Chapter 11: Matters of Concern
The Earl’s Return
Earl Ayton Holm, lord of Hosgard, was riding swiftly toward the capital. A sudden tightness gripped his heart, prompting him to rein in his horse and gaze back at the royal city. The setting sun bathed the entire capital in a majestic glow, yet to him, it seemed merely a grand clamor before its curtain call. “Stay away from places of strife,” his mother had taught him since childhood, though she always bristled when he called her that. Over the years, she must have been furious that he never returned. He had once intended to bring her to his territory, but deep down, he knew she would never leave. Grown-ups, after all, rarely venture out. Ayton simply believed Weng was nostalgic, or perhaps she no longer cared to acknowledge him after his long absence. But now, he was finally returning home, no matter what. The army trailing him would not linger in the capital, left to fill some so-called righteous void at the whims of others. Sadin City had fallen, and Lord Dolin of Dangarol had privately tipped him off beforehand. None of those ministers had any right to shirk their responsibility. Yet, there were many things he couldn’t foresee—like the fact that one of the instigators of this affair was currently in Maple Whisper Village…
Autumn in Maple Whisper Village
Fallen leaves carpeted the path, painting it with the desolation of deep autumn. A young girl’s joyful steps stirred up wisps of dust, drifting with the wind, while withered leaves fluttered like exhausted butterflies, wilting at dusk. The great trees in the valley seemed to block the mountain pass entirely, shielding the hidden dangers within the forest. In the distance, the soft glow of a treehouse’s lights spilled outward, warm and lingering. Vey, carrying a basket of freshly picked fruit, skipped forward, eagerly anticipating her teacher’s cooking. Weng often cooked for herself, likely because the average fare in this game world was unimaginably poor. Out of boredom and a longing to “eat something fit for humans,” she had tirelessly recreated a variety of real-world dishes from scratch. As for who dealt with her less successful attempts in the past—well, that’s not worth mentioning.
“Teacher!”
“Sit down—wait, help me wipe the table first,” Weng said, recalling the traces of potion experiments on it. “Hey, I told you not to bring anything, yet you still brought fruit.” She grumbled, though her heart warmed.
“There’s some new Meijian fruit from a few months ago, and it’s a great harvest! Mom and Dad said it’s delicious.” At the name, Weng turned her head, puzzled, watching the girl wash a fruit resembling a mango. Its surface was bumpy like a durian’s spines, with red-tipped points and an orange-yellow skin. Minutes later, they set the table with their meal. At home, they ate as they pleased, using knives, forks, or chopsticks—whatever suited the moment. Among her students, Vey learned the fastest, her personality most like Weng’s, and she loved to slack off. That made her the biggest headache. The obedient ones had all left—how could that not be a contrast?
“Teacher, this is way too good!” the girl exclaimed with genuine admiration. Weng smiled, urging her to eat more. Yet, years ago, someone had said the complete opposite with equal sincerity.
After dinner, while washing dishes, Weng used a basic fireball spell to heat water. The two chatted about mundane things. At times like these, Weng felt a quiet fear—people often made abrupt decisions when guards were down, like… leaving Maple Whisper Village. She often chose silence. Vey wasn’t fond of physical techniques, and Weng could only teach her the most basic magic. In truth, these past few years, Weng had accomplished little. Yet the girl still called out to her with such enthusiasm, reminiscent of Weng’s own youth.
A Walk by the Lake
The two decided to take a post-dinner stroll along the path to the ravine, passing a tranquil lake where Weng often went fishing (not that kind of air force…). The evening sky wasn’t yet deep, the sunset’s glow retreating as it danced with the encroaching night. The moon hung faintly, unobscured by clouds but barely visible. The world glowed softly, not yet ready to sleep. Weng walked slowly, hands behind her back, savoring the moment. The magic essence in the air carried the melancholy of autumn. After the peak of summer, the essence turned cold, affecting spell formations and causing inconsistent magical effects. This was part of the world, part of nature, part of magic. Vey, initially mimicking her, had now developed her own understanding. There were only two things to remember when learning magic: First, magic is one, the caster is one, the world is one. Second, magic is specific. The rest varied by person. For Weng, the grassy slopes of the Softwind Ridge were a construct of wind and fire. The life of the grass was fire; its upward growth was wind. Vey, staring at a foxtail weed, called it water and earth. …Fair enough.
They walked and paused, unexpectedly meeting Vik by the lake. He hadn’t noticed them. Weng crouched slightly. “Has Mr. Elindor eaten dinner yet?” It took him a moment to react, greeting them awkwardly, especially stumbling over Vey’s name like a shy child. Weng introduced them briefly.
“You can just call me Vik if the surname troubles you,” he suggested.
“Thank you for your kindness,” she replied politely. Vey, ever sociable, piped up, “Mr. Vik, what’s the outside world like?”
“It’s… similar to here, but messier.” He thought for a moment, answering cautiously. How could a bustling city compare to a backwater like Maple Whisper Village? Though, the latter part was true.
“Really…” Vey glanced at Vik, then at Weng. Her teacher must have come from somewhere grand, knowing so much—surely a vibrant, prosperous city.
Weng sat on a large rock by the lake, her robe subtly outlining her slender frame, silver hair cascading like a starry river. “The outside world is good, but also bad. If you get the chance, go see it for yourself.” Vey was surprised—her teacher, who lazed about in the treehouse and rarely ventured out, was saying something so unlike her. Vik didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting to a nearby pumpkin patch. The moonlight gleamed, and the mountain breeze rippled the lake’s surface, a beautiful sight. The reflection in the witch’s eyes shimmered too.
Suddenly, she spoke. “Have you heard a name before?”
“What?”
“Kyle Kahn.”
Vik turned, staring at her. Weng noticed his gaze lingered, leaving her slightly confused. She scanned her face with mental energy, searching for anything amiss, but found nothing. His stare wasn’t about her—it was the name.
“Mr. Vik, it’s not polite to stare at a lady so long,” the witch said courteously, burying her thoughts. He snapped out of it, apologizing, words catching in his throat as he turned to the blue lake. After a long pause, he answered her earlier question honestly.
“I’ve heard it.” He’d even said it plenty of times.
“Is he still alive?” That was what someone truly cared about. Vik’s lips twitched, unsure how to respond.