Chapter 142: Elf
The leather pouches were water skins, though they were a size larger than ordinary ones and made of thicker material. The wooden boxes were palm-sized, with simple rune markings carved into the lids—red for healing, green for antidote, and white for ergency use.
Magic Potions were not cheap, either. A single vial sold outside for dozens of gold coins, and the healing type cost even more. At a critical mont, they could save a life.
The Empire had issued three to each person this ti. For more than sixty explorers, that ant two hundred vials. Add in those weapons—
The Empire had truly spared no expense. For whatever lay within that Elven ruin, the investnt apparently seed worthwhile.
Two soldiers stood at the entrance to the supply tent, hands resting on their sword hilts, their eyes sweeping over everyone who approached.
Ryan passed in front of them without going inside. The equipnt he had brought was sufficient. He did not need to take anything more.
Those youths from the eastern territories, on the other hand, were crowded at the tent entrance, craning their necks to peer inside. One tall, skinny fellow in worn leather armor had his eyes fixed on the swords on the weapon rack. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Can we take them?” he asked the soldier beside him in a small voice.
“You can,” the soldier said. “Just register it first.”
The tall youth swallowed again, but did not move.
Another, shorter and broader, shoved him from behind. “Then go on. What are you standing there for?”
“I… I’ll look a little longer,” the tall one said, yet his gaze remained stuck to the sword, unable to pull away.
Ryan walked past them and continued onward.
Rex was ahead of him, turning back and waving. “Ryan! Over here!”
Ryan quickened his pace and caught up.
The night wind blew past, and another burst of sparks popped from the fire.
Beyond the camp, the mountains and forest were pitch-black, impossible to make out clearly.
When he returned to his own tent, it was not large, but just enough for one person to lie down in. Ryan lifted the flap and ducked inside, setting the bundle from his back in the corner.
A thick felt mat covered the ground, soft beneath his boots. A horse lantern hung from the central support pole, its fla flickering and bathing the entire space in a dim yellow glow.
Ryan had only just sat down when footsteps sounded outside and stopped at the entrance.
“Is Mr. Velt here?”
Ryan lifted the flap. A young soldier stood outside, carrying a cloth bag.
When Ryan stepped out, the soldier handed it over and said, “These are the basic supplies the Empire has prepared for every explorer. A tent, a sleeping bag, and three Magic Potions—one healing, one antidote, and one ergency vial. If you need anything else, you may go to the supply tent and choose it yourself.”
Ryan accepted the bag and nodded. “Thank you.”
The soldier saluted, then turned and left.
Ryan carried the bag back into the tent and emptied it onto the felt mat.
There was a rolled-up tent, a little smaller than the one he was currently staying in, probably intended for a single person.
A sleeping bag, made of good material and soft to the touch.
And three palm-sized wooden boxes, each marked with a rune—red for healing, green for antidote, and white for ergency use.
He opened one of the boxes and glanced inside. The potion was stored in a small crystal vial, the liquid clear and without much scent.
The supplies were indeed good. But to Ryan, they were of limited use.
He set the bag and the wooden boxes aside and began sorting through his own belongings.
There was not much: just one backpack and one palm-sized casket.
The backpack held a change of clothes, washing supplies, and several pieces of dry rations—things for the journey. He opened it and took everything out one by one, reorganizing them. Clothes folded neatly, rations packed into a waterproof pouch, washing supplies tucked into the side pocket.
Then he picked up the casket Cecilia had given him. It was made of dark wood, its surface covered in fine magic patterns.
Ryan opened it. The interior was only about two or three cubic feet in volu, but that was more than enough for the things he carried. He reached in and began taking things out one by one—
Potions. More than a dozen crystal vials, arranged neatly in a small compartnt. Healing potions, antidotes, fire-resistance potions, water-resistance potions, and even one that would allow a person to breathe underwater for half an hour.
Every one of them was clearly superior to the standard issue he had just been given. Ryan knew the market prices of such items. Any one of them, sold outside, would be enough for an ordinary family to live on for a year.
He put the potions back in place and reached toward another compartnt.
A sword.
He drew it. The lantern light fell across the blade, casting a cold white gleam.
Ryan gripped the sword and made two testing cuts through the air. The blade humd faintly as it sliced through empty space.
He sheathed it and placed it back in the casket.
There were not many things left—several coils of rope, a few torches, one water skin, a small pouch of gold coins, and that unfinished collection of Elven poems. Ryan took out the poetry collection, flipped through it briefly, then put it back.
Once everything was returned to its place, he closed the casket.
Ryan tucked the casket into the inner pocket close to his body and set the backpack by his pillow. Then he lay down, resting both hands behind his head as he stared at the tent roof.
The lantern fla flickered, casting unsteady shadows across the canvas above.
He could not sleep.
His mind began to replay everything that had happened over the past few days—the banquet in Rock Bay City, the young representatives sent by those Dukes and Marquises, Parker’s cold stare, Hayden’s silence, the abyss-like eyes of Marcus, Shiloya’s elusive smile, the mist hidden in Vera’s gray-green gaze.
And those swords on the weapon racks. Those potions worth several hundred gold coins each.
There were more than sixty people present. A full set for each of them, plus the weapons on the racks, plus the tents, the soldiers, the logistics in this camp—
Ryan ran the numbers in his head.
At the very least, it was worth more than ten thousand gold coins.
The Empire had spent more than ten thousand gold coins simply to send this group of young people into one ruin.
A ruin whose contents were unknown. A ruin from which no one knew what might be brought back—or whether anyone would co back alive at all.
For what?
Ryan turned onto his side and stared at the tent wall.
The Starfall Ruins.
That na had never once appeared in the original ga’s plot.
The ga did have a ruin arc, but it ca in the middle to late stages, when the Saintess and her companions first ca into contact with the Demon Race. They discovered a lost ruin of the Demon Race.
That ruin buried the secrets of the Demon Race, the past of the Demon King, and the key to the entire late-ga plot.
But that had been a ruin of the Demon Race, not an Elven one.
Ryan closed his eyes and began recalling everything he knew about ruins in this world.
He rembered reading in the academy’s ancient texts that the ruins of this world were completely different from the archaeological ruins of his previous life. They were not ancient cities buried beneath the earth, nor abandoned architectural complexes forgotten by ti—
They were spaces that had been severed away.
To understand that, one had to begin with the origin of Magic itself.
All Magic in this world was, at its core, a form of communication between people and the magical elents of nature. Tiny magical spirits filled the air everywhere—Fire Spirits, Water Spirits, Light Spirits, and Dark Spirits.
People used their own Mana to call to them. The spirits responded, and thus Magic was released.
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