Calypso was certain that the other Herald Clan would challenge Azadin and be crushed.
"Ah, even laughing still gives me a headache. I feel like I almost died and came back. Huh?"
At that moment, Calypso halted. Before her eyes, in the forest dried up by the drought, something felt off.
[Greetings, 106th herald Calypso.]
A voice of an artificial spirit spoke to her.
"What are you?"
[I am the Voice. The voice of Arael.]
"Oh, the voice of Arael?!"
[Yes. As you can see.]
"...."
Calypso was aghast. The Emperor's Voice was a powerful grand magic. It connected 108 artificial spirits across the continent in an organic network to manage petitions, relay information, and grant a unified consciousness to the people.
Such formidable magic could only be created by the Emperor, who wielded godlike power. Until now, that is.
But Arael had managed to replicate something similar? No matter how much of a genius Arael was reputed to be, was such a thing even possible?
"What business do you have with me?"
[I have an offer you cannot refuse.]
From the shade of the parched forest… a crow emerged.
Was it speaking to her while possessing the crow?
This too was similar to the Emperor's Voice. When addressing those outside Aragasa, the Emperor's Voice often appeared through birds.
But there was something strange about this crow. Calypso immediately noticed why. A large wound split its chest open, and within, an eye pulsed like a beating heart.
***
Azadin had tried calling upon the Emperor's Voice again, but there was no response. Growing impatient, he continued walking toward Salasma, where he came upon a dried-up stream.
"Damn, it really is a drought. By now, it should've rained."
Every farm Azadin passed was struggling to fetch water. The eastern interior lands were always divided between the water-rich west and the arid east.
But with no rain for a month in the eastern interior, even the western lands were starting to dry up.
"It wasn't this bad when I headed east," Tarkiev remarked as he checked his horse. Even Tarkiev horse, thirsty, was panting heavily.
"Hmm… the water is murky."
Azadin, too, had stopped to water his goat, but seeing the nearly dried-up stream, he clicked his tongue. The water had turned into muddy puddles where fish flopped helplessly.
In the stagnant pools left behind, an overwhelming number of fish were gathering, suffocating and dying. Nearby farmers had gathered, scooping up crawfish and fish alike.
"If they keep taking them like that, there'll be no fish left."
"Well, they'd rot and stink if left anyway, so it's better to eat them while they can. But the real problem will come later."
Midiam, too, recognized the severity of the drought.
The goat panted heavily. The Herald Clan favored Kerim goats over horses. Kerim goats had greater endurance, superior jumping ability, and could traverse rough terrain with ease. They could even scale sheer cliffs, and their long fur produced wax esters, useful for rust-proofing swords and maintaining bows, arrows, and spear shafts.
But because of their thick fur, Kerim goats were vulnerable to heat. In hot climates, they needed constant hydration, and in these drought-stricken lands, taking them any farther would be difficult.
"If they drink that water, they'll get sick."
"How about a well? If the riverbed isn't exposed yet, the wells might still have water."
At Ishmael's suggestion, Azadin clicked his tongue.
"We'd need permission from the villagers to use their wells."
They were Herald Clansmen—people despised by the locals. Originally, the Herald Clan had distinct deep brown skin, different from the rest of Hubris' people, making them targets of discrimination. However, after generations of intermarriage, they had begun to resemble other races, with even Midiam, of the founding family, appearing like a northern Hubris.
"Haha, don't worry about that. I'm a knight, remember?"
Tarkiev stepped forward.
"Hey! You lowly peasant scum!"
"...."
As Tarkiev began to harass the farmers, Azadin hurriedly removed his helmet and pulled out a staff from his saddle.
"Oh, not this again," Ishmael groaned. Feigning blindness on a pilgrimage?
"If Tarkiev keeps acting up, and we look fine standing beside him, they'll assume we're part of his gang. Better to just play the role of traveling pilgrims."
"Understood."
Shortly after, Tarkiev swaggered back.
"How was it? See? Peasant fools grovel before a knight's words. I bet they'd even give up their wives if I asked."
"You go too far, Sir Knight."
"Huh?"
"…I appreciate your protection on this pilgrimage, but treating people so harshly is a sin. You should practice the virtue of mercy."
"What do you mean—?"
"I will speak with them again. Excuse me."
Leaning on his staff, Azadin walked over to the farmers still gathering fish from the stream, feigning blindness.
"Oh, what is it? Hm?"
"Ah, a blind man?"
"I am but a passing pilgrim, and I would be most grateful if you allowed us to use your well. Our knight has already requested permission, but I fear his words may have been too rough, possibly inconveniencing you."
"Oh, well, that's…"
"That knight—he's Margrave's son, isn't he?"
"Young men can be a bit much at times. We didn't like it, but… what can we do?"
"Still, you've arrived at the right time. We were just about to boil some crawfish."
The farmers welcomed Azadin with kindness.
'From now on, let Tarkiev take the lead only when we need a rude provocation. Otherwise, send in the holy knights of the king's church.'
Azadin made this resolve and followed the farmers toward the village.
***
Streamside Village was a fairly large settlement with over 700 households. In the sparsely populated north, it was large enough to be considered a castle town or even a city, but in the densely populated central inland or southern regions, it was merely a village.
Still, with a sizable population, the village had a permanent marketplace in its central plaza and a trading post equipped with cranes for easily loading and unloading goods from carts and horses.
By the dried-up stream, there were also facilities meant for river transport, used when the waters were higher.
"Well, well. So, how does a blind man travel?"
"I am a wandering pilgrim in search of miracles. I journey in the hope of receiving the blessings of the Archangel of Trinity."
"Such a young age, what a shame."
"A handsome lad, too. Did you lose your sight in the war?"
As Azadin engaged with the villagers, Midiam and Ishmael fed their goat water and hay. Meanwhile, the villagers were boiling crayfish.
Fish could be filleted, smoked, and stored for later, but crayfish were too cumbersome to preserve in such a way. Instead, they simply boiled and ate them on the spot. Since there was more food than they could eat at the moment, generosity flowed freely among them.
"Here, have some of this."
The farmers placed boiled crayfish, seasoned with wild garlic and pepper, in front of Azadin's group.
"Ah, thank you kindly. Are these crayfish?"
"Yes. The waters have dried up too much recently."
"Since they'd rot and disappear anyway, we smoked the fish for storage, but we're just eating the crayfish now."
"It's a crayfish feast, a crayfish festival! Help yourselves!"
"Thank you. To receive such warm hospitality as travelers—may you all be blessed."
Azadin graciously accepted their kindness.
"Hmm."
Midiam and Ishmael sat beside him, looking conflicted.
"This feels like we're deceiving them."
"Indeed. This happened last time too…."
Ishmael was uneasy about the situation.
Whenever Azadin pretended to be a blind pilgrim, the villagers treated him well. And in doing so, Azadin bore an unspoken debt to them.
Human kindness was never truly free. A man of pride would rather pay in coin, keeping matters clean and settled.
But Azadin's way was not the way of the Herald Clan. He willingly confronted and entangled himself with the Hubris people rather than avoiding them.
The Herald Clan despised the Hubris people for persecuting them, but Azadin had already been persecuted within his own clan. To him, there was little difference between the Hubris people and Aragasa.
The real problem was that Midiam was drawn to this way of thinking. Even Ishmael, observing from the side, could see Midiam's growing admiration for Azadin.
Was it because he had lost to him in a duel and now had to elevate Azadin's value to maintain his own?
No, that wasn't it.
It was this man's way of thinking—an utterly foreign mindset that no Aragasan should possess—that fascinated Midiam.
'This man is an anomaly. And the issue is, Young Lady Midiam loves new things.'
Watching Azadin casually sharing crayfish with the Hubris people, Ishmael steeled his resolve.
***
With the villagers' help, Azadin's group watered their goat, ate their fill of crayfish, and prepared to depart.
"Take some with you, in case you get hungry on the road."
"Be careful not to let it spoil!"
The villagers packed some boiled crayfish for Azadin.
"Alright then…."
After receiving their food and warm hospitality, Azadin and his group crossed the stream and began descending the hill path. Then, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
"What is it?"
"Wait a moment."
Azadin pulled out a wooden box from his robes. It contained the umbilical cords of the children he had promised to rescue—children of the enslaved woman who had surrendered to him during the Black Magic Catastrophe.
Aside from the records written by the woman, the box also contained information Azadin had received from the Korasar Peddlers' Guild. Reading through it, he furrowed his brow.
"This is the village."
"Huh?"
"I didn't recognize it because it's grown so much. Look."
The village, with its 700 households, was actually the result of two smaller villages expanding and merging. New buildings had risen among the older ones, joining the settlements into one.
"This is… quite close."
"That makes sense. They wouldn't have needed to take the slaves too far. Let's start searching."
Azadin quickened his pace.
Even without slavery, the practice of "adopting" children and buying or selling them was widespread throughout Hubris.
Many took in adopted children to put them to work on farms or in factories from a young age, ensuring they contributed to the family business and brought in income.
Despite this, adopted children were legally distinct from slaves. They had inheritance rights and, at the very least, were protected from being violated by their legal guardians.
Of course, abuse wasn't unheard of, but mistreatment of adoptees was a serious crime, punishable by the king's church or the Order of Salvation Knights.
Still, adopted children were often subjected to child labor, but they had far more legal and institutional protections than slaves.
By contrast, those treated as slaves had no such protections and were left completely vulnerable.
"In the name of Aragasa, I won't let these children suffer such a fate."