Half-elf Notebook

Her long, fluffy green hair swayed up and down with her movements, like a hidden stream in the forest.

"I should have said not to stir up unnecessary trouble, Tiin."

The white-haired elf did not answer his companion's question, but spoke expressionlessly.

Compared to women who wear more revealing clothes.

He was wearing a ranger outfit that covered his entire body, although it was mainly made of leather with some unknown fabric as a secondary material.

The unknown metals inlaid and stitched on it look like decorations or exquisite protective gear, adding a sense of solemnity.

"This country is not friendly to us. As a diplomatic envoy, if we cause a conflict, it could be unilaterally defined as a premeditated invasion at any time."

Although he spoke these words like a warning, his tone was calm.

There wasn't even a trace of blame or worry in his voice.

It's like chatting about where to have lunch.

"Do you think this country has the ability to keep us?"

The elf woman's golden eyes sparkled, and the compressed magic power that her clever fingers played with seemed real.

That was an energy bomb that was enough to blow up half of the East District and dig a hole more than ten meters deep in the soil.

It turned under her mental control and fell back into her palm.

"Who can do anything to them? Just relying on the strongest sword in the kingdom, the sword of the throne that has reached the level of hero?"

Tiin didn't understand why Fizerei brought it up.

With his strength, would he be afraid of a lower-rank hero and several human gold-level warriors?

Or as the agent of the wind elemental elves, one of the five major branches of the elves, do you need to take into account the attitude of a mere human kingdom?

"No, that's not a problem, but it will make the situation of the elves in the Kingdom of Fulante even worse."

The white-haired elf, who had never been moved, now looked a little gloomy, and said in a serious tone:

"Your Highness's children cannot be put in any more danger because of us."

"Remember the grief and anger of Her Royal Highness Prince Filivia. Her expectations of us must not be lost."

Then the space in front of him began to twist and collapse, turning into a dark void that was wide enough for a hand to pass through.

But no one could see his movements.

The nameless void is like a painting with space as paper, thin and with only one side visible.

After Fizerei reached out and took out a pointer watch inlaid with more than a dozen unknown gems, with exquisitely designed textures and luxurious carvings.

The void slowly closes and disappears.

The item is very similar to a portable clock called a "pocket watch" that has become popular in the human empire in the past hundred years.

It is topped with a glass screen with numbers changing all the time.

However, there is only one pointer.

The numbers depicted in the table do not represent time.

Instead, it is an elven word made of mithril and representing directional coordinates.

It is more like the compass used by merchants traveling to the West and sailing the continent.

What is strikingly different from it is that the direction it points to is not south.

Returning to the real world, the needle of the "pocket watch" is swinging, and the digital measurement units on the glass screen the size of an index finger are changing rapidly.

Fizerei stared at the pocket watch until nothing changed, then put it back into the void.

"How?" asked Tiin in a deep voice.

Although she is frivolous, she obviously takes this matter very seriously.

"It's very close, northwest, only 800 meters from here." After a brief response, Fizerei led Din into the alley next to him.

When someone walks by and glances inside casually.

In the dark and damp alley, there was no one except the silt that had accumulated over the years and the garbage discarded.

…………

"May the goddess be with you." The girl prayed solemnly with a slightly hoarse voice.

"And with your soul." Another young girl whispered.

"According to the first chapter of the Gospel of John."

"May the glory be to the goddess."

In the dim church, a nun in her forties was reading holy texts on an old pulpit.

The young assistant clasped his hands together, placed them on his forehead, and half-knelt beside him, whispering a prayer.

She didn't stand up until the reading was finished.

The nun nodded slightly to her assistant.

He drew on his chest a white cross, symbolizing the goddess, and a circle, symbolizing the morning sun, and placed his left hand on his chest, saying devoutly:

"Thank the goddess."

"Thank Goddess." The young auxiliary sister made the same gesture.

The originally quiet chapel became restless.

A dozen young believers followed the nun in the closing prayer.

Like a chorus in an orchestra.

It's not pleasant to the ear but you can tell they are serious.

The priest closed the old and tattered book of sacred texts and announced the end of the service.

This is what they need to do every day, in order to allow more people to receive the goddess' favor and to pass on the goddess' teachings to the world.

For... this church to survive.

"Winnie, please distribute lunch to the children. They should be hungry too."

The priestess gave a bitter smile, glanced at the sack of black bread on the wooden table, and gave instructions to her assistant.

Bol Eide, the owner of this church located in the slums, is also a missionary here.

Of course in this ghetto area, women seek weed and alcohol, and men seek both and a prostitute.

It was unrealistic to ask people to believe in the teachings spread by gods, and she had never expected that she could change herself in the slightest.

The glory of God cannot penetrate the stench and muddy swill here.

God's teachings and truth cannot be heard by drug addicts who are in a state of delirium or by drunkards who are passed out on the streets.

The goddess has no grace, only murderous criminals, thieves, profit-seeking black marketeers who even engage in human trafficking and parents who abandon their children.

Maybe not everyone starts out as a bad person.

Unfortunately, life is difficult in the ghetto.

Over the past twenty years, many kind-hearted, hardworking and honest people have fallen to this point due to temporary misfortune or illness.

Except for those who left quickly, Bor had never seen anyone who could survive here for a long time without changing.

And those good people who hold on to their hearts.

Boll had found them among the garbage and rats in some narrow alley.

I've heard that there were corpses hanging from noose in their homes.

I have seen them being shackled and carried out of the city by their slave owners.

If there really is a hell in the world as described in the scriptures.

Bol had no doubt that this was the closest place to hell in the world.

She was silent for a while, sighed deeply, and looked intently at the child sitting below.

"But there are always some lives that should not be so easily and cruelly snuffed out without any reason!"

Watching the children holding the black bread that was only half the size of their palm, and wolfing it down as if it were a delicacy.

Boll couldn't help but clasp his fingers around the cracked leather cover of the book.

These were her reasons for staying.

There are no orphanages in the slums, even though there are hundreds or thousands of abandoned babies and orphans here every year.

The nobles and city lords would not allocate even a hundred gold coins from their treasury to rescue them.

If she insisted on leaving, the children would be left on the streets.

In this unfavored world, I’m afraid most of them may not even survive the next winter.

After finishing the distribution, Winnie handed her half a loaf of black bread.

"Thank you for your hard work, Vinnie."

Bol said this with all his strength, even though his face was filled with worry.

She took a bite of the bread; it was hard and dry.

Mixed with saliva, except for a little bit of the unique aroma of bread and the sour taste, it felt like chewing a piece of wet wood.

There is also some unground chaff mixed in.

"Reverend Boer, how long do you think... can we keep going like this?"

The young nun asked timidly, lowering her voice as if she was afraid the children could hear.

Boll's answer was vague.

"I don't know..." She didn't know how to answer the little nun who she had raised since she was a child and was going to take over her position as a missionary.

She rescued less than one percent of the children in the slums, but it still left her feeling strapped for cash.

There aren't many believers in the goddess here, so naturally no one will donate.

The only thing that maintained all this was the six silver francs a month salary that Bol received from the church.

Ten years? Twenty years?

It is not uncommon for the church to close its churches whenever it decides.

And it's not clear to Boll whether he's really doing the right thing.

Or maybe she is just using the name of the goddess to exercise self-righteous hypocrisy...

Because of the meager salary, she would send her children out of the church when they were six years old.

She had to do it in order to save more, smaller lives.

Even though we know that most of the children we send away will not live long.

Just then, an unnatural gust of wind swept through the church.

In the church pews and aisles for believers, they swirl and gather.