The Debt Forgiven

Adrian and Ilisia, driving a carriage they had seemingly procured from an unknown source, appeared at the village entrance. The old man, who had been feeding chickens by the village entrance, immediately straightened his back the moment he spotted the unfamiliar figures. Shielding his young granddaughter behind him, his eyes widened as he watched the carriage steadily approach from the distance. The old man had already heard unsettling rumors from a traveling merchant: several nearby villages had been completely wiped out. Now, with any arrival of strangers, an involuntary sense of alarm would settle in his heart. Yet, those horrific village massacres had always transpired under the cloak of night, so during the day, the villagers were not quite as vigilant. The old man pondered whether he should alert the other villagers to their presence. As he was still lost in thought, the carriage had already drawn to a halt before them. Adrian offered the old man a reassuring smile, then drew a sealed letter from his pocket and extended it to him.

“I can’t read,” the old man confessed, shaking his head. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll fetch the guards.”

A typical village usually boasted only a handful of guards, a mix of retired veterans and hunters who volunteered for the role, with a few professional guards having inherited their posts from their fathers. With the villagers gripped by a recent wave of fear, extra personnel were always assigned to guard the village entrance at night. Consequently, during the day, the regular guards were all catching up on their much-needed rest. Not long after the old man had departed, a portly man, his face still heavy with sleep, emerged from one of the houses. He ambled over to the carriage and cast a scrutinizing glance at Adrian.

“What are you doing here?” the guard questioned.

Adrian simply waved the letter he held in his hand once more. The guard, also illiterate, nevertheless found his eyes widening involuntarily as he recognized the seal emblazoned upon the envelope. It was the unmistakable seal of the Royal Holy Order of Knights. The guard recognized this particular seal because an identical emblem was proudly emblazoned on a shield kept in his own home. He was, however, no legendary swordsman, nor had he ever journeyed to the Royal Capital. That shield had been bestowed upon him over a decade prior by a knight, who, during the Holy Order of Knights’ campaign to quell a massive horde of monstrous creatures along the border, had been stationed in their very village. At that time, the guard had been a vibrant, ambitious youth, filled with dreams of diligently practicing his swordsmanship, of one day entering the Royal Capital’s esteemed Sword Academy, and ultimately becoming a formidable sword-fighter himself. Now, with over a decade having swiftly passed, the guard had long since forgotten those youthful ambitions, having transformed into a somewhat portly, almost ‘obasan’-like figure.

“Sir, are you…” the guard began, his gaze fixed on Adrian.

“I am a physician of the Order,” Adrian replied, tucking the envelope away. “I am delivering a letter to Baron Freyer’s territory.”

“Understood, sir,” the guard responded, nodding. He observed that Adrian and Ilisia’s clothes were impeccably clean, their hair neatly combed, and they displayed no hint of discomfort whatsoever beneath the glaring sun.

‘They shouldn’t be monsters, should they?’

With that, the guard stepped aside, allowing the carriage to proceed into the village.

The moment Adrian and Ilisia entered the village, a scattering of villagers—primarily children—peeked out from their houses, their gazes fixed on the peculiar man who had arrived. Adrian pulled out the ledger he had confiscated earlier, meticulously wiped away the congealed bloodstains from its pages, and began searching for the names of debtors residing in this particular village. Unfazed by strangers, he inquired along the way until he located the debtor’s humble abode. It was a modest cottage situated slightly north of the village center, neither overly large nor particularly small, likely just barely able to accommodate a family of four or five. Its roof tiles were noticeably askew, a clump of wild grass sprouted from one corner, and the walls were discolored and peeling. In front of the house lay a small, unkempt yard, enclosed by wooden stakes and a fence. Several pickets of the fence were broken, propped up precariously by a few stones, barely sufficient to deter wandering livestock. The yard was meagerly planted with vegetables for personal consumption: a few yellowing cabbage plants, a row of stunted green onions, and several mud-caked carrots, suggesting a struggle for sustenance. This was, unequivocally, not the dwelling of someone prosperous.

Across a narrow path in front of the house, a small wheat field stretched out. The relentless sunlight was already beginning to make one feel dizzy. A young woman was squatting between the furrows of the field. As the wind caused the wheat waves to ripple incessantly, she remained bent at the waist, loosening the soil with steady, rhythmic strokes of her hoe. She wore an old cotton dress, its color faded to near-white from countless washes, its hem stained with the day’s mud. The woman paused, lifting her head to glance towards the edge of the field. A small boy was nestled within a makeshift shelter, fashioned from tattered cloth and a few wooden sticks. He was intently drawing on the ground with a small twig, occasionally pausing to bite into a piece of dry bread.

“Noah, if you’re thirsty, help yourself to water,” she called out, her voice carrying across the field. The little boy turned, flashed her a bright smile, and waved his hand in return. The woman smiled back, yet a subtle hint of heartache and weariness tugged at the corners of her lips.

‘I’m sorry, my child, that Mama can only be with you in this way.’

Just as the woman was about to turn back to her arduous labor, her peripheral vision caught sight of a carriage. It had, at some unknown moment, drawn to a halt at the edge of the field, right beside the boy’s makeshift tent.

‘Who could it be? Hardly anyone in the village could afford a carriage, and certainly, no one should suddenly appear here.’

Disregarding the hoe in her hand, she almost immediately dropped it, then sprinted across the soft, tilled soil towards them. “Child, what is your name?” Adrian, having dismounted from the carriage, stood before the tent, leaning down to address Noah. “My name is Noah…” Noah replied, looking up with an expression of pure innocence. Noah’s voice was soft and sweet, each word drawn out in a childish cadence. “Is this your home?” Adrian asked, gesturing towards the dilapidated house nearby.

“This is my home!”

A voice, firm and clear, rang out from behind him. The woman swiftly positioned herself in front of her son, beads of sweat from her recent labor still glistening on her forehead, her eyes fixed warily on Adrian. “Oh, hello, madam,” Adrian greeted, pulling out the ledger. “I am looking for Elena Whitlow.”

“That would be me,” Elena replied in a low, cautious voice. One hand protectively covered Noah’s chest, while the other gently stroked the dust-streaked innocence of his small face. Elena was, without doubt, one of the village’s rare beauties; even dressed in faded old clothes and with her face smudged with dirt, her inherent charm and elegant demeanor remained undeniable. Her hair, a soft, light brownish-gold, resembled sun-baked hay at the edge of a wheat field. Elena had gathered her hair into a single bundle with a hemp rope, braiding it into a simple side plait. Her eyebrows were slender and softly arched, while her eyes, a light grey-green, held a gentle, quiet depth. Years of arduous labor had left Elena’s figure somewhat slender, yet she was not stooped; her back always remained remarkably straight. “Madam, it appears you have a considerable debt…” Adrian began, but before he could finish his sentence,

“Please… please give me a little more time,” Elena interrupted him, her voice hushed. “I promise I will pay it all back.” Elena hugged Noah tightly, taking two steps back. Her feet nearly tripped on the soft soil, but she bravely steadied herself, refusing to falter. “I truly… truly have nothing more to give right now.” There were no tears in Elena’s eyes. On her face, only weariness and stubborn resolve were etched. “Madam, please don’t be alarmed; we are not here to collect debts,” Adrian said with a smile. “We are simply here to inform you that those debts no longer need to be repaid.”

“Why?” Elena asked, looking at Adrian with disbelief. It was a considerable sum to her, a substantial amount for any rural farmer. “Because the moneylender is dead,” Adrian stated. “His name was… uh… Madi, wasn’t it?”

“He’s a monster; he couldn’t possibly be dead,” Elena said.

“He is dead, killed by members of the Order, just a few nights ago,” Adrian confirmed. “Is… is that so?” Elena clutched her dress. “Then… do I owe you two anything?” She asked cautiously, fearing Adrian would make a demand she couldn’t meet, yet she also disliked being indebted to others.