Chapter 530: Masters Are Everywhere

The last cogwheel train up the mountain had left long ago, so the two of them walked along the lakeshore toward the Angel Inn.

Richard peeled the orange and gave half to Lillian.

She brought the orange peel to her nose and sniffed it.

"I might not be able to taste the sweetness, but I can tell from the smell that this is an orange peel."

She ate her half of the orange, wedge by wedge.

The wind blew off the lake and toward the town.

She stood on the side closer to the town, while Richard stood on the side closer to the lake.

Lillian fished a box of matches out of her coat pocket.

"You said this afternoon that we should strike one every time we meet."

"Yeah."

"Today, it's my turn to strike one," she said, pulling out a match and holding it between her fingers.

"If I tell the truth... if the gingerbread on my birthday was delicious, let the flame tilt toward you."

She struck it, and it flared to life.

Pressed by the lake wind, the flame bent straight back toward her instead, without a hint of hesitation.

Lillian stared at the tiny flame, her face instantly turning red.

"...I mean, I think it should have been delicious."

Richard bit the inside of his cheek, not daring to laugh.

When the match burned halfway down, Lillian frantically shook it out.

She pulled out another match and held it between her fingers, not moving for a long time.

The lake wind blew a few loose strands of hair into her face, but she didn't brush them away.

"If I tell the truth..."

The girl took a breath and raised her head, looking straight at the person in front of her. "If I've thought of you every day this past year, let the flame tilt toward you."

Scratch! The flame leaped up and swayed as the lake wind pressed head-on against it.

Then, defying the wind, it actually bent toward Richard.

The truth of the statement "My surname is Williams" had only been able to hold the flame up for less than three seconds.

But after Lillian spoke and the flame bent over, it never stood back up.

Her entire face flushed red as she watched the flame. Flustered and unsure of what to do, she leaned in to blow it out.

The flame dodged to the side, stubbornly pointing toward Richard.

She blew on it again, but the flame merely flickered and continued pointing at the man across from her.

"Why won't it go out..." The girl's voice cracked in a panic.

The flame burned down to her fingertips. Unable to feel the heat, Lillian simply lowered her head, watching helplessly as the fire licked her fingers.

Richard hurriedly grabbed her hand and pinched out the flame.

Her small hand was enveloped in his palm, one of her fingertips burned red. Lillian looked up at him with wet eyes. Melted snow hung from the tips of her eyelashes in tiny beads of water, trembling as if about to fall.

She stared at him for a moment, then grabbed his scarf with her free hand, yanked him downward, and stood on her tiptoes.

...Her lips were incredibly cold, making him feel as if he had just taken a mouthful of snow.

He had practiced the Condensed Mirror Method for so long that even when Apophis sat across from him drinking coffee, the surface of the water in his heart hadn't rippled in the slightest.

But today, with a single kiss from Lillian, that surface shattered completely.

Richard's hands froze in midair. He didn't know whether to lower them or raise them. It took him a long moment to remember to wrap his arms around her back.

Lillian pressed against his chest without moving. After a while, she pulled back slightly and blinked.

"...It's hot."

"You're hot." Her voice began to tremble.

"I thought I would never feel warmth again in this lifetime."

Tears fell. She was crying and laughing at the same time, her shoulders hitching with each sob.

Richard was at a loss. He wanted to wipe her tears, but after patting his pockets for a long time, he couldn't find a handkerchief. Lillian grabbed his scarf and buried her face in his coat.

"Your mouth tastes like oranges."

"I thought you couldn't taste anything?"

It was quiet inside the coat for a moment.

"...I smelled it."

She buried her face even deeper.

"You're not allowed to write about today in your stories."

"I won't."

"Even if you do, you can't use my name."

"Then what should I use?"

She thought for a moment and said very seriously.

"...Skadi is off-limits too."

Richard couldn't hold back a laugh.

Lillian glared at him and buried her face back in his chest, pressing her forehead hard against his collar.

"One more time," she said softly.

"...What?"

She didn't answer, gripping the scarf and yanking him down a little further.

By the time the two headed back, it was already very late.

The landlady of the Angel Inn opened the door for them, her eyes darting back and forth between their faces.

Richard couldn't pretend not to notice this time. Lillian's face was glowing red, a blush that extended all the way down to her collar. Her lips were flushed too, forming a sharp contrast with her porcelain skin.

She, however, was perfectly composed, even asking the landlady for hot milk.

The landlady said she did and brought over a steaming glass.

Lillian cupped the glass and took a careful sip. "So hot."

That night, Richard lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep. He thought of the letter delivered by the hare messenger; he thought of the bench in Kensington Gardens; he thought of the Rubbing Machine he habitually carried with him.

[Speculation] dutifully reminded him: You are avoiding making a choice.

Richard pulled the covers over his head.

'...Of course I know that.'

On the morning of December 6th, there was only one platform at the small station.

The newsstand displayed yesterday's issue of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung. The front page stated that over in Franc, Joffre had been appointed commander-in-chief of all armies;

The second page featured a photograph of local soldiers carrying rifles, standing on a snowy mountain pass. Beneath it was printed a single line: Vigil.

Lillian was taking the train to Zurich, where she would transfer to head back to Prague.

The train pulled into the station. She picked up her small leather suitcase and walked toward the train door.

Halfway there, she turned around.

"That honored envoy from the other day, was he very tired?"

Richard thought for a moment. "He was probably very tired."

Lillian nodded. "Tell him not to exhaust himself."

She pulled something wrapped in a handkerchief from her pocket, walked back, and pressed it into his hands.

"This is for you."

Richard opened the handkerchief. Inside was a stick of lead.

"This is..."

"A pencil."

Richard scratched his head. Weren't pencils made of graphite mixed with clay?

"A pencil made of lead?"

"You're not allowed to ask."

The tips of her ears instantly turned red, and she spun around and ran.

Her small suitcase bumped against her leg as she took the steps two at a time to board the train. She found a window seat and sat down, keeping her face turned toward the inside of the carriage, never looking out again.

The whistle blew, and the train began to move. Richard stood on the platform, looking down at the pencil.

Lead was supposed to be cold, but as it rested in his palm, it carried a faint, lingering warmth.

The train wheels had crushed two dark tracks over the rails, and the fresh snow was slowly falling to fill them back in.

On the evening of the 6th, Mortimer returned from the other side of the lake.

Richard took his briefcase and asked how the manuscript copies were coming along.

"Tagliaferro said their condition was a bit strange, and he wasn't wrong."

Mortimer sat down in the inn's restaurant.

"When the monks bound them, they stitched a volume of Augustine together with a fourteenth-century monastery ledger."

"The first half talks about the City of God, and the second half discusses how much salt to use when pickling cabbage."

"Can they be separated?"

"Of course they have to be separated." Mortimer curled his lip.

"The vice-dean was very reluctant to let them go. He said you have to read the two together to see that even saints need to eat."

A waiter brought over the soup.

The old professor held his soup spoon and shot him a glance.

"There's something off about your face."

"What's off about it?"

"I can't put my finger on it." Mortimer took a sip of soup.

"...It's similar to how you looked the day you met the Master, but not quite the same."

Having buried his head in books his entire life, the professor keenly sensed that his student's emotions were strange, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

Richard put his spoon into his soup, not daring to reply.

Halfway through the meal, he asked, "Professor, where are we crossing back into the Empire?"

Mortimer picked up his bowl and drank the rest of his soup in one gulp.

"We're crossing the Alps to go back, of course."

Richard sat across from him and waited a moment, only to realize there was no punchline.

"...Professor, you weren't joking before?"

The old professor had said it as naturally as saying, "Walk two blocks forward."

North of Switzerland lay Germania—there was no getting through there.

There were several border passes to the west connecting to Franc. The higher ones were left unguarded in the winter.

"Once we get over to Franc, we can just find any town, hop on a train, and head north to Paris, same as the way we came."

"On the other hand, if we detour back to the Apennines, not only is the distance much longer, but the border checkpoints are getting harder and harder to cross, and we might run into traffic blockades."

Richard sat there, temporarily at a loss for words.

"Professor, the history books say Hannibal crossed the Alps at the end of October. It's December now."

Mortimer wiped his mouth with a napkin.

Richard continued, "He took 37,000 men over, and by the time they came down the mountain, only 20,000 were left."

Mortimer placed his cup back on the table. "He brought elephants. They eat a lot."

The old professor's two mustache tails twitched. His expression was exactly the same as when he had hijacked someone's chair. Mortimer was just having fun at his expense; having been thoroughly embarrassed by the librarian in Milan, he had to make up for it somehow.

"Fine."

Richard stood up.

"Then I'll go pack the luggage. Professor, if you can't walk when the time comes, I'll carry you on my back."

Mortimer let out a short laugh. "You wouldn't be able to carry me."

He really wasn't joking.

First thing on the morning of the 7th, the two of them actually boarded a southwest-bound train.

The train passed through the Kander Valley and burrowed into the Lotschberg.

Just before the tunnel entrance, the railway took an inexplicable, wide turn.

In the same carriage, a priest from Bern was holding a small book, reading.

Mortimer looked from the man's shoes to his hat, then from his hat to the back of his ears, before finally looking away.

The priest felt the hairs on his neck stand up from being stared at.

The train burrowed into the belly of the mountain.

Looking at these treacherous mountain passes, Richard suddenly found himself struck with some inspiration.

A few days ago, coming from Lucerne, they had traveled the Gotthard Line.

The mountains had been carved open, and the trains rolled over human bones trip after trip.

The people on the train counted churches, counted tunnels, and counted how many loops they made.

In his past life, there was a comic called Wolfsmund about a checkpoint at the Gotthard Mountain pass seven hundred years ago.

A bailiff sat at the pass, and anyone who wanted to cross the mountain had to go through his mouth.

But some of the plot in that comic was a bit too exaggerated—like the various characters who could leap over roofs and scale walls, and the idea that once you crossed the pass, you could overcome all obstacles.

It deliberately manufactured a dark, deep, and brutal tone, breaking away from historical reality. It needed major revisions.

Richard thought that the soul of the story's villain, the gatekeeper named Wolf, couldn't be discarded.

He pulled a fresh stack of manuscript paper from his bag and spread it across his lap.

Wolf never made a move at the checkpoint itself. He would always have the goods inspected, the stamps applied, and then let the people through.

Only when they reached the exit of the gorge, just one step away from being able to see the lake, would he send his men up to pin them down.

The people of Uri said that the wolf's mouth wasn't terrifying when it was biting, but rather when it was wide open.

The train exited the tunnel, and the daylight of the Rhone Valley poured in violently, washing the paper in a brilliant white.

Mortimer leaned over and peeked at his manuscript paper.

"Who is this one being written for?"

"It's written for me."

The old professor let out an "oh" and pulled his head back.

A moment later, he leaned over again.

"What about the piece for that certain someone?"

"It's almost done. I'll finish revising it tonight."

Mortimer didn't ask anything else, merely looking out the window at the increasingly tall mountains on both sides of the river valley.

On the morning of the 8th, they transferred to another train and continued onward.

This time, there was a small wooden box by the train door, with a slip of paper pasted to it:

"Travel Library. The books in this carriage may be borrowed freely. Please return them to their original place before disembarking."

Mortimer stood in front of that wooden box, looking incredibly suspicious.

"Professor?"

"It's nothing." The old professor sat down, leaning on his walking stick, his eyes still darting in that direction.

"I just feel that whenever I see a book now, I want to ask who it belongs to first."

Aside from the two of them, the only other thing in the carriage was a coat draped over a seat across the aisle.

The coat's owner had likely gone to the connecting vestibule to smoke and hadn't returned.

Once the train started moving, the conductor came by to check tickets.

His face was dark red, and his beard was as stiff as a brush.

Mortimer's gaze fixed onto the pencil the man was carrying.

The conductor clipped the ticket and handed it back to him.

Mortimer slowly stood up and took off his hat.

"Excuse me, do you usually read?"

The conductor looked at the old man in bafflement.

"I do. I read the Bible, and I read the weather forecast."

Mortimer nodded solemnly and offered him a slight bow.

The conductor took a half-step back with his tickets, having never seen someone bow while getting their ticket checked.

Without saying a word, he turned and headed to the next carriage.

Richard buried his face in his manuscript paper.

"What are you laughing at?" Mortimer sat back down.

"I'm not."

"I am being cautious." The old professor placed his hat back on his head.

He glanced out the window again at the gorge hundreds of feet deep.

"If you get lost on the snowy mountains, I will write a letter to Isabella and just say you went to the New Continent."

Richard sat exactly where he was, utterly speechless.

"Professor, you absolutely must not write that."

"Why not?"

"My aunt would actually go to the New Continent to look for me."

Richard lowered his head and finished revising the final paragraph of the manuscript.

The date written on the library card was tomorrow.

The gorge outside the window was almost at an end. A few stops further ahead would be the small town on the border.

Heading into the mountains from there would lead to the pass that was left unguarded in the winter.

Richard dug out the leaf Matthew had given him from his coat's inner pocket.

He prepared to send a notification first. Virtuosos were probably all quite busy; if he sent a message first, he would naturally see it when he had the time.

He pressed the leaf against the manuscript and said softly, "Mr. Matthew, the manuscript is done."

As soon as the words left his mouth, a door opened on the carriage wall.

Light spilled through the crack in the door. Inside, one could faintly make out water and mud, as well as a large iron pot bubbling with hot oil.

Mortimer stood up instantly, holding his walking stick horizontally across his body.

He suppressed the ether field in the carriage so completely that even the frost on the windowpanes stopped growing.

From the crack in the door came the man's voice.

"Kid, do you have any idea what time it is over here?"

Richard let out an "uh."

"It's the middle of the night," the voice answered itself.

"I just dropped a fish into the pot, and your shout startled me so bad I dropped my spatula."

The door opened a little wider, and a hand reached in, palm up toward him.

"Hand it over. You dragged it out for half a year, but you're finally done. I've been waiting here so long I'm practically sprouting grass. I'm counting on this to cure my boredom."

"Old gentleman, there's no need to be so tense. It's not like I eat people."

He paused mid-sentence.

"...At least, not the old ones."

Mortimer didn't move, his walking stick still held horizontally.

Richard picked up the manuscript for Tale of the Wrong Door and handed it toward the waiting hand.

The edge of the paper had just brushed Matthew's fingertips, when another hand reached over from the side and snatched the manuscript away.

Richard turned his head.

In the seat across the aisle, the brown coat from earlier was now being worn by a person.

Richard froze for a long moment. Suddenly, a question popped into his mind, and he blurted out, "The person at the circulation desk at the University of Genoa, the one with a pencil tucked behind his ear..."

The librarian shook his head. "That was a real human. His name is Giovanni, and the garlic is pickled by his mother-in-law."

Holding onto the armrest, Mortimer slowly sat back down.

Matthew's voice drifted out from the crack in the door, all trace of laziness gone.

"Hey, that was written for me!"

"It was written for you, but until it reaches your hands, it is still on the road."

The librarian turned a page. "Books on the road belong to me."

"I am the road!"

The librarian raised his head and glanced toward the crack in the door.

"Then I am the bookshelf."

Silence fell beyond the door.

The librarian pulled a card from his coat pocket, wrote two lines on it with a pencil, and handed it to Richard.

Borrower: L.

Title: Mahabharata Palm-Leaf Manuscript. Due Date: Extended to February 9, 1916.

Below that, a new line was written in smaller handwriting: New Additions (Two Types): Tale of the Wrong Door, Wolfsmund.

"Two pieces. One month per piece."

He used the pencil to write another line on the cover of the manuscript and held it up toward the door:

Reservation: Matthew Carrick is first in line.

"I'm the commissioner!" Matthew said indignantly.

"Commissioners hold no priority in this library."

The librarian also took the stack for Wolfsmund and placed it underneath Tale of the Wrong Door.

"Once I'm done reading, it will be your turn."

The hand in the doorway hovered in midair for a moment before slowly retracting.

The librarian turned a page. "Reservations at this library do not expire."

"Wait how long?"

"Wait until you come."

On the other side of the door, a spatula scraped against the bottom of an iron pot with a sharp sizzle, and the smell of burnt food surged through the crack into the carriage.

"...The fish is burnt."

The door closed shut, but the rippling fluctuations from the conflict between a Virtuoso and a Master began to echo out from behind the veil.

There was no moon at the Mouth of the Underworld River.

West of the Central Mountain Range, the moon was generally unwilling to hang in the sky.

Matthew returned to the door of his stilt house, holding his spatula in one hand and his iron pot in the other.

There were three fish in the pot. The sides pressed against the bottom were already charred to cinders, while the top sides were still raw.

"...Friday, come eat some fish."

The haystack in the corner of the room rustled, and a dog crawled out.

Matthew had gone to school for a few years when he was a child, and his favorite book was Robinson Crusoe.

He thrust the pot in front of the dog.

Friday leaned in to sniff it, immediately turned its head away, and walked back to the haystack, lying down with its back to its master.

"Even you're turning your nose up at it!"

Matthew cursed the fish, cursed the water, cursed his own dog, and finally cursed the pot itself.

He cursed everything under the sun, yet he hadn't dared breathe a single bad word against that Master.

Meanwhile, in the skies above the Jutland Wasteland, the Wild Hunt's procession was resting.

Atop the clouds, the lord of the hunt had been in a very good mood these past few days.

Beside him, an old scholar sat in his saddle with the roster spread across his lap, continuously adding names to it.

Thanks to Loki this month, everyone had to pay an admission fee before mounting their horses—materials, cash, intelligence, and even personal connections.

The lord of the hunt hadn't needed to lift a finger.

He opened his display cabinet, taking a peek inside every now and then while muttering under his breath.

Right then, the Hunting Register moved on its own. Hundreds of years' worth of gathered names scrolled past beneath the old scholar's eyes.

The hounds erupted. Thousands of dogs leaped up from their sleeping piles simultaneously, the hackles on their necks raised as they faced south without making a sound.

A small, lame dog dove under a horse's belly, whining with its tail tucked between its legs.

The lord of the hunt slammed his palm down, snapping the Hunting Register shut.

The frost gathered on the lord of the hunt's antlers shattered and cascaded down, landing squarely on the head of a rider dozing behind him.

The rider jolted upright and wiped away the crushed ice, looking around, furious but not daring to speak.

"...It's the Master of the Classical Records Tradition."

The lord of the hunt raised his head and gazed southwest.

Looking past the veil, there was only an unbroken stretch of snow in that direction.

"Is he coming for our procession?"

The old scholar didn't seem too bothered. "If he were coming for us, he wouldn't have just flipped through the register once."

"Then who is he after?"

The old scholar didn't reply.

The lord of the hunt didn't ask again either. He thought of the little guy at the end of the fire path.

There were some things where not digging to the bottom of the truth let everyone remain at peace.

He tossed the Anchor he had originally prepared into his saddlebag, rooted around inside for a long while, and pulled out a bronze ring.

The bronze ring was covered in green patina, and there was a chip on its edge.

Someone on Cloud Ridge inhaled sharply.

The lord of the hunt held the bronze ring up, scrutinizing it against the lightless sky.

In 1628, the Swedes built the most beautiful warship in the entire Old Continent. Painted, gilded, and armed with sixty-four cannons.

It hadn't even sailed a single nautical mile out of port when a gust of wind tipped it over, sinking it right by the docks of Stockholm. This bronze ring had broken off from its hull.

The old scholar stared at the bronze ring for quite some time. "Using a ship that sank right out of port to serve as ballast. You truly are an expert."

The lord of the hunt gripped the bronze ring tightly in his palm.

"An anchor is supposed to sink. Since someone is watching from the sidelines, I need to use something presentable."

After he spoke, all of Cloud Ridge fell silent for a long moment.

A burly man carrying a charred log pushed his way out of the crowd and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"The lord of the hunt has spared no expense! He's even willing to bring out a ship ring from the Vasa for us!"

"Keep shouting, and I'll put you at the very front of the procession on the night of the winter solstice."

The lord of the hunt flicked his reins.

The man carrying the log shut his mouth, but his laughter didn't stop.

A barefoot guy, whose ten toes were freezing red, rubbed his feet together.

"Does the Master of the Classical Records Tradition issue shoes?"

A lobsterback rubbed the brass buttons on his chest with his cuff and fired back.

"The Master manages books. Are you planning to fill out a library card with your toes?"

Laughter rolled backward along Cloud Ridge, echoing all the way into the unseen distance.

Only then did the hounds lower their heads one by one. But the lame little dog remained crouched beneath the horse's belly, facing southwest, its tail stiffly tucked the entire time.

The lord of the hunt flicked the reins and turned his head to the old scholar. "Write a note for Loki. Tell him to properly train those living humans before the winter solstice so nothing goes wrong when the time comes."

The old scholar pulled a sheet of paper from his saddlebag and dipped his pen back into the ink.

"Should I include the matter about the Master as well? Loki has an even looser tongue than the living people he recruited."

"Include it."

"Loki will definitely treat the Master's matter as intelligence and sell it." The old scholar couldn't make up his mind.

The lord of the hunt twirled the bronze ring in his fingers and laughed aloud.

"Let him sell it. If he can actually manage to sell it, I'll count it as his skill."

...

On his end, the Black Earth River Master was also seriously considering canceling the winter solstice night plan.

But after thinking it over repeatedly, he truly didn't want to endure the torment brought by the lord of the hunt's Horn any longer, so he decided to proceed with the original plan.

Just as he made up his mind, the black tide beneath the tip of the pyramid parted, and an impossibly massive mouth appeared underneath the pyramid.

The Abyssal Master never left the bottom of the Deep Realm. Every time he went out to handle business, he only ever sent a mouth.

The moment the massive mouth appeared, the Black Earth River Master had to exert a great deal of effort just to stabilize his own shadow.

The Abyssal Master spoke, every word echoing with the sound of swallowing.

"Old priest of the Black Earth River, I rushed over right after finishing a meal. I have a bit of indigestion, so I'll be blunt: For the matter you requested of me on the night of the winter solstice, I need to raise my price."

The Black Earth River Master instantly straightened up.

"We already agreed on a price last month, and you collected a shadow as a deposit."

"Everyone operates according to the rules. The agreed-upon price cannot be changed."

But the Abyssal Master countered, "Today's situation is different from last month's."

"Old priest, you felt it just now too, didn't you? The Classical Records Master left his house, and it scared half my appetite away."

The Black Earth River Master feigned ignorance. "What does the Classical Records Master going out have to do with your asking price for the winter solstice?"

"It has a lot to do with it." The Abyssal Master didn't mince words.

"When the pocket opens on the night of the winter solstice, I have to hold the people and supernatural items that fall out of the Wild Hunt's procession in my mouth first."

"The Classical Records Master just showed his face near Gotthard Mountain today. What if one of his books falls into the pocket, or someone under his protection? In short, the risk is several times higher than last month. I'm raising my price."

He named his new price. "You will give me seven more shadows right now, and I want a thirty-percent cut of the prey caught in the pocket."

"If one of the Classical Records Master's books or someone he looks after falls into the pocket, I have the right to immediately let go of the pocket and leave, and I will not refund a single one of the shadows you paid me."

This exorbitant demand made the entire pyramid tremble with anger.

"Don't push it too far... I'll give you two more shadows at most, and you don't get a single percent of the prey."

"Two shadows aren't even enough to get stuck in my teeth."

The Abyssal Master let out a yawn. As the massive mouth opened and closed, the pyramid sank down a little further.

The Black Earth River Master didn't reply, instead secretly releasing a small mirror from the folds of his shadow.

The small mirror clung to the black tide beside the massive mouth and silently sank downward.

He wanted to use the small mirror to illuminate exactly where the other party's true body was hiding, so he could gain another bargaining chip for future negotiations.

The small mirror sank, then quickly floated back up.

The frame returned to his hands perfectly intact, but not a single shard of glass remained.

The Abyssal Master laughed aloud. "Old priest, if you wanted to treat me to a snack, you didn't need to be so sneaky about it."

The Black Earth River Master's expression was incredibly ugly. He decided to pay two shadows first to stabilize the other party, while using the opportunity to play a little trick.

Once the two shadows sank together into the massive mouth, the other party slowly savored them. "The first one is real. The second one is fake."

"...Spit the fake one back out!"

"Even a liar's shadow can fill a stomach. I'll be keeping it."

The Abyssal Master chuckled. "Since you tried to trick me once, I will continue to raise my price. It's now eight shadows."

Just as the Black Earth River Master was about to retort, he suddenly noticed that several of the shadows around him had grown thinner.

The massive mouth had been secretly licking them while the two were talking.

He hurriedly retracted all his shadows into his folds and sharply demanded, "You're haggling over the price with me while simultaneously stealing bites of my shadows?!"

"Your shadows were too close to my mouth, I couldn't help myself..."

The massive mouth was completely unapologetic. "I've been hungry for so long, I can't control my tongue when I see something edible. You'll just have to bear with it."

Pushed beyond the limits of his endurance, the Black Earth River Master finally attacked.