Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 14

Many nobles in the royal capital grew frustrated after repeatedly sending invitations but failing to get any response from the new owner of the old count’s manor.

No one had seen this person. Rumors flew—some claimed the manor now belonged to a grieving lady, others said it was a stately middle-aged nobleman. Whichever story people told, none could find anything new or interesting. Recently, the manor’s owner had become increasingly reclusive, fading into obscurity within high society.

Estelle paid no attention to the gossip, which disappointed the killer who eagerly wanted to share the latest news.

“Also, the Earl of Stoke mentioned his daughter’s body is missing.”

“Missing body?” Estelle walked along the gallery lined with carved angels playing music. “Anyone with even a shred of compassion knows she isn’t dead. How many would believe otherwise?”

The killer glanced at her sharply. “You do realize you look a lot like her, don’t you?”

She reached the corridor’s end and opened a door. “Yes, I know.”

“Then why…?” The killer trailed behind but couldn’t finish his sentence.

Inside, piles of books reached the ceiling, filling the entire house.

“Are you setting up a library? Or are these books left by the previous owner?”

“No,” Estelle answered simply. “They’re my personal collection.”

“Impressive.” The killer looked over the “treasure.” “What kind of saint fills a whole house with books?”

Estelle smiled. “Does this reward satisfy you?”

“It’s enough,” the killer, who had helped her claim a small part of the property, repeated. “More than enough.”

Knowledge is a treasure far greater than gold. Nobles hoard culture’s promotion and spread. For common folk, studying literacy is a struggle as fierce as survival. To truly delve into knowledge and heritage requires money—a sum many would never trade their lives and limbs for.

Fortunately, the old master who taught the killer his craft also gave him basic literacy skills.

Picking up the nearest stack, the killer asked, “Can I choose whatever I want?”

Lighting a candle, Estelle looked back: “Of course, I promised.”

Although she wanted the killer’s help, Estelle wasn’t reckless enough to ask him to sort all the books in one day. It took him five days to organize them, with Estelle guiding him on why books were grouped together—for instance, the lower left shelves contain volumes on the Battle of King’s Landing and the history of both sides.

On the last day, the killer happily picked out books that caught his interest. Estelle handed him a space ring.

Generous patrons naturally attract grateful sellers. The killer, returning to the bar with his treasure, proudly displayed the ring and pulled out a thick volume.

The bartender’s painted-on smile vanished. He flipped through the book and sighed, “What a generous lady.”

“I don’t think she’s the noblewoman everyone talks about,” the killer said, pulling out another book. “Her personality and everything else is just different.”

Faced with such a calm yet sincere gift, the bartender couldn’t help but envy. “You’re lucky.”

With a proud grin, the killer waved his hand and said as he left, “I’m leaving tomorrow. Enjoy my wine while I’m gone.”

The bartender put down his glass and stared at the book.

Profound knowledge is a mark of nobility. The rise and fall of kingdoms, political power struggles—all are recorded and controlled by the elite. It’s not just armies that shape history, but knowledge itself.

Even in the Magic Tower, the Great Forbidden Curse Master taught that knowledge is the source of magic.

“What is this generous lady trying to uncover?”

“Opening Pandora’s box?” the killer guessed.

“You mean those fat nobles getting their heads chopped off?” Estelle held a sapphire in her palm and smiled. “If justice ruled all, those men would have been hanged countless times for their crimes.”

She gazed at the gem. “When survival itself is a luxury, even farmers would raise their sickles against landowners.”

What she was doing was simply spreading awakening knowledge. To those who valued learning, it was more precious than gold, but to the uneducated, it was merely a pile of useless paper.

“The book thief would be hanged if caught,” the killer muttered.

The girl put down the gem. “Knowledge doesn’t belong to one class, and books are certainly not the exclusive property of nobles.”

Like hope in Pandora’s box, knowledge wasn’t a gift from gods but something deeply buried in the human heart from the start.

The manor was empty. The west wind stirred the lush grape vines, some worn wooden windows creaked. Estelle turned and shut a window.

The killer crouched, lamenting the dagger he had lost. “Do you know how expensive that weapon is?”

Estelle sneered and tossed the dagger to him. “Take it and use it.”

The scabbard was also adorned with a sapphire. She pushed the killer away, deciding to limit their contact, ignoring his pleading eyes as she turned and entered the study.

Barefoot, she approached the desk and picked up an invitation. “Persistent, this is the fifth one.”

Her long hair slipped down her shoulders to her waist. Her reflection flickered on the curtains in the light, graceful like a laurel tree. She toyed with the invitation, written with gold-infused ink, and was about to toss it into the fire. But her thoughts held her back, and after a long pause, she returned it to the desk.

The Holy Lady of the Temple of Light, a saintly figure with golden hair and blue eyes, had just finished her prayers. She removed her coat, frowned at the letter on the table. “Still no news?”

Hibel, renowned as a prodigy of the Light attribute at the Temple of Light for a century, came from humble origins. The nobles had set aside their disdain, praising hardship as a test of spirit. Her noble character explained much.

Except for Estelle.

Hibel couldn’t forget the delicate girl who hid her face behind a fan, her eyes filled with contempt, saying—

“No matter how they praise you, they can’t hide their lustful gaze.”

The words cut deep into Hibel’s pride. How could a noblewoman understand someone like her? The saint smiled with holiness but turned away with a show of sorrow.

At the banquet, the crown prince, who favored Hibel, scolded Estelle for arrogance and rudeness. Watching the noblewoman’s expression, Hibel felt a strange satisfaction.

Perhaps because of this, Hibel’s pursuit of the crown prince was tacit—neither actively chasing nor rejecting. Though she knew his interest was sincere but more curiosity, she chose him as her fiancé.

Now, however, Hibel looked anxious and worried.

Her earlier joy upon hearing of Estelle’s death turned to nameless fear. A chill ran through her as if she were gazing down on something terrible. Holding the letter, she froze like a statue.

“Is Estelle really dead?”

Most fears come from the unknown. Hibel’s eyes fluttered open, still drowsy, unaware that answers were coming soon.

The night in the capital glittered like a beauty adorned with jewels. At the dance, ladies fanned themselves, chatting and laughing softly.

—The mysterious manor owner who finally accepted the invitation.

An unremarkable carriage stopped before the manor. The groom handed the invitation to the guards. The attendants bent to salute, catching a glimpse of a light purple hem brushing past.

“Is that a noblewoman?”

At the banquet’s center, Saint Hibel and Crown Prince Edwin shone like stars circling the moon, both dressed in matching hues with blond hair and blue eyes. They looked more like siblings than a couple.

The noise of the dance swelled, then suddenly fell silent. Hibel looked around, confused, noticing where everyone’s eyes were fixed—towards the entrance.

The shimmering light purple skirt and sparkling jewelry were not the focus. What stunned everyone was the visitor’s face.

Long, dark hair like night, eyes gleaming like blue lake gems, expressionless, beautiful yet distant—like a snowy mountain surrounded by drifting clouds.

The crowd was stunned into silence by this striking beauty. A young nobleman holding a wine glass nearly dropped it as he hastily stepped aside.

An eerily familiar yet unfamiliar face.

The man recovered from the shock and recognized a face nearly identical to the “late” imperial rose.

Hibel’s mind blanked. She stepped forward, masking surprise with a casual tone: “Long time no see, Miss Estelle. God of Light, it’s a relief you’re safe.”

Bathed in a divine beauty, Hibel’s pride and insecurities born from poverty surged again. Before, Estelle might have matched her in appearance. But now, in Estelle’s presence, Hibel felt like a faint star beneath the full moon.

The girl in the exquisite dress fixed her lake-blue eyes on Hibel. “I think you have the wrong person.”

Her voice was cold and clear like ice melting into a river. “I am not the Miss Estelle you speak of.”

Impossible!

Hibel opened her mouth to argue, but the lady who denied being Estelle stared at her with unfeeling eyes.

“Shouldn’t you apologize for your mistake?”

Her calm and firm words silenced the crowd again. Many looked at the girl who demanded an apology from the saint—the crown prince’s betrothed—with a sudden hesitation to even breathe.

Hibel finally found her voice.