The DryLeaf market was located on a colossal withered branch extending from The Great Lock. Above it stood numerous small tents and simple wooden houses spaced far apart. The tents served as temporary trading posts for sorcerers and mages conducting business, while the wooden houses were reserved for honored guests recognized by the Elves. Not just anyone was permitted to build upon The Great Lock—even on its outer perimeter. Only those with profound magical attainment, vast knowledge, and meaningful contributions to the Elven race were granted such a privilege.

  Night descended upon the area. Fireflies of many colors drifted through the air, harmonizing with the shy forest spirits to form a vivid and enchanting scene. A gentle breeze rustled through the treetops. Occasionally, crows with emerald green eyes could be seen perched silently, watching.

  Security here was extraordinarily tight—even more so than in Coinreach. After all, this was a gathering point for powerful mages. Beyond DryLeaf lay the Elven fortress, the central defensive stronghold of The Great Lock. Aside from protective arrays and elite guards, there was always an Emperor stationed there at all times.

  Mulock’s group moved slowly toward a wooden house located deep within the DryLeaf market. The closer a house was to the fortress, the higher the status of its owner. Evidently, Mulock’s acquaintance was no ordinary figure. The only puzzling matter was how a notorious pirate like him could possibly know a mage of such stature.

  Mulock could sense the doubt and curiosity of his companions, but he offered no explanation. He merely glanced toward the crows with glowing eyes. They recognized him—and along with that recognition came intense hostility and fury. It seemed Mulock had made quite a few enemies among these Druids in the past.

  The house they approached was relatively small compared to the others, seemingly designed for a diminutive being. Around it grew strange, hybrid plants. It would not have been surprising if they suddenly attacked any living creature that came too close. Green smoke rose from the chimney, carrying the rich scent of herbs. Then—boom—a small explosion echoed from inside the house.

  Cough, cough.

  The small door burst open as thick smoke billowed out. A petite figure with a soot-covered face stumbled out, coughing violently. It was an elderly female Dwarf. She wore a loose, oversized robe and a large wizard’s hat that hovered above her head.

  “Damn it all.”

  She swore crudely, completely at odds with the mystical atmosphere surrounding her home. Wiping the soot from her face, her eyes suddenly fell upon Mulock’s group in extreme surprise, which quickly turned into concern.

  “Mulock? Why are you here so early?” she sighed. His early arrival clearly signaled bad news.

  …

  The pirate crew sat cramped together in the small interior space. Beside them was a low table covered with plates of pastries and sweet fruits. Mulock sat calmly in silence while the old woman slowly examined him. Out of habit, he picked up a tangerine and stuffed it into his mouth, though he could not taste anything.

  The old woman looked him up and down, occasionally glancing at Rowling and Shelley, nodding thoughtfully. She paid particular attention to Rowling, her eyes flickering as though she had discerned the girl’s identity.

  “You are quite a peculiar existence, little one.”

  Rowling nodded politely with a smile. Compared to the old woman, Rowling was merely of granddaughter’s generation—even though she herself had lived for a very long time.

  The old woman walked to a cabinet and retrieved several black stones covered in cobwebs. She ground them together with a few strange additives. The mixture quickly hardened into a small black marble that emitted the pungent smell of wild grass.

  “Swallow it, Mulock. At least when you are here, you are allowed to be a normal human.”

  Mulock understood immediately and swallowed the black marble without hesitation. Instantly, his senses seemed to return. He tasted the bittersweet flavor of wild fruit on his lips, smelled the blend of fragrant herbs and charred smoke lingering in the room, and even felt the faint itch from wearing dirty clothes.

  “This feels wonderful.”

  Mulock felt nostalgic for this sensation—experiencing the world through his real body rather than through mana fluctuations transmitted by a puppet.

  “Incredible… She actually suppressed the authority of an Ancient God.”

  Shelley and Rowling both covered their mouths in shock, their eyes filled with reverence as they looked at the old woman.

  “I cannot suppress Oxxhurael’s authority,” the old woman shook her head. “The authority of an Ancient God can only be interfered with by another Ancient God of equal strength. What he swallowed were young leaves of the World Trees—containing the power of Caelthrys.”

  She shook her head again. It was only a temporary measure, and not a particularly strong one. It seemed her previous methods had been useless. All she could do now was buy time.

  “You do not have much time left. It seems the Reborn have realized the existence of The Ones. Once you leave here, they will hunt you.”

  “I know. How much time do I have left?” Mulock asked calmly.

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  The old woman did not answer. She silently walked deeper into the house, searching for something. After a long while, she returned with a glass jar. Inside it was a dull, cloudy eyeball. Talismans covered the jar, as though sealing the grotesque thing within.

  “This is…” Mulock said in surprise.

  “It is ‘Fresh Flesh.’”

  The old woman replied slowly. As she had said before, only another Ancient God could interfere with the authority of one. Caelthrys was too gentle. To counter brutality, Mulock needed something more brutal.

  “Yh’raeth.”

  Rowling understood immediately. Terror filled her eyes as she stared at the eyeball within the jar. This was “Fresh Flesh,” something capable of summoning a high-tier Bloodhunt demon. However, the user would certainly die—becoming the sacrifice for the summoning ritual.

  “This can help you at your most critical moment. But your urgent priority is still to find Enestone.”

  Mulock nodded and reached to take the jar, but the old woman stopped him. She smiled shrewdly and rubbed her wrinkled little arm. Of course, it was not free.

  “Here. This is yours.”

  Understanding her meaning, Mulock pulled out a large pouch of gold. Dwarves were a greedy race. Their nature was not easily changed, nor did they consider it a flaw. The old woman weighed the pouch in her hand and nodded in satisfaction. She then walked to the window, pointed toward the crescent moon outside, and spoke softly.

  “When the moon gradually sinks into darkness (New Moon), that is when Oxxhurael rises.”

  Staring at the crescent moon hanging like a sickle in the sky, Mulock felt powerless. His time was running out. He gritted his teeth—he could not give up. Even if there was only a sliver of hope, he had to try. He refused to remain forever trapped in that pitch-black void.

  “On the other hand, if you succeed, remember our agreement.”

  Mulock paused. A cold gleam flashed in his eyes.

  “Of course. That’s only a trivial matter. After all, you people are all the same.”

  The old woman sighed, her sorrowful gaze drifting toward The Great Lock in the distance. Caelthrys’s power was weakening by the day. She did not wish to see that event happen again.

  “Believe whatever you want.”

  …

  The group arrived quickly and left just as quickly. Mulock carefully tucked the glass vial into his coat pocket—that was what would save his life. He focused solely on the plan ahead, paying no attention to the two curious girls walking beside him.

  “Hey, Mulock! Who was that old woman?”

  “You don’t know? I thought you Writers were supposed to be enlightened scholars, proficient in everything.”

  Rowling’s eyebrow twitched. She knew he was targeting her. How ironic—she herself could not identify the old woman. Even without using her power, Rowling could sense the woman’s “Niem” was vast and overwhelming like the ocean. She was certainly an extraordinarily powerful Sorcerer Emperor.

  “She is Drumara.”

  Mulock answered briefly. He believed that was enough for Rowling to deduce the woman’s identity.

  “A Dwarf… with the prefix ‘Drum’ in her name…”

  Rowling’s eyes widened. She finally understood. Though rarely mentioned in historical texts, the old woman was a legend—one of the true heroes who contributed to the campaign that eradicated the Dark God Madenes.

  Mulock suddenly stopped walking. The abrupt halt caused Shelley to crash into his back and fall. She was about to curse at him but froze at his words.

  “You’ve completed your task. You’re free to leave now. You can catch any train back to Hesmor at Coinreach.”

  Mulock glanced at Tris sleeping peacefully in Shelley’s arms. He seemed to consider something, then shook his head. He tossed two gold coins to Shelley and walked away coldly. Rowling, naturally, had to follow—by nature, she was his “Shadow.”

  “What a remarkable drug,” Mulock thought. For a fleeting moment, he truly felt a slight emotional stir. He didn’t know what to call it. Worry? Concern? Probably not. Soon enough, he would return to being ruthless. Time would not allow him to return to Hesmor to search for Jacor. He had no choice but to carry out the plan he had long prepared.

  Mulock’s silhouette gradually faded into the distance. Rowling turned back to wave farewell before quickly catching up to him. Perhaps this would be the last time they ever met. After everything, Shelley suddenly felt an inexplicable sadness. She didn’t understand why. She was free. She had fulfilled her bargain with Mulock and could return safely to Hesmor, far away from the deadly journeys that the mad pirate dragged others into. She should be happy—shouldn’t she?

  “Huh? Why are you still here? Mulock doesn’t have much time left. You should depart quickly.”

  As Shelley drifted in her thoughts, Drumara suddenly appeared behind her, asking softly. The old woman carried a basket filled with empty bottles, seemingly intending to gather something. Draped in a black cloak suited for the night, she looked at the girl with mild surprise.

  “Ah… ma’am, we won’t be going with him.”

  “Not going with him? Aren’t you companions? How strange.”

  Drumara shook her head, then paid Shelley no further attention. Using her “Niem,” she floated away into the nearby dark forest. Certain herbs could only be harvested at specific times. She could not linger—she had to prepare everything for the approaching future.

  “Companions…”

  It was a luxurious word to members of The Writers. Most of their time was spent locking themselves in rooms to write—prisoners of their own minds.

  “The path of a writer is the path of solitude. We are hollow shells on a journey seeking the light of hope. We are puppets manipulated by the very stories we create.” — Unknown Writer

  Shelley muttered the words countless times. From the moment Mulock bought her freedom from the black market to their voyages at sea, from the dangers faced on Fallen Island to their miraculous survival against the Kraken—those memories replayed like a fast-forwarded film in her mind. Though brief, that time was when Shelley truly felt alive.

  At last, she understood why. She clenched her teeth, her eyes resolute. She did not want to live forever within pages. She wanted to truly live her own life.

  …

  The black ship once again unfurled its sails. Everything seemed unchanged—and in truth, nothing had changed. The drug’s effect still lingered. Mulock could still smell Shelley’s overpowering perfume.

  The pirate frowned at the purple-haired mage standing awkwardly before him, holding a sleeping child. Not only him—Rowling was equally surprised to see Shelley back aboard. They had returned after preparing supplies, only to find the strong scent of perfume filling the deck.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Tris and I came to support you.”

  “I don’t need your support. And I don’t have any money left.”

  “Money? Aren’t we companions?”

  At that, Rowling smiled faintly. Mulock, on the other hand, stared wide-eyed. He dug at his ear as if afraid he had misheard.

  “Companions?”

  Mulock burst into laughter. In all his life as a pirate, he swore he had never heard a joke more absurd—someone volunteering to be his “companion.”

  “Are you insane?”

  Mulock stared deeply into Shelley’s eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, and only then did he realize she was completely serious. He sighed—but somewhere deep in his subconscious, there was a trace of pleasure.

  Mulock transformed back into his red parrot form and flew into the captain’s cabin. Before disappearing inside, his sharp voice rang out:

  “All crew, prepare yourselves! The pirate ship of the great pirate Mulock sets sail! Target: ‘The Moving Prison!’”

  “Aye aye, Captain!”

  Shelley shouted in delight. She knew Mulock had agreed.

  The thrill of adventure, the tension of facing death—

  This was the true allure of life.

  This was the path where Shelley belonged.