Mavia came to knock on the door in the morning, holding a bowl of hot porridge and two pieces of toasted bread.
No answer.
She knocked three more times.
Still no answer.
She put the porridge and bread on the steps and reached out to push the door—it wasn’t locked.
A gentle push opened it.
The room was empty.
The bed was neatly made, and a note lay on the blanket.
The handwriting was as neat as a blueprint, but the last few characters were drawn out long, clearly written in a hurry:
“Apologies to all the elders, I have urgent business to attend to in the human city-states. Don’t look for me. I’ll be back.”
Rantesti City was northeast of the Elf Forest, marked on the map as two days’ walk.
Orlando pulled out his hand-drawn map from his chest—parchment, edges burned, yellowed and brittle, but the lines were still clear.
He folded the map into a square and tucked it into his inner pocket, close to his body.
Standing at the village entrance, he put on the borrowed gray coarse linen cloak, thick and stiff, like wearing a sack.
He pulled up the hood, covering most of his face, leaving only his chin and lips visible.
Provisions were packed in a cloth bag: bread, fruit, a small piece of cheese.
As he walked, it bounced against his thigh.
He also carried a wooden sword—the kind elven children used for practice, unsharpened, with a round tip, weighing only a third of a real sword.
A former dragon slayer, a member of the Imperial Royal Dragon Slaying Team, walking down the road with a wooden sword—he probably looked like a poor guy going to a costume party.
But he didn’t plan to fight.
Just walking, a wooden sword was enough—or rather, it didn’t make much difference whether he had it or not.
After walking for about four hours, the sun had climbed from the east to directly overhead.
The road was dirt, neither wide nor narrow, just enough for one carriage to pass.
On both sides were farmlands.
The wheat had just been harvested, leaving only short stubble.
Wild grass and unknown little flowers grew on the ridges.
Orlando pressed his hood lower and walked along the ridge.
No one looked up at him.
On this continent, countless people in gray cloaks walked the roads every day.
One more or less wouldn’t matter.
He figured no one would recognize him.
Tired from walking, he sat down on a stone by the roadside and took out the bread, breaking off half.
The bread was a bit hard, but still edible—chewing it felt like gnawing on a shoe sole.
He spread the map on his knee and traced the route with his finger: out of the forest, over the hills, across a river, then half a day on flat ground, and he would reach Rantesti City.
There should be a library or something in the city.
Maybe the answer was there.
Victoria had said “go to a ruin of Eldron,” but there were dozens of Eldron ruins.
He couldn’t dig through them one by one.
He’d finish swallowing the bread first.
He stood up and continued walking, one cheek bulging with bread.
As he chewed, he suddenly heard the sound of wheels behind him.
He turned around and saw a carriage approaching slowly from behind, pulled by two horses, with a wooden platform loaded with sacks and barrels.
The driver wore a nobleman’s round-top hat, the brim pulled down low, face obscured.
The carriage wasn’t fast, but much faster than walking.
A thought flashed through Orlando’s mind: hitch a ride.
He had been walking for four hours, his legs sore, a blister on his heel, each step like stepping on a thumbtack.
‘A ride would be nice.’
“Hey! Fellow!”
The driver pulled the reins, and the carriage stopped beside him, the dust kicked up covering his face.
“What’s the matter?”
Seeing the person on the carriage dressed like a rich young master, Orlando was startled.
Ka’er Feng Bulunruike.
Captain of the Third Division of the Imperial Royal Dragon Slaying Team, nephew of the emperor’s distant cousin, heir to the Feng Bulunruike family.
The one who drew a teleportation array on the floor of Skyreach City and stepped into it without looking back.
Now Orlando appeared in front of him—what would he think?
Surviving right under the Silver Dragon Queen’s nose? Who would believe that? Even if they did, they’d probably consider him a traitor.
Orlando’s hand, under the cloak, clenched his own thigh, the pain snapping him awake.
He cleared his throat, lowering his voice to a hoarse, muffled tone, like speaking through a cotton quilt:
“Excuse me, I’d like to hitch a ride to Rantesti City.”
Feng Bulunruike looked at him.
That measuring gaze paused on the hood for two seconds, then swept over the cloak, boots, cloth bag, and finally back to the hood.
“Who are you?”
“Just passing through.”
“Where from?”
Orlando hesitated.
“The west.”
The west was the Elf Forest.
He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Feng Bulunruike frowned—that frown was familiar to Orlando.
Every time he brought over a new blueprint, the other would frown first.
“Get on board.”
He tilted his head toward the carriage.
Orlando didn’t move.
His gaze shifted from Feng Bulunruike’s face to his waist—a combat short sword, the scabbard heavily worn, the hilt wrapped with dark brown anti-slip leather cord.
He recognized that sword.
It was the one that got knocked away in Skyreach City, probably picked up later.
He looked down at his own waist.
A wooden sword.
‘Fighting an imperial noble, a former dragon-slaying captain, a professional soldier trained from childhood, with a wooden sword. What’s the difference between that and shooting a dinosaur with a pellet gun?’
“No, thanks,” he said, hoisting his cloth bag higher on his shoulder and stepping back.
“I’ll just walk on my own.”
Feng Bulunruike glanced at him, a hint of boredom in his eyes, as if he had asked a lot only to get a “no.”
He withdrew his gaze, pulled the reins.
“Suit yourself.”
The carriage started moving.
The wheels crunched over the gravel.
Orlando stood in the middle of the road, watching the carriage disappear at the end of the dirt path, standing for a long time.
Then he felt his cloth bag of provisions:
Two and a half pieces of bread left, seven or eight fruits, a small piece of cheese, and enough water to last until tomorrow morning.
‘Forget it, stop thinking. Keep moving.’