Free Web NovelChapter 380: Chapter 83: To Live Is Not Just to Be Alive
Old Peter’s brow was still furrowed, but a new resilience had appeared in his eyes. He walked over and helped a frail woman lift a corner of her pushcart.
The others also sprang into action—clearing the road, checking for torn grain sacks, helping the injured... It was as if they were trying to banish the fear and helplessness from moments before through tangible labor.
Deacon Byron watched everyone’s spirits lift and exchanged a look with Old Hans.
Old Hans’s wrinkled face was expressionless, but he gave an almost imperceptible nod before hunching over to gather a few bundles of hay scattered by the ridges of the fields.
The shared glance put Deacon Byron’s heart at ease, and a firmer resolve seemed to rise from within him.
He turned to face the modest, white-walled chapel and slowly made the sign of the Holy Emblem—a crescent moon embracing a star—over his chest.
"Oriane above, grant your humble servant the courage to press on. Grant these suffering lambs the resilience to not be devoured by despair. May Your light, however faint, illuminate the ground beneath our feet and guide us along this thorny road to walk the Path You wish for us."
After his prayer, he took a deep breath of the air, thick with the smell of dust and straw, and threw himself into the cleanup effort.
A wind swept down from the north, rustling the hem of his faded robes and the sparse, tenacious seedlings still standing in the fields.
...
The carriage continued north, its wheels rolling over an increasingly bumpy road.
The atmosphere inside the carriage was completely different from their journey south.
As they passed through various domains, they would occasionally see barren fields, dilapidated villages, and listless, ragged pedestrians on the road.
The thick Magic Model notebook on Eleanor’s lap had not been opened in a long time.
Her slender fingers unconsciously stroked the rough parchment cover, but her dark eyes remained fixed on the world outside the window.
Aurora no longer pointed out the local sights and customs to her daughter in a soft voice, as she had on their way there.
She simply sat quietly beside Murphy, her gaze occasionally flitting past the window, her brow slightly furrowed with a hint of subtle worry.
One afternoon, the carriage was forced to slow down as it passed through a rundown town nestled in a mountain hollow.
The narrow street was packed with people. Many of the sallow and gaunt townspeople were gathered before a ruin billowing black smoke, a mixture of cries, curses, and helpless wails rising to the sky.
The ruins were vaguely recognizable as what was once a sizable mill and its adjoining granary. Now, only charred, broken walls remained. Some unburnt beams were still smoldering, and the acrid smell of burning could be detected even through the carriage window.
A white-haired old woman with a soot-stained face sat slumped before the ruins, tightly clutching a small, scorched-edged sack of wheat she had likely managed to salvage. Her dry eyes stared at the sky as a hoarse, ragged sound rattled in her throat.
Beside her, a boy of about ten, his clothes mostly torn and his exposed skin covered in blisters, stared blankly in the direction of the smoldering granary. He wasn’t crying or making a sound, and his eyes were frighteningly empty.
A few men who looked like town Stewards were pacing anxiously at the edge of the ruins, barking orders at several youths trying to douse the embers with broken wooden buckets. Their voices were filled with despair.
"The mill... the granary... it’s all gone... This year’s rent... what are we going to pay with..." The broken sobs drifted on the wind.
Guided carefully by the Guards, the carriage squeezed with difficulty through the edge of the crowd.
Eleanor’s gaze was locked on the burned boy and the near-catatonic old woman until the carriage turned a corner, leaving the tragic scene behind. Only then did she sharply pull her gaze away and shut her eyes tightly, her long eyelashes trembling.
The carriage fell deathly silent, with only the sound of wheels crunching over gravel.
After a long moment, Eleanor slowly opened her eyes. Those dark eyes, usually so serene, were now churning with confusion, anger, and profound bewilderment.
She turned her head to look at her father, who had been resting with his eyes closed, and her voice was a little dry.
"Father... that... explosion in the Holy City, that was only two months ago, wasn’t it?"
"It’s a long way from the Holy City to here, so news should travel slowly. Even with couriers riding at full speed or using the Church’s communication channels, only the upper echelons should know about it and be reacting. But why..."
Her gaze seemed to once again see the tax collectors on the road who had suddenly become so brazen, the new checkpoints set up outside villages to exploit passing merchants, and that fire just now—of unknown origin, yet capable of destroying a small town’s livelihood...
"Why is it that even in a poor, remote place like this, even the lowest-ranking Guards, tax collectors, and maybe even local thugs, all seem to have... shown their true colors at once? It’s as if overnight, the rules no longer apply. Anyone can use the excuse of ’extraordinary times’ to pounce and tear into people more viciously than before?"
"It happened too fast... It’s illogical. It’s as if... someone couldn’t wait to deliberately spread the news that ’something big happened in the Holy City, and the higher-ups can’t manage things anymore’ as quickly as possible, to every corner of the land. Just so these..."
She bit her lip. "So these hyenas, itching for a chance, could smell the blood in the water and start their frenzy ahead of time."
Murphy had opened his eyes at some point and was listening quietly to his daughter’s analysis.
His gaze fell on Eleanor’s face, slightly flushed with agitation, then seemed to look past her, through the window, toward the hazy, unsettled fields in the distance.
