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墨書 Inktalez
Tall Ronin stood up, his hand slightly raised with the wine bowl, as if recounting heroic tales on a stage. His voice was deep and powerful, carrying a rough, weathered quality that seemed to echo with the remnants of war and bloodshed.
"You cannot imagine how brutal the Guranda Battlefield was," he said coldly, scanning the room with a gaze filled with sorrow and anger. "Our unit paid the price of three entire companies just to capture a single hill. Every slope was stained red with blood, and every inch of ground was piled high with corpses. With every step we took forward, we were not treading on stones, but on the remains of our comrades."
He paused for a moment, his eyes growing even more profound as if he were gazing into a distant past. "We finally took that damned hill, but the seesaw battle never ceased. Enemy reinforcements surged in like a tide, bullets and shells rained down upon us, and my squad fell one after another. I still remember the sky that day—gray and overcast, devoid of sunlight, as if it were heralding some great disaster."
The crowd listened intently, holding their breath. Someone could not help but ask, "What about the Extermination Bomb? What did you do when it fell?"
The Ronin's expression suddenly stiffened. His lips pressed together as if some unspeakable pain had lodged in his throat. He sat back down, glancing around warily as if alert to something unseen. He gently placed the wine bowl on the table, producing a dull thud.
"I... I don't want to talk about that," he said, his voice dropping suddenly with hesitation, as if harboring a monumental secret that could not be revealed.
"Why not? Just now you spoke so vividly!" one skeptical guest challenged, dripping with sarcasm.
"Yeah, how could anyone survive after the Extermination Bomb fell? It's impossible!" another chimed in disdainfully.
Listening to their doubts, the Ronin's gaze flickered uncertainly, his expression tightening. He lowered his head, lightly tapping his fingers on the table as if contemplating whether to say anything at all.
"This... is not something you should know," he forced out a sentence, then placed his hand against his forehead and sighed softly, as if enveloped in shadows.
"Come on! How did you survive?" The clamor from the crowd grew louder, filled with curiosity and dissatisfaction.
Yet the Ronin remained withdrawn; his wine bowl trembled slightly in his hand as he concealed his inner fear. He lifted his head again, pain flickering in his eyes just barely perceptible. His voice dropped to a whisper: "Don't ask... Some things are better left unsaid."
His mysterious and oppressive demeanor instantly tightened the atmosphere in the teahouse. People began to murmur, some mocking him while others sank deeper into curiosity. In the corner, Bing Lie remained silent, his gaze fixed on the wanderer, calm and sharp, as if he had already formed his own judgment about him.
The tension in the teahouse escalated with the wanderer's words, igniting everyone's curiosity as they leaned closer, eager to hear more. Just then, a burly man with a scruffy beard and bulging muscles squeezed through the crowd, a drink in hand. He plopped down beside the wanderer, his tone laced with provocation: "Hey, I say, could it be... your prosthetic has undergone some special modification? Otherwise, how could that Extermination Bomb let you off so easily?"
The wanderer's gaze lingered on the burly man for a moment, a flicker of light passing through his eyes as if he had touched upon a sensitive topic. However, he quickly lowered his head, running his fingers over an old Military Registration Plate, as if recalling some unspeakable past. His voice dropped to a husky whisper filled with mystery: "Ancestral Law... cannot be changed."
He lifted his head, scanning the crowd with a serious and hesitant expression, as if bearing some significant secret. "Some things should not be spoken of, nor can they be. I fear that once I speak them aloud, it will only throw this world into greater chaos..."
His words were delivered in a low tone, rich with meaning yet leaving much unsaid, making it impossible for anyone to glean more truth from them. The wanderer bowed his head again, gazing at the Military Registration Plate with an almost regretful posture, reminiscent of someone lost in memories or seeking penance for their concealment.
As these words hung in the air, the atmosphere in the teahouse reached its peak. Everyone unconsciously held their breath, their eyes glued to the wanderer. Various possibilities raced through their minds—an ancient lost technology? A secret organization that had vanished? Or perhaps some forbidden knowledge about prosthetic modifications?
"What is this Ancestral Law?" someone couldn't help but whisper, their voice filled with astonishment.
"He must possess some ancient technique, right?" another person added in a hushed tone.
The wanderer's demeanor only served to heighten their intrigue. He fell silent again, merely shaking his head slightly as if warning them not to ask further questions. His silence was like a match struck against dry tinder, igniting everyone's imagination; each person wove their own interpretations in their minds while whispers filled the teahouse, creating an atmosphere thick enough to suffocate.
Yet Bing Lie in the corner seemed unaffected by this charged atmosphere. He lowered his head to sip from his teacup, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—a hint of mockery that was barely perceptible. "This kind of trick..." he thought to himself, "I've seen it hundreds of times."
Bing Lie's gaze swept over the wanderer; every movement and every word from him felt like part of a meticulously crafted performance designed to attract attention and enhance his aura of mystery. For someone who had truly walked through blood and fire, such posturing was hardly worth noting; yet for ordinary onlookers, it was undoubtedly an eye-catching spectacle.
The wanderer bowed his head again as if preparing for something significant. Slowly, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small bottle. The bottle was deep amber in color with a metal seal at its neck; inside was a viscous golden liquid that shimmered enticingly under the light like melted gold.
"What is this?" someone whispered, their voice filled with curiosity.
The wanderer did not answer; he simply pried open the bottle cap with his fingernail. A faint metallic scent wafted from the opening, mingled with an indescribable chemical aroma. He raised the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and drank the golden liquid in one gulp.
The sound of the liquid flowing down his throat was distinctly audible. The wanderer then lowered the bottle, a satisfied smile creeping across his face as he let out a low sigh, as if what he had just consumed was not some concoction but a rare fine wine.
This action only deepened the confusion among those around him. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the wanderer, and murmurs of speculation filled the air.
"What is he doing?"
"What is that liquid? It looks like molten gold!"
"Could it be related to what he just mentioned about 'Ancestral Law'?"
Someone couldn't help but ask, "Hey, what did you just drink? What is that stuff?"
The wanderer smiled slightly but remained silent. He stood up quietly, drew his katana from his waist, its blade shimmering with a cold light under the lamp, as if the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees. He then hurled the sword towards the burly man from earlier; it arced through the air and thudded heavily into the table in front of him, its tip embedded deeply in the wood, quivering slightly.
"Strike me," the wanderer said coldly, his tone devoid of emotion, almost indifferent.
"What?" The burly man was taken aback, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Are you joking?"
The wanderer said nothing more; he stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back and chin slightly raised, exposing his chest. His gaze held an undeniable resolve. He nodded towards the knife. "Do it hard. Don't worry; it won't hurt me."
Silence enveloped the tea house, broken only by the faint static from a radio. Everyone held their breath, their eyes darting between the wanderer and the burly man, faces marked with shock and confusion. They had no idea what kind of game the wanderer was playing, but his demeanor undoubtedly sent chills down their spines.
The burly man grasped the hilt of the knife, his fingers trembling slightly, a look of hesitation crossing his face. He glanced at the ronin, then at the knife in his hand, as if weighing whether or not to strike. The tension in the teahouse reached its peak, everyone holding their breath, waiting for what was about to unfold.
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