Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 2 Uninvited Guest

The celebration's flames burned until midnight.

The bonfire in the center of the square had shrunk, but the embers still cast an orange-red glow, illuminating the faces of the people sitting around it in shifting light. Several cider barrels were empty, and the iron skewers on the barbecue grill were scattered all over the ground. The air was filled with smoke, the smell of alcohol, and the tired satisfaction of revelry.

The band had long since stopped playing, but a few tipsy townsfolk were still humming off-key folk songs. The children were fast asleep in their mothers' arms, the newly acquired spirit runes on their wrists still shimmering faintly, instinctively, in their sleep. Old Barton leaned back on a bench, his white beard stained with alcohol, telling a few newly-minted spirit rune enthusiasts the story of how he made a pact with a rock-armored bear thirty years ago—a story he was telling for the third time tonight.

Karen sat on the stone steps at the edge of the square.

He finally came. Not to join the celebration, but to sit in the shadows, a cup of herbal tea long since cooled, quietly watching it all. Mark and Tom danced and mimicked the spirits' movements around the campfire, eliciting bursts of laughter. The girl who had cried at the ceremony—Karen later learned her name was Anna—was now smiling, sharing a plate of honey cakes with another child who had failed.

At least for this moment, the pain is temporarily forgotten.

Karen took a sip of cold tea, his gaze unconsciously sweeping across the night sky. The night sky in Dustlight Town was usually so clear you could see the Milky Way, but tonight a thin mist made the stars appear hazy. He was preparing to get up and leave—

A black dot appeared on the southeastern horizon.

At first it was small, like a night bird returning home. But it moved incredibly fast, and two other black dots followed behind. Karen squinted, her right hand unconsciously tightening its grip on her teacup.

That's not a bird.

The black dots grew rapidly, their outlines becoming clear in the moonlight: spindle-shaped hulls, sharp bows, and wing-like structures extending from their sides. They were almost silent in flight, except for a low, teeth-grinding hum, like countless metal plates resonating in the far distance.

Three airships.

They were entirely black, barely reflecting even in the moonlight, with only some kind of emblem on their prows gleaming palely. Rows of tiny holes opened along the sides of the airships, from which a faint, dark red light emanated, like the breathing pores of some creature. They formed a wedge-shaped array, heading straight for Dustlight Town.

Karen stood up.

Some people in the square noticed the strange phenomenon in the sky. A dwarf blacksmith, who was drinking with his head tilted back, suddenly choked, the liquor dripping from the corner of his mouth. He pointed southeast, making a hoarse sound in his throat. Then came a second, a third… The music stopped abruptly, the jokes around the campfire were cut short, and everyone looked up.

"What's that?" someone asked in a low voice.

No one answered.

The airships were now close enough to see the details clearly. Each one was twenty meters long, its hull covered in matte black iron plates, with dark red energy patterns flowing along the seams. The wing-like structures were neither sails nor propellers, but rather a hybrid of some kind of mechanical and biological structure—a metal skeleton covered by a translucent membrane that trembled slightly with the rhythm of flight.

They began to descend.

Without circling or probing, it swooped directly down towards the center of the square. A massive shadow swept across the ground, obscuring the moonlight, the campfire, and the astonished faces of everyone. The air was compressed, creating a downward airflow that extinguished the campfire abruptly, sending sparks flying.

"Back up! Everyone back up!" Old Patton was the first to react, struggling to his feet, his drunkenness instantly sobering him up.

The crowd surged backward like a frightened herd, overturning tables and chairs and kicking over wine barrels. The children were awakened and began to cry. Several bold young spiritualist apprentices tried to step forward, but were held back tightly by their elders.

The first airship hovered three meters above the ground.

Its bottom opened, revealing six thick metal pillars that extended to sharp conical ends, piercing directly into the plaza's stone pavement. The stone slabs shattered with a teeth-grinding sound. The airship landed smoothly, its hull striking the ground with a heavy metallic clang, shaking the entire plaza.

Then came the second and the third.

They landed in a triangle on the square, surrounding the bonfire, the stone monument, and most of the townspeople in the center. The dark red light on the sides of the airships grew brighter, illuminating the emblem on the hull: a pale flame bound by thorny chains.

Karen recognized the logo.

Volume Two of "An Overview of the Political System and Orders of the North" records that the Azure Flame Order was founded around 320 AD. They claim to believe in "Pure Spiritual Flame," advocate for unified management of spiritual veins, and require that spiritual beings undergo rigorous selection before being allowed to form contracts with humans. In recent years, their influence has expanded rapidly, and they now control seven floating domains in the eastern part of the North.

But they had never been to such a remote place as Dustlight Town.

The airship's hatch opened.

Instead of a typical gangway, it flipped downwards to form a sloping ramp. Heavy boots pounded on the metal plates with a synchronized thud. A squad of soldiers clad entirely in black armor descended.

Their armor was the same matte black as the airship, with intricate transmission mechanisms at the joints, and the same pale flame emblem on their chests. The helmets were completely sealed, except for a thin, transparent crystal on the forehead that emitted a dark red light—presumably a viewing window. Each person wore a longsword at their waist, with energy circuits flowing through the scabbards.

There were twelve people in total, divided into two rows, standing solemnly on both sides of the slope.

Then, the captain came out.

He was dressed similarly to the soldiers, but his armor was more refined, with silver thorn patterns on his shoulder armor. He wasn't wearing a helmet, revealing short, iron-gray hair and a sharply defined face. He was about thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with a pale white scar on his chin that stretched from the corner of his mouth to his ear. His eyes were pale gray, like the surface of a frozen lake in winter.

The captain stopped at the bottom of the ramp, his gaze slowly sweeping across the square.

That gaze reminded Karen of the "Frostblade Wolf" he had seen in his encyclopedia—a predator that lives in the far north and uses that cold, assessing, emotionless look to examine its prey before launching an attack.

The townspeople were completely silent. Even the children's cries stopped, as if frozen by that gaze.

Old Barton took a deep breath, straightened his robes, and stepped forward. As mayor, this was his duty.

"Your Excellency," Old Barton said, his voice striving to remain steady, "Welcome to Dustlight Town. I am Mayor Barton Stonemark. May I ask what brings the Order here from afar?"

The captain didn't even look at old Barton. His gaze continued to sweep across the crowd, lingering for a moment, especially on the teenagers whose wrists still glowed with faint spiritual patterns.

"Roland." He finally spoke, his voice not loud, but every word clearly reached everyone's ears, "Captain of the Third Reconnaissance Team of the Azure Flame Order."

He took two steps forward, his boots clicking softly on the cracked stone slabs. The twelve soldiers followed in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized.

"In accordance with Article 42 of Chapter VII of the Northern Spirit Vein Security Act," Roland's voice remained flat, "and Resolution No. 77 of the Supreme Council of the Order, temporary control is hereby imposed on Dustlight Town and its affiliated spirit vein areas."

A suppressed commotion arose from the crowd.

"Control?" Old Barton's expression changed. "Sir, Dustlight Town is a free town, protected by the 'Floating Space Autonomy Convention,' we..."

"The convention has been suspended." Roland interrupted him, taking a metal cylinder from his waist and pressing the button on the top. A screen of light was projected into the air, displaying densely packed articles and three different seals—one of which was the griffin emblem of the Northern Council.

Old Patton leaned closer for a closer look, his face growing paler and paler.

"From this day forward," Roland retracted the metal cylinder, and the light screen disappeared, "all contracted spirit creatures must re-register, be rated, and branded at the team's registration office within three days. All those who have manifested spirit runes but are not yet contracted must undergo a unified test by the Order to determine their eligibility for contracting. All spirit creature-related items, books, and research records must be submitted for review."

He paused, his light gray eyes scanning the crowd once more.

"Those who possess unregistered spiritual objects, those who conceal information about spiritual objects, and those who resist investigation—"

His voice was lowered, but that only made it more penetrating.

"Considered treason. Punishments include, but are not limited to: sealing of spiritual veins, forced termination of contracts, confiscation of property, and... the death penalty."

When the last two words were uttered, the square fell into a deathly silence.

The crackling of the campfire sounded particularly jarring. A young mother tightly covered the mouth of her child in her arms, even though the child didn't make a sound. Mark's face was deathly pale, and he instinctively gripped his right wrist with his left hand, as if trying to cover the still-glowing blue markings. Tom took a step back, bumping into the person behind him.

Karen stood on the outskirts of the crowd, feeling his palms sweating. He'd long since put down his teacup; now his hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Roland's gaze had just swept in his direction, and though it was only for a fleeting moment, Karen had the unsettling feeling of being pierced by an icicle.

"Your Excellency," old Barton's voice trembled slightly, "this...this is too sudden. We need time to inform the townspeople, prepare materials, and many spirit contract masters are out and haven't returned..."

"The time limit is three days." Roland turned and walked towards the airship, seemingly having said everything necessary. "Failure to complete registration by the deadline will be treated as hoarding."

He walked halfway, then suddenly stopped and turned around.

This time, his gaze landed precisely on the resonance stone tablet in the center of the square. The bluish-gray stone tablet still emitted a faint blue light from the remnants of the ritual.

"This," Roland pointed to the stone tablet, "has an excessive concentration of spiritual vein nodes. It must be dismantled by noon tomorrow."

"What?!" Old Barton exclaimed. "That's the foundation stone of Dustlight Town! Built two hundred years ago by the first settlers, it connects to an underground tributary of the spiritual vein. Without it, the town's protective magic array would fail, and the psionic irrigation of the farmland would..."

"Demolish it," Roland repeated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Or my men can demolish it. If we do it ourselves, it might damage the ley line itself—you wouldn't want that."

After he finished speaking, he walked straight back to the airship. The soldiers followed closely behind, and after the last soldier climbed the ramp, the hatch slowly closed. The dark red patterns on the airship's surface brightened, emitting a deep hum.

The three airships were parked in the square, like three crouching black behemoths.

The townspeople remained frozen in place, no one daring to move, no one daring to speak. Only when all the lights on the outside of the airship went out and completely blended into the night, with only the pale flame emblem on the bow still emitting a cold light, did someone cautiously exhale.

Then came the second bite, and the third bite.

The whispers spread like a plague.

"They want to tear down the stone tablet..."

"Registration? Branding? What do those mean?"

"My grandfather's contracted spirit has been dormant for ten years. Does that also need to be registered?"

"The death penalty...they really will..."

Old Barton stood there, his back hunched, looking at the three airships, then at the Resonance Stone, every wrinkle on his face etched with weariness and despair. Several old spiritualists from the town gathered around him, arguing fiercely in hushed tones, but their expressions were all tinged with helplessness.

Karen quietly backed away and left the square.

He walked quickly along the stone path, his heart pounding in his chest. Not out of fear—at least not entirely. Something more complex was churning within him: anger, unease, and a strange sense of familiarity.

Roland.

He remembered the name.

Karen hurried back to the attic, lit a candle, and rummaged through the narrow bookshelves. Her father had left behind more than one notebook; besides research on spirit runes, there were also records about various forces in the North. He rarely looked at those, feeling they were too far removed from his own life.

But it's not far off now.

He pulled out a notebook covered in brown leather, its cover bearing his father's handwriting: "Notes on People in the North (Unfinished Manuscript)." He flipped through it quickly, the pages rustling in the candlelight.

found it.

"Roland Crest, former deputy captain of the 7th squad of the 'Spirit Vein Patrolmen' directly under the Northern Council. He was suspended from duty and investigated for 'excessive enforcement' in 435 AD and disappeared in the same year. In 436 AD, it was confirmed that he had joined the Azure Flame Order and served as the reconnaissance captain. He is suspected of possessing some kind of 'Spirit Vein Devouring' ability. Danger rating: A (Any unnecessary contact is not recommended)."

Below that is a line of smaller text, the ink lighter than the main text, which seems to have been added later:

"In the autumn of 434, I investigated the 'Abnormal Spirit Vein Fluctuation Incident' in Dustlight Town and had contact with Reno (my father's name). Conclusion: This person is extremely goal-oriented, will stop at nothing to achieve his goals, and has an almost obsessive focus on 'unconventional spirit vein phenomena. Be wary.'"

Fall 434.

That was a year before her father passed away. Karen remembered that during that time, her father often left early and returned late, sometimes staying all night in the old observation tower outside town. When asked what he was doing, he would only say, "Recording some data." Her mother was still alive then, and she would always stand anxiously by the window, looking in the direction her father had left.

Later, her mother passed away, and six months later, her father encountered an "accident" on his way to the observation tower—the carriage plunged off a cliff. The town sheriff investigated and determined it to be an accident, but Karen always felt…

The candle flame flickered suddenly.

Karen looked up out the window. From this angle, she couldn't see the square, but she could see the pale emblem on the bow of the airship, like a cold eye suspended in the night sky.

He closed his notebook, blew out the candle, and lay down in the darkness.

My right hand instinctively gripped the pendant at my chest. The jade was still warm, but tonight, the pulse seemed stronger than usual, like some kind of response, or perhaps... a warning?

Footsteps could be heard outside the window.

The footsteps weren't the scattered, disorganized steps of the townspeople; instead, they were orderly, heavy, and rhythmic. The Order's soldiers had begun patrolling the town. The sound of boots on cobblestones, the scraping of metal plates, and that deep, inhuman hum—perhaps the psionic devices built into the armor were activating.

Karen closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep, but Roland's light gray eyes kept appearing in the darkness.

Cold, evaluative, and unemotional.

And that resolute verdict:

"Considered as rebellion."

After an unknown amount of time, the patrol's footsteps faded into the distance. The town fell silent again, a tense, fearful silence. Karen finally felt a little sleepy.

Just then—

A very faint, almost inaudible sob came from the east side of the town.

It sounded like the mournful cry of a young animal, wounded, helpless, and full of pain.

Karen suddenly opened her eyes.

The voice was so faint, so faint, that one might mistake it for a hallucination. But he was certain he had heard it. And for some reason, the voice went straight into his mind, not through his ears, but through some more direct means.

He sat up and looked out the window.

To the east lies the town's old warehouse district, which has been abandoned for many years.

The sobbing stopped.

Karen sat in the darkness for a long time, clutching the pendant, listening to the silence of the night. Finally, he quietly got out of bed, put on his coat, and pushed open the attic door.

He has to go and take a look.

I have to go and see.