Chapter 10

 Visitor from the Kingdom of Carbonihar

The sun rose over the wide plains. The snow that had fallen in winter melted with the coming of spring, and rain had ridden the wind through the night before stopping. The earth had taken on a dark brown hue. The scent of soil spread thickly as sprouts lifted their heads here and there.

Dozens of round tents, called gers or yurts, stood across the field. As livestock began to cry out, people emerged one by one. They checked whether any animals had gone missing during the night and soon felt sweat gathering beneath their layered coats.

Here, in Dithmarschen, winter and spring had long been one and the same. But recently, their boundary had grown distinct. The flow of mana had entered a period of stability.

The force that once wielded nature at will and brought about disasters was subsiding. The people of the Bard tribe offered prayers, praising the mercy of the gods.

Among them, a young girl carrying a basin headed toward one of the tents.

She was the daughter of the tribal chief. Aside from her sharp eyes, inherited from her father, she was no different from any other nine-year-old girl. And lately, she had been caring for a rather strange person.

He's still asleep.

The man lay alone on the bed.

Even as sunlight poured in through the open entrance and fell across his face, he remained in a deep, unmoving sleep. The girl set the basin down beside the bed and looked him over.

"..."

His skin was pale and bloodless, his black hair loose and disheveled like a lion's mane. Someone who lived outdoors would normally be tanned and weathered, but he looked like a pampered young noble raised in comfort.

But he was neither a youth nor a noble.

He was Ulrich, the lord of Dithmarschen.

The elders of the Bard tribe called him by many names: Ulrich, lord, master—and elder. The girl understood the first three, but she could not understand why they called him "elder."

Why would they call someone younger than her father that?

Her father had told her that he had lived for a very long time. The elders said that even when they were her age, he had looked exactly the same as he did now. It was hard to believe.

The girl was eight years old. She was not yet at an age where she could fully grasp that time aged people. Nor could she understand that someone who had lived longer than anyone else could still appear so young.

What a strange person.

And so, to her, he was simply strange.

And that strange person was in a deep sleep.

Not just an ordinary deep sleep. Not something that lasted a day or two. It had already been three days, then a week—deep enough that one might begin to worry the "elder" had fallen under a curse or an illness.

Yet the tribe's elders seemed unconcerned no matter how deeply he slept. When she asked worriedly, her father had said:

"He'll wake when the time comes."

And he added,

"This isn't the first time he's slept like this. Once, he slept so deeply he didn't wake until the following winter."

This, too, the girl could not understand.

But what could she do? The adults said so.

Ever since the elder had fallen into that dreamlike slumber, the girl came into his tent every morning after prayers to clean and wipe his face.

At first, she worried—What if he wakes? But he never so much as stirred. Her father was sensitive enough to wake at the sound of a wolf's footsteps even inside the ger, yet the elder lay there without even changing his breathing no matter what she did.

Eventually, she even tried placing her hand beneath his nose.

After wiping his face, she would always gently place her finger beneath his nose—to check if he was breathing properly. Each time, she would feel the faintest, most delicate breath, and she would leave the tent relieved.

But today… this moment was different.

"Huh?"

The instant her finger touched his skin, he opened his eyes.

"Huh…?"

Their gazes met. As the elder's black eyes looked up at her, she froze with her finger still beneath his nose. Staring down at him, her lips began to tremble.

Did I wake him? Did he wake up because of me?

Worry suddenly surged within her. She had only done it out of concern, nothing more. She opened her mouth to explain—but no words came out. She was afraid of being scolded.

"I'm thirsty."

Seeing her expression crumple, he spoke.

"I-I'll bring it right away!"

Like someone who had found light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, the girl quickly turned and ran out of the ger.

"Daaad—!" her voice echoed.

The weather is warm.

Right after the girl left, Ulrich thought to himself.

He lay quietly on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't the usual color or shape he was accustomed to. His chamber was built of gray stone, but what he saw now was yellowed fabric.

Why is that?

He blinked a couple of times.

Then his memory told him: this was not the lord's residence, but the dwelling of a tribe. It was inside a round tent—a ger—set up for him by the Bard tribe.

A warm breeze slipped through the slightly open entrance.

Has winter passed?

Having just awakened, a haze of sleep lingered, tangling his thoughts for a moment. He couldn't recall the dream he had just had, yet his mood was lifted. It must have been a pleasant one.

He raised his hand and covered his face.

It's fine. Everything's fine.

He had fallen asleep near the end of winter.

After finishing a hunt for magical beasts, he had stopped by the Bard tribe to rest—and suddenly felt a sense of boredom. When one lives long enough, such moments come. When life becomes too familiar, and that familiarity turns into monotony.

Whenever that happened, he slept deeply. Like a bear entering hibernation through the winter when food was scarce, he too would fall into deep sleep when life felt that way. He never set a fixed duration. There had been times he slept for decades on end.

For an ordinary person, it would be nothing more than wasting time. But for him, it didn't matter. He did not die, nor did he age. Even dragons had asked him if he would live forever—such was the length of time he possessed.

That was how he escaped boredom.

"You've awakened."

As he was thinking that, the girl returned with two others.

"The weather is lovely, Kurt."

"Indeed. It's fully spring now."

Kurt—the tribal chief and the girl's father—greeted him with a smile. Seeing him, Ulrich was reminded of an elder named Brase. Brase had been Kurt's father, and he had died the previous winter.

The last time Ulrich had seen Brase was the previous summer. Having seen the shadow of death upon the old man's face, he had returned something that had been entrusted to him in his younger days. It was almost like a grim prophecy—but the old man had simply said one thing: thank you.

Now the old man was gone, and his fourth son stood before him.

There was a trace of Brase in Kurt. Though they were different individuals, something connected them and stood before him now.

It was a feeling he had seen and experienced far too many times.

"..."

Ulrich raised his upper body and asked,

"How long did I sleep?"

"A little over a month."

Kurt added with a grin, "This time was rather short for you."

"This time? Ah, right."

A memory surfaced.

"I've seen you before."

"You remember? I stayed at the estate as a page."

About thirty years ago—before Kurt had even turned ten—he had lived at the lord's residence as a page and received instruction from Ulrich.

If memory served, Ulrich had fallen asleep in the summer back then and only awakened in the following winter. It had been the first time he had slept that long while serving as the lord of Dithmarschen, and it had caused quite a stir.

"Compared to that, this isn't even a tenth of it."

Kurt smiled.

"I see. Compared to that, yes."

Ulrich nodded with a faint smile, then turned to the priest standing beside Kurt.

"Did you hear that, Roberta?"

Roberta awkwardly scratched the back of her head.

"Yes… I suppose I worried for nothing."

Her gaze briefly flicked toward Kurt.

The young chieftain met her look with a playful smile, as if to say, See? I was right. It seemed they had argued over whether Ulrich would wake on his own.

"I've never seen anyone sleep like you, my lord."

"I hear that often. Not just about that."

Accepting a teacup from the girl, Ulrich asked Roberta,

"Nothing unusual happened while I was asleep?"

"No, nothing worth mentioning."

Ulrich felt a piercing gaze.

"Is that so?"

It was her attention, directed at him. She tried not to show it, but she couldn't deceive him. He had seen that look too many times—the look of an observer studying something they could not understand.

Roberta, the chief priest of the Duchy of Dithmarschen.

Nearly a year had passed since her appointment. Yet her intense curiosity about him seemed unchanged. To her, he was a strange lord—an existence that shattered common sense itself.

She must have searched the records and confirmed that he had lived for three hundred years. She must have heard claims that he had lived even longer. With her own eyes, she had seen him perform an infant baptism and witnessed his wounds heal as if the blood itself were drawn back into his body.

It would be impossible for her not to be curious.

"While you were resting, Sir Bernhard handled all affairs perfectly. So well, in fact, that the people didn't even realize you were asleep."

At her light remark, he nodded.

"He's doing well. That child has always fulfilled his role."

Ulrich took a sip of tea and continued,

"However, I wasn't asking about him—I was asking about you. Bern is someone I raised, so I have no concern about what he does out of my sight. But you? Roberta, have you been doing well as chief priest?"

She averted her gaze.

"…You already know the answer."

"I thought there might have been some change, but it seems not."

Just as Roberta remained curious about Ulrich without making progress, she also showed little progress in her duties as chief priest.

From the moment of her appointment, she had to travel all across Dithmarschen to restore the diocese her predecessor had ruined. It wasn't merely that there had been a temporary administrative gap due to the predecessor's disappearance.

Over sixteen years, thirteen chief priests had come and gone—and during that time, even the temple had burned down. The relationships built between the temple and its followers, both publicly and privately, had all but vanished.

Come to think of it, her cheeks had filled out quite a bit.

"If you need help, tell me immediately."

Roberta let out a short sigh.

It was a sigh that carried the weight of her predecessors' accumulated burdens.

"It's fine. This is something I should handle myself."

Ulrich studied her for a moment, humming softly.

"So you didn't come to see me because of the diocese."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Then why did you come? Did Bern ask you to?"

"Yes. Sir Bernhard asked me to come. We have a visitor."

"Explain in detail."

Instead of answering immediately, Roberta glanced at Kurt. Understanding the signal, he led the girl out of the tent. Once they had left, she began.

"Do you know about dragons?"

"Dragons?"

The unexpected topic made him tilt his head.

"A race with scales and wings—not magical beasts."

"Of course I know. It would be stranger if I didn't."

"Have you seen them in person?"

"Certainly. Not just in books or stories—I've seen many living ones. They possess incredibly long lifespans. If I were to list the people I've been connected to in order of time, they would be far above the rest."

He continued, his tone turning thoughtful.

"If your curiosity has suddenly turned toward dragons, then your visitor must be rather unusual."

"Yes, that's right."

She nodded a couple of times.

"There's someone looking for dragons. They're asking for a guide."

"For what reason? Why seek dragons now?"

When she replied that the reason had not been disclosed, he frowned slightly.

"I don't understand. Of all things, dragons…"

"Is there a problem?"

"Well…"

Ulrich thought for a moment, then asked,

"Roberta, how much do you know about dragons?"

"Not much… As you know, dragons rarely appear in the world in their true forms."

She explained what she knew from scripture: that dragons were one of the races created by the gods when they still resided in the heavens, and that after the gods departed, dragons occasionally intervened in the world by taking human form.

"That would be about right," Ulrich murmured.

"Dragons have rarely appeared in recorded history. Even the last time one left its name behind was in a previous age. In your time, dragons are nothing more than mysterious beings from fairy tales—appearing in human form and then vanishing. It's natural to think that way."

He paused between each sentence.

As he spoke, memories surged forth—so distant that he barely recognized them as memories.

They were from a time so ancient that even the histories of dwarves and elves had been severed from record. Now, he might be the only one left who had experienced or remembered them.

He could not be certain how much of those memories, diluted by time, still matched the truth. He had to choose his words carefully.

What he spoke would be taken as fact—an unquestionable truth no one could refute. Speaking of a past no one else knew left him no choice but to be cautious.

"It's unfortunate. History is not a single unbroken line. Too much has been lost. Dwarves and elves are remembered because they built their own eras and left deep marks, and because many of them still remain today. But dragons… they fade without ever having had an age of their own."

Ulrich wrapped both hands around his teacup and looked down at it.

"Very few people know that the first intelligent being was a dragon. That a four-legged lizard was granted intelligence along with a name—and that name was Ruobeidra. He was a wise and compassionate dragon."