CIATB Chapter 787 - 433: Imperial Capital’s Current State (3)
Chapter 787 - 433: Imperial Capital’s Current State (3)
"The young master and young lady were sent to the orphanage." The old man raised his intact eye, which was filled with fear, "Never... never heard from again."
The alley was very quiet.
In the distance, a bugle sounded, and nearby only the slight sloshing of water in the night soil bucket could be heard.
Valerius just stood there, head bowed, clutching the packet of oil paper tightly.
A dozen seconds later, he slowly let go.
A clear bloodstain was left on the oil paper.
Valerius lifted his head and looked at the old man sitting against the wall: "Come with me."
The old man hesitated for a moment, then shook his head firmly, though his movement was slow: "I can’t, sir. I’m just old bones now, can’t move fast, can’t hide. Following you will only be a burden."
Valerius frowned and was about to speak, but the old man raised his hand to stop him.
"Besides..." The old man looked down at his filthy hands, "Even if we leave, where could we go?"
The words fell like a stone.
Outside the Imperial Capital was a war-torn land, a hunting ground for the nobility, land that could be reclaimed and abandoned at any time.
For an old servant who had lost his identity and sight, there was no road truly leading to survival.
Valerius stood silently.
But the old man forced a crooked smile: "It’s enough that you’re alive."
Valerius finally closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
...
The night wind swept across the wasteland, stirring the dry grass, its mournful cries heard in the distance.
They didn’t stay long in the Imperial Capital, leaving that very night.
The campfire was small, barely able to ward off the cold, its flames flickering in the wind, stretching their shadows long and short.
Valerius stood by the fire, not sitting down. His back was more hunched than during the day, as if weighed down by the night.
Slowly, he untied the oil paper packet.
The manuscript was revealed, its corners stained with blood and mud, the pages frayed.
Valerius gazed at it for a long time, his sight unfocused, as if looking at an old relic disconnected from him.
Then, he let go.
The manuscript of the "New Imperial Charter" fell into the flames.
The tongues of fire quickly licked the pages, consuming the words bit by bit in the heat.
Several clauses that he had pondered repeatedly flashed in the firelight, then turned black, fragmented into fine ash.
The fire gradually dimmed.
Cassian stood nearby, pressing the empty scabbard of his sword, speaking softly: "Where to go? South are heretic gods, west is war."
Valerius looked at the embers, his gaze as hollow as the night over the wasteland.
"This continent has gone mad." His voice was light yet clear.
"Perhaps we should find a deserted mountain, live like savages. At least beasts eat to survive, unlike those people in the city who do it for pleasure."
Then, the shadow of a roadside tree swayed lightly.
A man emerged from the shadows.
He wore a gray double-breasted wool coat, the edges clean, free of mud.
His footsteps were light, stopping at the edge illuminated by the firelight, a distance avoiding any hint of provocation.
The man removed his hat.
He gave an impeccable classical nobility bow to the dust-covered, ragged old man.
Valerius squinted, like a wounded old wolf, instinctively taking half a step back.
"Are you a lapdog of the Second Prince or a spy of some bandit? If it’s for money, you’ve come to the wrong person. Every last silver coin I had was trampled into the mud by those knight lords."
The man merely smiled slightly, took out a silver hip flask from his coat, and also a honeycake carefully wrapped in a clean white linen napkin.
Steam wafted from the edges, carrying the sweet scent of honey.
"Strong northern liquor drives away the cold." His tone was steady, "The honeycake has honey in it. Please don’t misunderstand, sir, this isn’t charity. It’s Red Tide, honoring you."
Valerius’ gaze fell on the white napkin.
It was the first clean thing he’d seen since stepping into the Imperial Capital.
The deliberate propriety pricked his heart.
"Honor?"
He laughed coldly, not reaching out.
"The Northern Territory? That boy Louis Calvin? Why, now even an old bone like me discarded by time is to be reclaimed?"
His tone turned sharp.
"Or is he trying to buy my name, to gild his makeshift regime full of the stench of money and blood with a sheen of legitimacy?"
He turned his head, refusing to look at the food again, suppressing the spasms in his stomach.
The mysterious man withdrew the honeycake and flask, his expression still gentle: "You misunderstand."
He said, "It’s not reclamation, it’s seeking counsel."
"The Northern Territory’s wind snow is hard, not only needing iron walls but also rational laws to soften it."
He sighed and from his coat drew out a roll of parchment, handing it over with both hands: "This is the draft of ’Citizen Law’ being trialed in Red Tide Territory."
Valerius snorted, grabbing the parchment.
"Let me see what kind of nonsense that little lord can write."
He scanned it in the moonlight.
At first, there was contempt.
But when he saw the first clause regarding "the sacred inviolability of private property," his gaze halted.
He continued reading.
The phrasing was straightforward, even a bit crude, yet the logical framework was unexpectedly clear, impossible to ignore.
Valerius’ fingers began to tremble slightly, a mix of anger and jealousy.
This should have been my work in the Imperial Capital.
He suddenly closed the parchment tight, snatched the silver flask, and took a gulp.
The spicy liquor slid down his throat, bringing color to his pale face.
"Crude, too crude." He pointed at the parchment, as if scolding an unruly student.
"Article 3 and Article 7 clearly conflict. If implemented like this, your courts will collapse within three years."
The mysterious man bowed again, a smile flickered in his eyes: "That’s why we need you."
Valerius snorted, stuffing the parchment into his muddied coat, turning up into a nearby carriage: "Don’t misunderstand.
I’m not joining you; I just... can’t stand such garbage laws circulating in the world. If his cellar only has such poor liquor, I can leave at any time."
The carriage started slowly, leaving two deep ruts on the wasteland, extending northward.