Chapter 137: The Banquet

A sudden downpour scattered the faint bloodstain scent on the deck, while a warm land breeze carrying the fragrance of plants and trees filled the sails, delivering subtle hints of toasted wheat bread, bustling market cries, and more through the porthole.

Unlike the seashore, riverside ports lacked the salty brine permanently etched into the olfactory sense; instead, the river as a freshwater source drew the city's center toward its banks, where buildings rose with overlapping pointed arches and small spire-adorned battlements, their flying buttresses spanning between them.

Prominent terraces were lifted by high relief carvings, draped with climbing vines forming green curtains, adorned with strings of seasonal pale flowers. The long shadow of the bell tower cut through the newly gleaming, golden-red leaf waves below, slanting toward the port district beneath.

Kraft leaned against the porthole for a while, then stepped back voluntarily, leaving the last slivers of sunset to Martin, who was tidying up lingering problems. He tried pulling out the short arrow, but after several tugs realized the barbed tip was lodged in a bone seam; he snapped the hollow wooden shaft and hastily shoved the corpse, which had lain on the ground all day, into a sack.

"What are you going to do with this?"

"Someone will arrange a suitable place for it." Martin tightened the sack's drawstring, tied a slipknot, dragged it a few steps across the ground to confirm the bulge wouldn't immediately reveal its contents, "We need to move faster—reach your assigned lodging before the next 'accident.'"

"Sounds like everything's well-prepared?"

"At least we won't be slowed down by this small matter." He kicked the sack, seemingly unaware of the faint negation in his words.

The truth might be even simpler: after a few pleasantries, the sack was handed off to the port constable, with no credentials or secret passwords. The constable summoned guards to take the sack away without asking further questions.

The group switched to a closed carriage and departed ahead. Martin pulled back the window curtain; Kraft saw their former ship's captain finishing what appeared to be a routine inspection, as eager crewmen were now allowed into the port.

A perfect timing gap—the man who had completed the inspection clutched his wooden board and recording sheets and glanced toward them; Martin drew the curtain shut and gave a slight nod.

Good—that's normal performance. Kraft felt the knight was quite satisfied.

"Welcome to Westmin. The Rivers University isn't far—if we hurry, we can arrive before the banquet." Martin exhaled a long breath and leaned back against the carriage seat. Wooden wheels rolled over uneven cobblestones, making the occupants sway with each jolt. The crimson sky was fractured by roadside tree canopies and rooftops, light and shadow alternating as the filtered red glow swept across their faces.

"Also, considering this might cause some unnecessary misunderstandings, could you hand those items over to me for safekeeping?"

"Is there something on me unsuitable for entry?"

"Perhaps I forgot to mention—the teapot was found at a banquet." Martin held up his index finger and thumb, miming pinching a small berry, "I assure you I'll safeguard them properly and hand them over when necessary. If you're carrying anything similar… drugs, it's best to temporarily surrender them as well."

"Alright, then what about my sword?" Kraft handed over the basket containing belladonna.

"You may keep it, but don't let your retainer bring the hammer inside. Believe me, a page hammer draws attention second only to your report." He scanned the three of them, his gaze moving between their bodies and light luggage, then frowned, "I retract what I just said."

"We might miss the banquet."

…

…

"Perhaps we can overlook these minor details—it's an academic banquet, isn't it?" Kraft refined his earlier guess about Martin's identity: this man definitely served some high-ranking, lineage-connected figure or family.

"Oh no, you absolutely must see how perfectly this style suits you—it's not even custom-tailored."

From the perspective of contemporary mainstream aesthetics, Kraft was fitted into a snug garment with puffed sleeves.

Inside, it was padded with something soft, like a cotton-padded jacket, stitched with lines that resembled furrows plowed along Tian Geng, giving the flat fabric a three-dimensional shape. Each segmented section bore symmetrical decorative patterns on left and right.

The waist was cinched tight; the sleeves flared at the elbows, slender, fastened with buttons adorned with metallic patterns, making the male attire form-fitting.

From the perspective of an otherworldly soul, it was… a garment structurally similar to a down jacket but far thinner, paired with a belt heavy with ornaments. Frankly, the colors and patterns were overly flamboyant.

Kup, as Martin's retainer-in-training, removed his hammer and changed into a similar but less flamboyant outfit. Yin Feng's dress was the most normal—a multi-pleated, multicolored long gown, split at the waist, with satin ribbons decorating the flared hem.

The little girl stood awkwardly before a bronze mirror, holding up her skirt while a maid placed on her a headpiece that, to Kraft's eyes, was absurdly ridiculous.

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Seeing how much she seemed to like the outfit, Kraft stayed silent, suppressing his otherworldly soul's relentless, sharp, even cruel criticism of this era's fashion sense.

"If possible, I brought a medical college robe—it's quite decent too."

"But our list names a first heir with medical expertise; most invitees, besides their academic status, come from similar backgrounds—or both." Martin patiently explained, reverting to the maddeningly finicky manner he'd shown upon first meeting.

"Think of it as a social banquet—running continuously for half a month before and after the academic gathering. You must represent your family."

"I thought I was only representing my own views." Kraft surrendered. If everyone was a clown, the only one not wearing clown clothes was the real clown.

Guided by Martin, now also dressed in new attire, they passed through buildings adorned with intricate arched vaults and relief carvings, and the labyrinthine miniature gardens beneath them. At the end of rows of oaks and guarded corridors, cheerful lute and flute music drifted ahead.

Before an elegant arched gate with recessed tiers, they were halted by fully armored guards wearing blue-dyed feathered helmets. Martin took the invitation from Kraft and handed it to the attendant.

A long, resonant clang of heavy metal echoed high above, blending into the night's soft light as the lively music gradually softened into a harmonious ensemble.

"We're indeed late."

Inside the hall, the atmosphere was lively—as expected. The flamboyantly dressed guests were not gathered around the laden banquet tables, but conversing among themselves; no one noticed the quiet entrance of the group.

At least, that's what Kraft assumed. His hungry gaze swept past unfamiliar faces and locked onto stacked bread trays, golden-brown roasted chicken barely touched, creamy round soups, truffle ham, stewed beef, and some unfamiliar pale mushroom slices dipped in sauces he'd never seen.

Completely unaware, the attendant behind them had finished verifying names, titles, and adjusting volume levels, cleared his throat, and announced in a voice audible to half the hall:

"Professor Kraft Wu De!"

The hand already pressed against the bread tray froze.