Chapter 83: The Path Walked by the Living

The people entering the city formed a long line under the guidance of the guards.  

They were led to Saint Mora Cathedral, the oldest historical building in Purple Thorn Castle. This brick-gray structure was established during the reign of King Audric VI and had stood for over four hundred years.  

Viscount Quentin’s great-grandfather and grandfather had both contributed funds to expand Saint Mora Cathedral.  

The church had long become one of Purple Thorn Castle’s most iconic landmarks, its grand gray Gothic arches exuding solemn majesty.  

The Holy Maiden and the White Wing Knights temporarily took control of the cathedral from the bishop.  

Following orders, guards and clergy members inspected each refugee’s belongings and personal items one by one.  

Apart from their most basic clothing, all their possessions—including food and weapons—were temporarily confiscated for specialized inspection to verify their origins.  

Meanwhile, scribes carrying ink and brushes recorded each person’s name while inquiring about their backgrounds and experiences.  

Nuns from the cathedral brought hot water and towels for these exhausted travelers. The viscount ordered guards to distribute soft white bread to the refugees.  

Over a hundred people sat in the emptied prayer hall.  

They wiped the dust from their faces with hot damp towels. The starving tore the bread into small pieces, dropping them into clay bowls of hot water before tremblingly swallowing the soggy mixture. Many lips had cracked and lost all color.  

Nearly every face showed peeling skin from the harsh winter winds.  

Some removed their shoes, revealing blistered feet with festering sores.  

Viscount Quentin observed from the side, finding it hard to imagine how they had arrived here. All towns and main roads along the way had been occupied by Icelanders, with no remaining rest stops or supply stations.  

If they had come from north of Alvado, if they had started along the icy sea coast—just how many days had they traveled?  

Had they not encountered a single Icelandic military unit along the way?  

How had the women and elderly endured such an arduous journey?  

The northern winter could be deadly—even without Icelandic forces, a single snowstorm could have spelled disaster on the road.  

The viscount frowned deeply. With the Holy Maiden’s guarantee, he could trust these people posed no threat, yet their arrival still seemed miraculous.  

These surviving Tanians, though ragged and sallow-faced, had somehow reached Purple Thorn Castle alive.  

Among them, only one recently advanced Silver-rank professional warrior could be considered combat-capable, along with a gnome alchemist. According to reports, the rest were mere villagers who made their living through livestock and farming—few could even handle a hunting bow.  

This defied all reason!  

Even if Viscount Quentin took all his personal guards, fully armed and prepared, he wouldn’t have the slightest confidence of crossing Icelandic-blockaded territory as these people had.  

His bewilderment grew, fueling his urgency to learn what they had experienced.  

After allowing them brief rest, the viscount personally interrogated the Silver-rank warrior and the gnome, joined by the Holy Maiden.  

The Holy Maiden removed her sacred crown and scepter upon entering, entrusting them to a female White Wing Knight. Concealing the starlight in her eyes, she wore simple nun’s robes as she and the viscount sat behind separate wooden tables.  

This room, originally a confessional, had been cleared to serve as a temporary interrogation chamber.  

The gnome, the warrior, and an elder named Bardel were brought in together.  

Now appearing merely as a young nun, the Holy Maiden let Viscount Quentin’s imposing presence dominate the proceedings, and he accordingly took charge.  

Before them lay scribes’ records containing the three men’s basic information.  

“This is Viscount Quentin,” announced a scribe. “As subjects under the viscount’s protection, you must answer his questions truthfully without omission.”  

Only the viscount’s identity was revealed, not the Holy Maiden’s.  

The three men bowed. “We greet the viscount.”  

Viscount Quentin nodded, having already reviewed their records.  

The gnome was named York, originally an alchemist from Alvado whose identity had been verified by adventurers familiar with him.  

The one-eyed warrior was Lucas Porter, a seventeen-year adventuring veteran with activity records in Purple Thorn Castle. The Adventurers Guild retained records of his completed missions—he’d stayed here until two years ago.  

Leading a five-member team, he’d completed numerous low-level quests. The guild’s evaluation described him as a steady, experienced fighter.  

The viscount had sent for Lucas’s former teammates, who remained active around Purple Thorn Castle after his departure. Recently, they’d voluntarily enlisted under the lord’s conscription order.  

While York and Lucas had verifiable backgrounds, nobody recognized Bardel.  

By his own account, Bardel and his son had made their living through shepherding and brewing. They’d never visited Purple Thorn Castle before, with Alvado Town being the farthest they’d traveled annually to sell liquor each spring.  

But with Alvado Town now destroyed, nobody in the castle knew this bearded man.  

The viscount’s gaze swept across the three men as he rested his hands on the table.  

“Which of you can read maps?”  

York and Lucas exchanged glances before both raised their hands.  

“Filippo, bring out the map and pin it to the board,” ordered the viscount. “Since you claim to have come from north of Alvado, mark your route.”  

A scribe unrolled a parchment map, securing its corners with small nails.  

“Please use this lead stick to trace your path,” said the scribe, producing a thick, sharpened lead writing tool.  

“York, let me do it,” Lucas stepped forward, taking the lead stick.  

The viscount watched as Lucas’s hand paused at Klavi mountain path, moving slightly into the wasteland beyond.  

Marking a starting point past the mountain path, Lucas drew a gray line that wound through Klavi Pass, detoured around Bronte Village, left the main road to enter Creek Forest, crossed a tributary of Prague River, and reached Alvado Town.  

The line continued through mountains and forests in a wide arc before finally crossing Prague River and arriving at Purple Thorn Castle via the surrounding wasteland.  

The viscount’s first reaction was pupil contraction and a deep frown.  

“Are you claiming you traveled almost entirely off-road through forests and mountains? How did you resupply? Where did you sleep? How did you evade Icelandic scouts? What gave you the stamina for such a route? Do not mock me, Mr. Lucas Porter!”  

Anger colored the viscount’s face—he suspected this man might be deranged.  

“But these are the facts, my lord,” Lucas turned calmly to meet the viscount’s gaze. “This is precisely how we walked this path of tribulations step by step.”  

“We bore tremendous suffering to reach Purple Thorn Castle. Forgive my inability to convey our experiences in mere words, but this truly is the road beneath the feet of every survivor who arrived here.”  

Locking eyes with the one-eyed man, the viscount found himself stunned by the calmness in that gaze and voice.  

Silently studying the man’s face, he lowered his hands.  

“Then continue, Mr. Porter. Tell us what hardships you endured.”