Chapter 15: Sage of the Waves

The northern city of Kunlan in Delanmaya was thrown into an uproar by our arrival, because we brought news of the fall of Titello. Titello City, which had the reputation of being the “Dragon Peak Barrier,” was not only an iron lock guarding the northern gate of Delanmaya, but also a psychological line of defense for the Delanmaya Army’s border. When we told Kunlan’s governor, Count Futal, about the fall of Titello City, this elderly noble completely lost the composure and rationality he should have had. Forgetting all dignity, he shouted at his servants right in front of us.

“Reinforcements! Ask the capital for reinforcements! Ask all the nearby cities for reinforcements! The Winstons are coming! Help!”

Fred shot a disgusted look at the old man curled up on his bed in his fancy pajamas, and followed Carlson out of the luxurious governor’s mansion together with the rest of us.

Because we had lost our original unit assignment, our group of thirteen, including Poirot, became stragglers in the city of Kunlan, waiting to be reassigned to new legions. Squad Leader Carlson — now Captain Carlson — began to intensify our combat training. It was then that we gradually discovered just how much our long-term running training had helped us: it gave us a big advantage over others in balance, explosive power , and the sense of rhythm for attack and defense. And we who had been through the hell of the killing field knew all too well that this small advantage was often the key between life and death. Within a short time, the dozen or so new soldiers had greatly improved their battlefield combat techniques. The only thing they lacked was practical experience in combat — the one kind of experience we never wanted to gain again.

As for Poirot, he was now an unofficial member of Carlson’s independent Light Infantry company. Ever since he had forged a deep battle friendship with us in the jungle, his mood had clearly brightened a great deal. What I meant to say was: he had become a little too bright.

“Pretty miss, hello. I am Poirot, Poirot Jonas, a Mage. I have traveled all the way from the distant east, already a journey of eight years — what? I don’t look like it? Ah, well, I just look young. Let’s continue this interesting conversation — all along the way, I have never seen a miss as beautiful as you. Your beauty shames the flowers by the roadside; your radiance dims the stars in the sky. I very much wish to grow old together with a miss like you, spending… what? You’re already married? That’s fine, no man has the right to keep your beauty for himself alone. Huh? Uh… your husband is nearby? Where?”

…

“Don’t tell me… he is… that… gentleman… behind me… sir…”

…

“I’m sorry, your wife is very prett… I mean, very lovely. You are truly blessed. May you grow old together, live in harmony, have children soon, and suffer many disasters… I mean, enjoy much fortune and longevity. Why are you holding that stick? You’re standing too close? No need to…”

…

“Ah, don’t hit my face. Ah, I told you not to hit my face. Stop hitting me! Oh, you’re still hitting… Watch my magic… Ah, you won’t even let me finish my incantation. Help! Help!”

…

“Jeff, I’ve been heartbroken again.” Poirot said with a mournful face.

“Poirot, this is the fourth time you’ve said that today.”

“Someone snatched away my love, and then I was brutally beaten.”

“As I recall, the one who hit you was someone else’s husband.”

“I almost died an unnatural death, abandoned in a foreign land. Can’t you at least offer some sympathy?”

“Sympathy, oh, right, sympathy. I almost forgot if you hadn’t mentioned it. Dakla!”

“What is it, Jeff?”

“Remember to make a tombstone when you have time, and carve these words on it: Here lies Poirot Jonas, a Mage who only knew escape magic. He died, as expected, after a single attempted harassment. May all the lechers of the world take this as a warning and remember him fondly. Make sure to make it nice. How do you like that as sympathy?”

“What bad friends I’ve made, you have no conscience… Riley, won’t you say something for me too?”

“Back home I used to work as a gravedigger. If you need, I’ll dig you a super-luxurious split-level tomb—five bedrooms, three living rooms, four bathrooms—and give you ten percent off. Satisfied?”

“Even though you mock and belittle me, I will never give up my path to finding true love. As the great poet said, in the frost-covered autumn of love, the ones that wilt are the eggplants, and the ones that stand tall are the radishes. I’m going to fight, my comrades. Bless me. Beautiful miss outside, please wait…”

“Farewell, radish. Oh, I forgot to tell you, that was the blacksmith’s wife. Whatever, you would have found out sooner or later anyway.”

…

Such scenes kept playing over and over, forcing Fred and me to seriously weigh just how much of the sad past he had told us was actually true. I always felt that his having been forced to leave his homeland back then had a great deal to do with his habit of womanizing. Fred agreed wholeheartedly.

Ten days passed amid this kind of clamor. The Winston Western Route Army, which had already pushed deep into the inland Dragon Ridge Mountains, did not rush to attack cities and seize territory as most city lords feared, but instead turned eastward to rescue the trapped and blocked Central Route Army and Eastern Route Army. The Delanmaya Army poured continuously toward the northern battlefield, holding an absolute numerical advantage, and the situation looked excellent. Everywhere, scenes of song, dance, and peace reappeared. It seemed that except for us soldiers who had survived and escaped from the bloody battlefield, everyone could foresee that completing the great feat of crushing the mighty Winston invaders was merely a matter of time.

“Verona!” One day, while we were strolling the streets, I spotted a familiar figure.

A fat old man wearing a black robe stained with grease, dragging a long grayish-white beard, heard my shout, turned his head, and saw me.

“Hey, little Jeff, how did you end up here?” Verona was clearly startled by my sudden appearance and reluctantly greeted me, with an expression of unspeakable awkwardness.

“I’m serving in the army — I’m a soldier now. These are my comrades: this is Fred, Riley, Dakla, Poirot, and Rodrick. This is my old friend, Verona.” I winked and lowered my voice, then added, “He’s a real, genuine Mage, you know.”

This old man named Verona had once been an Adventurer, seemingly a high-ranking Mage of considerable prestige and standing. He had passed through the Horseshoe Tavern many times, a talkative and amusing old man who loved telling us kids his adventure stories. Speaking of which, it was precisely because of his wonderful adventure stories that my older brother Pierre had been lured beyond redemption into yearning for the adventurer’s life.

One night he got dead drunk at the tavern and, in complete disgrace, toppled headfirst into the toilet, nearly becoming first-rate fertilizer for next year’s barley. Fortunately, a midnight call of nature brought me by, and I fished him out in time, then dragged him back to his room while it was late and no one was around. This incident made him lose a great deal of face in front of me. In his own words: the Sage of the Waves, Verona, had nearly drowned. That was already terrible enough; what was worse was that it happened in a toilet; and the worst part was that someone actually found out about it.

To make me keep his secret, this legendary archmage used the most profound and delicate magic to scrub my toilet for two months, and left me with many exquisite magical toys that could have astounded the entire city. In the matter of keeping secrets, I displayed the highest professional integrity. Only after I had squeezed every last drop of value out of him did I finally promise not to make his embarrassing story public, and I demanded that he strongly recommend our Horseshoe Tavern to the adventure teams he knew. Perhaps he really was a very famous Adventurer, because after he left, many adventure teams truly did come to our tavern, asking by name to see the famous toilet that had nearly drowned the Sage of the Waves, Verona. I swear I never told anyone about it. The reason they knew was entirely because Verona himself, after drinking too much cheap liquor at some unknown little tavern, loudly announced it in public himself. It was said that after sobering up, he regretted it so much his guts turned green. He said that if he had known he would spill that news himself, he would not have worked as a hired hand under Little Fleecer at the Horseshoe Tavern for two whole months. That remark made me famous for a time, as the first person to successfully detain the great archmage, the “Sage of the Waves” Verona.

This incident also officially made me lose all longing for the title of “Adventurer,” and I turned my full attention to my promising career as a bartender.

“Verona, it’s only been two years, and you’ve gotten fatter!” I said with a cheeky grin, flicking his belly, which rivaled a fully inflated leather bellows.

“You little brat, why aren’t you at home being a bloodsucker? Did the tavern go out of business?” Verona pushed my hand away and said with ill intent.

“No, not yet, but almost. It’s been a long time since anyone came to pay respects to the Sage of the Waves’ place of suffering. It’s hard to earn even a little money…” I said, stealing a glance at Verona’s expression. His chubby little face turned red and then white — clearly burning with shame and anger.

“Sage of the Waves? You are the model of all Mages, the genius water-element manipulator, the revered miracle Adventurer, the dream lover of countless young maidens — the ever-victorious, all-destroying, completely unrestrained, capable of any ev… uh, I mean, capable of any good — the great Mage, Sage of the Waves Verona?” Poirot suddenly pointed at the fat Mage’s nose and shrieked, drawing strange looks from passersby around him. He had apparently forgotten that Mages were not exactly a welcome profession. His eyes were filled with boundless worship and respect, as if he could hardly wait to kneel down and kiss Verona’s thick ankles, which rivaled elephant legs.

Judging from Verona’s expression, Poirot’s words had both rescued him from embarrassment in time and greatly pleased him, especially the bit about “countless young maidens,” which did a great deal of work. His chubby cheeks flushed red, and he puffed out his huge belly, nodding shamelessly: “Mm, those were all from my younger days.”

“Poirot, no need to flatter him that much. Is he really that famous?”

“What? You actually don’t know? Back then, the Sage of the Waves ventured alone into the Swamp of Wailing Spirits, fought a great battle against the Nine-Headed Serpent King, and returned in great victory by using the serpent king’s own specialty — water-element attack magic — rescuing thirteen famous Knights trapped in the swamp. And most importantly, he did not kill the Nine-Headed Serpent King. Instead, he righteously admonished the Nine-Headed Serpent King not to harm innocent humans, and posted a notice at the entrance of the forest declaring that the Nine-Headed Serpent King had reformed and would no longer hurt people, and that anyone who entered the swamp to kill it would be asking for trouble. What a state of mind! What strength of character! This kind of broad and benevolent love has risen from narrow human chauvinism to an unprecedented height. I can only use the ode long sung among Mages to express my excitement: When sunlight sweeps across the waves, when moonlight reflects upon the rivers, upon those waters stands the great Sage. It is you who stirs the ripples of the heart, bringing kindness and happiness…”

Poirot’s singing was loud and high-pitched, brimming with a young man’s endless worship for his idol. Moreover, his voice was truly too distinctive — he could even produce a harmony effect by singing alone. It was just that few could withstand that kind of strained, bizarre sound. Even Verona couldn’t help blushing and stopping his high notes, though he was very pleased to be so admired by a young man.

“Back then I was young and hot-blooded, and did many things beyond my abilities. Even now, thinking about it makes me feel ashamed. But if my deeds can provide a little motivation and help for the growth of young people, I am still willing to spare no effort. It’s just that I’m old now, no match for the past. This world belongs to you young people.”

“Then… would you be willing to accept me as your disciple? I promise to be diligent and eager to learn, never to let down your teaching, never to tarnish your radiant reputation like the sun.”

“Well…”

“Poirot, stop begging this old fellow. If it weren’t for me back then, he might have died an obscure, unexplained death. Radiant reputation like the sun, my foot — he’s nothing but a drunkard who lures young people into depravity.” I winked at Poirot, speaking half in jest and half in earnest.

“Courage, Poirot, courage. Only those who have lost courage seek help from external powers. If you want to win respect, rely on a strong body and noble courage. Magic is a crude technique that destroys the soul.” The clever Fred actively cooperated with my provocation, saying it in a cool tone. Rather than being meant for Poirot, it was more meant for that senior archmage.

“What? You two little brats, if you don’t understand, don’t spout nonsense. Magic is wisdom, understand? It is true knowledge and true courage. Only those with a true magic heart can feel utter sincerity and reverence toward magic. Rise, young man. I may not be able to teach you the true meaning of this world, but I am willing to point out a correct direction on your path of growth.” Verona’s mountainous belly trembled with anger. Set against the two of us, Poirot’s devotion and sincere feelings toward magic were revealed without reserve. This archmage, who had lost all reason, made his decision without even clearly seeing Poirot’s face. Of course, it may have been the worst decision of his life:

A drunkard took a lecher as his student.