Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 349 - 348: Changing Winds

After the arrival of Revival Month, the weather in the southern parts of Anzu began to warm up rapidly.

This was a pleasant change for those working in places like port docks.

With the rise in temperature, the frozen rivers began to thaw. The moisture trapped in the earth in the form of ice and snow melted into trickling streams under the power of the sun, these streams then merged into creeks and small rivers, eventually joining the major waterways with the glacier waters flowing down from the mountains. As the water level increased, the number of trade ships operating on the river gradually grew, which in turn supported the dockworkers, colloquially known as "mules."

Sam was an old resident of Tanzan Town; his family’s history in settling in this mining town can be traced back a hundred years, to when the outer city walls were first built and there were only two piers at the dock. His ancestor was a "mule" at the dock, and this profession was passed down through the generations, from his grandfather to his father, and eventually to him.

His father and grandfather witnessed all the changes in this town over the century, but for most of the time, the town hardly changed at all—the city walls were still the same, the piers were still the same, the mines behind the hills and the farmland outside the town could support only a limited population, and the land the leader could govern was also limited. Thus, when a town develops to a certain scale, even over a hundred years, there may not be any changes at all—in his grandfather’s entire life, the most magnificent thing he ever witnessed (and also what he most often boasted about to his descendants) was the addition of one pier to the dock and the construction of a mill by the leader on the south side of the town.

But Sam, within the past two months, saw three piers, two trading houses, four warehouses, and a new large bridge rise up in the southwestern corner of Tanzan Town.

He felt that in his lifetime, he would probably witness more events than all his ancestors combined.

The output of minerals from the mines behind the hills has increased several folds in the past two months, the trade ships on the river have also increased several folds, and many strange machines and magical devices have been transported into the town. This change, it’s said, is linked to that newly appearing "Cecil territory" downstream of the White River. It’s said that the leader made an agreement with Duke Gawain Cecil and gained enormous benefits in the process, which in turn prospered the entire town...

However, these matters were not easy for Sam to comprehend, nor did they concern him much. He only focused on his job at the dock—and the gratifying fact was that he had many duties.

As an old resident of the town and one of the old hands at the dock, Sam held a unique status in this increasingly busy place. Although he was still a worker like everyone else who followed the orders of the dock supervisor, Sam was the leader of the "mules." More than ten people had to follow his instructions, which was the most "decent" thing for him.

Early in the morning, after emerging from the dark and damp shack, Sam hurried to the dock to direct his crew in loading and unloading the ships.

As the water level of White River rose, large ships began docking at the pier in these days. Most of these ships came from the direction of Carol territory or Plains of the Holy Spirits to the north, loaded with spices, tea leaves, and fine cloth, which, after being unloaded, would be transported by large caravans to the town’s "citizen district" and the leader’s castle. Afterwards, the empty ships would be reloaded, mostly with minerals—they would then sail downstream to Cecil territory, where the ship owners could earn a substantial profit.

"Everyone, keep it swift! It’s early morning, don’t act like you haven’t eaten!"

Walking on the mist-drenched pier, Sam supervised the "mules" as they unloaded goods from the ships, his red nose twitching uneasily in the fog, a scent of wine enticing the glutton inside his stomach: besides the cloth on this current ship, half of the cabin was filled with fine wine. Apparently, one barrel of wine must have cracked along the riverway, allowing some of the good Carna Wine to leak out—the ship owner was standing next to the gangplank, sighing and troubled, likely having to compensate the merchants for the loss, while the wily mules were scrambling to carry away the broken barrel—they were surely planning to sneak a taste when no one was watching.

Shaking his head, Sam wouldn’t risk being whipped for this temptation, but he also wouldn’t stop those sly fellows—after all, if lucky, they could taste some fine wine and boast a bit later. If unlucky, they’d just receive a couple of lashes.

Another ship approached the dock, and Sam raised his eyes, noticing the ship had a high and wide deck and red-painted hull. Being sharp-eyed, he soon noticed that several covers beneath the ship’s rails (which led to the cabin area) were opened, with several pairs of eyes gazing out through the narrow windows.

That kind of curious yet fearful gaze wasn’t the look of sailors, Sam smirked, knowing those were another kind of "cargo."

Perhaps slaves, or refugees hitching a ride from the north, it’s all the same.

Since the establishment of southern parts of new Cecil territory, this type of "cargo" became a regular on the river. Basically, except for the days when the river was blocked during winter, every day several ships full of people passed through here. Nobody knows how much land and food are available in that newly developing region, but they apparently can support so many people.

Sam wasn’t particularly fond of those ships transporting people—those ships usually involved little work. The ship owners typically received money either from slave traffickers or Duke Gawain Cecil, only responsible for delivering people to Cecil territory, stopping by Tanzan Town merely to replenish clean water and dry provisions.

However, it might be different—there are ship owners who casually transport people along with other goods, those slaves and refugees sleep alongside the goods—in such cases, there’s still some work to be done.

Thinking this, Sam saw the dock supervisor waving at him from afar, then raising his hand and pointing at that recently docked ship with the red hull. Seeing that signal, he quickly halted his wandering thoughts and hastened towards the ship.

The ship stabilized, the gangplank descended, a captain in brown cotton coat emerged, nodding to Sam, "Get some agile mules, unload the wine barrels from the cabin."

Sam summoned sufficient manpower, then boarded the ship himself, following the captain to the cabin entrance. Having opened the cover, he leaned over and took a glance inside.

He saw the cabin filled with barrels of wine, leaving almost no space for people, and those apprehensive eyes he had seen earlier—their owners were huddled between the gaps of the barrels, each looking emaciated and pale.

Sam frowned. These people didn’t even have enough space to sit and rest here, let alone lie down. It was unclear where they came from or how long they had stayed in such a dire environment—but one thing was very clear: these people were definitely not as valuable to the ship’s owner as the wine.

Curiously, these people were not dressed like ragged slaves, nor did they look like refugees. Some were even wearing decent woolen clothes—where did they come from?

Taking advantage of the crew working, Sam struck up a conversation with the supervisor standing nearby—he dared not speak to the ship owner, who was a truly respectable person—he asked about the origin of those "passengers" in the cargo hold, who were neither living nor dead yet inexplicably well-dressed. As someone making a living on the docks, gathering stories from the ships was his bragging capital in the tavern afterward.

"Them? They’re from the Plains of the Holy Spirits," the supervisor spat to the side, "refugees."

"Plains of the Holy Spirits? That’s far away!" Sam showed a look of surprise, "Why did they come all this way?"

"They’re all Blood God’s Followers, with a few from the Shadow Sect," the supervisor said casually, "It’s said that someone in their local church was involved with cultists, so even the regular church-goers were suspected of heresy. The persecution of cultists on the Plains of the Holy Spirits is severe, the Holy Light’s court has already burned thousands—these people couldn’t survive locally, so they sold their belongings and fled."

As he spoke, the supervisor shook his head: "Three of them even died on the way, fearful of sickness, they were thrown into the river."

Hearing about their connection with cultists, Sam’s whole body was suddenly tense, and when he looked at the cabin passengers again, his gaze became awkward—as if those people really had cultists hidden among them.

"Look at you, so jumpy—these people won’t leave the ship until they’re sent to the Cecil clan," the supervisor couldn’t help but shake his head at Sam’s appearance, "But whether they’ll be accepted in the Cecil lands is another matter, after all, they’re involved with heresy... if not accepted, they’ll be dropped in the wilderness, but that’s still better than being burned."

Sam wiped his red nose, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable.

He was a follower of the Blood God.

The wind, which had begun to warm, seemed to turn cold once more.

Meanwhile, at the only Church of the Holy Light in the Cecil lands, Priest Wright had ended his morning prayers.

He was a devout believer, an enthusiastic preacher—although many were deceived by his imposing appearance, Wright knew he was never one to resort to force, especially not against his brethren.

The Lord of Holy Light protected the world, teaching the fragile mortals the Holy Light Techniques capable of healing and exorcising, all for safeguarding this world. Therefore, the essence of the path of Holy Light should also be to protect, not to destroy—thus Wright tempered his body, hoping that even when it truly came time to eradicate evil, he could use other-than-Holy-Light powers against enemies, so as not to tarnish the power meant to comfort and protect.

This was his obsession, he knew it was rather foolish, but he had no intention of changing it.

However, a letter sent to the church a few days ago left him conflicted.

Wright cleaned the church’s prayer hall, then sat in the front row, taking out the letter from the Plains of the Holy Spirits from his pocket and read it once more.

"... Evil thrives, heretics active... all ignorant believers of Otherworldly Gods corrupt the pure faith of the world... The Lord desires this land to return to purity, clearing the mortal hearts of confusion and wrong beliefs is the solution...

"... Therefore, anyone who does not follow the guidance of the Holy Light, who does not accept the Lord’s teachings... are all heretics..."

The white letter paper was crumpled into a ball but was then smoothed out again, folded neatly and put away.

Wright gazed up at the church’s bright skylight, and at the statue of the Holy Light shining in the sunlight.

"Lord, is this truly what you wish..."