Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal
Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/
Chapter 105
Raindrops rhythmically tapped on the window glass, but the sound was somewhat muffled by the thick curtains, inducing a drowsy feeling.
“When will this damn rain ever stop?” complained a tourist whiling away the afternoon in the dining area of a medium-sized passenger ship docked at the port. “The light is dim, the air is sticky, and it’s inconvenient to disembark.”
“I’d advise you best not to disembark,” his companion said. “The captain just sent a message that an esteemed Lady will arrive at the port in an hour, at which point the gangway will be retracted to clear the area.”
Clearing the area for nobility was routine in any kingdom, especially during auction season in White Bridge, where distinguished individuals were commonplace. Such restrictions weren’t usually bothersome, but the weather was indeed irritating.
The tourist pulled back the curtain, peering through the rain curtain at the figures moving back and forth on the dock. Due to the thick clouds, it was as dark as late evening, at only two in the afternoon. The dock lights were already on to help the dockworkers see where they were stepping—but actually, they didn’t help much. Even if all the coastal lighthouses focused their beams here, the fine raindrops continuously hitting one’s face allowed nothing else but to blink incessantly.
“In this weather, the Lady’s dress will get wet,” mused the gentlemen sitting in the warm restaurant, more concerned about which Lady and Madame from which places might board the ship in such weather, perhaps frightened by the recent witch rumors and eager to flee the city.
Unlike the city’s residents, the transient passengers at the port had mixed feelings about the news of Witch Elena. Some fully believed it, panicking and asking the crew to go ashore on their behalf to buy ample quantities of holy water and blessed artifacts, unnecessarily cluttering their small cabins, and some, more exaggerated, wouldn’t even leave their rooms, preferring to tip the staff extra to run errands for food, laundry, and boot repairs. Others considered it a deliberately spread conspiracy to create unnecessary panic to disrupt the upcoming auction, suspecting the Fox and Lion Families primarily. Honestly, with the Mages Association stationed in Fortuna City and the port controlled by the Wolf and Monkey Families, who had managed to carve out a lawless area on the Doran continent for over a hundred years, their power wasn’t to be underestimated.
However, such matters were of no concern to ordinary travelers. Surely a witch wouldn’t risk venturing into an ordinary passenger ship in the pouring rain to wreak havoc?
Despite some confidence in the ship’s protection, the gloomy weather and curtain of rain made it hard to relax. The dock foreman, wearing a felt hat, felt unprecedented pressure. The time scheduled for the arrival of the esteemed Countess was drawing near, but their preparations weren’t yet complete.
The unexpected heavy rain greatly hindered their efficiency. At noon, a worker even slipped due to the excessive wetness, suffering severe back and hip injuries, likely unable to work for some time. The worker’s union argued with him for an hour, extorting a substantial compensation amount and even managing to insert another worker to replace the injured one before calling it quits.
During the negotiation, both parties were tense, and when he turned back to supervise, the delay in progress made him even more anxious. Not to mention the goatee responsible for coordinating specifics with the Countess, who was nitpicky about the weather, the route of the carriages, and everything visible, whom he couldn’t afford to offend—that was the person the Wolf Family had assigned to greet their distinguished guest. He could demote him from dock foreman to laborer with just one word.
“Tighten that cloth! Move faster!” he nearly bellowed, instructing the laborers to carry a man-high lemon tree aboard the ship, glaring almost spitefully at the muddy footprints they left, which, thankfully, the continuous drizzle almost immediately washed away.
Besides the ambitious workload, he had other worries. Those busy with their tasks wouldn’t notice, but since the morning, he had seen the goatee arrange several people around this Dock 3. He was certain at least one of them was a mage. If one paid attention, they could catch a glimpse of what looked like the standard mage’s robe fabric peeking from beneath a waterproof cloak.
Why specifically station a mage? Could the rampant rumors about the witch in the city be true? If so, this weather was practically the perfect backdrop for a witch—no sunlight, dark, damp, with sticky slugs everywhere.
“Larry!”
The foreman’s ear twitched, and after looking around for a while, he realized the goatee was calling him.
“Clear everyone out. The convoy will arrive soon.” The goatee, pointlessly dressed in formal attire on a rainy day, with his pant legs wet halfway up, stubbornly nagged the foreman. “Unrelated personnel must not appear within the Lady’s line of sight.”
Reluctantly complying, the foreman knew this would further delay progress, but fortunately, he was quick enough that almost as soon as all the workers finally ducked into the large tent to catch their breath, a line of carriages emerged from the rain curtain. The already prepared Azalea lowered its gangway and extended a long rain canopy.
The foreman was kept far away, only able to glimpse through the gaps in the crowded people under the canopy, someone still holding an umbrella, but as for the fabled Lady, not even a swatch of her skirt was visible.
“Who has such a big entourage?” he muttered, peering out as a worker considerately handed him a cup of hot tea with ginger, a unique dockside concoction for warding off the cold on chilly days. Normally, the foreman wouldn’t drink such cheap stuff—but he had been working too long today, and no matter how many layers he wore, the drizzle seeped through, plus his attention was on the people disembarking from the carriages. When he absentmindedly took the cup, the warmth seeping through immediately won him over. He didn’t mind that it lacked the proper sweetness or licorice, gulping down two big swallows, warming his throat and stomach pleasantly.
“Pretty sharp today.” He turned to commend the worker, only to find himself alone. The tea bearer had vanished.
The foreman shrugged and took another sip.
Perhaps it was the stark contrast to the harsh weather, but the tea seemed as potent as liquor, the warmth spreading from his throat downward, feeling almost like a fire burning in his stomach…
He stood rigidly with the cup in hand, his body trembling slightly. At that moment, anyone taking a close look would think he was shivering from the cold—but if they moved in front of him, they would see his pupils fading in color.
With no mirrors around, the foreman obviously couldn’t notice the change in his face. He stopped shivering, raised the cup again, and drained the remaining tea, then looked back towards the Azalea.
It seemed that everyone from the convoy had boarded the ship. The carriages bearing the Countess’ crest had begun to turn around and leave, with only one all-black carriage remaining in place.
Whatever paint the craftsman used, the black, even when wet, didn’t reflect at all, giving the entirely black-painted carriage body just small touches of gold paint on the doors and axles, subtly hinting at its craftsmanship and cost.
Everyone in Fortuna City recognized these carriages, the exclusive coaches of the Wolf Family members.
The carriage arrived with the Earl’s entourage, but even after everyone had boarded the ship, the person in the carriage hadn’t yet disembarked to show their face.
The cup was thrown to the ground, creating a crisp sound that was quickly muffled by the rain.
The rain had begun to lessen, and work might soon commence. A group of dockworkers crowded in the large tent, hurriedly wringing their clothes dry and quietly passing around hot tea, none paying attention to the activity outside. The foreman pressed his felt hat more firmly onto his head and, with slightly slippery steps, approached the man with the goatee.
“Sir, should we have Fred and the others board now?” The slender man with the goatee—Pambrick—held a black umbrella with one hand and asked respectfully.
He was four or five steps away from the carriage, but despite the closed doors and windows, the occupant inside heard his query. The window was tapped twice, and Pambrick had to listen carefully to catch any sounds over the rain.
Two taps meant “yes”.
The Wolf Family had risen to prominence over a century ago, and although they never gained entrance to the temples or any royal palaces, the wealth and hidden status they had accumulated early on had pushed them generation after generation towards the mannerisms of traditional nobility. These intricate rules, though certainly dignified and prideful, represented nothing but trouble and difficulty for the servants.
If faced with a strict superior, the difficulty doubled, such as the one currently sitting inside the carriage, “Louis”.
Unlike the Lion Family, who rose to power purely based on capability, the Wolf Family, aside from the alpha wolf, the number of seats of power had been fixed at five from the first generation. To occupy one required personal ability, familial support, and achievements, and it wasn’t something that could be accomplished just by being born into the right family.
Now, this Louis occupied one of those seats, and though young by most standards, it was exactly why he was particularly feared within the clan.
A young alpha wolf’s claws were always sharper.
After receiving a response, Pambrick, though unseen by anyone, respectfully backed away before instructing the crew to inform the mage who had been on standby to follow him aboard the ship. Even though the Countess’ side surely had similar security measures, this was the Wolf Family’s gesture of sincerity, not to be taken lightly.
Pambrick shook his head. He had heard about the civil war within the Mokwen Kingdom. The Countess’ decision to distance herself from the warfare was wise. Under normal circumstances, White Bridge wouldn’t be considered a good refuge, but with connections to the Black Gold Family, the situation was entirely different.
Though still embroiled in war, the Southern Lord had substantial connections, managing to engage both the Wolf and Monkey Families for escort. This level of treatment was such that it could accommodate a minor king, as some services money couldn’t buy.
He hoped this wealthy Lady, affluent enough to engage two major families for escort, would perform well upon reaching White Bridge and spend generously.
Louis had no plans to accompany the Countess. He looked through the carriage window as the gangway was retracted and then pondered for a moment, his gaze lowering.
Priscilla’s condition wasn’t good.
Although a doctor accompanied her to provide care throughout the journey, pregnancy was still somewhat strenuous for her, adding psychological stress—
Thinking of the report sent to his study about Lestrop, Louis frowned slightly in disgust.
Lestrop’s obsession with the Holy Grail wasn’t surprising. Years ago, when he began investigating who had leaked this internal legend, his search led to the Mokwen Royal Family. If not for that, he wouldn’t have met Priscilla.
Although now physically frail, Priscilla’s mental state was much better than before—a normal woman, upon discovering her respectable husband wasn’t only a madman but had also harmed many people due to his madness, would have become mad herself out of fear and regret. She was strong to have not done so.
Their entanglement began when Louis, appearing under the name Ceylan, was the only person who could understand the roots of her fear and anger, and Ceylan believed she was the only person completely unrelated to his past and future—he had once thought so.
However, Priscilla had told him she was pregnant.
Louis leaned back against the cushioned seat, staring at his fingers, lost in thought.
Regarding the child, he wouldn’t oppose any decision Priscilla made. Lestrop was the worst nightmare a woman could encounter, and he neither wanted nor should—
A faint noise broke his reverie. He sat up straight, turning his head to the side. Someone was approaching the carriage, but it wasn’t Pambrick.
The person was of medium height, slightly plump, and wearing an ear-flapped felt hat. His movements and steps were light in the drizzle, and his face and expression were obscured.
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