Chương 9: Sunshine and Peonies

Tomorrow brought blood, mayhem, and talons in the dark. That night, Jordan made some inroads into his jet lag, managing to fall asleep not long after the locals. It wasn't the most high-quality sleep. Restless and trippy, reflecting a sense of general dread he'd carried over from the real world. He dreamed of Kaede Masuda presenting the painting of a horse in front of a rapt audience, which then morphed into his mother loading haystacks into the back of a wagon.

And perhaps because he'd slept so lightly, he was also the first to react to the noise. Jordan snapped wide awake. It was still the dead of night, and the room was pitch black. He didn't quite know what he'd heard. Only that it'd been loud and jarring enough to bleed into his dream. He lay still for a second or two, wondering if he'd only imagined it. There it was again. The rhythmic ebb and flow of something flapping in the wind. Hanging laundry? A tent flap that had come loose?

No, the sound was much more distant… more overhead. They were… Wingbeats. Jordan shot to his feet, even as a second noise jostled his senses. The high-pitched, warbling neighs of a horse, which were then cut off unceremoniously by the loudest wingbeat yet. A picture formed in Jordan's mind, one that disturbed and fascinated him in equal measure. Before he knew it, he'd rushed out of the house in his boxer briefs and Kasabian t-shirt, both items freshly laundered courtesy of Old Sar.

Immediately, he was hit full in the face by a blast of wind that shook the entire hut. He blinked against the cold air, determined to catch sight of the impossibility unfolding before him. Blood, mayhem, and talons in the dark. The moonless night brooked no visuals for Jordan to latch onto. Only sound, violence, and a system-generated label. <Monster Sheet> Name: Greater Roc Class: Thrasher, Lv. 12 Vessel: Gland of Furious Sky Yes.

In Vesselia, even the monsters were spellcasters, bearing Vessels in the form of internal secretory organs.

'Greater Roc' did not belong to any bestiary known to Jordan. Yet he could well imagine the kind of spells it cast—of the clutching, raking, thrashing variety! More wingbeats, louder than ever. Another gust of wind, followed by a horse's pitiful neighing. Jordan took one step further into the darkness, driven by an amorphous impetus. Did he think he could somehow save the horse? Or was he drawn to the sheer power on display?

"Have you gone mad, Ah-Jo?" A hand grabbed Jordan firmly by the arm.

"Get back inside! Now!" Jordan let himself be led back into the hut. Even in the darkness, he could make out the stricken look on Mallet's face. The older man guided them to one corner of the room, where he bent and pulled on a handle on the floor. A hidden cellar. Orange light spilled out as soon as the hatch swung open. The rest of the family was already in the basement, a glowering Mattock on torch duty. Jordan climbed down the ladder without a word, still not quite feeling himself.

Mallet followed close and shut the hatch behind him. It immediately muffled the sounds of a furious sky, allowing Jordan to hear his own racing pulse. The cellar had clearly been built for one purpose and one purpose alone. There was just barely enough space for five people to squeeze in, with nothing in the way of stored foods or pickle jars. A thick cloud of dust wafted within the torchlight, speaking to years of disuse. And that was how Jordan finally snapped back to reality.

His first two days in Vesselia had been so rustic, so pastoral, and so idyllic that he'd forgotten. That, in this world, monsters ever threatened the lives and livelihoods of man.

"Rocs don't come sniffing around these parts all that often," Mallet now explained, wearing a good-humored smile despite the circumstance.

"In fact, the last attack must've been about twenty years ago, back when Mattock and Sickle were babes. You're a lucky soul, Ah-Jo, for your visit to have been so eventful!" It was Mallet's attempt at levity amidst a tense situation. Jordan knew this, but he couldn't help but invent accusation in the words. Is it really a coincidence, or did my arrival somehow draw the Roc here? Or was it maybe the cauldron?

For a second, his heart jumped to his throat as he thought of the Heavenly Cauldron still sitting in the shed, presumably well within reach of a pair of thrashing talons. As a general rule, monsters in Vesselia showed no interest in human-bound Vessels, but here in Stormvast, 'general rules' didn't seem to apply with much consistency. Don't be stupid, he told himself. As long as I'm alive, no one and nothing else has any use for a Vessel that's bound to me. At least that's how it works in the Vesselia I know…

In order to distract himself, his mind searched for something else to worry about.

"Chestnut," he said in a whisper, though perhaps whispering wasn't strictly required.

"Will she be alright?" A shadow fell over Mallet's wrinkled face. Though only for a moment, before he put on a brave smile.

"We can only pray to Zhurong to lend her their strength," the older man said, "and to Nezha to grant her good fortune. Don't worry, Ah-Jo, that old girl is sharper than she looks. So much so, you'd think she was blessed by Fuxi at birth. I know she'll find a way to pull through." Mallet's expression suggested a somewhat loose usage of the word 'know'. Even so, Jordan allowed himself to be comforted by the sentiments. Hear that, gods? Now, all six of you are on the hook.

Even you, Fuxi, though I don't think Chestnut will be sitting any exams anytime soon. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Intelligence DC 10: success Fuxi:"It is the hubris of man to claim monopoly over intellect and wit. A horse has as much right as any mortal to look to me in times of need." An equal-opportunity snob. Jordan didn't mind that. He just hoped that the prayers actually meant something.

That the Mallet family and their livestock might be saved, if not by divine intervention, then— More dust fell from the floorboards as the whole cellar, and indeed the ground itself, shuddered under an enormous impact. The earthquake was brief, lasting only a second or two. An eerie stillness followed. No one dared move or even breathe. Nearly a minute passed in dead silence, then the floorboards creaked overhead. Sound of heavy footsteps, not in any particular hurry, and then…

"Anyone down there? If so, you can all come out now." Mallet, naturally the family's spokesperson, tilted his head toward the hatch but didn't make for the ladder just yet.

"Thanks for the notice, stranger, but may I ask you to identify yourself?"

"Heron Catchgrain of the Imperial Ranger Regiment," the response was prompt and fluent, as if part of a well-practiced protocol, "here with my partner, Finch Quiverwing of the same. Don't worry, citizens, we won't bite. Just want to debrief with you is all." Jordan had no idea how to react, so he scanned the cellar for examples. Mallet's face was an indiscernible mask, Sarina's a muddled mixture of relief and worry.

Sickle's lips quivered with more overt fear, whereas the normally stoic Mattock showed the biggest reaction. The son's face had hardened into a taut, simmering grimace, even as the torch shook slightly in his hand. If Jordan weren't mistaken, Mattock looked angry as all hell. The first domino fell as Mallet slowly made his way up the ladder. The rest of the family followed one by one, with Jordan bringing up the rear. Whoever this 'Imperial Ranger' was, he'd taken the liberty of lighting the furnace.

The house was well-lit enough for Jordan to see that nothing had been damaged or ransacked. He wanted to take that as a good sign, but the sudden shift in the family's mood made him think twice. The stranger was a tall middle-aged man dressed in sparse leather armor. From his waist hung, not a teacup, but a gourd. Substantive enough to hold at least 1, 000 cc of mana at a guess. Of course, the man's appearance wasn't the only thing that marked him out as 'a cut above' the farmstead's residents.

<Character Sheet> Name: HERON CATCHGRAIN Race: Human Age: 41 Class: Pyromancer, Lv. 15 Vessel: Gourd of Flames The man was alone at present, with no sign of the aforementioned partner. He stood with a relaxed posture, faintly smiling as he eyed each resident in turn. His gaze lingered noticeably on the two children, before eventually settling on Jordan. There, the smile twisted subtly into something closer to a sneer. Despite his earlier invitation, the man was content to let the family stew in silence.

Mallet was the first to speak, taking a deep bow with hands clasped before his chest.

"We thank you for your swift intervention, righteous warrior. Zhurong's blessings be with you and all your comrades."

"No need, no need," Heron said, still wearing a slight yet disconcerting sneer.

"If anything, our efforts have been somewhat lacking. We'd been tracking that bird for several days now, and only just caught up to it. Would that we'd been even swifter, then perhaps you and yours would've suffered less." A measured pause from Mallet, head still bowed.

"If I may, what was the damage?"

"Still waiting on a full report from Finch, but from what I saw… three horses and one sheep. And a section of the corral would need repairs. Not too bad, considering, eh?" Heron had the gall to let out a chuckle. Jordan felt his temper rise, though he knew better than to act on it. Before him, Mallet shuffled sideways a few steps, deliberately standing between his son and the Imperial Ranger.

"You're only too right, warrior. A small price to pay for my family's safety. Please, think nothing of it." Heron nodded casually, evidently taking the suggestion to heart. His gaze then shifted back onto Jordan.

"Greetings, traveler," the man said cheerfully enough.

"I must say… my work has taken me to every one of the nine provinces, but never have I met anyone quite in your… fashion. Pray tell, where do you hail from?" Jordan froze, suddenly very self-conscious of his boxer briefs and Kasabian t-shirt. He also realized he'd never prepared plausible answers to the most basic questions. The Mallet family had been so nice that he'd assumed everyone else would be just as tolerant and nonintrusive.

"I…" he stammered.

"I'm from overseas." He didn't know if 'overseas' was even a thing here in Stormvast, but that was the best he could come up with on short notice. For what it was worth, Heron seemed utterly unperturbed by the non-answer.

"Well, naturally," the man said, "but where overseas? The Western Commonwealth? Or the Gracelands, perhaps?" Oh, good, multiple choice. Jordan had always been good at those. But damn, wouldn't it be nice to know what the choices actually entailed? Intelligence DC 12: success Fuxi:"The Western Commonwealth are a group of island nations known for their naval conquests and seafaring ways.

Envoys had made contact with Stormvast even as far back as during the Vermilion Dynasty, only to be rebuffed by the staunch isolationists in power at the time. The Goldcrests' foreign policy is significantly more open by comparison. In fact, if you ever make your way to the nation's capital, you're more likely than not to run into a handful of Westerners there." Uh … great. And the Gracelands?

Intelligence DC 14: success Fuxi:"Little is known about the Gracelands, a continent even farther west than the Commonwealth… or perhaps farther east depending on who's drawing the map. As far as I'm aware, no Gracelander has ever made it onto Stormvast shores, but I suppose there's no reason why you can't pretend to be the first." Well, that was where Fuxi was wrong. A very good reason not to invoke the mysterious Gracelands was to avoid unwanted scrutiny.

At least, by claiming to be a Westerner, Jordan would be a pre-existing oddity… while also hewing somewhat close to the truth.

"The Commonwealth. Yup, that's the one. Good guess." Heron's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the self-professed Westerner. Jordan tensed all over, despite lacking an exact idea of what he should be scared about. Regardless, the tension was almost palpable, until the Imperial Ranger cut through it with a noncommittal jerk of the head.

"Splendid," he declared.

"Well, safe travels, Westerner. I'm sure you'll find the Featherifters here endlessly hospitable. Or perhaps you've already seen the evidence for yourself. Speaking of which…" Just like that, the man's attention turned back onto the family. He scanned the ensemble again, this time to settle on Mattock who, in turn, glared with open contempt. Jordan didn't know anything about anything. And yet, context wasn't strictly required to understand that something sinister was about to go down.