It's always painful to reminisce about the good days that are gone. Turner felt as if www.biquge.info worms were crawling on his heart, and the itching and colic accompanied by a bitter taste gradually rose from the inside of his body.

He turned his head sideways to look in the direction he had come, and the visibility of the grassland at night was not satisfactory. His gaze was obscured by the fog and the night, but he knew what was going in that direction.

For fourteen years, Turner had been unconsciously heading towards that location, and even in the labyrinth of the dungeon, some ineffable perception had always helped him find his way, and it had almost become a point and a beacon in his life. However, the more he missed, the more the fear of returning home entangled him. When he finally had to face it, all he had to do was the stubborn tears of a girl, a lonely grave, and a closed wooden door.

Turner looked at the doll-like expressionless teenager in front of him. The child didn't seem to have tasted defeat yet, and his unguarded posture was reminiscent of an animal's cubs. At this time, he was staring at this side with unadulterated eyes, and his dark pupils seemed to attract all the light around him. Watching with such eyes, Turner felt like his soul was washed when he prayed in church. It may seem realistic and cruel to pour out the hardships to a child of this age who still harbors fantasies, but the weight of his heart and the death that awaits him still make Turner's desire to confide in him stronger.

"I have a childhood sweetheart......" After a moment of silence, Turner finally spoke. His language was fragmented and dry, like the fragmented murmurs of a man mired in a nightmare. What he tells can hardly be called a story, there is no plot in it, only remorse and self-blame. In his past life, Hill had never seen such a strong and intuitive accumulation of gray feelings.

This is undoubtedly the other half of the story, and the pain and remorse on Turner's face as he shares anecdotes about his adventures with Hill suggest that there is a other half of the story lurking behind the shadows. Now, both joy and pain are in full bloom before Hill's eyes. That's the real adventure.

Turner's prayerful confession lasted more than an hour, and he talked about the sound of clouds and cows and sheep on the morning he left home, the anguish of being trapped by his talent and not being able to go any further, the lonely grave in the vacant house when he returned home, and even the shameful escape four days earlier. In the meantime, Ciel kept looking at him intently. The boy's attentive gesture gave Turner some comfort, but then rose endless regret and intense self-loathing. With a cold wind blowing, Turner dissipates the residual heat after a cold war. Why would I confide in a young man I met for the first time in such an unreserved manner, he thought. There seems to be some kind of magic in this teenager, which makes people can't help but want to believe and confide.

Hill listened quietly to Turner's outpouring. Throughout, he showed neither pity nor comfort, which somewhat made Turner happy. Broken sympathy can only make a person feel insulted, which saves him from falling into an embarrassing situation.

"Ciel, how old are you this year?" Turner asked, rummaging through the wood under the campfire.

"Sixteen." The boy's voice still had a certain translucent texture.

Sixteen is less than half of my life so far, Turner thought. The boy looked to be less than sixteen years of height, and in the northern plains, where his physique was generally strong, he looked a little thin, and the average peasant child was similar in height at the age of fourteen. But what you can't see from the outside is more important than what you can see. Turner had never heard of a child of his age being able to walk through the Larlo Plains alone. Despite his immature appearance, he must be a skilled magician, but even so, his competent parents should not let him walk alone.

"Are your parents relieved that you are going out on an adventure alone?" Turner couldn't help but ask.

Hill didn't answer this question right away. He tilted his head in thought, then looked at Turner with his black pearl-like glasses.

"I don't have parents." He tilted his head slightly and replied expressionlessly. He did not take it as unfortunate or sad, as could be seen in his tone and expression, but it was a calmness that touched Turner.

"Is that your staff?" Turner wanted to change the subject, and he pointed to the black stick at Hill's feet with his chin.

"It's a weapon." Ciel glanced down and replied earnestly.

The staff, of course, was a weapon, Turner thought, and the answer was a little strange, but fortunately he had already learned something about the taciturn teenager during the conversation, and he attributed the title to the boy's strange personality.

The evening breeze of the prairie drifted from the end of the night in layers, and the cold air currents invaded the small and warm space around the campfire. Turner wrapped his girdle around his collar and pulled a flask out of the package.

"What's that?" Hill asked, blinking.

"Just plain ale. How's that, do you want a bite? ”

"Nope." Ciel shook his head. After thinking for a few seconds, he added, "I'm not an adult yet. Still, his eyes were fixed on the flask in Turner's hand.

It wouldn't be fun to get drunk in the wilderness, and Turner didn't try to persuade again.

Looking at the position of the moon, it is about seven hours before dawn. Turner decided to take a break to build up his stamina for the rest of the journey and the battle that followed. He padded the flask under his head to prevent him from falling asleep too deeply, and the smooth, stiff flask would alert him immediately if something happened. As for the weapon, it is placed on the right-hand side where it can be touched.

"Good night." He squinted his eyes and said to the boy across the campfire.

"Good night." Hill stared at him for a few seconds, then picked up the wooden block and knife that had been placed on the ground again.

The flames of the campfire shook in Turner's eyes, and he drifted into sleep in the warm air that was blurred around the flames.

※

When the first rays of the sun touched Turner's eyelids, his consciousness drifted from the dream.

He sat up and turned his head to look in Ciel's direction. The boy was still sitting cross-legged in the same position as he had been last night, but his closed eyelids and lowered hands showed that the boy had entered a sweet dream.

"He must be meditating." Turner thought. That's what mages often do when they're not on their adventures, allowing them to save expensive potions to restore their mana when the situation isn't urgent.

Turner touched the ashes on the wood, and years of adventure told him that the campfire had been extinguished for less than an hour, which meant that the boy did not close his eyes until dawn. He had no intention of disturbing the boy's rest, and quietly packed his bags and prepared to go.

"Huh?" Turner saw something on the package, a wood carving, carved by Turner himself. The wood carving shows Turner holding a flask, and even by Turner's rather amateur level, it is a beautiful piece of art. Turning to the wood carving in his hand, Turner remembered the wooden block and knife the boy was holding in his hand. The edges of the wood carving are clearly polished, and there are no burrs on it. Could such a work have been made in one night? Turner couldn't help but exclaim.

It's a precious gift, Turner thought. But how did he put this on the package next to me without me even noticing? After a fruitless period of hard thinking, Turner decided to give up on the pointless speculation. In this vast continent, people meet countless strangers every day. Some of them will make connections, but most of their memories will be lost in the chaos of people. People can't step into the same river twice, and it's not necessarily easier to meet the same people again. What's more, Turner knew what awaited him in front of him - last night's moonlight, and now thinking about it, it might be the last time he saw it.

He carefully placed the wood carving into the package. He turned back after putting the package and weapon on his body, and the boy was still sitting firmly by the extinguished campfire. His face facing the rising sun is like an angel in a church under the light and shadow.

My story is almost over, and may your adventure be enjoyable. Turner took this blessing to heart and slowly walked in the direction of the rising sun.