When Quevedo uttered that last sentence, the other three nodded or replied in hushed tones, accepting the conclusion. But then, as if they understood that this extended gathering was now drawing to a close, all four fell silent. One sensed that each was aware of the rarity of this shared joy and wondered if such an atmosphere could be recreated in the future.
Of course, if anyone could be counted on to liven things up, it was Quevedo. After a while, he declared in a mock-casual tone, still tinged with his usual excitement:
"The party is over, the wine has been drunk, the pipes have been smoked, business is settled. It is time for the four of us to part ways."
Karl, remembering his role in initiating the trade show and the meeting, intervened:
"Time flew by while we shared these joyful hours. We cannot ask the god of joy, if he truly exists, to gaze upon us for eternity. Today's happiness is already enough to mark a lifetime. So allow me to be cruel: this meeting is over."
Erich then took over:
"Time is a magician; it cruelly grants the wishes of those who hope it will stop, while making our ordinary and painful moments seem endless. Ah, may our present pass, for beautiful things will always exist in the future."
Furen remained stunned for a moment. What? Did they really have to recite something before saying goodbye? Was this art or psychological torture? Surely they weren't going to expect him to utter a solemn "Yes, me too"... And besides, when Zhang Fei had uttered his "Yes, me too", he had almost had to choke to get it out.
He scratched his smooth forehead and said:
"Yes... it's really hard, separating at the most beautiful moment."
Quevedo added:
"Yes, that the red moon may always shine upon us—uh, no, rather that the light of technology and that of the sun may shine eternally upon us?"
When Furen heard "red moon," he immediately felt a shiver run down his spine. Did the red moon truly wish people well? It had practically "blessed" him to the point of exhaustion…
After that, the four exchanged a smile. They were clearly happy to have found such pleasant friends. Furen's smile, however, had a slight hint of embarrassment: the others had all been lyrical, and he had just blurted out a "too harsh"... the force of a barely disguised "me too".
To be honest, it was the simplest and most clean parting of days Furen had ever witnessed between friends. After those few words, they chatted about this and that, then headed towards the café exit. Noticing that the other three weren't going in the same direction as him, he hailed a horse-drawn carriage at random and left.
The separation was made with a simple wave of the hand. There was no sadness in their eyes, but rather a sincere anticipation of the next meeting, especially in Quevedo's; in the other two, nothing could be read.
Furen had a little trouble getting used to it, because at previous meetings, whether people knew each other or not, everyone displayed that tragically solemn expression of someone who is escorting a friend to the ends of the earth… and really did it.
Before, everyone was overly polite: you had to escort a guest a considerable distance away to demonstrate the pain of parting. This excessive politeness had always made Furen uncomfortable, as he disliked such conventions. He himself often forgot etiquette, and he feared being criticized behind his back for his lack of manners.
That was why he had become a homebody, refusing, sometimes clumsily, almost all parties except those where his presence was essential.
"That way... it's not so bad, after all," Furen said to himself, thinking back on the meeting, as if a sip of old wine were slowly unfolding in the mouth, gaining in richness in the memories.
When Furen returned home, the diligent young servant had already left. He paid no further attention. Back in his room, he lit a candle, read some more mystical literature, and then fell into a deep sleep.
The next day, Furen got up very early: he was fully awake around seven o'clock. He didn't go out immediately, but sat down at his table to think about his plans for the coming days.
After all, having a plan makes it easier to manage everything, or at least avoid being caught off guard, or reduce these kinds of situations as much as possible.
He went into an office with a window, opened the curtains, letting the unaccustomed rays of the morning sun fall on his face. His joints creaked slightly as he stretched. Once he had adjusted to the somewhat strong light, he leaned back fully in his wide chair, letting his weight sink into it, and began to think.
"Hmm, Beyonder meetings... I have two. The one Quevedo told me about, probably low-level since there's apparently only one Sequence 7. And the one with the "Flame Axes," obviously much higher-end. I'm still digesting (a potion), so it's best to be cautious for now. I won't go there until I've reached Sequence 8. Oh, and I can also invite Quevedo and the others."
Even racking his brains, Furen could only think of these two things. He clenched his fists, hearing a few sharp cracks in his knuckles: "That's right, training! I have to exercise, learn some fighting techniques. If there's ever a problem at a Beyonders meeting, at least I'll be able to save my own skin."
He therefore classified this as an urgent task to be dealt with quickly. Even though he would inevitably become a type of mage, he could not neglect close combat.
"Hmph! With my ten years of experience in anime and series, I know that pure mages have no future. Only the path of Master Gandalf is the light that guides our future!"
After daydreaming for a while longer, Furen left the house on foot, under the somewhat aggressive morning sun, heading towards the National Library of Trier.
"It's absolutely not to save money, it's to train! I will become Master Gandalf's disciple!"
And why are horse-drawn carriages so expensive, exactly? Will we have to wait for the arrival of steam transport for travel to finally become affordable? Can this world ever get any better?
With a deep inner sigh, he took his "free bus line 11" (his two legs) to the library, observing the streets of Trier and buying himself some breakfast on the way.
This time, Furen didn't just take the wealthy routes. He chose the most direct path, which went through a working-class neighborhood.
What was particularly difficult to bear was that, even though the streets remained generally clean, one still occasionally saw vomit or excrement. And a persistent smell of urine saturated the air.
Furen momentarily thought it was a poor neighborhood, but searching his memory, he remembered that this area was only a middle-class neighborhood. This thought plunged him into silence.
(End of chapter)