Chapter 5: The Eccentric Old Man in Town

Whenever people spoke of the southern region of the New Continent known as Alfheim, they always used a vivid metaphor: if a squirrel were to leap endlessly from tree to tree, it could cross the entire expanse from the southernmost Brass Pass to the northernmost Prince’s Port without ever touching the ground.

Long before humans began their great migrations, the “Great Alf Forest” was a haven for fairies and elves—the very name “Alfheim” derives from the elven tongue, meaning “Realm of the Light Elves.” Times have changed, and now settlers from the Old Continent have gradually replaced the fairies and elves, becoming the new masters of this land.

Blessed with a warm, humid climate and flat, fertile soil, Alfheim is lush with vegetation and crisscrossed by rivers. The forests teem with game, waterfowl and beavers crowd the riverbanks, and as more colonists arrive from the Old Continent, a southern society rooted in agriculture is slowly taking shape.

In this prosperous southern colony, wealthy plantation owners control the best lands. Eager to enhance their families’ influence, they actively participate in public affairs, serving as town councilors and military leaders. The power and wealth of these great planters rivals that of princes and lords from the Old Continent—they keep retinues of servants, construct lavish homes, live in aristocratic luxury, and regularly travel abroad on mail steamers to maintain close ties with the high society of the “civilized world.”

Ranked below the planters are the yeoman farmers, who labor to clear new plots beyond the enclosed estates, dreaming that one day they too might become landowners. Worse off than the yeomen are the indentured servants and hereditary serfs, who own nothing and dare not even hope for freedom—securing a decent position in service is the height of their aspiration.

Joan’s hometown, Delin Town, is a typical southern settlement populated mainly by yeomen. Its two thousand residents are largely descendants of Old Continent settlers, who for generations have farmed the riverside fields, growing grains, tobacco, and cotton. Leaders of the various guilds together form the “Town Council,” which elects a mayor to manage daily affairs and appoints a retired veteran as sheriff and militia captain.

It was the depths of winter. The Delin River was sealed by a layer of ice, beneath which the water flowed in silence. The fields on either side lay blanketed with heavy snow, lending the landscape a desolate aspect.

As the sun slanted westward, a powerful, broad-shouldered half-blood winter wolf raced along the riverbank, drawing a sleigh behind it. Perhaps because he was finally home after many days away, Jamie howled with excitement. The stray dogs lurking at the village gate heard his commanding cry and scattered in panic.

Joan lifted his gaze from his spellbook and reached out to stroke Jamie's back, calming the wolf.

Obediently, the half-blood winter wolf lowered its head and pulled the sleigh through the village streets, slowing only near the woods at the northern edge of town.

Joan told Jamie to stop, then jumped down and flexed his numb limbs. Suddenly, he remembered the other passenger on the sleigh. Leaning over, he saw that the little Asa girl was still unconscious, her face paler than it had been that morning. Joan began to worry she might never wake. Not knowing medicine himself, he hesitated, but finally decided to bring her to his grandfather.

Both Joan’s parents and grandfather had once been professional adventurers, earning their living in the wilds—a life not without misfortune. Before Joan was born, his grandfather and parents were caught in an accident while exploring. Grandfather lost a leg, Joan’s father rescued his pregnant wife but died in the attempt.

Joan was only an infant when his mother succumbed to illness. It was his grandfather, Guillaume Tell, who raised him. As an orphan, Joan’s childhood could hardly be called happy, but at least he never went cold or hungry.

As a boy, Joan was deeply attached to his grandfather, often begging to be taken fishing by the river or hunting rabbits in the woods, or gathering wild fruits. But as he grew older—especially after he insisted on teaching himself arcane lore against his grandfather’s wishes—their relationship soured. Grandfather was deeply disappointed by Joan's refusal to heed his advice, while Joan felt wronged by his grandfather’s harsh interference in his dreams. Stubbornness met stubbornness; unless one spoke first, the other would never break the silence. Thus, their mutual obstinacy sometimes left them without a word exchanged for days on end.

Their home consisted of two wooden cottages, one behind the other. The front house was larger, with two rooms—once his parents’ quarters, now Joan’s alone. Grandfather lived in the rear cottage, near the edge of the forested hill, seldom venturing out due to his disability.

Joan returned first to his own house. Inside, everything was as he had left it, though a thin layer of dust had settled and silence reigned. After setting down his luggage, he dragged the sleigh and the still-unconscious Asa girl up the hill to his grandfather’s door, where he hesitated a long moment before knocking.

“Come in,” came a gruff, weary voice from within.

Joan pushed open the door but remained on the threshold, watching his grandfather at work by the window.

The thin old man, his hair grey and white, sat in an armchair by the hearth, a cane propped against the wall beside him, and a crude wooden prosthesis replacing his left leg below the knee. Yet to judge Guillaume Tell’s woodworking skills by this artificial limb would be a grave mistake. Since retiring from adventuring and hiding away in Delin Town, the old man had supported himself with his skilled hands: his bows and crossbows were renowned as masterpieces. However, he was notoriously eccentric—if his creations failed to meet his exacting standards, he would burn them in the hearth rather than sell them, regardless of the price offered. Being so critical, there were months when he finished no bows at all, and since the townsfolk could not pay much for such weapons, his income barely sufficed for a modest living.

The old man glanced at Joan, said nothing, and returned to polishing the half-shaped bow in his hands.

Joan was not surprised; he knew his grandfather was still sulking over his unannounced departure. After so many years together, Joan understood the old man’s temperament—one word of apology would suffice, and the old grudge would be forgotten.

He knew this well, yet could not bring himself to yield.

Guillaume Tell was known throughout the town as a crank, and Joan was not much better. Though he hated to admit it, Joan knew his own temperament owed much to his grandfather’s influence—their solitary and obstinate natures were cut from the same cloth. Joan did not believe he had done anything wrong, and to force himself to bow his head felt worse than death.

Stubbornly silent, the two faced each other until Joan finally broke the impasse. He briefly recounted his journey, emphasizing that he had found a girl on his way home who now lay unconscious and that he feared for her life, unsure what to do.

The old man gripped his cane and hauled himself up to peer through the window at the girl on the sleigh. He was silent a long while before finally speaking.

“She’ll be fine. She’ll wake up after a while.”

“What should I do with her?” Joan asked.

“What do you mean, ‘do with her’?” his grandfather replied coldly. “You brought her home, you deal with her.”

Joan had anticipated this reaction and sighed inwardly. He left his grandfather’s cottage, dragging the sleigh back to his own house.

Joan’s bedroom had once been his father’s study. He kept all the books carefully preserved as a tribute to the father he never knew. The adjoining room had been his parents’ bedroom. Whenever he entered and saw the bed where they once slept or the dressing table where his mother used to sit before the window, a deep melancholy would always well up in his heart. For that reason, he rarely entered the room, though he kept it spotlessly clean as if it were a silent memorial hall.

Now, needing a place for the girl he had brought home, Joan made up the bed in the adjoining room, set down the mattress and blankets, and gently laid the still-sleeping girl atop them.

After settling his “guest,” Joan closed the bedroom door and checked the kitchen. There were only two loaves of black bread, half a jar of salt, and a little tea in the cupboard.

He quickly boiled some water, brewed tea, and set the bread, salt, and teapot on a tray in the spare bedroom.

When all was done, he returned to his own room and collapsed into a chair like a sack of wet flour, aching in every limb. He longed to open his spellbook and continue studying the cantrip “Ray of Frost,” on which he had just begun to make some progress, but the accumulated fatigue of travel overwhelmed him and he simply lacked the strength for further study.

As he debated whether to go to bed early, Joan recalled the “Tear of the Gods.” Forcing himself to rise, he poured a glass of water and summoned the Tear with a thought.

He cupped the crystal-clear gem in his palm for a few seconds, then gently dropped it into the glass.

The Tear of the Gods could create magical potions; at present, it could produce a potion equivalent to the first-circle divine spell “Lesser Restoration.” Joan was no divine caster, but his two years as a church acolyte had taught him that “Lesser Restoration” alleviated fatigue and restored vigor—exactly what he needed now.

He waited patiently for a minute, then retrieved the Tear from the cup with a spoon. The water looked unchanged, not even carrying the faintest whiff of medicine.

“Can this really work?”

Joan raised the glass and, half-believing, drank it down in one draught.