Morning sunlight slanted across the sea, shimmering with a silver halo.
Whenever the hull cut through the waves, that halo swayed gently, as though the ocean itself were breathing.
The chill carried by the sea breeze lingered, undispelled even beneath the glowing sun.
On the second deck of this sizable merchant vessel bound for Lilom City, the wooden furnishings and decor appeared exquisite yet cozy. Viscount Francis sat before a dining table draped in a damask cloth, his silverware neatly arrayed before him.
Middle-aged, he wore a dark gray suit embroidered in gold thread with his family crest. Though weariness touched his gaze, his meticulous grooming still lent him a dignified, elegant air, and faint traces of past swordsmanship were visible on his slender fingers.
He lightly speared a piece of smoked salmon with his fork, brought it to his mouth, and unconsciously kept his brow slightly furrowed as he chewed.
Yet it was not because the chef had performed poorly today.
*Sigh. I'm afraid things won't be easy to handle with the imperial capital this year,*
he lamented inwardly, keeping the thought to himself.
The Protos Empire comprised seventeen provinces.
Lilom City was the most remote settlement in the already impoverished Southwestern Province; had it not bordered the sea, it would have been little more than a fortress city-state lost amidst the forest.
Currently, the Protos Empire stood locked in an intensely precarious standoff with the coalition of nations led by the Kingdom of Asethelan to its northwest. An all-out war across the Northern Continent could ignite at any moment, awaiting only a spark to set off the conflagration of the century.
Even though fighting would not easily reach a city nestled deep in the southern rear like theirs, should war break out, conscription, taxes, and other pressures threatened to become an unbearable burden for an isolated, modest domain.
Worse still, the empire's most preposterous decision yet had been offering amnesty to the Resurrection Church.
Such a reckless bargain might have seemed a brilliant ploy to the high and mighty in the capital—a way to keep a tiger tethered at their side, undeniably striking terrifying fear into the northern kingdoms—but for the common folk, it was an unmitigated disaster.
Even in a frontier city like theirs, cultists of the Resurrection Church roaming the streets had left the populace gripped by dread.
Just then, a knock at the door broke Viscount Francis's train of thought.
"Is there anything scheduled for this morning?"
As Viscount Francis's question trailed off, a young man dressed as an officer stepped quietly inside. He was Francis's secretary and personal guard.
"My Lord Viscount, the guest has awakened," the secretary reported in a steady voice.
Francis slowly swallowed his food and nodded. "Good, understood. Prepare some tea and fruit and have them sent to his cabin. I will be there shortly."
For someone who had survived a shipwreck and likely gone long without food, hydrating and eating a bit of fruit or vegetables before a proper meal was best.
Recently, mana storms had erupted incessantly across the sea, prompting passenger and merchant ships at imperial ports to suspend their southern routes.
The closer one drew to the waters between the Northern and Southern Continents, the more frequent and severe the accidents became.
According to imperial investigative reports, disaster scholars widely believed that two terrifying beings had fought a duel to the death across the southern waters; their unbridled clashes of mana had exacerbated the spread of cataclysmic mana tides.
"Understood, my Lord."
The secretary bowed slightly and withdrew from the dining room.
Before long, Francis finished his breakfast. Setting down his silverware, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin, adjusted his tie, and rose to his feet with the support of his cane.
What was meant to be an ordinary trip to visit an old friend and conduct some business in a major eastern port city had gained an unexpected interlude.
Last night, a raging squall had torn across the sea, churning up colossal waves that seemed intent on swallowing their merchant ship time and again—though to veterans of the sea, such weather was nothing extraordinary.
Yet out of nowhere, a resounding *thud* cut through the air, piercing the darkness and reaching the ears of the crew stationed at the gunwales.
From that faint impact alone, the seasoned sailors could discern the material of what struck them—wood.
Leaning over the railing, they discovered what appeared to be the wreckage of a ship's timber. Astonishingly, a boy was clinging to the wood.
The youth, appearing around seventeen or eighteen, seemed favored by fortune itself—firmly hooked upon a piece of driftwood, drifting along with the current, and coming to a miraculous halt beside their ship.
Even more reassuringly, the collision had left him unharmed, as though some guiding magic had ferried him gently to the vessel's side.
Braving the wind and waves, the crew had hauled the boy aboard without delay.
Viscount Francis had immediately ordered the ship's physician to tend to the battered, injured youth and provide every care possible.
The youth's brown hair was as soft as silk, and his attire was distinctive, marking him as a visitor from some distant foreign realm.
Normally, an unidentified stranger ought not to be rescued.
At a juncture like this, everyone in the Protos Empire feared for their own safety; a single misstep could see one branded a "cultist" or "defeatist" by ill-intentioned opportunists.
Yet Viscount Francis had always believed in the guidance of the Goddess of Fate and the principle that good and evil met their due reward; at the very least, he would do the youth no harm before discerning who he was.
*Sigh. If life truly becomes unlivable in a year or two, I will take Zestira to the Southern Continent. At least over there, they won't be absurd enough to brand the Church of the Goddess of Fate a heresy.*
Viscount Francis walked to the window, sighing as he looked out at the churning sea and the unpredictable weather.
In any case, his daughter had suffered prejudice and discrimination in the Protos Empire since childhood due to her demonic traits. At worst, he would renounce his noble title and make a fresh start in the Southern Continent.
Though it would be difficult to find a land in the Southern Continent that treated demons on equal footing, at least it wouldn't be like the Protos Empire, where even concealing one's racial traits was a capital crime.
Reaching the door, Viscount Francis pulled open the heavy cabin door and stepped out. In the red-carpeted corridor, several lanterns burning whale oil hung suspended, their flickering glow offering a touch of homely warmth even out at sea.
His steps were steady, though his mind remained preoccupied with deep thoughts.
At last, he arrived before the guest cabin and found his secretary waiting outside. After a brief word and a nod of acknowledgment, Viscount Francis knocked on the door.
"Please, come in."
Hearing the gentle response from within, Viscount Francis pushed the door open and entered.
Inside the plainly decorated yet fully furnished bedroom lingered the mingled scent of seawater and damp wood.
A brown-haired youth sat at the edge of the bed. He had captivating emerald-green eyes. Gauze covered his left eye, and bandages peeked out from the cuffs of his black suit, extending all the way from his wrists to his elbows, with more wrapping visible beneath his collar.
The intensity of his mana was only around the first tier.
Nor did he look like a battle-hardened warrior, possessing delicate, fair skin.
Yet his vitality was extraordinarily robust; to survive such grave, fatal injuries and claw his way back to life was nothing short of remarkable.
According to the secretary, the youth had initially seemed unable to speak their language, but he carried a tool card infused with translation magic, quickly enabling normal communication.
Though their conversation had yet to begin, the moment Viscount Francis met his gaze, an intuition took hold: this was not a wicked person.
For his eyes were clear, naturally harboring compassion and contemplation—yet not an ounce of it was for himself.
Only for the suffering of all living beings.
Such was the gaze belonging to a saint.
Chapter 238