Monte Territory, mid-autumn.
Among the farmhouses outside New Wood Town, the grim aftermath of a passing army was visible everywhere.
Fences were toppled, vegetable gardens destroyed, and the roofs of several farmhouses bore the scorched-black marks of war.
Old Allen, leaning on an elmwood cane, trembled as he fumbled through his own vegetable garden, which had been trampled flat by warhorses. His calloused fingers sifted through the soil, searching for any surviving potatoes.
His nearly seventy-year-old fra looked especially stooped in the autumn wind.
"Uncle Allen, be careful!" his neighbor Jack called out, dropping the fence he was nding and hurrying over to help him.
The farr, himself an old man in his fifties, held Old Allen in high regard.
Just then, a commotion arose from a fork in the road between the farmhouses. Several farrs had gathered around a notice nailed to the wall of a granary.
Horn, the only literate person nearby, was standing on a wooden crate, reading the notice aloud.
Jack craned his neck to listen, and a look of delight spread across his face. "Good news! The Lord’s brother, lfield, is getting married! It says they’re going to distribute grain and salt!"
Old Allen slowly straightened up, raising a hand spotted with age to his brow.
He gazed at the war-torn fields in the distance, his deeply lined face etched with worry. "A wedding, at a ti like this? The fields have just been ravaged by soldiers, and every family is worried about surviving the winter." He paused, thumping his cane hard on the muddy ground. "I fear they’ll conscript labor to repair the ’wedding path’ to the castle, won’t they?"
"I don’t think so," Jack quickly explained. "Horn said the notice is clear. It’s relief aid, not a labor draft."
Another farr, who was also nding a neighboring fence, wiped the sweat from his brow and chid in, "Grandpa Allen has a point. Last year, when Horn read that notice about the blessing ceremony, it said we were to welco the triumphant army and celebrate together. We ended up working for three days without pay, repairing the road to the border."
With Jack’s help, Old Allen slowly walked to an open space between the farmhouses.
Several farrs automatically made way for him, and the youngest widow, ira, quickly brought over an old wooden chair for him to sit on.
Horn continued to read the notice aloud, pausing occasionally to explain difficult words and phrases.
As he listened, Old Allen spoke slowly. "If you ask , back when Lord Sylvan was here, he never would have held a grand celebration in a year of great disaster. Even if there was a happy occasion back then, it was kept simple, and the money and grain saved were distributed to the commoners in need."
One of the farrs nodded repeatedly. "Uncle Allen rembers it well. Three years ago, my daughter got married right during the spring famine. When Lord Sylvan heard about it, he had his steward send half a sack of wheat as a wedding gift."
As evening fell, an Attendant from the Lord’s manor rode to the farmhouses on horseback.
The crowd gathered in front of the threshing ground. Horn stood beside the Attendant and proclaid the contents of the notice: "To celebrate the grand wedding of Lord lfield, each household is hereby granted three kilograms of wheat and one pound of salt!"
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
But Old Allen just shook his head slightly and whispered to Jack, who was beside him, "Do you know where this grain cos from?" He pointed to the barren fields in the distance. "When the army passed through, we offered up our last grain of food. This... this is just our own grain being returned to us under a different na."
Jack fell silent at his words, letting out a long sigh after a mont.
As twilight deepened, Old Allen sat alone on his doorstep, gazing at the waxing moon in the sky.
He rembered how Lord Sylvan, when a great army had threatened them, had personally led the commoners to hide in the mountain forests. He hadn’t used their lives to delay the enemy like what had happened thirty-two years ago, and he had even distributed a month’s worth of food reserves in advance.
In the Duval Territory of that ti, although tax revenues were ager, the commoners lived prosperous lives.
"I hear Lord lfield will formally take over the territory after his wedding," Jack said in a low voice nearby. "Let’s hope this new Lord is as rciful as he seems."
Old Allen didn’t answer, rely gazing silently at the distant silhouette of Baron Duval’s Castle.
He found himself growing more and more nostalgic for the days of his youth, when he had tended horses in the castle stables.
Back then, even during the years when the Forr Baron was in power, his skill at caring for the Knights’ warhorses had earned him a respectable life in the main stables of the inner bailey.
At that ti, he received a fixed wage every month and an extra reward at the end of the year, enough for his family to live without worrying about food or warmth.
But that ti was nothing compared to the twenty-odd years Lord Sylvan was in power, especially the last ten.
Old Allen still rembered that in the fifth year after Lord Sylvan succeeded his predecessor, he began to implent tax reduction policies.
By the tenth year, the farrs in the territory were able to save surplus grain after paying their taxes.
His family had not only renovated their roof but had also bought a draft ox.
On every festival, Lord Sylvan would order the granaries opened and have flour and cured at distributed to every household.
During those ten years, even the poorest families could afford to heat their kang beds in the cold winter, and it was rare to see the sallow, malnourished look on children’s faces.
Thinking of this, Old Allen couldn’t help but sigh. He looked at the ruined field ridges in the distance, a heavy weight settling in his heart.
His hands trembling, he raised them and slowly drew an arc in front of his chest. His fingertips touched to form the shape of a crescent moon, and then he gently placed his right hand over his heart on his left breast.
This was the classic gesture of prayer to Oriane, symbolizing the crescent moon embracing the stars, a plea for light and hope to return to this long-suffering land.
"May the light of the new moon scatter the gloom, and may the stars guide a wise ruler."
...
Inside Monte Castle, candlelight flickered in Murphy’s bedroom.
Murphy had reverted to his original black-haired appearance.
After these years of Cultivation, his skin had beco fairer and his features had softened. Though still plain, he now possessed a steady and composed air.
Even an acquaintance from twenty-two years ago would never have recognized him as the little dark-skinned Groom from back then.
Aurora sat at her dressing table while a Maid beside her combed her radiant golden hair.
The Maid’s eyes were sowhat vacant, but her movents were ticulous.
Since she was to be married as a lady of the Duval Clan, Aurora no longer needed to conceal her appearance.
After all, in the eyes of others, for lfield, "Richard’s younger brother," to marry a lady of the Duval Clan was a wise move to consolidate his rule over the territory.
"Are you nervous?" Murphy asked, walking up behind her and gently placing his hands on her shoulders.
Aurora gave him a radiant smile in the mirror. "With you, brother, what is there to be nervous about?" She reached up and placed her hand over his. "I just never thought our wedding would end up happening like this."
Murphy gazed at the waxing moon outside the window. "The wedding is set for the day of the full moon next month."
"Nights with a full moon are always especially beautiful," Aurora said, following his gaze. "The way the moonlight spills over the castle reminds of my childhood."
Murphy’s fingers gently twirled a lock of her golden hair. "A full moon symbolizes completeness. I hope our marriage can be as complete as this moon."
Aurora turned and took his hand, her sapphire eyes shimring in the candlelight. "Then from now on, how about we watch the moon together every full moon night?"
"Alright." Murphy was silent for the briefest of monts, then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "But for now, let’s focus on the wedding at hand."
The Maid continued to style Aurora’s hair, seemingly oblivious to their conversation.
Aurora watched Murphy in the mirror. "I heard we’re inviting representatives of the commoners to the wedding feast?"
"It’s a necessary arrangent," Murphy nodded. "Since I’m marrying a lady of the Duval Family as lfield, the wedding must be grand enough."
Aurora smiled with understanding. "Having the commoners witness the union between the new Lord and the old ruling family is indeed a good way to stabilize morale."
Outside the window, the bright moon hung high, its clear light bathing the courtyard.
A nightingale perched on a branch, its lodious song piercing the night’s silence.
Murphy slowly walked to the window. His long fingers gently brushed the curtain as he listened to the bird’s song, his gaze gradually deepening.
This migratory bird always sang most beautifully in autumn, as if singing praises to life with its last ounce of strength.
But when the north wind began to blow, they would eventually fly south, leaving behind only lonely branches.
Aurora ca to the window and stood shoulder to shoulder with Murphy. "The nightingale’s song is so beautiful. I’ve heard they only sing this beautifully on the night of a full moon."
"Because they know that after the moon is full, it begins to wane," Murphy said softly. "Just like our wedding. It is both the final Chapter of an old era and the overture to a new one."
A happy smile blood on Aurora’s face, and she rested her head gently on Murphy’s shoulder. "But our new Chapter will continue on forever."
The nightingale beat its wings and flew into the distance, its song fading away as if carrying its unfinished lody into the moonlight.
...
Outside the Black Wood Forest Outpost, Victor Frost stood on a hillside, his tattooed face looking exceptionally sinister in the moonlight.
He gazed at the battlefield before him, strewn with corpses, and a suffocating, sharp pain seized his chest.
This unexpected, decisive battle had co too suddenly, completely disrupting his plans.
"Two months... I just needed two more months..." He clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms. ’The ritual isn’t ready. So many fresh Wandering Souls, all wasted...’
Several black-robed figures appeared silently behind him. They were mbers of Ghostly Touch.
The tall man in the lead spoke in a hoarse voice, "This decisive battle was too strange. Our spies clearly reported that the Vilt People wouldn’t move until late autumn at the earliest."
"The informants from the Church Court and the Shepherd Headquarter District were all deceived," another voice, a woman’s, said coldly. "But now, the altar we so carefully prepared is useless. So many powerful souls, just dissipating into the air."
Victor slowly turned around, his deep blue tattoos gleaming strangely in the moonlight. "It’s no use saying that now. The New Realm’s Plane Waymark is about to open. We must acquire enough souls before then."
"But where are we going to find that many souls now?" a third mber asked, kicking away a loose stone in frustration. "This unexpected battle has ruined everything."
Victor’s gaze swept past the bloody battlefield toward the Monte Territory, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes. "Since the plan has been disrupted, we’ll change our target. I’ve received intelligence... the Duval Territory, now the Monte Territory... aren’t they preparing for a grand wedding?"
The mbers of Ghostly Touch imdiately fell silent, exchanging glances.
The woman was the first to speak. "You an..."
"On the day of the wedding, Monte Castle will be filled with nobles and representatives of the commoners." A cruel smirk played on Victor’s lips. "Isn’t that the perfect opportunity?"
The tall man mused, "But doing that will completely expose our existence. The Church Court will never stand by and do nothing."
"By the ti they react, we’ll already be in the New Realm." Victor looked toward the distant silhouette of Monte Castle. "The Plane Waymark is about to open. This is our last chance. Since we can’t get enough souls from the battlefield, we’ll use this wedding to make up for it."
Under the moonlight, the mbers of Ghostly Touch reached an agreent, and their figures slowly faded away.
And Victor, after one last look at the corpse-strewn battlefield, also turned and lted into the night.
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