The slogans on the wooden board were like several loud slaps.
Slapping the words the City Lord had just spoken.
Slapping the high-and-mighty smiles of the nobles.
And slapping the hearts of those people who, with bowed heads and sighs, were slowly dispersing amidst the lingering smell of burning.
Someone stopped and stole a glance back.
Then another.
Their lips moved, but they said nothing, only clutching the tattered edges of their clothes tightly.
Someone stood across the street, watching that wooden sign from afar.
A look of disbelief filled their eyes, as if they were witnessing an illusion.
Someone rubbed their eyes to ensure they hadn't seen it wrong, their Adam’s apple bobbing.
Then, they began to worry.
They worried that the City Lord would fly into a rage.
They worried that the armored knights would rush over and smash that wooden sign to pieces.
They worried that the mage who opened the post office would be tied to a wooden stake just like those who had been burned to death.
They worried...
They worried about many things, but not a single one occurred.
A day passed.
Two days passed.
Until the day the post office had scheduled for its delivery departure drew near.
Still, no knights came charging in.
The post office doors opened on time and closed on time every day.
That wooden sign remained standing at the entrance.
Unyielding against the wind and the sun.
The characters on the sign had faded slightly from the sunlight, but every stroke was still clearly discernible.
The City Lord's knights never appeared.
Gradually, people began walking toward the post office.
At first, it was just one person.
A grey-haired old man, leaning on a cane, tottered to the entrance of the post office.
His fingers, gnarled and deformed from years of labor, tightly gripped the handle of his cane.
He stood at the door, hesitating for a long time.
He looked at the wooden sign, then at the open doors.
He took a deep breath, as if drawing a lifetime’s worth of courage into his lungs, and then stepped inside.
Then came the second person.
The third.
The fifth.
The tenth.
Those refugees and commoners, dressed in rags and faces full of weariness, emerged.
They came from the alleys, from the shacks, and from the base of the city walls.
They kept their heads low and walked quickly, as if afraid of being seen.
But there was light in their eyes.
It was a light that had been suppressed for a long time yet had never been extinguished.
That light was faint, but it felt warmer than the flames that had burned the people in the square.
It had been decades.
Communication between city-states had been severed for decades.
News of relatives had stopped.
Information from their hometowns had vanished.
They had thought that in this lifetime, they would never again have the chance to send a letter to their families far away.
And now, the opportunity was right before them.
The longing for their families and the yearning for the world outside slowly outweighed their fear of the City Lord's might.
The post office's clientele grew more numerous.
That wooden sign simply stood there.
Like a silent, stubborn answer.
...
Meanwhile, in the City Lord's manor.
Candlelight flickered in the reception hall.
The tapestries on the walls cast massive shadows in the firelight, looking like crouching beasts.
City Lord Adams sat in his chair, but his posture was far from comfortable.
He sat only on the edge, his body leaning slightly forward, like someone prepared to stand and salute at any moment.
His fingers were not tapping the table, and his wine glass sat aside, untouched.
Because no one had tasted it, a thin film had formed on the surface of the red wine.
There was no smile on his face.
The fat on that chubby face was pulled taut, like a layer of cloth stretched to its limit.
Standing before him was a knight.
It was the same Knight Captain who had gone to the post office to deliver the message that day.
The knight knelt on one knee, head bowed, his voice sounding a bit tight.
"City Lord, that post office..."
"It opened again today."
"A new sign was put up at the door, saying 'Send two, get one free'."
"The number of people going to send letters was even greater than yesterday."
Adams did not speak.
His gaze fell upon the knight, but he wasn't looking at him.
It was as if he were looking at something else entirely.
The knight continued:
"I have already sent men to keep watch."
"But that mage... has not appeared once."
"The person behind the counter was replaced by a woman."
"Blonde, and..."
He paused, carefully choosing his words.
"More beautiful than an elf."
Adams still did not speak.
His throat moved slightly, as if he were swallowing something.
It wasn't anger.
It was nervousness.
His hands rested on his knees, fingers curling slightly, nails almost digging into the flesh of his palms.
He had heard about that sign.
"Send two, get one free."
Those five words were like needles, piercing right through the speech he had just given.
He had extended an olive branch, but the other party had not taken it.
He had given a warning, but the other party had ignored it.
He had thought that the post office would close or move to the noble district to bow its head to him.
And the result?
A sign.
A crooked, hand-written sign.
It treated his words, the words of the City Lord, as nothing more than flatulence.
He should have been angry.
He should have been furious.
He should have slammed the table and sent men to smash that sign and seal that post office.
But he did not.
It wasn't just because of his apprehension toward the transport team backing it.
Even more so because...
At this moment, someone else was sitting in the main seat that originally belonged to him.
It was a man.
He was dressed very simply in a grey robe with cuffs that had turned white from wear.
The hem of his robe even bore some stains.
It looked as if he had just stepped through the mud of the refugee district.
His hair was a bit messy, his stubble was unshaven, and his face bore the traces of weariness left by long-term travel.
He looked like an ordinary refugee who had just walked out of a slum.
Yet the City Lord did not dare to look at him.
As soon as his peripheral vision caught the edge of that robe, he instinctively looked away.
His waist bent even lower, like an old tree bent by the wind.
The man sat in that wide main seat, leaning back comfortably.
One hand rested on the armrest, his fingers tapping gently.
Once. Twice.
Slowly and rhythmically.
The tapping echoed in the silent reception hall like an ancient timepiece.
His eyes looked at the kneeling knight, then at the City Lord.
A trace of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
It was a very faint smile, appearing as if by accident.
But when the City Lord saw that smile, cold sweat broke out across his back in waves.
The sweat slid down his spine, soaking his undergarments, feeling both cold and clammy.
This man had arrived in Whitecliff City six months ago.
Adams did not know his name or his origin.
He only knew that the man carried a commission letter from "Dawn" and told him to assist in completing a certain mission.
Adams had seen the seal stamped on that letter before.
It was the seal of the Alliance's supreme auditing agency.
The wax seal featured a palm opened wide with an eye in the center, as if it could see through all lies.
He had only seen it once in his life, but he would never forget it.
The man had not told him his specific identity.
But after seeing what he had done over the last six months, Adams had guessed it.
This man had infiltrated the bottom of the refugee district and mingled with those pariahs.
He taught them books that the Alliance had classified as forbidden.
He gathered those who held grudges against the nobility.
He trained them, guided them, and finally... sent every single one of them to the fire stakes.
This was not something an ordinary Inspector could do.
Especially when it involved things related to Spark.
There was only one organization that could act using that forbidden name of Spark.
That was the Spark-Quenching Society.
Rate on N.U.
