CH-053

The harvest festival Finnian spoke of was also called the "Festival of Abundance."

It was the Northern Territories' second-greatest festival, just after the New Year.

On that day, the villagers would collectively give thanks to the land deity for its gifts, celebrate the year's harvest, and also pray for the farming season ahead.

The festival typically lasted three days.

But the timing of harvest festivals varied across different parts of the Northern Territories—it generally followed the crop growth cycle, though the difference never exceeded a month.

This was a blessing for travelers.

Some planned their itineraries carefully, following the staggered timing of festivals across different locations—passing through one after another and celebrating for an entire month of harvest festivals.

Among these, traveling merchants were naturally the shrewdest.

Having spotted this business opportunity, they would follow the trail, setting up stalls, selling local specialties, or bartering goods from different regions. With the festive atmosphere running so high, people's desire to buy was much stronger than usual—even those with the slimmest purses were usually willing to spend at least a copper coin on something fitting to the occasion.

Going from one village to the next like this, traveling merchants would generally manage to earn quite a sum.

For Shu Li, this was also good news.

"In that case, I might be able to go and look for new seed varieties."

When Shu Li had been in Carson City before, he had genuinely intended to browse the agricultural market carefully, but various things had come up and he'd ended up having others buy things for him. This time, he would finally have the chance to go and choose things himself.

"Then come to the market square on the second or third day," Finnian said. "The first day is the most solemn, but there aren't actually any activities in the square—everyone goes off to take part in the ritual ceremony."

The ritual ceremony began at dawn.

At that time, people dressed in festival attire would offer the first bundle of grain cut that day to the harvest deity. The village elders would thresh the grain, selecting the fullest seeds and placing them in a wooden box decorated with the motif of the fox divine messenger. These became sacred "seeds of the coming year."

Come the second day of spring plowing, the village head—or a designated representative—would distribute these blessed seeds back to the villagers.

The uses of these seeds were unrestricted. Some were kept as planting seed, some were eaten as food, and some were sold as goods. But regardless of what became of them, the process of "distributing the seeds" was itself a blessing ritual—symbolizing the return of the harvest deity's grace to the land, cycling endlessly.

And so villagers attached great importance to offering the seeds.

The highlights of the first day didn't end there.

That dawn brought one wave of seed offerings, and after nightfall came the Fire Gate ritual—a tradition unique to the Savoie Parish.

People would use wheat stalks or other dried grasses to build a row of gate frames stretching from the square all the way to the road at the village entrance. On both sides of the gate frames, lit torches were placed—the total length stretching about fifty meters.

When the time came, the village head and assistants would begin to ignite the gate frames one by one.

As the flames rose, the village head and assistants would begin reciting blessings, and at the same moment, the fire gate ritual would officially begin.

This was usually the most exhilarating part.

Villagers in groups—some screaming, some running with heads lowered—would pass through the flames one by one, with cheering on all sides. It was said that anyone who could run through to the end in one breath would have good fortune for the year.

"We can go play the fire gate at night," Finnian said eagerly. "When I was little, my dad and mom brought me once. After that they wouldn't take me anymore. On my own I couldn't do it—they said little kids couldn't play by themselves. But it's really fun!"

Shu Li thought this sounded like an excellent cultural experience and agreed readily: "Sure!"

Raymond joined in as well: "Actually, for couples in the parish, this ritual is also quite meaningful."

"What do you mean?" Shu Li asked curiously.

Raymond seemed to be recalling something, a faint, shy smile drifting across his face, though he still spoke softly: "If an unmarried couple can pass through these fire gates hand in hand, it symbolizes that in the future they will overcome life's trials together, their love lasting through thick and thin. So those who have decided to marry will always walk through the fire gate ritual."

As he spoke, his tone was solid and his expression focused. It sounded like an account of a tradition handed down through the ages—and yet also like a quiet memory of a hand he had once held.

Finnian was quite contemptuous of this sort of thing: "There are so many people in our village who have walked through the fire gate ritual—but the ones who should be fighting are still fighting. How can you believe in a legend like that?"

Raymond immediately frowned: "If you don't believe in these rituals, then why do you want to participate?"

Finnian grinned brilliantly: "Obviously because it's fun!"

Raymond was speechless, and helplessly looked to Shu Li.

Shu Li opened his mouth and the words came: "The ritual is where the blessing begins—not a guarantee." He paused, then continued: "It is said 'man proposes, God disposes.' Even having received a divine blessing through the ceremony, if one still does nothing for the family—makes no contribution—then no number of blessings will matter. The existence of bad examples doesn't mean the fire gate ritual is useless. Doesn't a marriage that runs through troubles need genuine effort to make it work?"

Finnian looked struck for words and didn't know how to argue back. Raymond was pleased, but also knowing that Finnian was sharp-tongued, he had no intention of joining the conversation further, and went off to tend to his own business.

With Raymond gone, Shu Li walked back to the church with Finnian.

Seeing Finnian still looking somewhat dejected, Shu Li smiled: "Actually, what I said just now could be argued against."

Finnian looked up immediately: "How?"

"Because my argument has a flaw," Shu Li laughed. "I didn't answer the question of 'whether the fire gate ritual has no blessings.' Instead, I diverted attention to human effort. This is a logical sleight of hand—you could say I sidestepped the disputed core and substituted a more reasonable idea in its place. I didn't prove 'the ritual works'—I just said 'effort matters more.'"

Shu Li said: "These two things have nothing to do with each other, right?"

Finnian blinked, replaying Shu Li's words—indeed, he hadn't said "the ritual works."

Shu Li laughed: "When you want to win an argument, you need to break down the other person's logical structure. And also..."

Finnian knew what came next and immediately finished it: "Know when to stop, and don't just go for the verbal victory."

Because Shu Li could always teach him things school never had, he didn't actually mind at all when he couldn't answer Shu Li—he would get even more excited, feeling like he had learned a great deal.

At that point, Shu Li praised him: "Smart."

"Of course I'm very smart!" Finnian was quite proud.

Or rather, if someone else called him smart, Finnian would feel they were stating the obvious. But when Father Aliss called him smart, Finnian genuinely felt he was remarkable.

Finnian couldn't resist adding: "Father Aliss, would you like to be my teacher? If you were my teacher, I would definitely be the most well-behaved student in the world. Just think about it—have you ever had a student more obedient and smarter than me?"

Shu Li burst out laughing, immediately zeroing in on Finnian's weak point: "Don't you want to go to that grammar school?"

"I've never met a better teacher than you. They all don't like me..." Finnian said, then involuntarily let out a "hmph" of resentment—at what or at whom, it was unclear. "Anyway, I'm not going to make myself feel bad."

Shu Li curved up the corners of his mouth, just waiting for him to continue.

It seemed like he still had a lot of little secrets he was keeping to himself.

Finnian didn't hide too much from Shu Li, and whispered: "When I left school, I wrote 'truly ugly' on the painting of a wheat field hanging in the headmaster's office."

Shu Li tilted his head in puzzlement. "?"

Finnian explained earnestly: "I attended a church school. The textbook illustrations were painted by a high-ranking bishop. My teacher told me at the time that the painting was beautiful and asked me to admire it. But I couldn't appreciate it, and was criticized for it. Later I found out the headmaster's office also had an identical painting hanging there. Before leaving school, I specifically went to the headmaster's office."

Finnian gestured with his hands to show the approximate size of the wheat field painting, then continued with great vivid detail: "The painting was hung on the wall, immaculate, like a church relic. I stood there and stared at it for a long time, and then, slowly, at the corner of the painting, I wrote two words: 'truly ugly.'"

"..." Shu Li suspected this child had caused quite a few incidents during his schooling. But since he was standing here perfectly unharmed, the headmaster's office probably hadn't caught him in the act either.

Still, as someone who had gone through twenty-first century schooling always following the rules, Shu Li found himself at a loss for how to respond to Finnian's delinquent exploits, and felt a headache coming on. Since Finnian was right there and his ear was conveniently close, Shu Li couldn't be bothered thinking it through and casually ruffled his ear.

The moment Finnian felt Shu Li's affectionate, indulgent touch, he knew he hadn't been disliked, and immediately grinned brighter than Narci the little fox, pressing close to Shu Li. "Am I not being good? Aren't I very likeable?"

"Stop being so ingratiating." Shu Li felt that Finnian had actually been very well-behaved in front of him—it was just that with other people, that was hard to say. This kid had known how to play the victim and trick people from the very first time they met—a thorough little fox dressed in lamb's clothing. It was hard to imagine what kind of person he'd grow up to be. Though, in all fairness, how had such a character never gotten even a single mention in the original novel?

Shu Li couldn't help wondering.

Finnian, unable to get anywhere with Shu Li, amused himself, and began thinking about the harvest festival again.

"I didn't finish saying before—the market is on the second day of the harvest festival. If Father Aliss wants to go, the second day is the best time for a good look around. On the third day there's also a food festival in the square, so the market won't break up, but there'll be fewer people."

On the third day's food festival, everyone would have the chance to observe and vote on the outstanding agricultural products of each household in the village. For example, the theme this year was cabbage—whoever grew the biggest, heaviest cabbage would win prizes donated by the village elders. The winning contestant would receive a prize from the village elders' pooled funds.

On that note, Finnian clapped his hands and said: "Oh, right—I heard that this year the prizes for all the harvest festivals are being provided by the Duke. First prize is a purebred horse and a set of new horse collars. You have no idea how many people in our village have been clutching their heads in regret over this news!"

His words rose and fell with dramatic flair, waiting for someone to follow up.

So Shu Li asked: "Why would they be upset?"

"Obviously because the prizes are so good!" Finnian flung out a hand, grinning. "You don't know—in the past, the prizes from the village elders' end were one bucket of milk each. Everyone in our village was scornful, felt it wasn't worth it, and didn't bother having any expectations. So our village only had a few people enter the cabbage competition. Now look—they only found out now that this year's prize includes a horse, and they all wish they could turn back time."

Horses were far more valuable than oxen!

Finnian said all this while imitating the villagers' regretful expressions, then couldn't sustain the charade himself and burst out laughing first—like a child who had never known a day of worry.

Shu Li actually filed this away in his mind.

So the Duke was beginning to promote horse plowing.

This method of using prizes to promote horse plowing was both clever and inconspicuous. And the harvest festival itself naturally attracted people's attention—once a winner demonstrated the efficiency gains of horse plowing in their fields, others would naturally follow suit.

Moreover, this made people feel it was their own choice, not something forced upon them or ordered from above. The villagers' acceptance would be high, and there would be no resistance to the new farming method.

Was something this thoughtful conceived by the Duke alone? Or had someone been behind the scenes strategizing for him?

Shu Li suddenly thought of his own remark about "you'll have to wait until winter before I can be killed." Would that Duke let a moment like this pass?

Shu Li immediately recalled the Duke's sharp gaze, cutting like a knife—and felt as if his face had been scraped by cold wind, stinging with pain.

He hastily swept the thought aside and dared think no further.

On the walk back to the church, Shu Li's mind gradually cleared.

But before his thoughts had fully settled, arriving at the church forecourt, the scene before his eyes froze him to the spot—

The small wooden donation box that normally held a few modest offerings was now stuffed to overflowing.

Gleaming onions piled in concentric rings, purple-skinned potatoes stuffed into rough hemp sacks, freshly dried bundles of rosemary and thyme tied into herb bouquets and placed in the corner of the box. Alongside these: dried mushrooms, wheat, handmade cheese and bread, all neatly arranged in a row beside the box.

And that enormous cabbage—it looked close to two kilograms and nearly double the size of the ones in the garden, clearly having been left in the ground past its time for harvest and allowed to grow on.

The elder Yagg nearby, cradling a sack heavy with flour, was lifting his gaze and calling out excitedly toward Shu Li: "Father Aliss—all of this was sent by the townspeople!"

His voice carried a disbelief that was almost overflowing, his face practically spelling out the word "miracle."

Shu Li couldn't process it: "..."

Elder Yagg was beside himself with joy: "Father Aliss! We finally have believers! And not just one!"

*

Leslie had walked for over ten days on the road back from Stein City to the Savoie Parish.

Throughout those ten days, one thought kept cycling through his mind: he would rather burn the Savoie manor to the ground than leave it to anyone. That was his mother's place. That was their home.

He could not accept others simply taking it over and doing with it as they pleased.

And so along the way, he had bought large quantities of pine resin and blocks of pitch.

These were common enough items in large cities, readily available in many places.

With the Duke's crest, he could take considerable goods from a shop without being questioned. Free passage between city districts, no travel permits required—these had saved him a great deal of trouble. He also didn't want others to learn his movements too quickly, or for someone to block his path halfway through.

Yet it all went smoothly. No one paid him any attention—not even a flicker of an unusual glance.

He had been somewhat tense at first, worried someone might be watching him from behind.

But the further he walked, the more numb he became.

He had always known he was someone no one would concern themselves with—his feelings were nothing but self-indulgence.

The moment he became aware of this, he found he wanted to return to where he had started.

At first he had felt the journey too long, but when he entered the familiar Northern Territories and the outlines of mountain forests gradually appeared—

With each step closer, his heartbeat felt like it was being pulled taut.

That wasn't anticipation. It was a premonition. Unease.

Because his experiences from earliest childhood had all told him: what he wanted would certainly not be his to have.

His expectations would certainly be disappointed.

Regardless, he would return to his manor first.

The manor always had people looking after it—a steward, servants, and staff to tend the gardens and house through every season.

He had assumed at least everything would be as it was.

But as he approached, he found the door fitted with an unfamiliar lock.

The familiar door frame had shed some paint, as if grayed and defeated by abandonment.

He circled around to the side, stepped onto the old tree he had always climbed as a child—the one he loved to hide in when playing hide-and-seek. But the smooth, worn stone he used to step on was gone.

Windows and doors were all locked tight.

He gripped the windowsill and peered inside.

The furniture had been nearly stripped from the interior—a few large pieces remained heaped in corners, covered with white sheets like hastily concealed corpses. Empty, deathly quiet. Every familiar corner had been transformed.

His gaze settled on the wall where his mother's portrait had once hung. It was empty now. Not even the nail remained.

He stood motionless for a long moment.

The manor's servants were gone—no farewell, no goodbye, as if they had never existed. He didn't even know: his mother's former home was truly going to be converted into a school. And no one had told him—not a single word of notice.

He felt like a joke.

He had come here imagining he would resist, protect, fight. Carrying sacks of pitch and pine resin, as if fire could actually reclaim something.

But now he couldn't even get through the door.

Standing by the window, he suddenly found it funny. Then, laughing, tears almost fell.

He clenched his fist tight. Resentful, and ashamed. He hadn't come here for revenge. He was like an uninvited guest who had humiliated himself, not even worthy of pushing open the door.

He thought: what would burning it accomplish? Who would see it? No one cares about him here anymore.

Perhaps he should be grateful—at least they were willing to give him food to eat, at least they hadn't beaten or scolded him outright, merely ignored him. After all.

Perhaps he was asking too much.

Leslie did not know which direction the road of his life should lead.

Bishop Hugo had told him: follow the path toward the Duke, and you'll find your future. But he had no interest in that position, and he had no interest in his own future either.

He stayed in the Savoie Parish for nearly a week.

But throughout all that time, no one noticed he was back—as if he simply did not exist.

Sometimes, Leslie thought to himself: could he perhaps fall gravely ill and simply die.

But unfortunately, even when he was hungry, he couldn't starve himself.

Autumn was the season of abundance. Fruit hung heavy on the surrounding trees.

Not to mention that Leslie could effortlessly obtain what he needed from the nearby orchards.

During his time in the Savoie Parish, Leslie mostly sat before his mother's gravestone.

It was quiet there—no one disturbed him. As if the whole world had contracted to just himself and that cold slab of stone.

Sometimes he felt like a dandelion drifting weightlessly: blown wherever the wind carried him, no roots, no direction. Only this gravestone was like the one hand that pulled him back from the air, pressing him into reality.

But he didn't want to say anything, really. He didn't know what to say.

As time passed, he actually began to feel that the world had always been this way: dull, monotonous, cold. As if everything repeated the same colors, unchanging, without meaning.

He thought he had love for his mother, and hatred for his father. But thinking about it now, it seemed like neither remained.

He asked himself in confusion: why did people exist? What did having lived amount to? Did it have anything to do with him?

He seemed to lack even a target to fight for.

If life had dealt him greater shocks, greater hardship—would things have changed? Could he have wept boldly, hated fiercely, gone wildly mad—at least that would have stirred more feeling and passion inside him.

But instead, life had given him no new blows.

Slowly, calmly, it ground away at his old wounds, over and over—until what had once been sharp pain became heavy and dull, like stone wearing smooth. Grinding him down, bit by bit.

He had even begun to accept this version of himself: numb, silent, no longer expecting warmth.

Autumn nights came early. He watched the sun sink behind the hills.

Leslie was about to head back to the manor.

He had broken an angle of the window and pried the lock—easy enough—and had been coming and going freely since. He was sleeping in his old familiar place these days.

But when he turned, his gaze caught a flash of white.

A snow-white little fox.

Its fur was thick and fluffy, ruffled by the evening breeze until it looked like a clump of cotton that couldn't quite take flight. It had just sat down and was scratching at its own head with a back paw.

Leslie had been about to look away with indifference—and then he plunged straight into a gaze like a deep sea. The color of dusk and mist mingling, the hue of evening light, cool and still enough to make one forget to breathe.

That person, the first time they met, had always been somewhat distant—but after he had helped Finnian at the wedding, things began to feel different.

Just like now: those twilight-colored eyes, meeting his, radiated a warmth one could lean on.

Leslie could almost feel, even across that great distance, that the person must carry a pleasant scent. Perhaps because his eyes made one think of things that smelled good.

"May I invite you to dinner?" the person asked.

Leslie inwardly gave a cold laugh: If you knew I was carrying enough pine resin and pitch to ignite an entire mountainside, would you dare invite me to dinner? You'd more likely ask a cleric to sprinkle the kitchen with holy water first.

He didn't wait for Leslie to refuse. Father Aliss smiled and said: "I think you'd really enjoy chestnut cream soup. The weather is getting colder—there's nothing better than something warm to eat."

Leslie frowned, neither willing to agree nor to deny it: "How do you know I'd like chestnut cream soup?"

"To be precise," Father Aliss said without hesitation, "I know many things about you that even you yourself don't know."

Leslie thought: this person was certainly not a messenger sent by the Lord. He was an emissary of the devil—skilled in the arts of temptation, able to stir someone's heartstrings with just a few words.

"Not refusing means agreeing."

Leslie said nothing and gave no nod. But when Father Aliss turned and walked away, he followed as if pulled by an invisible thread—though his footsteps were pressed very light, the distance kept wide, like someone ready to slip away at any moment.

On the other side, Shu Li had known Leslie was back ever since he arrived, and had been thinking about whether to reach out.

Based on the Duchess's personality, her return would be announced with fanfare, and the Duke would never come back to Savoie on his own with Leslie. So Shu Li guessed the child must have run away from home.

He had also heard from Sheriff Reilly that the manor staff had been cleared out after Leslie left for the wedding.

And so Shu Li couldn't help wondering: was the child wandering about at night with no one to care for him, perhaps ripening crops wherever he went just to find something to eat? Surely the child couldn't go hungry.

And so Shu Li thought he'd make a few meals for him. If this child was exactly as cold and calculating as described in the original novel, Shu Li would leave well enough alone. A cold person was by necessity somewhat selfish, and would certainly be capable of taking care of himself.

Shu Li wasn't so naively compassionate that he'd try to rescue a venomous snake.

But after the wedding incident, Shu Li had caught a glimpse of another truth: however much the original novel's protagonist had hardened into what he became—right now, at this moment, Leslie was simply a young child with wounds all over his body, because he didn't know how to protect himself.

Shu Li had reached the church entrance when he suddenly remembered something and turned—and Leslie, who had been following behind, took a step backward instead.

"..." Shu Li, looking at the child's attitude toward himself as if facing some terrifying monster, honestly couldn't figure out his psychology.

He had clearly not studied enough child psychology!

Shu Li admonished himself inwardly.

After a moment of silence, Shu Li found his voice and said: "...Here's the thing—September has the harvest festival. If you haven't left the Savoie Parish yet, would you like to come along and join us?"

At those words, Leslie's eyes flickered, and his voice carried immediate wariness: "Why are you inviting me? You and I are not close."

"Finnian will be there too."

Shu Li deployed his trump card for dealing with Leslie.

The two young ones could go have fun together, surely?

Sure enough—hearing that Finnian would also be at the harvest festival, Leslie was silent for less than two seconds before saying in a muffled voice: "...Understood. I'll think about it."

In Shu Li's view, that phrasing meant he had agreed.

Shu Li felt Finnian would be pleasantly surprised.