The bathing facilities of the Threefold Empire are somewhat akin to amusement parks. Thus, they feature loungers for receiving massages while reclining, benches to sit and converse with someone, and there’s even an area for light wrestling or exercise.
Lord Faige and I had just exited the sauna and were cooling off on a bench near the cold-water pool, facing each other once again.
The more I encounter the peculiar nature of tree-folk, the more I’m astonished by their uniqueness. Their faces and limbs appear as a tangle of gnarled, twisted branches, seemingly forming a human-like shape. Their faces, void of any glimmer in the eyes, look as though some ancient trees are being mistaken for human features due to the simulacrum effect.
Silver leaves adorn their heads like hair, and the undulation of branches and leaves lend them an appearance of venerable old trees, quietly conveying that tree-folk, like humans, grow old over time.
“When one ages, one cannot retain moisture as before. That’s why I come here to replenish the water in my body.”
With that, he called out to a nearby water vendor. As part of the bathing experience, merchants who sell drinks while people enjoy long baths form an essential aspect of the bathhouse scenery.
“Ho, my good sir, the usual today?”
“Bathing is always refreshing. Until I wither, I’ll partake of it. Ah, though, I’d like something stronger.”
The water vendor seemed familiar, as he smoothly poured a refreshing, tangy drink into a glass and handed it over.
“Here you go, and enjoy it.”
The vendor then handed me a drink as well. Ah, this must be it—icy water infused with citrus peels and bark.
“Drink up. The water after being drenched in steam is…”
“Like ambrosia?”
As I sipped the poetically offered water and savored its refreshing coolness sinking into my sweat-drenched body, I couldn’t help but interject at the familiar expression. With a soft “hmm,” he stroked the silver moss adorning his jaw like a beard.
“Ho? Are you well-versed in classical works?”
“Bernkastel, isn’t it? The great master of prose poetry.”
The verse he referenced and to which I added lines is a daily poem by a prose poet renowned before the establishment of the empire. In this region, not only rhyming poems but also free-flowing, unchained lyrical prose poetry became popular among the common folk for its accessibility early on. A word game Margit and I once played in the forest also had roots in this tradition.
I once spent some time immersed in the chapel, devouring books from its small library. Besides theological texts, the collection amassed by past priests included many poetry anthologies favored by the common people. Of course, as rural priests were themselves from the countryside, their tastes naturally aligned with those of the common folk.
“Aye, that’s good indeed. Though not stiff, its choice of words holds a noble dignity, and the joy of living woven within it flows unhindered. The sensation that lingers after reading it is sublime.”
“I understand. After reading it, I sometimes feel like taking a bath or going for a walk.”
Among these, Bernkastel, who used their birthplace as their pen name, remains a mysterious figure. The fact that the original work, and not just copies, still exists suggests they were not a commoner. However, the poems, which delicately celebrate emotional, everyday life, are far from the lavish way of life of the nobility, leading to speculation that the poet was a commoner under noble patronage or a wealthy illegitimate child of a noble.
Though currently popular, it’s certain that the nobility still highly values technically refined, straightforward traditional poems over prose poetry. It’s unexpected to find a scribe known for producing valuable manuscript copies engaging with prose poetry.
“Young as you are, you understand its merit? That’s quite unusual.”
Lord Faige smiled genuinely as he sipped more water, purchasing a second round for himself and offering it to me. I understand that feeling well—when you find someone who shares your interests, you tend to loosen your purse strings. I remember indulging extravagantly when a new junior employee at work happened to be into TRPGs, though I can’t recall their name now.
“Young folks these days favor the likes of Verlaine and Heinrich, who revel in elaborate techniques to express what should be plain and straightforward poetry…”
I listened to Lord Faige’s theories—or perhaps complaints—while occasionally heading between the hot and steam baths to prevent getting too cold.
Indeed, this was someone particular about their preferences: high-minded, knowledgeable, and technically skilled enough to be given a noble title. Yet, it seems lamentable that they lack the skill to create original poetry or storytelling they love, instead finding solace in copying it. From his discourse, it appears he sought a job in poetry and storytelling as a form of solace.
If he were simply a scribe making steady copies of manuscripts, perhaps things would have been better. After all, typical scribes handle copies of sagas and poems favored by commoners, which would likely bring him joy in the repetition of the same work, reveling in the nuances each time he sees the same text.
Alas, his exceptional talent led him to take on high-paying novel transcriptions, which in this world mean smaller philosophical works rather than the stories or hero epics with which I’m familiar. Being constantly asked to transcribe grand tomes favored by noble readers, treatises on magic, historical documents, or even the rarefied, elegant poems resulted in a mismatch of the kind of work he wanted versus what he was asked to do.
His skill, however, was enough for his business to thrive. Tragically, what he excelled at and what he truly wanted to do didn’t align. Such a situation truly is regrettable.
By the time I had grown quite relaxed, Lord Faige’s monologue—no, his theories—finally concluded. In truth, it had been an edifying experience. The depth of his expertise was impressive, and the surprising tidbits that popped up made the conversation worthwhile. Even the slight overheating of the bath was a trivial cost.
“I apologize, little one. I’ve been talking endlessly. Forgive me; it’s an old tree’s bad habit.”
“No, the stories were incredibly intriguing and very enjoyable.”
We stepped out of the bathhouse, refreshed by the pleasant autumn night breeze. Above, the familiar white moon, slightly obscured by clouds, was nearing its full circle. Conversely, the ominous black moon was fading, almost invisible now.
“So, in the end, I never heard your purpose. Why did you come seeking this old tree?”
With a graceful smile, he inquired about my true intentions. If I were an adult, I might have declined the request, insisting to choose a more appropriate day out of respect. However, as a child, I thought it would be better to be straightforward with my request.
“Yes. On behalf of my superior, I have come to request the manuscript entitled ‘Lost Name God Ritual Text’ that you once transcribed.”
Deeply bowing, I made my request. Lord Faige’s brows shot up in stern surprise, and his golden-bug-like eyes darkened to a crimson hue.
The task Lady Agrippina had entrusted me with wasn’t asking him to make a new transcription.
I had come seeking a manuscript he had once accepted but, after a major dispute with his client, never delivered.
I couldn’t grasp what this grand tome documented. The mention of a god who lost its name never appeared in any theological books I had read, suggesting it was treated as a certain “taboo.”
A book related to such a deity couldn’t possibly contain mild content. If I were to somehow acquire it, I would pass it on to Lady Agrippina without touching or even looking at its pages. There must have been good reasons for the prohibitions: “do not see, do not know, do not touch.”
I do not wish to end up like Orpheus, looking back and losing something precious. Given the warnings from predecessors, it would be wisest not to repeat their mistakes.
“Do you still have possession of that manuscript?”
I kept my gaze lowered to the ground as I asked this, while nearby birds flew away from creaking trees.
“…… Very well. This is not something to be discussed here. Come along.”
The corners of my vision caught Lord Faige’s feet turning away. I hurried after him, his towering figure leading me forward.
Eventually, we arrived at the base of a massive evergreen tree near the city walls, exuding an unusual presence. This tree, it seemed, was both the root of Lord Faige’s origins and his current home.
Tree-folk are born from a very unique process. They don’t reproduce through breeding; rather, a spirit resides within a single tree, granting it human consciousness and individuality. After birth, they live alongside trees and travel wherever they please.
“Enter, please.”
At the hollow of the tree where he beckoned me, there was a space far larger than the actual girth of the tree trunk.
“Wow… incredible!”
I couldn’t help but exclaim. The room within the hollow was a magnificent library that would stir the imagination of any bibliophile.
An imposing desk of amber wood, sturdy enough to accommodate Lord Faige without looking out of place, stood proudly in the center, radiating an aura of grandeur. Behind it, the dark chair, with its proudly elevated backrest, matched the solemn atmosphere of the room.
Arrayed around the desk were bookshelves filled with meticulously arranged books, their covers splendidly decorated.
The neatly organized titles, arranged alphabetically by the author’s name, were surprisingly familiar. Books that would otherwise be found with shabby covers in some corner of a cheap lending library were here adorned like encyclopedias or great tomes of theory.
It was a room that screamed his personal taste and passion, leaving no room for objections. Certainly, these books must have been custom replicated by Lord Faige, who adored them, and then professionally bound, making them editions made exclusively for Lord Faige himself.
“Ah, that’s the famous saga… and this is last year’s village festival poet’s collection?!”
In a way, these were remarkable treasures. While enthusiasts might value them greatly, those who invest in rarity or authority wouldn’t glance twice at this lineup. Truly, there are eccentrics everywhere.
“Ho, you recognize them? Would you like me to offer you something?”
“Really!?”
Caught off guard by the unexpected offer, I turned around instinctively, only to realize my faux pas and blush furiously. While using my role as a child strategically is one thing, actually behaving like a genuine child would undermine the image…
“Ah, excuse me. It’s too generous.”
“No, it’s rare for someone to appreciate them this much. The books I’ve been asked to copy these days are all uninteresting. That’s why I abandoned my workshop in the Imperial Capital and returned here.”
The liberation from tedious tasks and being surrounded by what he loves truly invigorates him, it seems. Lord Faige looked genuinely serene.
“But… there are indeed things here that mar this environment.”
He unlocked a drawer on his desk, and a book was placed on the surface. The black-leather-bound tome, adorned with extravagant bone carvings, unmistakably screamed of its ominous nature without a single word.
To be specific, it belonged to the kind of book that might make you roll a 1D100 if you opened it unwisely.
I instinctively took a step back. The sinister appearance alone was unsettling, and even with my limited “sight,” I could sense its ominous aura. Such a thing shouldn’t just be left lying around casually—it needs to be locked up with chains! At the very least, ensuring it can’t be opened is a must.
“This is the ‘Lost Name God Ritual Text’ you seek, its transcription.”
I tried hard to suppress the indescribable nausea and discomfort welling up, but my gaze was inexplicably drawn to the book. It wasn’t the kind of dread from horror movies, where one is both scared and curious to see the ending. This sensation was deeper, darker, and more malevolent.
“Per the client’s request, the complex and circuitous old language of the original text has been faithfully translated into Imperial language. There are also numerous annotations to make it more accessible.”
Meaning, if I opened it, I could read it—even I, despite my limited understanding. As soon as I realized this, my mind began to whisper, “Go ahead and read it.”
Absolutely not—not if it’s this dangerous. Even if it might unlock some hidden skill, it’s definitely the kind that would drive someone mad. The fact that such unsettling urges are arising in my mind proves how much this is a cursed matter. It’s the kind of book whose disposal in a volcano could mark the start of an epic campaign.
“And now, how much does your superior value this?”
As I held the chilling book that had warmed my body cold again, Lord Faige looked at me with a challenging gaze…
Grimoires, due to their nature, can influence simply through being seen or even by existing in their vicinity. The “forbidden book vault” in the deepest archives of the Magic Academy earned its name for good reason.
And now, an important note: as much as you may want to know what happens next, while reviewing this section, I realized there’s a significant issue that needs immediate revision. Therefore, a small break from daily updates will be necessary. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it’ll help prevent major inconsistencies later. During this time, I might share some character sheets or work on Henderson Scale 1.0, though those will be posted irregularly. Rest assured, I aim to complete this process within a week.
And please continue joining Erich and me on this journey—it truly means a lot.
