The white stone road stretched straight southward, cutting through golden grasslands that danced gently in the warm afternoon breeze. Beneath simple stone bridges, small streams flowed as clear as crystal, revealing the smooth white pebbles resting seamlessly on the riverbed.
The caravan was moving much slower now.
Creak... creak... creak...
The wooden carriage—now forcibly pulled by four horses, combining the two original draft horses and the borrowed mounts from Naya and Orva—let out a groaning protest against every stone it rolled over. Its severely caved-in roof left gaps that projected bizarre, jagged shadows across the cabin floor. anwhile, the rear panel, porous from the wyvern’s corrosive venom, continued to exhale a faint but acrid scent of charred wood and acid.
"They must be watching us already," Roland spoke up, breaking the silence inside the cabin.
"Right from the mont our wheels touched the mountain border," Rianor replied flatly.
"Then... why hasn’t a line of knights intercepted us yet?"
"Because they choose to wait. Or..." Rianor pushed up his slipping spectacles, "because to them, this battered caravan of ours doesn’t look like a threat in the slightest."
Roland peered out the window, staring at the pristine ivory silhouette of the tower in the distance. "Hmm, sohow, I don’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved."
On the driver’s bench outside, Dom remained silent. But his eagle-sharp eyes never stopped moving—vigilantly scanning every slope of the gentle hills, every cluster of pines, down to the passing shadows of clouds sweeping over the grasslands.
A grueling hour passed before the border post finally revealed itself from behind a grassy knoll.
Its structure lacked the imposing grandeur of Northreach’s military gates. The outpost consisted rely of a two-story white stone building capped with a symtrical low do—a clean architectural style, devoid of excessive ornantation, prioritizing function over flair. Right at the apex of the do, a tal carving of a rising sun with seven rays—the holy symbol of the Goddess of Light—glead golden under the afternoon sun.
A waist-high stone wall encircled the main building. The heavy oak gates stood wide open—not as a warm welco, but because they had clearly never been designed to be locked. Two monks stood tall before the entrance. They wore simple gray robes cinched with woven belts. Each gripped a long teakwood staff, while a short sword rested in the scabbards at their waists—serving more as a symbol of uniform formality than a sign of martial intent.
"Wait, this is the border post?" Roland whispered, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I guess I was expecting sothing... more."
"More what?" Rianor asked.
"More holy, grand, and... intimidating. I don’t know."
Rianor didn’t take his eyes off his compass. "Sotis, the deadliest things in this world are packaged in the most unassuming forms."
Roland stared intently at his brother. "Wow, that’s a first. That sentence almost sounded like the words of a wise man."
"It wasn’t wisdom. It was pure data observation."
The carriage finally rolled to a gentle halt right in front of the open gates. One of the younger monks stepped forward. He looked to be in his early twenties, with short brown hair and an expression forced into a stern mask for the benefit of strangers.
"Halt," the young monk commanded, his right hand gripping his wooden staff tightly. "Who are you, and what is your business attempting to set foot in the Holy Land?"
Roland vaulted down from the cabin with a fluid motion. His diplomatic smile deployed perfectly—friendly without seeming sycophantic, yet humble enough not to trigger suspicion. "We are rely a small rchant caravan from the north, Eastmarch to be exact. We are traveling to the southern cities to offer our wares."
"rchants?" The monk narrowed his eyes. "What commodities do you carry?"
"Woven fabrics, leftover spices, and so simple household wares."
The young monk scrutinized the physical state of the carriage behind Roland—the severely crumpled roof and the blackened, rotting rear panel. "Then what exactly happened to your vehicle?"
"Wyverns, old ma—er, I an, Brother," Roland feigned a shudder of horror, rubbing the back of his neck with a practiced gesture of anxiety. "We were ambushed in the mountain pass this morning. We are truly blessed by the light just to be breathing right now."
Hearing the word wyvern, the monk didn’t seem surprised. "The outer mountain belt has indeed beco a nest for wild wyverns lately. Sane rchants usually wouldn’t dare cross that perilous route."
"Well, we thought it would be a quick shortcut," Roland chuckled awkwardly.
"That wasn’t a shortcut. It was a suicide run."
"We’ve certainly learned our lesson," Roland said with an incredibly convincing look of regret.
The second monk—an older man with a thinning, graying beard—stepped closer to the carriage’s body. He peered into the damaged cabin. His sharp eyes studied Rianor, who sat calmly amidst piles of luggage, before shifting to Adul in the corner, who was clutching his communication box for dear life. Rianor’s mana fluctuation ter was slightly peeking out from behind a stack of notebooks.
"What is that object?" the bearded monk pointed strictly at the iron box in Adul’s embrace.
Adul’s entire body went rigid. His breath hitched. Gulp. "Th-this... this is..."
"Ah, that’s a musical instrunt!" Roland cut in quickly, his voice rising a pitch to mask Adul’s panic. "My younger cousin here is a gifted musician. He is quite eccentric and insists on carrying his beloved instrunt wherever his feet take him."
"A musical instrunt?" The monk looked deeply skeptical. "Open the box. I wish to see it."
Adul shot a panicked glance at Roland. Roland gave a microscopic nod—stay calm, let him look. With slightly trembling fingers, Adul unfastened the latch of the iron box. Inside lay rows of mana crystal panels, intricate webs of micro-cables, and several brass dials. It resembled absolutely no string or wind instrunt known to this world.
"I have never seen a musical instrunt of such a bizarre design," the monk muttered, his hand reaching out, nearly brushing a sensor crystal.
"It was crafted by artisans in Northreach," Roland interjected smoothly. "The folks up north are rather infamous for building contraptions with strange and overly complicated chanisms."
At the ntion of Northreach, the two monks instantly exchanged glances. A peculiar shift of emotion flashed in their eyes—not pure anger, but an unspoken acknowledgnt. The na Northreach was clearly not foreign to their ears.
"You hail from Northreach?" the young monk asked, his tone probing.
"Oh, certainly not. We are Eastmarch natives. It’s just that our trade routes frequently intersect with Northreach rchants."
The young monk opened his mouth, ready to launch into a more interrogative line of questioning, but—
"That is enough, Lukas."
A voice floated out from within the white stone post. It sounded remarkably calm and authoritative, possessing an invisible weight capable of stopping anyone in their tracks without the need to shout.
An elderly pastor stepped out from behind the oak door. Unlike the two guards in their gray robes, this old man wore a spotless, immaculate white cassock. His snow-white hair was combed neatly back. His posture was slightly stooped with age, but his pale blue eyes—nearly the color of a clear midday sky—still radiated a sharpness piercing enough to strip away any lie. Around his neck hung a gleaming silver pendant of the seven-rayed sun.
"Pastor Aldus," the young monk nad Lukas imdiately bowed in respect, lowering his staff. "They claim to be ordinary rchants, but their cargo is highly suspicious—"
"I have already seen it, Lukas." Pastor Aldus walked toward the carriage with asured, unhurried steps. His eyes swept over the remnants of the acid-corroded wood, the exhausted horses, and finally ca to a dead stop right on Rianor’s face.
More specifically, his gaze locked onto the black Mana Glove fitted over Rianor’s right hand.
A tense silence stretched for several seconds. Rianor didn’t shift, nor did he attempt to hide his hand behind his coat—doing so would be a fatal admission of guilt. He simply t the Pastor’s pale blue stare with ice-cold composure.
"You have traveled a very long way from ho," Pastor Aldus finally said, breaking the silence.
"The demands of trade force us to always be intimate with the road, Pastor," Roland answered smoothly.
"Of course," Pastor Aldus offered a thin, aningful smile. "It’s just that I haven’t seen a rchant caravan carrying such complex ’musical instrunts’ in quite a long ti. Nor a carriage shattered by a wyvern. And..." His eyes flicked back to Rianor’s right hand. "...a glove with such an unusual structural design."
Roland prepared to open his mouth to weave a new lie, but Pastor Aldus raised his left hand slowly—a subtle gesture that instantly silenced all argunts.
"They have endured a punishing journey. Look at the carriage chassis; it is nearly broken. Look at their horses, utterly breathless." Pastor Aldus looked between Lukas and the thin-bearded monk. "Let them pass."
"But, Pastor Aldus—"
"I will take full responsibility for this caravan."
Lukas looked torn for a mont. But ultimately, he nodded obediently and stepped aside. The heavy oak gates were opened completely.
Roland secretly let out a long breath he had been holding in his throat. "Thank you imnsely for your generosity, Pastor."
"Do not thank so quickly, young man." Pastor Aldus looked at Roland—this ti not with military suspicion, but with a profound, radiating curiosity. "I may be old, but I am not that foolish. I know you aren’t cloth rchants."
Roland froze stiff.
"The items in your carriage... I have lived long enough to realize that technology of that complexity could not possibly be birthed by an ordinary kingdom. Not by Northreach, Eastmarch, or any faction on this continent." His gaze shifted back to Rianor. "I do not know what agenda you bring to this land. But I can see that you are hiding it very tightly."
"Then... why are you still letting us through?" Roland asked, dropping his diplomatic mask for a mont.
Pastor Aldus fell silent for a mont. The afternoon breeze blew gently, fluttering the hem of his immaculate white robe. "Because you are worthy, and I know your intentions are not malicious."
"Is that a good indication?"
"I cannot guarantee that." Pastor Aldus turned around, walking slowly back into the stone post. "Whatever you seek here... may the Goddess bless your steps. Or at the very least, forgive you."
"We will strive for the first option, Pastor," Roland concluded.
Pastor Aldus paused his steps right at the oak threshold, without looking back. "I certainly hope so."
The gates of the border post slowly shrank and finally vanished from view behind them.
The straight white stone road continued to guide them south. The golden grasslands began to transition into neatly arranged plots of farmland—fields of wheat, fresh vegetables, and rows of unfamiliar yellow flowers that Rianor had never seen in any botany book. In the distance, farrs in straw hats worked with a tranquil rhythm, looking like small brown dots against an expanse of green carpet.
"He knew," Roland said, breaking the silence inside the cabin. "He knew exactly that we are technology smugglers."
"Yes," Rianor replied curtly.
"But why did he choose to turn a blind eye?"
"It’s simple." Rianor snapped his notebook shut with a soft thud. "Perhaps he saw sothing the radar of those two gate guards failed to catch. Perhaps he’s had his fill of life enough to know that not every mystery in this world needs to be solved with the edge of a sword. Or..."
"Or what?"
"Or... he was indeed waiting for people exactly like us."
Roland stared at his brother with a furrowed brow, then chuckled. "Tsk, you know... that sentence sounded far too optimistic for a Rianor Sudrath."
"I am not being optimistic, Roland. I am rely constructing a probability hypothesis based on his psychological reaction back there."
"Constructing an optimistic probability. That is called character developnt, brother."
Rianor chose not to reply.
Ahead of them, the roofs of a residential settlent began to peek over the gentle hills—clean, terracotta-red tiles, sturdy white stone walls, and wooden windows draped with ticulously kept white curtains. The first village inside Luminara territory. Thin smoke billowed gracefully from every stone chimney. Faintly, the chi of a bell drifted from the distance—not a warning toll of danger, but the peaceful lody of evening vesper bells.
Roland gazed at the rural landscape through the window. "We are officially inside. Now, what is the next tactical step?"
"Find the nearest inn. Perform ergency repairs on the carriage chassis. Begin gathering intel from local chatter."
"And after that?"
Rianor shifted his gaze to the pristine ivory silhouette of the tower at the edge of the horizon—still appearing very far away, shrouded in a mysterious, thin mist. "After that... we find a loophole to speak directly with the Holy Maiden."
"You say it as if it’s as simple as greeting a next-door neighbor."
"It won’t be easy, Roland. But this is a mission we absolutely must complete."
The battered carriage continued to roll slowly, grinding against the quiet white stone road. Behind them, the border post had been completely swallowed by the hills. Ahead, the first village of Luminara welcod them—with dozens of pairs of eyes from the residents, who had quietly begun watching them from behind their window curtains the mont their wheels crossed the threshold of the gates.
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