Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 39

Dwight made a decision in just three seconds—to follow those people.

Charlie seemed to have an understanding with him, and without further communication, the two quietly trailed the creaking donkey cart, silently moving out of the forest.

The cart went straight through a vineyard and headed towards a sparsely lit mansion on the hillside, with a moderately sized estate resting quietly at the foot of the hill in the silent night.

“As long as there are people, Shivers will be able to find the right direction.” The Duke took off his half-dried cloak in disgust and was instinctively about to fling it away—fortunately, his reason reminded him that he wasn’t in Brandenburg, where clothes were plentiful. At the rate he was discarding clothes, he’d be naked within a week.

So, he reluctantly carried it in his hand, with a look of distaste.

“The scent of the baked goods could also guide the lost Eugene.” Charlie, pinching his also damp hat, smiled. “Let’s first think about ourselves, Your Grace. I see a mill ahead.”

In a place like the Doran continent, where wars were frequent, any lord capable of claiming land would try to form a self-sufficient, closed loop on his estate, with the basics: a farmhouse, winery, mill, forest, pasture, bakery, and even a church and court. They easily found the bakery near the mill, along with an oven that still had embers.

Dwight had seen Charlie’s house in Maplewood. Although not grand and luxurious, it was definitely warm and comfortable. From the complete set of brass-handled handmade porcelain tea sets in his living room, one could tell that this man wasn’t luxurious, but he definitely had refined demands for life’s details. Even during travel, when dining under the sky, he maintained tidiness and dignity. From his usual demeanor, announcing to anyone that he was actually a noble wouldn’t surprise anyone.

So when he expertly rekindled the fire, filled a large black iron kettle with water to sit on the fire, and used a few sticks to set up a makeshift clothes rack to dry their clothes, the Duke was somewhat surprised. Not that he was doing these things, but at how naturally and comfortably he moved while doing them, as if he was a child who had grown up rolling in the ashes by the stove—this rabbit-headed shopkeeper even knew without looking that the sugar jar on the wall shelf contained damp, impure coarse sugar while the fine sugar was secretly wrapped in paper and hung from the ceiling beam!

Charlie misunderstood the Duke’s expression, checking the boiling water as he explained, “The tea here is just the scraps left over after offering to the lord, you might not be used to it. It’s better with a bit of sugar.”

Dwight was silent for a moment. “How could there be tea leaves in a farmhouse bakery?” Even just scraps were beyond what ordinary peasants could afford.

The shopkeeper smiled. “It’s not for the serfs, but to serve the tax collectors or priests and occasionally the lords passing through—actually, just the more respectable servants in the mansion. Although not in large quantities, a farm will definitely have some.”

He casually took a cup, rinsed it with hot water, poured the precious tea into it, and handed it to the Duke. Dwight frowned. Although the fire wasn’t very bright, it was enough for him to see that the filthy cup was also covered in a layer of hard, weathered grime.

“We just climbed out of the river and have been in the cold wind for a long time. You must drink this.” The shopkeeper didn’t need to look up to feel the Duke’s reluctance. “Otherwise, by this time tomorrow, we’ll both be sick.”

Dwight gave him a look.

“This is a private estate. Do you think the ‘witch’ mentioned by those men has something to do with Elena?” he asked.

“Very likely.” Perhaps too exhausted to spar with Dwight as usual, Charlie was unusually responsive. “Although I don’t know the speed of the Darby Belly Fish, based on the time, even if we left the Mokwen borders, we wouldn’t be very far. In this area, the first person that comes to mind when you say ‘witch’ is Elena.”

“Are those bodies related to her? Is this her study of black magic?” Dwight’s expression turned serious.

“Witch” was a general term, but there were distinctions based on the source of their power.

From what’s known about witches on the mainland, their power sources could be broadly categorized into several types: first, those who gained recognition through systematic study and control of power, similar to most mages—though the last known instance was 300 years ago, making these “light” witches extremely rare; second, those who gained power through inheritance, such as learning from a teacher through apprenticeship, with power depending on the depth of the previous teacher and their own advancements; third, those who trade with spirits and demons, engaging in black magic—this was what made people extremely taboo and fearful.

In this age where miracles had long ceased, angels, demons, and powerful races like phoenixes and dragons that could easily affect the mainland’s politics disappeared centuries ago. Only the elves, a long-lived race, remained, but even their powers were significantly reduced after the war between gods and demons, with the elven king falling from his semi-divine throne into a deep slumber. This allowed humans to rise and grow, elevating the status of mages, who were once mere pawns in the war between gods and demons. Conversely, in a continent without demons, black magic that drew power from bones and living beings was now the most evil known power, which was why the term “witch” was so infamously notorious, despised, and feared along with necromancers.

“When I left Doran, Elena’s magic was still inherited from Lady Eve, although that’s hardly better than making deals with demons.”

The source of magical power was absolutely fair. Besides self-practice, any power gained through external means was unreliable, whether inherited, gifted, or seized. What seemed like a shortcut was actually full of invisible thorns, silently scraping away all flesh and soul—this was the introduction in all continental magic textbooks. Unfortunately, those who made their mark in the field of magic were still more often the latter than the former.

Perhaps getting something for nothing was an eternal human trait, and Elena was no exception.

For various reasons, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper rarely reminisced about the past, and even he didn’t realize that his expression was now more solemn than usual.

Dwight noticed this and discreetly placed the cup aside. “That was a long time ago.”

“You’re right,” Charlie admitted. “If the bodies in the forest are indeed related to her, then I can only regretfully say that she has taken another wrong step on her path to power.”

“This estate is downstream,” the Duke slowly said. “Whether it’s Shivers and Eugene, along with that noisy toy, they would head towards where people gather.” This meant that the likelihood of everyone meeting up at this estate was currently the highest.

“So we…” Charlie began but suddenly paused, his long ears twitching.

He heard some unusual noises outside.

“There’s a sheep pen next door,” he said. “There was really no one there when we came, right?”

Dwight didn’t respond. In the pitch-black night, did the rabbit-head expect him to grope into the sheep pen to check if someone was hiding inside? If it were in Lemena, he wouldn’t even allow the stinking goats near his carriage.

Charlie stood up, quietly walked to the door, and silently waited for a moment.

Outside, it was deathly quiet. Only the sound of the wind occasionally gushed through the door crack. The Duke sat motionlessly, watching his actions. The shopkeeper touched the door handle, took a deep breath, and abruptly pulled the door open!

A young man with tousled hair stumbled in as the door opened. He seemed to have been lying flat against the door. The sudden opening caused him to lose his balance, nearly crashing to the ground.

Dwight’s eyes dropped to his right hand, which rested silently on the cane beside him by the stove, the emerald on its tip glittering opulently in the firelight.

The shopkeeper seemed not to notice the Duke’s action. He bent down, hands on his knees, his voice tinged with surprise. “Oh my, are you alright, sir? I didn’t expect anyone to be outside.”

The man looked up, clearly startled. “A-a-a rabbit?”

“I’m not a rabbit,” the shopkeeper said seriously. “My name is Charlie.”

“I… I’m Tom,” the man replied instinctively, still perplexed.

From any angle, he looked like a rabbit. But why would a rabbit be talking? And why would it be dressed so finely and wearing a top hat?

Tom thought he might be dreaming. But the dreamlike scenario continued.

Sitting by the fireplace was… an unbelievable gentleman. Just one glance made Tom feel as if his breath was being stolen by a visage seemingly not of this world. Tom’s limited vocabulary couldn’t describe such beauty. He instinctively bowed his head, unable to look any longer.

Whatever the gentleman’s status, it wasn’t something he could confront openly.

The Duke’s hand moved away from the cane. He had realized this man was just a common farmer. Even if he didn’t act, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper could easily overpower him.

“Tom, you look very cold,” Charlie said kindly, pressing a cup of hot tea into his hands.

The wind outside was strong, and the warmth of the tea seemed to revive Tom a bit. He whispered, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here.”

He had nowhere to go and had seen light from the mill, so he had come over.

Probably because the shopkeeper and the Duke were behaving too dominantly, Tom, who had never left the estate, didn’t sense anything suspicious about them. Instead, Charlie smiled congenially and said, “Tom, now is not a good time to be out.”

His voice was attractive and slightly deep, but the buoyant tone made him sound more vivacious than the typical posturing nobleman, easily disarming people.

Though the Duke’s assessment was, “Using second-rate tricks to beguile the heart.” But in reality, Charlie indeed had an incredible charm. Those who talked with him usually quickly overlooked his unusual, furry rabbit-head, drawn in by the content of his words.

The clearly inexperienced Tom didn’t even have time to voice his suspicions like “Who are you” or “Why are you in our village’s mill” and answered very honestly, “Because I had a fight with my father, I ran out of the house. It was too cold at night, and I thought of squeezing in with the animals in the stable for warmth.”

A local. The shopkeeper and the Duke exchanged glances.

“Fighting with family isn’t good,” Charlie said soothingly. “What is it that can’t be discussed?”

Tom looked downcast. “My fiancée Emily was chosen to serve the master. I wanted to sell our family’s donkey to bribe the steward to bring Emily back, but my father disagreed. Actually…”

Everyone disagreed. Tom knelt on the floor, burying his head between his legs. “They don’t understand that if Emily goes, she’ll never come back.”

Everyone was happy that Emily got a respectable job, but only Tom was terrified. His father didn’t understand, and they had a big fight before bed, so he ran away from home…

Though it was really just a “runaway” to the communal mill not far from his house.

Dwight frowned, remembering the donkey cart filled with bodies a few hours earlier and the direction the cart had eventually headed.

It was to the stately mansion up on the hill.

Charlie clearly thought of the same thing.

“Tom, have another sip of hot tea,” he said consolingly. “It’s still long until dawn. We can talk by the stove. Being chosen by the master isn’t a good thing, then? Why do you think Emily won’t come back?”

“Because many girls never come back.” Tom sniffled, fear in his eyes. “I go to the big house twice a week to take care of the donkeys, and I’ve heard old Hank and others say… the mansion often takes in new maids, but they always disappear unnoticed. They say the mansion is haunted, and they say…”

Tom didn’t finish his sentence, but Charlie and Dwight could guess what he left unsaid. Who would casually live in a haunted mansion unless the master of the house was also a ghost? Even if Tom was naive and shortsighted, he wouldn’t directly slander his master, so he simply shut his mouth.

The shopkeeper understood that this wasn’t necessarily because Tom was particularly loyal to the master of the house or wary of them, the two strangers, but rather, peasants like him, who had lived on the estate for generations, almost instinctively feared and deferred to their lord’s authority, especially young people like Tom. Instinct made them dare not speak ill of their master, not even speculatively.

But it was the likes of old Hank, probably employed from outside and quite the sly old fox, who would gossip about the master’s household when out of sight. Tom, with his honest face, even if he heard such talk, wouldn’t dare complain to anyone, allowing him to overhear some unusual things.

Typically, in such a gentry estate, not counting male servants, the main house would have 2–3 cooks, 6–8 general maids, no more than 3 personal maids, and 1 housekeeper, which was standard. If the estate owner held a title, more staff might be added according to the title, but it would generally not exceed 20 people. If the main house took in new maids every season, as old Hank and his peers said, always coming in but never leaving, that was very suspicious.

“According to this consumption, it’s enough to feed three vampires,” was the cynical saying among those old folks. No one knew where those mysteriously disappearing girls went. These physical laborers didn’t even have the privilege to step into the mansion’s garden, only knowing the main house was like a bizarre, insatiable black hole, continually absorbing new girls for work. These things… Only those who worked in the main house long enough would know, while the peasants working at the foot of the estate only cared whether there was enough black bread for the family tomorrow or whether this year’s winter would freeze someone to death.

But Tom knew. Usually, the maids were brought in from outside, but last time, probably due to a shortage, they began recruiting suitable girls from their own estate, offering fairly good wages, and Emily was nominated by her brother at that time. Because Emily was a healthy, unmarried young woman, she was smoothly chosen.

In another context, neither the Duke nor the shopkeeper would pay much attention to such a story. The reason was simple. Though many high-society nobles or wealthy merchants liked to pose as cultured behind closed doors, there were plenty of dirty dealings—especially among some old families proud of their pure bloodlines and unwilling to marry outsiders. Their offspring often had various problems, including a high proportion of idiocy and brutality. If the master of the hilltop mansion was a prone-to-rage tyrant, killing one or two servants in a fit of rage every year wouldn’t be news, and a well-trained steward would silently handle any clues that might attract the attention of the sheriff or the church.

But given the scene they encountered in the woods, even for a tyrant, the loss rate was unusually high, not to mention just for a gentry or nobleman. Old Hank’s sarcasm was apt. This situation was highly unusual.

Tom’s instincts were right. His fiancée was likely never coming back.

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