Chapter 95: Rejection

Krafth tried for the fourth time today to turn and look at Yin Feng; on the un-sprung cart, the motion nearly threw him off. The unshelled grains in the sack beneath his buttocks felt sharp and prickly, preventing him from shifting.

It wasn’t that he’d developed any interest in this inexplicably appearing girl, but he constantly felt a gaze—coming from beneath the hood of the small cloak at the cart’s rear—occasionally watching him.

When he met it, the gaze vanished quickly, darting toward the dusty shrubs lining the road, observing the unchanging scenery along the way.

After the initial novelty of arriving in a foreign land faded, the grayish small leaves and nearly identical hills grew tiresome; the winding, uneven road confused his sense of direction, giving him the illusion of circling in place.

Since there were no dedicated passenger carts, they spent a small sum at Hegang to hitch a ride on two underloaded grain carts, following a dirt path that looked more naturally formed than artificially laid, heading toward the so-called “Gravel Town.”

These single-mule carts were built solely to meet basic transport needs—slow, heavy, and with no clear estimate of how long it would take to reach their destination.

The journey, mentally and physically unbearable, made Krafth want to shout aloud and test whether this hateful valley would even echo back—but Kraft sat on the same cart, leaning against a sack beside the driver, and as a retainer, he had to restrain himself.

Bai Meng Shu

Fortunately, the journey finally ended near noon. After rounding another familiar-looking bend, he heard Kraft’s voice.

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” replied the driver in a thick local accent, his speech muffled and drawn out, as if the words circled in his chest before finding an exit.

Krafth tried to mimic the speech he’d heard from Kraft—this accent, he guessed, stemmed from long-term life in dusty places, damaging delicate lungs and disrupting smooth breathing.

He jumped down from the cart; yellow dust rose. Krafth pulled the collar of his cloak over his mouth and nose, squinting ahead: the same mountain valley as before, a narrow, cleared strip of land, and now human structures appeared before them.

Kraft brushed dust from his black cloak, walked over, and pulled the front of Krafth’s cloak straight, fastening the fabric with a hooked clasp. “Mind your appearance. No one likes an unfriendly outsider, especially in a place like this… village?”

Calling it a town might be generous—it was merely a small cluster of earthen houses strung along the valley, visible end to end, no more than thirty or forty households.

A few locals, as dusty as everything else here, waited at the crossroads, curious and eager to approach the newcomers.

Wilhelm and the three crewmen followed from the second cart, but they seemed unwelcome; the locals glanced at them once, then circled around to the other side of the cart, silently unloading the grain sacks and leaving without a word.

“They don’t seem very friendly?” Wilhelm whispered to Kraft, leaning close to avoid the driver.

“Don’t know. Keep your people in check—I’m afraid we might accidentally break some taboo.” Kraft studied their attire—all wore cloaks, making differences hard to spot. “Speaking of which, Yin Feng, stay close to us. Don’t get lost.”

The girl quickened her pace, passing Krafth. He noticed she held a small booklet made of rough practice paper stitched together, tucked inside her cloak’s inner pocket.

Yin Feng, whose presence had dimmed over the past two days, became more active again. Krafth roughly guessed her intentions, but he didn’t care. He had no intention of competing with a child anyway. Once he learned to read, he’d focus entirely on martial development, preparing for the possibility of becoming a knight, and finally taking real responsibility as a guard.

He blew dust from his shoulder, smoothed the hem of his cloak, and followed Kraft’s steps into the town.

Among the low earthen houses, a pointed spire rose at the foot of the hill on the town’s edge—this small place even had a small chapel.

Uncertain after the locals’ cold reception, the group decided to seek lodging at the one place they knew best: the chapel. At least the priest would believe in something familiar—something comprehensible.

But it was truly shabby: a mosaic saint emblem, made of mismatched stones, was embedded above the single door, marking its identity. The only commendable feature was the personal devotion invested in its construction.

Few footprints marred the dusty threshold. Wilhelm pushed the door open first, entering the chapel’s main hall.

Three poorly made chairs stood in a row. A wooden saint emblem hung centered on the wall, its paint flaking off. The wood surface was smooth, clearly wiped often—the cleanest thing here—but still powerless against climate and time.

A man in a yellow-and-white robe sat on one chair, back to them, his hair loose.

Kraft circled around and saw the robe bore an embroidered double-winged ring—the emblem of a clergy garment, faded and unwashed.

Only three chairs, and he took one for himself? This chapel clearly struggled. In such remote backwaters, the Church usually found fertile ground to take root.

“Father, are you awake?” Wilhelm gently shook his shoulder.

“Peter, let me sleep a bit longer.” He rubbed his bleary eyes, stretched, then suddenly noticed the newcomers were unfamiliar faces. “Ah! Welcome, faithful of the Lord.”

The priest offered his chair, inviting them to sit. His eyes lingered on their chests—the double-winged ring pendants worn by sailors confirmed their identity as “one of us.” “Not many outsiders come here.”

“Indeed. Finding a fellow Church member is a blessing—outside, we found no information about this place at all.” Wilhelm pulled up a chair and immediately regretted it. He’d instinctively removed his outer cloak upon entering the chapel; the dry, gritty texture told him this chair was no cleaner than the outer layer of his cloak after days of travel.

“We wish to spend the night under the Father’s protection.”

“I have no reason to refuse, as long as you don’t mind the humble conditions.” The priest seemed long accustomed to this—the plainest chapel any of them had ever seen—and showed no embarrassment.

It made sense: anyone who built a chapel in Gravel Town clearly valued faith far above worldly comforts.

“Then we’re deeply grateful. We need a guide—do you know any locals we could trust?”

“I can ask Peter. It’s hard to find someone reliable.” The priest’s influence here was as pitiful as his chapel. Kraft doubted he had any other trustworthy contacts besides this name.

That reminded him: recalling the locals at the village entrance, Krafth realized they hadn’t been looking at the people themselves—their gazes had fixed on the sailors’ chests, on the double-winged ring pendants.

The locals didn’t like the Church. By common experience, such hostility was rare in remote, spiritually barren settlements. A structured religion should easily attract them, offering answers and solace.

If the Church had failed here, what other similar product had seized this spiritual niche?