Chapter 508 - 474: Morne Gore

Chapter 508: Chapter 474: Morne Gore

A few children in ragged clothes with clouded eyes rummaged mechanically through a mountain-like pile of garbage.

Even more unsettling were the blatant acts of crime...

Several burly humanoids with skin partially covered in scales violently shoved down a scrawny goblin clutching a tattered sack. They snatched the sack and swaggered away.

The victim merely curled up on the ground, whimpering softly for a moment, before silently getting back up and limping away into the shadows.

The few scattered pedestrians nearby had no reaction, their eyes vacant, as if this were just part of the background noise that repeated itself daily.

The air carried shouts and curses, the weak coughs of the sick, suppressed sobs from some unknown corner, and a kind of...

An almost despairing silence.

It was as if the life here had been drained of all will to struggle, leaving only the most basic instinct to survive, eking out a meager existence day by day in the cracks between filth and danger.

"This is like a forgotten livestock pen..."

Galvis muttered under his breath.

Even a Minstrel’s romantic vocabulary seemed pale and powerless in this place.

As the group drew closer to the fire, the strange, acrid, burnt smell grew stronger, even beginning to sting their throats.

The light, filtered through the smoke, became a dim and hazy yellow.

The cacophony of voices grew louder, mingled with clearer sounds of crying, shouting, and a kind of...

A clamor born not of firefighting, but of some kind of chaos.

When Roland finally rounded the last street corner, a shocking scene unfolded before his eyes.

It wasn’t a single building on fire, but an entire, relatively dense shantytown engulfed in a sea of flames.

The flames, an unnatural mix of purplish-blue and orange-red, licked madly at the simple shacks.

Thick smoke billowed, seemingly mixed with strange, faintly glowing dust.

The most unnerving part was the edge of the fire.

There were no large numbers of uniformed firefighters or municipal workers in sight.

Only a few able-bodied locals were splashing dirty water with crude tools to little effect. Many more people simply stood on the periphery, their faces etched with fear, anger, and a bone-deep despair.

A little farther away, on a street untouched by the fire, several strange, shuttle-shaped vehicles flickered with a cold, silver-gray light. Standing beside them were figures in uniform gray suits and respiratory masks.

They weren’t helping to fight the fire, merely maintaining a cold cordon and preventing anyone from getting too close to the blaze.

One of the gray-suited figures, apparently a minor leader, was facing an agitated elderly Beastman woman who was gesturing wildly, trying to rush in and save something. He repeated in a monotone voice,

"Step back. Wait for the fire to be brought under control. City Hall will handle the aftermath."

The CRACKLE of the flames, mixed with the cries and the gray-suited man’s cold commands, painted a cruel and bizarre picture.

Roland’s pupils contracted slightly, his gaze sweeping over the dancing sea of flames like a hawk’s.

The extraordinary Perception of Flame granted to him by the [Heart of the Furnace] was now issuing a sharp warning.

’The ’trajectory’ of these flames is extremely unnatural. They aren’t spreading from flammable wooden planks, rags, or piles of junk. Instead, they seem to have been forcefully squeezed out from deep underground, erupting from specific points. The tongues of orange-red and purplish-blue flame look more like they were "growing" out of cracks in the ground and gaps in the shacks’ foundations, licking at the structures above as if an invisible, scorching vent was breathing from below. The shantytown is the victim, not the source. The root of this fire lies somewhere deeper and darker.’

Just as he was about to investigate the cracks in the ground, his gaze swept over the edge of the chaotic crowd, and a motionless figure suddenly seized his full attention.

Tall, slender, like a stark black reed.

Even against such a chaotic and squalid backdrop, he exuded an out-of-place, almost chilling neatness.

His narrow, dark-yellow eyes, reflecting the dancing firelight, held an inhuman glint, like amber that had fossilized time itself.

Yemiga.

The self-proclaimed Reception Envoy of Silver Radiance City, a mysterious being shrouded in layers of fog both inside and outside the time loop.

Roland had tried to "eliminate" him in a previous loop and had also actively searched for him in the Upper City District, all to no avail.

His very existence, much like the loop itself, was elusive yet seemingly omnipresent.

’This is why Roland believes he must have a fundamental connection to the time loop. Even if he isn’t the mastermind, he must be connected to the mastermind. So why is he here now? Is he observing the fire, or... waiting for something?’

Almost without thinking, Roland moved, about to push through the crowd and head straight for Yemiga.

However, just as he lifted his foot, he felt a sudden, warm touch on his left wrist.

The touch was faint, rough with sweat and ash, yet surprisingly persistent.

Roland froze and looked down.

A small, soot-covered hand was gripping the corner of his sleeve, its knuckles white from the force.

Following the arm up, he met a pair of eyes.

It was a human boy, about twelve or thirteen years old. His face was so smeared with soot that his original skin tone was barely visible, but his eyes, in the dim light, were shockingly bright.

They held none of a child’s innocence, only bottomless fear, despair, and the pure desperation of someone clutching at their last straw.

A flicker of unconcealable surprise crossed Roland’s eyes.

His gaze snapped down, locking onto the small, grimy hand that was clutching his wrist for dear life.

’This child... he can actually touch me?’

In the last loop, Roland had repeatedly tested the rules of interaction between himself and this Misaligned Space-Time.

The conclusion was clear.

He could communicate verbally and visually with the residents of Silver Radiance City in the year 490 of the Crystal Calendar, but there were inconsistencies when it came to passing objects.

Beyond that...

The locals could not physically touch him, nor could he truly touch them.

It was a two-way state of observation, separated by an invisible curtain.

Yet now, the rough texture and gripping force on his wrist were so real.

This sudden anomaly instantly seized Roland’s attention.

In a daze, he looked up again, trying to locate Yemiga’s figure.

But the Reception Envoy who had just been standing as still as a black monument had vanished without a trace, as if he had never been there.

At the same time, the boy’s tearful, utterly desperate plea rang in his ears, piercing through the crackling of the flames and the surrounding clamor.

"M-My lord from the Upper City District... I beg you... help me, save the people inside... It’s my uncle... H-He’s my last relative..."

The boy’s voice trembled, carrying the reckless humility unique to the desperate.

In this forgotten land, Roland and his companions were as conspicuous as a lantern in the night, and had become the only possible Hope to grasp amidst the despair.

Roland took a deep breath, suppressing the storm raging in his heart.

He slowly knelt down, bringing his gaze level with the boy’s, and reached out, gently wiping away the tears mixed with soot from the corner of the boy’s eye with the pad of his finger.

This simple action reconfirmed the reality of the touch.

He could, indeed, touch this child.

"Child..."

He deliberately kept his voice calm, carrying a reassuring steadiness.

"Tell me, what’s your name?"

The boy hiccuped a sob. On his small, soot-covered face, those bright eyes stared intently at Roland, as if to confirm that this sudden attention was not a hallucination.

"Morne..."

He said quietly, his voice choked with sobs.

"Morne Gore."