eyes dwells a trace of worry and shyness. I smile faintly, my tone slow and warm:— You do well. Keep on in such manner; it is never too late.
Neva nods, her eyes shining with a small joy. Then, with fingers touching one another, her face blushes with modesty:— I… I wonder what it feels like to hold hands, to embrace, and to kiss…
— Then seek Aldo, seize his hand with resolve, then draw him close, and kiss him!
— Say it once more, and I shall truly do it!
Somewhat startled, I laugh softly:— Then such feeling… is worth the tasting. And but weeks past, when you journeyed with Aldo from the Central Lands to the Western deserts, surely there were times he held or lifted you through peril, was it not so?
Neva's blush deepens, not only her cheeks but her whole face reddening like a ripe tomato. Yet she remains clear enough to protest, her voice soft yet firm:— Aldo is ever clad in full garb, so that counts not. And I… have never kissed anyone!
Then she strives to turn the talk aside, her tone gentle yet proud:— Of late, I also study healing magic—even some charms for calming the spirit, and spells that restore near a hundred cubic measures of flesh.
I look upon her, my heart both glad and admiring. Ceasing my teasing, I think to myself: "Fortunate indeed that she has begun to learn the arcane arts. For Aldo, Veritas, Joon-soo, and Shinji—each of them shirks study, to my endless vexation!"
Suddenly, Neva's voice cuts through my thought—resolute, unwavering:— I have a matter greater still to declare!
Her eyes turn solemn, fixed upon me. She continues:— I wish to join The Strays, and do so formally.
I cannot hide my surprise—for only weeks past she had spoken of refusing, for Aldo himself counseled so, fearing danger and doubting the creed of people's war. I ask again, my voice a blend of wonder and hope:— Are you… certain?
Neva nods slowly, her gaze brimming with resolve. At once I rise, striking her shoulder with firm hand, a broad smile spreading upon my lips:— Splendid! Then choose for yourself a name. That shall be the first stone by which you build your own freedom of spirit.
Neva smiles, her eyes glistening with hope. Then she turns swiftly and departs the library, most likely to the government hall to complete the rites.
When she vanishes from sight, my countenance eases, my heart lightens, and warmth fills my chest. At last, I may leave the library with peace of mind, to meet the other three. Yet I think to myself—Neva shall surely return to trouble me again. Thus I hasten my step, striding into the bustling tide of Tarif's streets—where clamor of voices, hurried footsteps, and ceaseless cries of vendors weave the music of the city.
I stride swiftly outward, the cool breath of early autumn morning twines itself through every inhalation, threading softly between the green leaves of Tarif city. Along the embankment of the Hienoa River, the waters glimmer faintly beneath the rising sun. There I behold a lone figure seated in weariness, thick spectacles upon his face, his look half-brooding, half-dreaming—it is Quang Minh. Within our fellowship, we often jestingly call him "dull," yet behind those heavy glasses abides a keen mind, sharp with the gift of numbers.
I smile, draw nearer, and greet in familiar tone:— How fare you, Quang Minh?
He casts me a glance, as though my coming has broken the torrent of thoughts within him. Then he points toward the winding river:— This stretch flows at near 0.45 meters each second—that is, around 1.62 kilometers in an hour. Slow, measured, most fitting for trade.
I nod, smiling lightly:— Indeed. Such a gentle flow shows the river runs even and steady, linking lands together, favorable for transport and commerce.
Quang Minh turns to the murky water, laden with silt:— Yet why is the river's hue so muddy?
I answer at once:— It is for the great weight of silt. This river is akin to the Yellow River of Earth, save that it bears less fury, for floods are rare. Look upon the levees round about, and you shall sense its greater calm.
Quang Minh nods slowly, a guileless look brightening into delight at the exchange. Though his face seems ever "dull," it cannot hide a boundless curiosity. In gentle tone, almost a whisper, he speaks:— I delight in the way you speak, Zihao. I hope we may speak more oft. Perhaps I shall even grant you counsel for life itself.
I smile and incline my head:— That sounds most enticing.