Chapter Twenty-Three: Fallen Petals Fill the Sky, the Fragrance of the Zither Returns

May 20th, Evening — Drifting Harbor Forest Free Camp — Victor’s Private Tent

“Ha... ah... mmm,” Victor let out a long yawn. He had just finished his afternoon’s alchemical research; today’s material had been specially gathered by Torruviel—a “Memory Rose” said to grow only amidst the elven ruins of the Drifting Harbor Forest.

Judging from the name and the scant records, it was clear this was a magically potent psychic medium. Sadly, without the right formula at hand, Victor could only perform a preliminary analysis of its properties.

Of course, such a beautiful name and appearance no doubt concealed an elven love story, and magical traits to match—roses said to wither unless watered with blood or sold to another, and the fanciful claim that a rose given to one’s beloved would never fade.

He tossed the Memory Rose into his pouch of herbs, stretched, and prepared to leave for the festival. After over twenty days of frugal meals, the promise of a full belly of roasted meat made tonight’s feast especially tempting.

Today was the elves’ Summer Festival. In short, the festivities celebrated the coming of summer: men and women sang and danced around bonfires beneath the starlit sky, then picked their favored partners to retreat into tents for intimacy.

If, upon waking the next day, things felt right, couples would be joined for life; if not, each would quietly leave in search of a second encounter—a not uncommon outcome.

Angoulême, who had been confined to a table reading all afternoon, brightened as Victor stood. She set her book aside and sprang up, whistling gleefully.

From her perch, the hawk “Catherine” let out a soft cry and hopped onto Angoulême’s specially made shoulder rest, affectionately nibbling her hair. Angoulême responded by stroking the feathers on the bird’s breast.

This wild girl, while Victor was busy brewing potions and teaching recipes, had roamed about and befriended the elven falconers—somehow, she’d managed to have a fledgling hawk accept her as its master.

Thus she’d gained Catherine, a striking golden hawk. Among the elves themselves, such a bond was a rare occurrence.

Truth be told, having a spirit-hawk companion was undeniably impressive. The next day, Victor had eagerly attempted to bond with one himself, but alas, none of the birds paid him any mind.

Watching the harmony between girl and hawk, Victor gloomily considered whether he should add a few more wholesome lessons to Angoulême’s curriculum.

He was still pondering when the tent flap lifted and Silan Isniland—first deputy of the Drifting Harbor Squirrel Party—entered. The handsome young elf bowed respectfully to Victor. “Master, the festival is about to begin. Lord Iophis has sent me to invite you.”

Then, thinking Victor hadn’t noticed, he surreptitiously winked at Angoulême.

“Well now! Who would’ve guessed this straw-haired, flat-hipped, flat-chested, thick-waisted shorty would be so popular…” Victor mused.

“I suppose I’ve overlooked her desires—one never knows how reliable contraception is these days. Perhaps I should prepare some aftercare potions for her, just in case!”

Night of May 20th — Drifting Harbor Forest Free Camp — Central Plaza

Over a thousand people gathered, stretching as far as the eye could see. The Summer Festival was far more lively than the boy had imagined.

The roasted meat was delicious, the wine flowed freely, the dancers moved like paintings come to life, and the atmosphere burned with passion. Of course, the latter two had little to do with Victor; as a human and a guest of Iophis, he kept his distance—no one would approach him uninvited.

Angoulême, however, was soon tipsy and giggling, blending seamlessly into the elven throng as she danced. With her little cap, she fit right in. Victor remembered how, at the Forgin Tavern, she’d done the same among dwarves—her natural affinity was truly a gift.

Amid the laughter and revelry, Iophis brought a cup of wine and sat beside Victor. “Not joining the dancing? This is a place without rules—just a meeting of hearts.”

Victor glanced at Iophis and replied, half-joking, half self-mocking, “It’s precisely because all it takes is a meeting of hearts that I probably won’t make the cut!”

The elf raised his glass to Victor’s unremarkable face. “Have faith—after a few drinks, even the impossible can become possible!”

Victor snorted, raising his own glass. “I never pegged you for the wanton type!”

“It’s the festival!” Iophis took a hearty swig. “Ages ago, the Summer Festival was ten times larger than this.”

“...” Sensing the conversation had taken a turn, Victor sipped his cream beer in silence.

“Apologies if I made you uncomfortable.”

Realizing his misstep, Iophis apologized, then stood and clapped his hands to gather attention. “Since we’re all so merry, let me play a tune to liven things up!”

A thunderous cheer rose from the thousand-strong crowd. Iophis drew a flute from his waist and began to play a clear, melodious song.

It must have been a beloved elven tune, for soon, led by a few, the crowd joined in, arms around each other, humming softly in circles.

In the gentle afterglow, Victor, lost in the music’s beauty, suddenly felt a sense of unease. He saw Angoulême, flushed with drink, her eyes sparkling as she looked his way.

Before he could stop her, Angoulême shouted, “Iophis’s music is wonderful! Since we’re all in such high spirits, let’s have the bard Victor play us a song, shall we?”

He’d played the lute once or twice at the Forgin Tavern, and each time, he’d drunk for free—only to be chased out by dwarf men, accused of seducing their women.

He swore before the heavens he’d never had such an idea, but for some reason, dwarves were convinced that every race coveted their females.

In any case, next swim training would be doubled, Victor vowed, as he resigned himself to being the center of attention.

Applause broke out—led by Iophis’s playful smile. Clearly, he found Angoulême’s suggestion highly entertaining.

A master alchemist and witcher apprentice, and now a bard as well? This, he had to hear!

Taking the lute from Silan, Victor expertly plucked and tuned the strings.

Iophis’s flute playing had been superb. Though Victor hadn’t understood the lyrics, it had stirred his homesickness.

A reminder that he was a foreigner in this land.

The familiar motions awakened old memories. Over a year had passed since he’d arrived—how were you all in the world of alchemy? How were you all on Earth?

Perhaps because he was lost in memory, Victor lingered over his preparations, and the previously quiet square began to buzz with whispers.

Iophis frowned. Though he’d started the clamor, it was only because Angoulême had assured him Victor could play. He certainly hadn’t meant to embarrass their guest.

He was about to intervene when Victor’s fingers fell, and the opening seven notes froze Iophis in place. The entire plaza fell silent.

Seven notes, and the listeners’ hearts were drawn into Victor’s world, where he would tell a moving tale.

The exquisite introduction did not disappoint. The music flowed, brimming with hope—at once like a father’s warm gaze and a mother’s gentle expectation—washing through every heart.

As the music rose and fell, Iophis slipped away, climbing into the branches of a beech tree, for he felt his eyes growing wet, and such a sight was not for others to see.

When the piece finally ended—

“This song is called ‘With You.’ I hope everyone finds their beloved tonight.” Amid thunderous applause, Victor’s plain face seemed luminous. He bowed with grace and exited the stage.

In the crowd, Torruviel’s gaze upon Victor was bright and intense—almost frighteningly so.

Back in his tent, fleeing the many fervent stares, Victor’s heart was clear as ice. He prepared for sleep, though he regretted having gone nearly a month without his bedtime milk—the strong flavor of goat’s milk was tolerable but hardly satisfying.

After a round of stretches, he collapsed into bed and slept like a baby—until he realized he was experiencing sleep paralysis, and instinctively tried to call for help.

“Shut up!” It was Torruviel, who pinned him down and whispered into his ear with a softness she’d never used before, sending a tickling shiver down his spine. Then she sealed his lips with hers.

In shock, Victor suddenly understood: there was one kind of “attack” the host offered no protection from—a woman’s night visit, which in some cultures was regarded as a gesture of hospitality.

In other words, even if he screamed himself hoarse, no one would come to his aid.

At that thought, he made the only choice a normal man would—since there was no resisting, he might as well surrender...

Sadly, Victor’s tent was not to remain peaceful that night. Barely ten minutes later, Torruviel’s scolding shattered the silence: “Out! Can’t you see someone’s busy? Go outside and queue up—one at a time! Don’t you young people know how to behave?”

Incidentally, Victor’s mouth was still firmly sealed at that moment.