On the reclining chair by the windowsill, a lean old man dozed, a thick book cradled in his arms. His glasses were still on his face; he had clearly drifted off mid-read.
Heavy footsteps echoed into the living room. Marydan, her hair graying but her physique still robust, stomped in with a thudding gait.
"Lamarck, have you seen..."
She started in a loud voice, but the words were only half out when she saw her husband sprawled asleep in the recliner, forcing her to swallow the rest of her sentence.
Pursing her lips, she walked over, lifted the massive tome weighing several kilograms from her husband's embrace, tossed it onto the coffee table, then removed his glasses for him, folding them and hooking them onto his collar.
Just as she was wondering if she should fetch him a blanket, several knocks sounded from the front door.
Her brows furrowed in displeasure. A thunderous "Who is it?! Can't a person nap in peace?!" made Lamarck shiver in fright on the recliner, nearly tumbling out of it.
She rolled up her sleeves, strode forward with an ugly scowl as if ready to pummel someone, and headed for the door.
With a grating creak, she yanked the door open. If the handle and frame had not been reinforced again and again, the force would have ripped the door right off its frame.
Folding arms thicker than an average adult man's thigh, Marydan, who stood over one hundred and ninety centimeters tall, habitually cast her gaze downward to look upon the visitor outside.
But she immediately realized that seemed unnecessary. The person outside wasn't that short after all.
With that fury aimed squarely at him, Altaïr, who had just knocked, felt sweat bead on his forehead. He hurriedly raised the souvenir in his hand. "Madam Marydan, long time no see! How have you and Mr. Lamarck been?"
"You..." Madam Marydan scrutinized him up and down, her eyes finally resting on his face. After a two-second hesitation, a look of sudden recognition dawned. "Well, if it isn't that boy Altaïr! You've changed quite a bit!"
As she spoke, she reached out and thumped his chest with her fist. "Not bad! You've grown taller and sturdier. Seems you haven't neglected your training!"
Altaïr managed a pained smile as he rubbed his sore chest. Just as he was about to speak, Marydan's gaze had already shifted to the others beside him.
Her eyes lingered on Isis the longest. Isis was not as broad or thick as Marydan, only slightly taller.
But as an Old Hunter who had spent a lifetime tempering her muscles, Marydan keenly sensed that this tall girl's strength might not be any less than her own.
The other two earned only a quick glance before Marydan looked away, retaining only the simple impressions of "a Gunner with a very pale chest" and "a kid with dark circles under her eyes" in her mind.
"These are your friends?" Marydan bared her teeth in a grin, revealing sharp, carnivore-like white fangs. "You little rascal, how come you're always surrounded by pretty young girls?"
Faced with Marydan's teasing, Altaïr could only respond with a wry smile.
"Just a joke. No need to be so shy." Marydan laughed, slapping Altaïr on the back before turning to Isis and the others. "Come on in, girls, don't just stand outside."
By the time Marydan led them back to the living room, Lamarck, roused by his wife's booming voice, had already put his glasses back on and resumed his usual gentle, scholarly appearance.
Given Marydan's fiery personality, they rarely had guests brave enough to visit.
The arrival of Altaïr and his companions genuinely delighted the old couple.
As a scholar, Lamarck roughly assessed Altaïr's current level of knowledge, then proceeded to recommend several more books to him.
Marydan, for her part, seemed to take a real liking to Isis, even insisting on arm-wrestling her. The result turned out to be a draw, which only made Marydan like her even more.
She was tall, strong, polite, and obedient by nature. By comparison, Marydan's own daughter, Haifa, seemed practically inhuman; Marydan would need to thump that girl a couple of times to vent once she got back.
They spent over an hour at the elderly couple's home, and Marydan nearly grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks to force them to stay for dinner, but ultimately, they managed to "escape."
After leaving Marydan's place, Lambert immediately slipped away, terrified of being dragged by Altaïr to visit any more elders. That old woman earlier had been absolutely terrifying, practically like a Tigrex.
Nymera also fled. She had keenly noticed the gaze Marydan directed at her chest and now wanted nothing more than to find a tailor to sew a patch over it; everything else could wait.
Isis, meanwhile, accompanied Altaïr to the Loc Lac Rangers' station, met the old friends from the Rangers team, and set a time for the evening gathering.
Their first day back in Loc Lac was lively and pleasant, but Altaïr firmly refused to drink a single drop of alcohol.
The next day, before the sky even brightened, he left home alone.
Rather than take any transport, he carried a pack of dry rations and several waterskins and set off into the boundless desert on foot.
This desert, where Loc Lac stood, was also known as the "Dead Sand Sea."
The sand was extremely dry and extremely fine. For a Sandship, it was the best kind of sand, but for a traveler on foot, every step was arduous.
On the almost fluid fine sand, the surface area of a foot was not enough to support the body's full weight. Without the correct walking technique, one could sink to the knees with each step.
Sinkholes capable of easily swallowing a person whole were everywhere; one moment of carelessness could mean falling in and becoming another desiccated skeleton in the desert.
Coupled with the Monsters lurking in the depths of the sand sea, this desert was recognized as one of the most dangerous regions on the entire continent.
With his helmet hanging at his waist and a headscarf and veil wrapped around his head, Altaïr drew a deep breath of the dry, hot air that felt as if it could sear his throat and lungs, yet his heart was filled with unprecedented calm.
He had already been walking through this sand sea for two days.
For Isis, the image of home buried deepest in her memory was streets bustling with people. For Nymera, it was cherry blossoms that never wilted through the four seasons.
But for him, it was this scorching sun and blistering wind, this endless yellow sand.
He could vaguely remember a time when he had barely been steady on his feet.
A modest migration party, with brass bells jingling around the necks of the woolly camels. A person whose face he could no longer recall held his hand as they walked among the undulating dunes. He tottered, tripped, and fell, and that person laughed, picked him up, and placed him on the back of a woolly camel. Perhaps that person was his father. Who could say?
Altaïr gave a self-deprecating smile and let those distant, blurred memories scatter in his mind.
Suddenly, a strong gust of wind swept in, and the yellow sand rising with it blinded his eyes. Altaïr quickly pulled down the headscarf wrapped around his head to shield himself from the invading dust.
"Jingle... jingle..."
A crisp and distant ringing of bells came with the windblown sand.
Startled, Altaïr raised his head and looked in the direction of the sound.
A camel caravan, as if stepping out from the depths of his memory, appeared atop the dune ahead.
There were no piles of cargo or merchant banners. Instead, there were herds of accompanying livestock and bundled-up tents. Among the group, he could see the figures of elders, women, and small children.
Was that a party of desert nomads? It looked exactly the same as in his memories. Could that gust of wind and sand just now have sent him back more than a decade? Altaïr almost laughed at his own absurd thoughts. He shook his head, about to turn and leave, but the party had also spotted him.
The man leading the group waved from afar and gave him a loud greeting.
Hearing the familiar language and accent, Altaïr's departing steps faltered, and he found himself walking involuntarily toward that party of nomads.
(Translated by yourtl.app)