ocean-life Chapter 218: People in the Dark
Chapter 218: People in the Dark
Night blanketed the outskirts; a cold wind moved across the fields.The column of evacuees trudged in silence, the mood so heavy you could hear only the shuffle of mixed footsteps and the muffled groans of the wounded.
Soldiers, cavalry, adventurers—and noncombatants like smiths, laborers, and merchants—every face was drawn with fatigue and gloom.
Gauss rode his chocobo. The Ironscale Bloodline had cooled; the scales and dragon-claw faded, his body returning to normal. A wave of weariness followed—not crippling, but real.
Alia passed him a few Goodberry she’d set aside. “Have some?”
“Thanks.” No need for extra words between them—Gauss took the berries and ate. A gentle warmth spread through him, easing his tired limbs, though the weight on his mind wouldn’t lift so quickly.
“Bad mood?” asked Andeni, the halfling sharing his saddle. The veteran adventurer heard the tone and kept her voice low.
“A bit.”hem good. Gauss noticed several small, fluffy black ravens clustered at Echo’s feet—when had those appeared? Their down was glossy; their eyes, bright and wary. They stuck to Echo like he was a rock to hide behind.
“New pets?” he asked, thinking Alia had gone to the market.
“No,” Alia said, a little helpless. “When we rested yesterday, Echo slipped out and brought them back. Orphans, it seems.”
Feeding nestlings is a chore—but if Echo brought them, she couldn’t just toss them back out. Echo lifted his head proudly and gurgled, clearly fishing for praise.
“Oh, I see…”
Gauss studied Echo’s plumage—obsidian-bright. Without him noticing, the raven had grown; the talons looked like polished onyx; the body was bigger; the air about him—more than natural. “Then keep them,” Gauss said. “Hand-raised ravens mind better. Raise more later—use them to scout.”
“Alright,” Alia brightened. She loved small animals; with Gauss’s nod, she could let herself. The fledglings shrank further behind Echo at Gauss’s appearance—Ironscale’s after-scent, maybe.
“Breakfast,” Andeni yawned, shuffling out swaddled in a robe two sizes too big, rubbing sleep from her eyes—looking harmless and lazy. Alia and Serandur still carried a trace of awe for her; they’d seen the storm she could call down.
They ate on the inn’s ground floor. As they finished, several soldiers in Lincrown uniforms approached, nervous respect in their eyes for Andeni.
“Lady Andeni—apologies. The mayor and Captain Firon have called a meeting in the council hall to learn the facts of the beast tide. Your presence is requested.”
“Of course. I’ll come at once.” The soldiers bowed in relief and hurried off.
“So much for a restful morning,” Andeni said, then took her leave. Gauss and his team weren’t high enough rank for such meetings—so they had time.
“I wonder if our contract still stands,” Gauss murmured, holding the Black Forest scout writ from President Ritchie. He’d planned to turn it in—but Ritchie hadn’t returned. Someone had to give them an answer.
“Let’s ask at the Lincrown Association.”
Back on the street, Gauss noticed people whispering about him. Words like “dragon,” “don’t provoke,” and “transformation” drifted to him; some were calling him “dragonkin.”
“Captain, looks like that fight gave you a bit of a name,” Serandur said. A normal Level 3 didn’t get that treatment; Gauss’s power had surged past that box. Famous adventurers always earned it in blood—with crisis after crisis, wars that turned them into names.
Titles hung on the strong like medals; the stronger the adventurer, the louder and longer the epithets. Like a noble’s string of honorifics—but nobles’ titles meant status; adventurers’ meant strength and deeds.
Just before they reached the Association, Gauss stiffened and swung a look over his shoulder. The street bustled.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He frowned and looked ahead. “Feels like someone’s watching.”
“Maybe they want a look at the ‘dragonkin’ from the stories?” Alia teased.
“Maybe,” he said, scratching his head. But his gut said otherwise—the stare felt wrong, not the curious attention of a bystander but the prickly malice of a spy.
He couldn’t place it. The street was crowded; there was no way to confirm.
They stepped into the Association hall. After his figure vanished, a small gray-furred mouse peeked from the shadow of an alley.
Chirr-chirr—
A chorus of sharp squeaks followed deeper in the lane. In the dark, the shadows writhed. Countless black motes spun together in the air, weaving toward the alley’s end—blurring, warping—slowly merging into a twisted human silhouette.