Chapter 47 _ The Carriage of Cause and Effect, and the Sigh of the Wicked Dragon
Yurikiishik Village—
a land wrapped in ash-colored silence,
where those abandoned by fate entrusted their final hope
to the rebirth of the Divine Bird.
As if fleeing that stagnant air,
we hurried toward the village gate in the chill of early morning.
Then—
Through the fog, a single carriage appeared.
A gaunt man called out to us.
“Um… excuse me.
Are you heading further north?”
His name was Rodan.
Once a renowned traveling merchant in Uruks,
he had lost everything after being swindled by corrupt traders
and drifted into the Village of Despair with only this carriage left.
“…I’m out of funds,” he said, voice trembling.
“There’s no path left for me but to sell this carriage.
Please… would you buy it?
I don’t even have money for breakfast today.”
The carriage was old, but solidly built.
The horse, though thin, still held its head high with pride.
“Hans, Wilfred—can either of you drive a carriage?” I asked.
“Yes,” Hans replied.
“Fred and I are both quite experienced.”
I turned back to Rodan.
“Rodan.
What’s your asking price?”
“…Under normal circumstances,
I wouldn’t sell it for less than ten thousand Fanan,” he said quietly.
“But the merchants in this village only offer two thousand,
knowing I have no choice.
To be deceived and cheated until the very end of my life—
that humiliation is worse than death.
…Please. Eight thousand.”
I exchanged a glance with Wilfred.
He gave a small nod.
I deliberately hardened my expression.
“…Seven thousand,” I said.
“Seven thousand… ngh.
Could you make it seven thousand five hundred?”
“Then seven thousand two hundred.
Not one Fanan more.
What will you do?”
After several seconds of silence,
Rodan finally nodded—
resigned, yet oddly relieved.
“…Understood.
Seven thousand two hundred, then.”
After converting gems into cash,
I handed him the money—
and added a small handwritten note.
“Rodan,” I said,
“use this to start over.
Go to Irrablatis and seek out the wealthy man named Adnan.
He’s a weapon collector, but he’s always hungry for
information from across the world—something a traveling merchant like you has.”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second.
“…Tell him you were introduced by Wilfred.
That alone should keep him from turning you away at the gate.”
Rodan’s eyes widened.
“…!
Thank you. Truly—thank you for everything.
…May the gods watch over you.”
“…May the gods watch over you,”
I replied quietly, giving a small nod.
There was no longer the shadow of death
on Rodan’s retreating back.
The carriage swayed gently as we headed north.
“Mario,” Hans called from the driver’s seat, impressed.
“That negotiation was masterful.
Do you have experience in business?”
“No,” I replied.
“I just saw something similar in stories from my previous life.
Buying old vehicles cheaply, repairing them,
then increasing their value before resale.
It’s about finding the point where both buyer and seller can compromise.”
Wilfred snorted in admiration.
“No wonder.
I thought you were a veteran merchant.
…So, Leader—do you know the name of the next village?”
“Dragon Breath, right?
That’s… not exactly reassuring.”
“…It wasn’t always called that,”
Frey said quietly, gazing into the distance.
“Once, it was known as Maninkiu-Tzipin—
‘Little Flower’, a peaceful village.
But everything changed when a rare metal—Adamantium—was discovered nearby.”
Her voice carried an indescribable sadness.
“Harder than steel, lighter than feathers.
All the treasured blades you carry are forged from it.”
“The village became a sacred land of blacksmiths,” she continued.
“And with it came arrogant adventurers,
chasing the title of Dragon Slayer.
…They even slaughtered baby dragons,
too young to fight back, all for fame.”
Silence fell.
“Enraged by that cruelty,” Frey said,
“the one who burned everything with black flames
was the Wicked Dragon Loki.
He spared neither adults nor infants.”
She paused.
“They call him a wicked dragon…
but tell me, Mario—
which side was truly evil?”
“…Cause and effect,” I murmured.
“The one who burned everything to protect
is branded as evil…”
“It’s a tragic story.”
“Indeed,” Frey nodded.
“If the name had been accepted as a lesson,
there might have been some salvation.
But the villagers now speak it only with hatred.
…Those who can view things neutrally are nearly gone.”
The carriage wheels crunched over frozen earth.
Above us, the northern sky was thick with clouds.
Beyond them lay the deep resentment
of the being Frey once called friend.
I glanced over.
Frey was asleep on Iris’s lap,
breathing softly, at peace.
We continued onward—
slowly approaching the village
once known as Little Flower.
