Chương 34: The Voice at the Statue

The morning air inside the inn smelled of damp pine wood, stale ale, and the sharp, metallic tang of the iron stove crackling in the corner. Stelle made her way down the creaking wooden staircase into the dining hall. The innkeeper was methodically wiping down the long oak tables with a damp rag, while his wife tended to a heavy cast-iron pot over the hearth.

At the far end of the room sat a trio of heavily armored adventurers, their hushed voices drowned out by the clatter of wooden bowls as they ate in weary silence, pointedly minding their own business.

"You're awake early," the innkeeper said, pausing his work and wiping his hands on his apron. He gave her a weary, welcoming nod.

"How was the night? The draft off the western wall usually keeps travelers up."

"It was quiet," Stelle replied, her voice steady and flat.

"I rested well."

"I see. I'm glad a young lady like you can rest easy in an old, drafty place like this." He laughed—a low, easy rumble that crinkled the skin around his eyes.

"And I apologize for the commotion last night. Those men get rowdy when they drink, and I couldn't even step in before Doran had to handle it." Stelle studied him in silence. He was just a simple old man, his hair thinned and heavily streaked with gray. She calculated how much effort it would take for someone his age to step up for her against armed adventurers.

"It is fine," Stelle said, dismissing the incident without dwelling on it. She stepped closer to the counter.

"Instead can I ask a question?"

"Hmm? What is the young lady wanting to know?"

"I overheard the group yesterday mentioning the Guardian and the Blood Tribe. What can you tell me about them?" The innkeeper leaned his elbows against the wooden counter, sighing softly as he collected his thoughts.

"Well, the Guardian has been around as long as anyone can remember," he began, lowering his voice slightly.

"It's an ancient beast, massive enough to haunt the ruins below Saint Lilian's peak and keep any sensible fool off the mountain. My grandfather swore it was a beast of a god, a divine being that refuses to die. Plenty tried to kill it; just as many perished. Eventually the people gave up and left the monster to its solitude, forfeiting the ruins and whatever treasures lie within. It doesn't bother you if you don't trespass. People here swear it's standing guard." He paused, adjusting the rag over his shoulder.

"I heard a rumor floating around recently... that the beast vanished from the ruins. If you ask me, though? It's an outright lie." The old man looked out the window toward the towering mountain range.

"And the Blood Tribe... according to old mountain legends, they're a remnant people. They lived on this continent long before any of our kingdoms laid down borders, but they were changed during or after the Great Darkness first broke across the land thousands of years ago. Pale, hardened... became something closer to snow and ice itself." Stelle processed this, cross-referencing it against her stored data on localized mana corruption.

"Snow? I was under the impression that the Great Darkness corruption manifested as physical rot and volatile mana."

"It does for most, but the Blood Tribe is different," the innkeeper nodded, leaning forward.

"Mages who've passed through here claim an ordinary Blood Tribe member doesn't carry a drop of active corruption in their veins. But when one of them dies? They don't leave a corpse behind. Their flesh crumbles away and turns straight into cold snow."

"I see," Stelle murmured, cataloging the historical anomaly.

"Do you know what they look like?"

"I've seen a lot in my life," he said, his gaze drifting toward the frost-crusted windows as if reaching into the past.

"One was brought through here months ago by a mercenary guild—held in iron chain. Saw a couple more when I was just a young man, tracking through the high woods." He raised a thumb and tapped the side of his own head.

"Bluish skin, cold to the touch. Long, pointed ears. Their eyes are terrifying—sharp, pale white, like milk glass. Hair and thick fur running pure white. Same height as us humans. Old tales say they were just ordinary northern human tribes; some said they were the Fae. No one really knows. Some fools claim it traces back to the Saint herself, but I doubt that." Stelle recorded the physical descriptors.

"What about the abyssal rift?" The innkeeper blinked, wringing his rag between his calloused hands with a sheepish look.

"Ah... the rift?" He scratched the back of his neck, frowning.

"Truth be told, little lady, I don't know much about those things. I just know it's bad news, corrupts the beasts, and bleeds out of the mountain stone. Beyond that? You'd have to ask a scholar or a high-tier adventurer."

"If you want real answers about the rift, you'd do better asking someone who's actually studied it." A smooth, mature voice cut through the quiet dining hall. Stelle turned slightly toward a booth table positioned directly behind them. Sitting alone with a steaming mug of tea was a striking woman. She possessed a shapely, well-defined figure that even her traveling robes couldn't entirely hide, and her rich, dark violet hair tumbled over her shoulders, catching the faint morning light.

The woman leaned back against her seat, her dark eyes fixing Stelle with a calm, perceptive gaze. A subtle smile played on her lips.

"I overheard your question," the violet-haired woman said, setting her cup down with a soft clink.

"If you truly wish to understand what an abyssal rift is, why not ask me instead?" Stelle's internal subroutines immediately ran a scan on the unknown target. [TARGET SCAN: Unknown Individual] [Threat Level: UNKNOWN / ELEVATED] [Mana Output: CONCEALED] Stelle paused. Her quantum optic had completely failed to pick up any energy signatures or movement behind her prior to the woman speaking. The target's mana was suppressed by an advanced masking technique or an artifact that her utility could not analyze.

Observing the fine, high-quality weave of the woman's traveling robes, Stelle concluded she was a traveler from a far-off region.

"You know of the abyssal rifts?" Stelle asked, keeping her tone completely neutral. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Well, I... know things about them," the woman replied smoothly, gesturing with a light wave of her hand to the empty seat opposite her.

"Join me for a moment. It's rare to find another traveler up at this hour asking about the old scars of the world." Stelle took a measured step toward the table, her hand resting casually beneath the folds of her cloak.

"Can you explain what an abyssal rift is? Wasn't the Dark Star's corruption originally spread through the Tower?"

"Straight to the point," the woman chuckled softly, resting her chin in her hand.

"You're correct about the history. Centuries ago, after the Dragon King sealed the Dark Star in the higher realm and the Tower was shut, its direct corruption couldn't spread across this world anymore. So, the Dark Star began forcing open tears in the fabric of space or what we call abyssal rifts—bleeding its dormant energy through instead." She picked up her tea, taking a slow sip before continuing.

"These rifts don't open randomly. They form where thick remnants of ancient battles or fallen darkness linger. The Ridge where Saint Lilian sacrificed herself is a place where thousands of corrupted entities were slaughtered. That stagnant energy feeds the tear, allowing the corruption to seep out and mutate the local monster and beast."

"I understand," Stelle noted, absorbing the data into her archive.

"The rift acts as a localized conduit for residual abyssal energy."

"Precisely." The woman smiled, her dark eyes glinting with genuine intrigue as she studied Stelle's calm, analytical demeanor.

"You grasp the concept remarkably fast for someone your age."

"Thank you for the information," Stelle said flatly. She offered no further details, stepping back from the table.

"Leaving me already, now that you have your answer?" the woman asked, leaning back.

"We haven't even introduced ourselves."

"I simply accepted what you offered. It is not as if I requested it." Stelle gave a single, impassive nod and turned toward the door. The woman blinked, caught off guard.

"So cold..." Yet, beneath her shock, her eyes remained bright with intrigue. Outside the inn, the air was brutal. The morning sun was nothing more than a pale, sickly smudge behind a thick blanket of iron-gray clouds. The wind dragged across the village of Dorkin with a low, mournful howl, carrying fine grains of ice that stung the skin. She didn't mean to be cold, but indulging a curious traveler was a luxury she couldn't afford. With the Mage Ministry possibly still searching for her, every question was a trap.

Introducing herself with half-truths would only invite unwanted attention and she hadn't gone to such lengths to disappear just to be caught now. That woman is not a simple Awakened... the emblem on her robe made that much clear. A dark, void-like swirling core carved into light silver/gray. A symbol from an organization that she hasn't encountered yet. Stelle walked through the unpaved streets at a measured, deliberate pace, her coat fluttering in the icy gale. Her left sleeve hung half empty.

She planned to find a shop selling weapons or anything else that might aid her journey. The Blood Tribe, the missing Guardian, and an active rift, she mused, adjusting her cloak with her remaining hand against the bite of the wind. It made logical sense why merchants rarely ventured this far north; the margins were too thin and the roads too dangerous. Only sellswords, desperate hunters, and priest-scholars chased whatever grim fortunes the Mourning Ridge offered.

She slowed her pace as she reached the village square. At its center stood a massive, weathered stone statue of Saint Lilian. The cloak carved into the granite was heavy with accumulated frost; icicles hung like jagged teeth from the hem of her robes and the tips of her stone fingers. The face was worn smooth by centuries of harsh winter winds, leaving her features blank, impassive, and hauntingly vague. Stelle stopped before it, looking up into the snow-dusted stone face.

Whatever this woman actually was, Stelle thought, her internal logic strictly cold and analytical, all I require from her remains is an answer. She felt no reverence or divine awe. And yet, deep within her core, the lingering frost or the trace that had nagged at her since the catacombs—pulled tightly, like a strained wire. She stared for another moment, found no new variables to analyze, and turned on her heel to walk away.

"Child of—you're finally here..." The sound didn't travel through the air. It didn't ripple through her auditory sensors. It bloomed around her—a girl's voice, impossibly faint, raspy with age yet echoing as if spoken inside a vast, empty cathedral. Stelle spun around instantly, her right hand flying to the hilt of her weapon as her eyes swept the deserted square. The wind howled. A loose wooden shutter slammed against a nearby house. Nothing else moved. Where that voice came from...

Before her diagnostic routines could isolate the anomaly, a jagged flare of pain spiked through her primary processing node. [NOTICE] [Minor core fluctuation detected] [Energy Spike: 4. 2% above baseline] [Cause: Unresolved internal resonance] [Status: STABILIZED] Stelle remained motionless in the center of the square, every sensor deployed at maximum gain. She watched the statue. She waited. One minute passed. The wind whipped her hair across her face. Two minutes. Nothing.

After a few more minutes she finally allowed her posture to relax slightly and turned her head away— Her eyes locked. Standing directly in front of her, less than three feet away, was a figure that had not passed through her line of sight or echo mapping, nor displaced a single gust of wind. It was a young girl. She looked barely older than her appearance, frail and small, dressed in nothing more than a ragged, simple white gown that fluttered in an unseen breeze.

Her feet were bare, resting lightly atop the frozen snow without leaving footprints or showing signs of frostbite. Her entire body emitted a soft, ethereal luminescence—translucent, like light passing through thin ice. Her pale skin carried a faint icy blue, her ears tapered into delicate points, while her eyes glowed with a piercing crystalline blue light. Stelle's mind raced, attempting to categorize the entity." Meet me...," the girl whispered.

Her voice was no longer the quiet, raspy echo from before; it was clear, ringing like a silver bell in the frigid air." Meet me at the foot of the mountain." The child drifted forward. Her feet didn't walk; she glided, as weightless as a stray flake of snow. She raised one small, translucent hand, reaching out toward Stelle. Stelle made no move to strike or dodge. She simply watched as the child's single, glowing index finger came to rest gently against the center of her chest.

The moment contact was made, there was no impact or physical pressure. Instantly, the girl's entire form shattered into thousands of microscopic, golden-blue motes of light. They burst outward in a silent cascade, swirling around Stelle like a halo of glowing dust before evaporating into the freezing gray sky, leaving the square entirely empty once more. Stelle stood frozen in the middle of the street. Her internal processing systems churned, screaming through error logs and high-priority diagnostics.

[WARNING: SENSORY DISCREPANCY DETECTED] [Echo-Mapping: 0 Entities detected in visual range] [TARGET SCAN: NO DATA RECOVERED] Slowly, Stelle brought the fingers of her remaining hand up to her chest, pressing them firmly against the exact spot where the translucent finger had touched her. She felt the cold fabric of her coat. Beneath that, the steady, rhythmic pulse of her own core. No residual mana burn. No structural damage. No trace of lingering foreign energy.

It was as if the entity had been a ghost or a direct transmission rendered into her optic nerves." Meet me at the foot of the mountain." The words lingered, stamped permanently onto her primary memory log. Stelle looked back at the statue of Saint Lilian. The carved stone face stared blindly out over the village, cold and unmoving, offering no further explanation.