Chapter 363 Grafting

Woolen Rusty Nail Tavern, main hall.

Horac sat in a corner of the hall. The dining bowls on the table before him had long since been cleared away by a waiter, replaced by two bubbling mugs of ale.

The dwarf Thordin sat opposite him.

Because the tavern did not provide seating suited for his race, a wooden chair that would reveal a normal person's full upper body was clearly a poor fit for the stout dwarf.

Sitting normally, the edge of the table reached almost to his chest. He had to raise his hands slightly just to rest them on the wood, making it look as though he were propping his entire body up on his arms.

As he shifted, the chair creaked beneath his dense, sturdy frame, making for a rather comical sight.

But perhaps because he was used to it, or simply thick-skinned by nature, Thordin paid it no mind. He just chugged his ale mouthful by mouthful.

Clearly, drinking so freely first thing in the morning was a deeply enjoyable and relaxing experience for him.

Nor did he need to worry about getting drunk, delaying the mission, or making mistakes.

With his physical constitution as an lv4 [Shield Warrior], tossing back a low-alcohol beverage like this was essentially like drinking water. There was practically zero chance of him getting drunk.

He was purely satisfying a craving.

At the other end of the table, Horac was far less uninhibited.

By the time Thordin had poured three mugs into his stone-like belly, the wealthy merchant's drink had only gone down a fraction, looking almost untouched.

Looking thoughtful, his fingertips unconsciously tapped the table. His slightly unfocused eyes stared out the window, lost in unknown thoughts.

He was the owner of the caravan, certainly, but at his level of business, he no longer handled the specific details. Having delegated all necessary matters to the caravan steward Afu, Horac actually seemed to have nothing to do at the moment.

He chatted absentmindedly with Thordin, who was serving as his temporary guard.

"I hear the ore produced in your homeland is high-quality and cheap. How are the distribution channels? Do you have any good partners?"

"It's too far." Waving a massive, fan-like hand in the air, Thordin slammed his mug heavily onto the wood. "There are almost three provinces between us. Even for your Golden Wheat Merchant Guild, the cost of transporting goods from the mountains to Nym or Rivervale Town would likely exceed the value of the merchandise itself."

"Could dispersing the costs work? Perhaps you could negotiate with other organizations along the way, if the price is right..."

Clearly uninterested in the topic, the dwarf leaned against the table and yawned.

"That's your business," he said. "For the vast majority of the Dwarven Clans, trading mountain ore for food and good ale is already mission accomplished."

"How it gets handled afterward is entirely up to you."

For the dwarves living in the mountains and mines, their race did not lack so-called "Brewmasters." Over several generations of cultivation, they had even bred crops capable of growing freely in the rocky mining terrain.

However, those truly willing to set down their pickaxes and walk away from the forge were still a minority, and their agricultural output was not enough to supply the needs of an entire, massive clan.

Therefore, during peacetime when a clan faced no obvious external pressure, the dwarves preferred to take ores of relatively lower quality and trade with sentient beings in nearby settlements for the supplies they desired.

Horac had only brought it up casually and had not taken it to heart, so the response did not leave him disappointed.

As if thinking of another topic, he opened his mouth to speak—but before he could, he saw Thordin suddenly look up and glance to the side.

Horac followed his gaze.

The tavern owner—a ruddy-faced, rotund middle-aged man—was strolling over with a smile, carrying two mugs of dark ale.

"Mr. Horac," the tavern owner said, his voice laced with just the right amount of concern. "I've seen you sitting here for a long time without touching your drink. Are you feeling unwell, or does our ale not suit your taste?"

"How about I swap it out for a mug of our newly arrived dark ale? Don't worry, it has a real kick to it, and the flavor is rich!"

Horac reflexively exchanged a glance with the dwarf. Seeing Thordin give a subtle nod, he turned back to the tavern owner, smiled politely, and waved a hand in refusal.

"No, there's no need. The ale is fine, I'm just... not in the mood to drink," he said.

Unexpectedly, the tavern owner acted as if he had not heard the refusal. He simply pulled out a chair at their table and sat down, leaning forward slightly to project an air of concern.

"Ah, when traveling far from home, you're bound to run into frustrating matters," the owner said.

"Have you hit a snag in your business, or are you just tired of staying in our little town?"

As he spoke, the owner kept his eyes locked on Horac's face, carefully observing his every expression.

"Not exactly," Horac said slowly, as if mentally organizing his words as he went, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation without exposing any information about the gemstone.

"Sheep Horn Town is fine. It's quiet and peaceful."

"It's just that... business over in Rivervale Town cannot wait. The agreed trade date is fast approaching, and we can't afford to delay here any longer."

"We plan to finish handling our cargo as quickly as possible and then set out immediately."

"Leaving right away?" A somewhat peculiar look of surprise flashed across the tavern owner's face.

"Yes." Horac nodded, his tone calm but firm.

"Now we're just waiting to get our road supplies ready."

Hearing this, a hint of regret appeared in the tavern owner's expression.

"What a pity! I thought you would be staying in town for a few more days!"

He suddenly paused, as if a thought had just struck him, staring intently at Horac to catch any shift in his demeanor.

"Speaking of which, Mr. Horac, wouldn't you feel a little regret leaving so soon?"

"I actually received some news this morning regarding that item you asked me about yesterday. How about... you wait a bit longer? You might reap an unexpected harvest."

Horac froze.

He certainly knew what he had been asking about.

When he first arrived in Sheep Horn Town yesterday, he had yet to break free of the mental charm with Xia Nan's help. At the time, there was naturally only one thing he wanted—

The Pastel Gemstone!

However, when he had inquired about it before, the tavern owner had been incredibly impatient despite the promise of a handsome reward. The man had stopped just short of kicking him out.

Why bring this up now, right when he had broken free from the control and decided to leave town?

His brow furrowed instinctively. A subtle flash of wariness crossed his eyes as he gently shook his head.

"No, but thank you for your kindness."

"I'll have my caravan steward deliver the reward I promised earlier, but our schedule is set and cannot be changed. So... I ask for your understanding."

Faced with such a decisive refusal, the tavern owner's friendly smile stiffened for a fraction of a second before quickly returning to normal.

He gave a dry chuckle and stood up.

"Understood, understood. Business comes first!"

"Then I won't bother you any further. I wish you a safe journey!"

The tavern owner turned and walked back to the bar. Just as before, he picked up a mug and began wiping it with a towel.

However, his knuckles were stark white from gripping it too tightly.

With his back to the two men, his gaze darkened, swirling with countless unspoken thoughts.

A little while later, once the two men in the corner were no longer paying attention to him, he waved a waiter over and told the man to watch the counter in his stead.

Then, with rapid steps, he hurried out of the tavern.

...

...

Meanwhile, in the Orange Orchard.

"That winter was exceptionally cold, and the harvest in the orchard had been poor. I caught a high fever and lay in bed, unable to even open my eyes," the simply dressed young girl said.

Standing before Xia Nan and Margaret, she recalled that unforgettable snowy night.

"My parents were almost mad with worry."

"Back then, Grandpa Moin wasn't like he is now... he didn't always look so tired. When he heard the news that night, he didn't even take the time to throw on a heavy robe. He just grabbed a lantern and stumbled all the way to our house."

"My father told me that when he heard the knock and opened the door, Grandpa Moin's beard was crusted with ice."

"He knelt by my bed and prayed to the Mother of All Things for a whole night... Of course, it might not have been that long. After all, he's a powerful and respected Cleric; he might have just waved his staff."

"Anyway, by daybreak, my fever had miraculously faded. But Grandpa Moin still wasn't at ease. He said..."

The girl imitated the old Cleric's steady, resolute tone.

"'The root of the sickness in the soil is gone, but the seedling is still weak. It needs to be nourished with the best nutrients.'"

"And then, guess what?"

Her eyes sparkled.

"Braving the ceaseless blizzard, he walked alone into this frozen, rock-hard Orange Orchard. He found what used to be the most robust citrus tree, which was nearly dead at the time. Using the dagger he always carried, he carefully cut off its healthiest branch."

"He said, 'Graft this branch onto the most vigorous tree in your yard. Its life will flow through this scion, just as the grace of the Mother of All Things soothes a child's body.'"

"'From then on, this tree will be linked to your child's life, and the sickness will be gone forever.'"

"The next year, that grafted branch lived. The oranges it bore were exceptionally sweet, and my illness never returned. My frail body grew stronger with each passing year."

Sunlight spilled over the girl's rosy, sweat-dewed face. Her smile was sweeter than a Sugar Tangerine.

She turned around and gently stroked the rough bark of the citrus tree, her movements as tender as if she were touching a family member's arm.

"Grandpa Moin said it wasn't magic, but the principle of the cycle of life."

"I didn't really understand, but for an ordinary farm child like me, he was willing to brave the snowstorm and rush over in the middle of the night... The townsfolk all say he is a good man who truly plants the teachings in his heart and puts them into practice. He is a gentleman genuinely worthy of respect."

The bright, warm sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting swaying, dappled shadows over the girl. It was as if a dazzling golden rim had been drawn around the image of the old man they had briefly glimpsed in the square.

—A pure saint who practiced his faith without regard for himself.

At that moment, Xia Nan even felt a faint sense of guilt for previously linking the spread of the Pastel Gemstone to Cleric Moin.

Could such a kind old man, beloved by the entire town, really be the culprit behind everything happening here?

He didn't know.

His gaze drifted upward unconsciously.

It followed the weathered main trunk of the citrus tree, covered in deep brown, vertically fissured bark.

A branch about the thickness of an adult's arm had fused with the trunk in an abrupt manner that was entirely unnatural.

The bulging, twisted tissue at the junction looked like a grim, fully healed yet distinct scar, forcefully melding two different lifeforms together.

The "miracle" the girl had spoken of was growing from this very scar. Lush and vibrant, its vigorous life force made its leaves an even brighter, glossy green, and its branches were heavy with plump, enticing Sugar Tangerines as orange-red as the setting sun.

Through "grafting," a permanent, twisted scar had been left behind. Yet, in the end, that withered citrus tree had truly found new life upon another living body.

...

...

The Church in the center of Sheep Horn Town.

Bright sunlight from the heavens was divided into soft patches by the windowpanes and vine-patterned lattices, spilling over the bluestone floor. The scent of hay and earth filled the air, mingling with motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams. The entire space felt like a warm, tranquil barn on a quiet afternoon.

In the deepest part of the Church, set against the colorful stained glass behind it, stood the stone statue of Chantier, the [Goddess of Agriculture]. She rested silently upon the altar.

Rather than a great, majestic, and aloof deity, the statue itself was simply that of a serene and kindly middle-aged woman.

She wore a heavy silk robe embroidered with various growing plants. Vines, flowers, and leaves adorned her entire figure like natural decorations.

Her hands were extended slightly forward; her palms cradled several plump grains of wheat and a rosebud waiting to bloom.

Dressed in a brownish-green linen robe, an old man with pale hair and a white beard knelt beneath the statue of the Goddess. His eyes were lowered and his lips moved as he silently recited his prayers.

"Clack."

A flurry of hurried, uneven footsteps broke the silence inside the Church.

The rotund tavern owner from the Woolen Rusty Nail rushed hastily past the neat rows of wooden pews lining the hall.

Panting, he leaned over and whispered a few words into the ear of the Cleric, who remained in his praying posture.

Seeing the Cleric give an almost imperceptible nod, the tavern owner finally breathed a sigh of relief.

With an attitude of utmost reverence, he carefully backed out of the Church.

The air returned to its former tranquility.

Cleric Moin never raised his head, remaining quietly on his knees before the statue of the Goddess.

Just then, the clouds shifted, partially obscuring the bright light from above.

The sunlight that had just illuminated the entire interior of the Church was reduced to a single, lingering beam. It fell through the vine-patterned lattice, splitting the space in two.

The tall, kindly Goddess bathed in the sunlight, yet the devout Cleric before her happened to kneel right at the edge of this beam, his body shrouded deep in shadow.

Cleric Moin's head hung low, his face veiled in darkness, rendering his expression unreadable.

The stone Goddess's carved eyes remained fixed and serene. Yet, beneath the shifting play of light and shadow, the kindly gaze that looked down upon her follower seemed to carry an added trace of scrutiny and pity.

(End of Chapter)