Chapter 174 The Banquet and the Figurine

The Feast of the Moon.

It was one of the most important annual festivals on the Aifala Continent, falling in the Month of Decay as the bitter winter approached.

On this day every year, people bathed in the moonlight to pray for their deceased loved ones, hoping to survive the harsh winter ahead.

Of course, given the festival's ancient history and the vast, boundless expanse of the Aifala Continent, its specific customs had long since diverged, shaped by the differing lifestyles, geography, and climates of the various races.

Some would parade from the cemetery to the town, led by a cleric who scattered bone fragments mixed with phosphorus powder along the path to guide lost souls back home.

Adult men would change into new clothes and lie in snow pits they had dug themselves to honor the dead, while their wives and families stood on either side, tossing pine branches into the pit to pray for blessings.

It was said that far from civilization, out in the wild, wind-swept barrens filled with the roars of beasts, marginalized outcasts with thick hair and sharp, ape-like fangs would spend over half a month hunting in dangerous territories just to commemorate the holiday.

Then, on the night of the Feast of the Moon, they would offer the flesh, blood, scales, and feathers of the strongest and most beautiful prey they could find as a sacrifice to their mother goddess.

As a massive, commercially prosperous city with a staggering population, Nym naturally hosted its own celebrations as the festival approached.

Even the destitute commoners in the Slums, for whom just filling their stomachs was a daily struggle, wouldn't skimp on their copper coins on this day. They would share a savory, "hearty" dinner with their families—even if it meant going a little hungry for the next few days.

Meanwhile, the city's urban residents would purchase candles and lampstands in advance, keeping every room brightly lit until the break of dawn the next day.

This was said to earn the blessings of the dead, granting peace, health, and good fortune to the families living within.

As for the dignitaries and nobles in the city center—

In a way, the customs for every festival of the year were exactly the same for them.

It was nothing but one celebratory banquet after another.

A brightly moonlit night.

Nym, City Center.

Inside a lavishly decorated grand hall.

It was clear the venue had been meticulously arranged.

The silver-blue wool carpet covering the floor had been specially prepared for the feast, matching the holiday theme of night and the moon. The family crests that normally hung on the walls to symbolize the host's status had been replaced with exquisite tapestries bearing silver-white crescent moons.

The frost-patterned velvet draped over the long tables complemented the black gauze and lilies of the valley wrapped around the pillars on either side. Faint blue flames flickered gently among flawless, silver-white ceremonial vessels, casting tranquil, holy shadows onto the floor.

Smoked venison legs, roasted wild boar, fragrant milk pies, piled-up fine salt and spices, seasonal vegetables, and sweet mead...

This was true even though ninety-five percent of it would end up wastefully tossed into the garbage after the banquet, or sneaked home by a few bold servers when the host wasn't looking.

These extravagant delicacies, meals that the paupers of the Lower District might not taste in a lifetime, still crowded the long tables.

Left largely ignored, a dish might only have a single spoonful scooped out by a passing guest at the very start of the banquet, maintaining its decent, untouched appearance until the party ended.

In a sense, there was no difference between the piping hot, delicious food on these plates and the candlesticks or paintings on the walls.

They had lost their intrinsic essence as "food," leaving behind only a decorative purpose.

"A lady as beautiful as a moon-rose. Thank you for your invitation; I truly wish I could admire your elegant dancing up close."

"Unfortunately, I just finished a rather dangerous mission and haven't fully recovered yet. Today, my feet are only fit to kiss the earth, not to dance beneath the moonlight."

"If you don't mind, I could recommend a few excellent candidates. I imagine they wouldn't refuse a lady as beautiful as you."

He softly declined.

Sitting in an armchair lined with a velvet cushion, Cornell watched the departing figure of the young girl in a form-fitting gown, her slender silhouette reflected in his eyes.

He shook his head slightly.

Though he was no longer young, he wasn't like his peers in the laboratory who seemed determined to dedicate their entire lives to arcane magic.

Thanks to years of maintenance, his physical condition was far better than that of an average Class Holder.

He wasn't some ascetic monk who needed to practice celibacy.

He didn't mind indulging his desires a little after a grueling mission.

And that beautiful young girl, with her crisp, soft voice, pretty face, and an elegant manner of speaking that proved she had received a good education since childhood, suited his tastes perfectly.

Under normal circumstances—like a chance encounter on the street or a classic "hero saving the beauty" scenario—he most likely wouldn't have avoided the opportunity to get closer to her.

But things were different now.

Right now, Cornell was at a high-end banquet held in a downtown mansion to celebrate the upcoming Feast of the Moon.

The attendees were mostly titled nobles, city officials, and incredibly wealthy merchants.

Sure, there was a chance the girl simply admired his looks and aura, but if her motives were impure and connected to the other power players at the banquet, he didn't want to get inexplicably dragged into some conflict just because of a momentary indulgence.

Especially not now, at a time when the City Lord's position was tottering.

Retracting his gaze, Cornell gently rubbed the Enchanted Silver Ring on his finger, feeling its fine, complex textures. His eyes glazed over slightly as he watched the crowd coming and going.

Even putting aside his mentor and his background with the Royal Academy...

...simply possessing a Class Level as high as "9"—bordering on the Transcendent Tier—and his relatively rare status as a Spellcaster were enough to make him the target of many nobles and officials eagerly trying to curry favor during his time in Nym.

He was long used to it, but after so many days, it still wore on his patience.

This was evident from the fact that he had moved his residence to the Moon Goddess Church.

If he didn't have to wait for the night of the Feast of the Moon to resurrect his teammate using the shifting moon phases and fluctuating divine power, he would have left long ago.

His eyes swept over the food on the table ahead. Under the perception of his spiritual energy, the corpse of the blonde Elf hovered quietly inside the ring's storage space.

For some reason, Cornell suddenly thought of his half-orc teammate named Volga, who had died in the Goblin Lair.

He felt a pang of relief that the man was already dead.

Otherwise, if he brought that brute here now, Volga would have probably swept the tables clean of food by now.

That would have been far too undignified.

"Rejecting the invitation of a lovely lady doesn't seem like your style," a voice teased thickly in his ear. "Has your taste changed? Not good enough for you?"

Cornell turned his head. Standing there, naturally, was the core figure of this banquet—Isidore, a priest from the Moon Goddess Church.

Right now, Isidore was holding a delicate wine glass, his cheeks slightly flushed.

He still wore his priestly robes, and the Goddess's holy symbol still hung around his neck.

But perhaps because the environment had shifted from a quiet, sacred church to this noisy, alcohol-soaked banquet, his aura lacked a bit of the holy solemnity expected of clergy, replaced instead by the grounded warmth of an ordinary man.

"Drinking this much again? You really aren't worried the Goddess will punish you," Cornell said with a laugh, raising his glass to the priest and taking a sip.

Priest Isidore simply downed his drink in one gulp.

Only then did he raise his left hand, rest it gently over the holy symbol on his chest, half-close his eyes, and move his lips in a brief prayer.

Selune, the one who held dominion over the [Moon] and the [Stars], known as [Our Lady of Silver] and the [Maiden of the Moon], was a peaceful and tolerant lady.

Unlike certain other deities, she didn't harshly demand her believers adhere to rigid tenets or regularly offer specific sacrifices.

Her doctrine focused on "Tolerance" and "Acceptance," reflecting her desire for her holy light to shine upon everyone in the world, wishing for all living things to receive her blessings and guidance.

The Goddess required her faith to develop equally and with understanding among her worshippers.

Because of Selune's inherent inclusivity, her believers were exceptionally diverse and widespread.

Women, sailors, soldiers, Lycanthropes...

The lady guided the lost beneath the moonlight and bestowed freedom upon her worshippers as a gift.

It was true that Isidore was the highest-ranking priest in the Moon Goddess Church and the one who had gone the farthest on the path of a Class Holder.

And precisely because of this, he understood the Goddess's doctrines and the behavioral standards they demanded better than anyone else.

Drinking, taking holidays, and even occasional indulgences did not affect his sublime faith in the Goddess.

As long as he held fast to his true self and didn't cross the bottom line etched into his heart when he first joined the church, he would always remain the Goddess's most devout follower.

Being an old acquaintance of Isidore, Cornell knew the priest was only joking and was long accustomed to his personality.

Cornell had traveled to many places and encountered many priests and clerics of various deities.

He knew very well that once they took off those robes, the clergy were just ordinary people who needed to eat, sleep, and had their own desires.

Aside from those zealots whose doctrines had completely brainwashed them, no one could guarantee that every word and deed perfectly matched the demands of the gods.

He simply gave the ring on his finger a gentle twist.

Buzz—a faint silver light flashed.

A bottle of fruit wine with a distinctively natural, rustic appearance appeared on the small table next to him.

"Try this. It's a specialty from the Verdant Forest. I bet you've never had it."

"His again?" Isidore raised an eyebrow, stepping forward to pick up the bottle and pour himself a full glass.

"Heh," Cornell said, crossing his legs and gently swirling the wine in his glass. He looked exceptionally relaxed. "He won't know once he's resurrected, right? Just consider it collecting a bit of interest on the resurrection fee."

The two chatted idly. After turning away a few guests who came over to network, the others at the banquet realized these two Class Holders didn't want to be disturbed and tactfully kept their distance.

They thought the night would pass peacefully like this, but just as the banquet was drawing to a close, a highly purposeful set of footsteps rapidly approached them. Cornell glanced over and saw a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties, the corners of his eyes thick with wrinkles.

He seemed to have dressed up specifically for the banquet. His hair was plastered flat against his head, and he wore a custom-made suit that looked somewhat expensive.

To ordinary people, he might look like a slightly down-on-his-luck noble or a fairly successful merchant. But Cornell, a mage who had adventured for years, could tell at a glance that the man felt awkward moving in a suit he wasn't used to wearing, and he recognized the distinct, rugged toughness characteristic of Adventurers and people working in the grey trades.

His eyes subconsciously swept over the man's eight remaining fingers; both of his pinkies were missing.

After mulling it over for a moment, he already had a rough guess—the boss of some small-to-medium-sized gang.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Eight-Fingers said, wearing a polite, slightly fawning smile that he had rehearsed countless times before coming here.

His cloudy eyes swept over the holy symbol around the priest's neck and the several rings on the mage's fingers.

Knowing the two were high-level Class Holders, he approached carefully, not even daring to look at their faces. He simply kept his head bowed, staring at Cornell's crossed foot clad in a soft suede boot.

"I hope I haven't offended you two. I—"

"Just spit it out," Cornell interrupted, breaking his usual demeanor. "What do you have, and what do you want?"

With the banquet nearly over, the mage—who had only agreed to attend because of the priest beside him and a few city officials—had lost all patience for mincing words and socializing, especially when the other party was just a common gang leader.

On the other hand, for the man to sneak into a banquet of this caliber, clearly know who they were based on his gaze, and still dare to approach them—he obviously had something to rely on. And that was exactly why Cornell was willing to hear him out.

Pleasantly surprised by how smoothly things were going, Eight-Fingers broke into a grin. He pulled out a package from his coat—one he had specially re-wrapped in silk before coming—and handed it over. "To be frank with you two, I run a security organization in the West District called "Gray Shrub." A friend recently gave me something, and I figured you two might need it, so I brought it over, hoping—"

Subconsciously tuning out the man's words, Cornell tapped a finger. A translucent human hand materialized out of thin air, took the package from the man's grasp, and peeled back the layers of silk cloth.

The grayish-black, slightly bruised color looked even gloomier under the light, while the smooth lines following the material's texture revealed a rustic beauty.

A blurry figure standing upright like a humanoid, with two bizarre, curved horns that jutted upward like dead branches before vanishing into the depths of the pattern—

What appeared before him was none other than the [Sheep-Deer Figurine]—an item he had once seen in Priest Isidore's hands but had been unable to obtain.

Cornell's expression instantly froze. His gaze snapped up, locking onto the bowing, fawn-smiling middle-aged man standing before him.