Chapter 167: The Elf's Extensive Experience
“Is that so… That’s what the Dragon God said?”
“I understand. I’ll try merging my magical power with the Divine Tree’s energy.”
“Food? I don’t need food. Lord Wade, you needn’t worry about my living conditions.”
Yulia revealed the pendant hanging around her neck – an ornament woven from some resilient vine that appeared utterly ordinary, the kind that might be mistaken for dried twigs if left by the roadside.
But Wade sensed the elf’s magical fluctuations. It was a magical artifact. The elf opened her palm, and a piece of dry black bread along with a deerskin waterskin materialized in her hand.
“This is a storage pendant crafted from the Divine Tree’s heartvine. The interior space is about the size of this room we’re in. I’ve prepared emergency rations and water inside, enough to last me ten years.”
As she spoke, the elf took a bite of the bread and a sip of water.
Her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s as she chewed. Wade watched, astonished, as she mechanically gnawed through the rock-hard black bread, producing crunching sounds akin to sawing wood.
From Wade’s experience as a baker, that black bread had to be inedible by any standard. Devoid of moisture, its hardness rivaled brick. Someone with poor teeth might lose their incisors just trying to eat it.
It had reached weapon-grade hardness – capable of cracking someone’s skull open.
Wade couldn’t fathom where the elf had procured this. He spotted bran and husks on the bread’s surface and could reconstruct its entire flawed production process:
Some lazy baker had ground together rye, oats, wild peas and bran, mixed it with under-fermented dough, then blasted it in an overheated oven.
While black bread buyers typically prioritized longevity over quality, this was an outright failure.
What a waste. That baker knew nothing of proper bread-making.
Even by the modest standards of peasant fare, this was defective.
Proper black bread should only have a hard crust. Sliced and soaked briefly, it softens enough for toothless children to eat. Adults could consume it directly.
But the elf’s specimen failed Wade’s most basic standards. That charred lump wouldn’t soften even after half-hour soaking.
Wade almost couldn’t bear watching her eat. Was that even human food?
Yet the elf expressionlessly finished the charred brick. She methodically chewed and swallowed, even closing her eyes as if performing some courageous act.
“Silver Moon Elves have minimal food dependency. With sufficient magic, one bread piece sustains me long periods.” The elf patted her chest and exhaled. “No need for concern, my lord. I’ve plenty more bread – no risk of starvation.”
“After being trapped for ten years during that avalanche in the Blackstone Mountains, I learned to keep my pendant stocked with bread and water.”
“That time… I nearly perished in the Dwarf King’s tomb. Not yet a Crimson Scholar then, I wandered that magic-sealed maze built from antimagic stone. Couldn’t even cast advanced spells. Only survived thanks to a nest of cave spiders…”
The elf smiled serenely while recounting this horror.
Wade imagined the minstrel-garbed elf – that elegant face – smiling cheerfully while biting into a dinner-plate-sized cave spider in some dark tomb.
How juicy must that have been? Did those hairy spider legs twitch inside her mouth?
Where did she sleep? In coffins? But dwarf coffins seemed too small. Did she bed down with cave spiders? Did they skitter over her in the darkness?
What kind of mental fortitude survived a decade in lightless tombs?
Even Wade shuddered despite being [undead].
Truly an elf who’d wandered five eras – such resilience forged through extreme experiences.
Yet Wade couldn’t tolerate her eating that… substance in his presence.
He wrote on his wooden placard: “You always eat like this?”
“This? You mean the bread?” The elf touched her cheek. “Not always. Only when starving – about one piece every five-six days.”
“Food is precious. Mustn’t waste.” Her expression turned solemn.
Wade suddenly understood: to her, eating was pure sustenance – never pleasure. After millennia of wandering, she’d developed certain… peculiarities.
He couldn’t comprehend immortal beings’ perspectives. Did she fear that tasting real food would make her intolerant of these bread-bricks, thus forcing herself to endure them?
“I’ll find you better food when possible,” Wade wrote.
“Other food? Really unnecessary, my lord. See, I’ve so much bread…” She produced several more “bricks.”
Wade’s baker pride rebelled. He scrawled furiously: “I’M GETTING YOU PROPER FOOD!”
“Well…” The elf hesitated. “True… stockpiling is wise. Should the Divine Tree and Dragon God revive, this land may flourish again. Others might seek refuge here too.”
“Best save the bread for emergencies.”
She seemed convinced, yet her expression remained troubled – as if anticipating Wade would bring something bizarre.
To her, “black bread” might qualify as gourmet fare. Gods knew what else she’d eaten. Wade couldn’t imagine anything worse than cave spiders. Even his slave rations in the mines surpassed her petrified provisions.