Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V2C142

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Chapter 142: The Whisper of Hope, Part 5

The little girl’s eyes were like dusty emeralds, a deep and breathtaking green that radiated an outward flow of life force.

Her delicate hands, seemingly malnourished, held onto Antietta with one hand and Roma with the other. She wore a gray linen dress, her bare feet resting on the ground as she bit her lip and gazed at him.

Brandon blinked in surprise.

To his eyes, her cascading green hair resembled new vines sprouting in the shadows, framing her dusty face with a fragile, timid charm. Yet her gaze did not waver, though it was cautious as she studied him.

“What is this?”

Those emerald-like eyes—rare across Vonder, found only among forest elves and the purest-blooded Senians, the Children of Trees—were striking. But her waterfall of green hair was so vivid it almost made Brandon mistake her for a juvenile Divine Messenger.

In Amber Sword, he had encountered only one NPC with such a pure, verdant hue to their hair.

The Divine Messenger of Trees.

“Cinnabar snatched her from those cavalrymen. She might have been taken from a nearby village,” Antietta explained, gently smoothing the girl’s bangs.

Brandon raised his head. “She’s a Senian. Do you know what that means?”

“What’s a Senian, Brandon?” Roma asked, blinking innocently while holding the girl’s hand.

“Senians?” Antietta hesitated, her fingers tightening momentarily before resuming their task. The little girl froze, looking up at her with gemstone-green eyes. The noblewoman’s expression grew complex.

Stories about the “green folk” were widespread. A common belief was that Senians carried the werebeast disease, making most people avoid these “wild ones” of the forest. Nobles especially shunned them, considering even contact defiling. In extreme regions, some supported burning these “heretics” to prevent the spread of the werebeast disease.

But Brandon softened his tone, adopting the manner used to comfort children. He knelt slightly and asked, “What’s your name?”

To him, Senians were no different from Eruinians or Cruzeans. Though they had retreated into southern forests during the war against the Dragon of Darkness centuries ago, entering a self-imposed isolation that lasted hundreds of years, their backwardness was seen as self-inflicted by the civilized world. To Brandon, this history felt like an abstract symbol etched into the background.

The little girl looked at him, her lips parting slightly.

“She doesn’t speak Cruzean,” Antietta added.

Brandon wasn’t surprised. Nodding, he straightened. “It’s fine. I roughly know where she’s from. But I’m curious.” Antietta nodded faintly, understanding his confusion. Since learning the girl was Senian, she too wondered why the noble cavalry hadn’t executed her. Even in Tonygel’s barbaric lands—or the kingdom’s heartland—killing a Senian was legally permissible in most cases.

Brandon stood tall, scanning the surroundings.

“We’ll take her to Green Village.”

“Green Village?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

“A Senian settlement,” Brandon replied, glancing around. He picked up a cavalry sword from the ground, tested its weight, then sheathed it. “Directly south of here, about half a day’s ride.”

“A Senian village? Why are we going there?” Antietta frowned, speaking softly. “We can find someone to escort this girl back. Sir Brandon, Senians…”

She trailed off, seeing Brandon wave dismissively.

“Sir Brandon,” Antietta protested, frowning. “They’re Senians. If word gets out that we’ve dealt with them, it won’t do you any favors—”

“And your reputation…”

Antietta’s brow furrowed further, suddenly aware the little Senian girl was still holding her hand. Though she doubted the child understood her words, she instinctively fell silent.

“No need, Antietta,” Brandon interrupted. “That’s precisely our destination.”

“What?” Antietta froze.

Brandon nodded. To find Valhalla, he needed to reach Green Village—and rely on the Senians’ help. Marsha delivering this girl into his hands was a stroke of luck. Though the Senians were reclusive, they harbored a rustic loyalty toward true friends. Only through them could he contact the druids hidden deep in the forest.

Druids—an enigmatic group akin to the Silver Elves, perhaps even older. Their presence vanished from the civilized world after the Year of Flourishing, over three centuries ago.

“Brandon, what are Senians?” Roma tugged on the girl’s hand, blinking curiously when her question went unanswered.

“It’s a long story,” Brandon smiled, reaching out to flick her nose, prompting Roma to wrinkle her brows and retreat. Finally, he said, “But the elves have a name for them.”

“At’zon—the Children of the Forest.”

“Werewolves?” Roma’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of them!”

Brandon lowered his head, noticing the little girl reacted visibly when he mentioned the Elvish term “At’zon.” She looked up at him with emerald-green eyes, profound and piercing.

Brandon’s mention of Green Village would be unfamiliar to most cartographers or regional maps of Eruin. In the latest administrative map commissioned by King Obergu VII during the Year of Candle and Dagger, over four hundred fifty towns, villages, and estates were cataloged—but none bore the name “Green Village.”

Yet Brandon knew of this place.

This Senian enclave on the border.

In fact, in The Year of Silver, a decade or so later in the timeline, the expedition to Kalanja Mountains would depart from here. But the scene then would differ greatly from now—

They rode through the fields Senians had carved out along the forest edge, rows of crops spreading across clearings hacked from the woods. Pale sunlight filtered through towering black pines, casting beams upon these labors of human hands.

The silence was dreamlike, almost haunting.

Brandon remembered fields stretching endlessly into the horizon, meadows blanketed with grass. Save for the road beneath their horses’ hooves, winding stubbornly through the forest, all traces of human activity had long since faded under the passage of time.

Beyond the fields, he glimpsed the riverbank—a gathering place for low-level Spreading Fiends, where his past party had struggled to traverse the dark woods.

Yet the damage wrought by the noble cavalry snapped him back to reality. First, he saw a broken fence, trampled crops scattered like remnants of a wild boar’s rampage.

“Damn them,” a Gray Wolves mercenary muttered under his breath.

Most mercenaries hailed from mountain folk—hunters or farmers before taking up arms. To them, nobles wouldn’t understand that these crops were everything to those who depended on them.

As if echoing his words, the group rounded the fence to find a woman in tattered linen kneeling amidst ruined crops, sobbing quietly. Nearby, a man—likely her husband—stood gripping a rake, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the destruction. When he spotted the group emerging from behind the fence, he stiffened, then paled, quickly raising the rake defensively.

“Asha, run! They’re back!”

With a low growl, he charged forward.

Unfortunately, he barely moved before Cinnabar, mounted on her horse, swept him off his feet with the halberd’s shaft. The red-haired girl frowned, startled by how easily he fell. Realizing he was just an ordinary farmer, she dismounted to help him up. But before she could act, she felt herself embraced—

Asha clung to her from behind, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t kill him! Yorl, run!”

Yorl clearly had no intention of fleeing. Seeing his wife clinging to Cinnabar, his eyes reddened, and he let out a guttural roar, charging again like a cornered beast.

But a sharp spear pressed against his throat halted him. Following the spear’s length, he met Cinnabar’s cold amber eyes and involuntarily shuddered, freezing mid-motion.

“Fool.”

Cinnabar’s voice was icy.

“Overestimating yourself.” She lowered her halberd and swung it once—lightning flashed, and a towering black pine crashed to the ground.

Throughout the scene, those on horseback watched silently, unmoving. Even the mercenaries harbored no fondness for the Senians—except Roma, whose wide eyes remained full of curiosity.

Yorl seemed to snap out of his daze, confused why Cinnabar hadn’t killed him. His legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed backward. But at that moment, a small voice emerged from the crowd:

“Izz Jol.” (Elvish: Uncle Yorl.)

Yorl froze, disbelief washing over him. He turned, staring incredulously at the green-haired girl cradled in Roma’s arms, wondering if he was hallucinating.

The woman behind Cinnabar had already loosened her grip, stunned. “Funiya, how… how are you here? I thought they…”

“Izz Jol, E sov oizz tam.” (Elvish: Uncle Yorl, they saved me.)

The girl’s voice was soft and ethereal, like wind chimes stirred by a breeze drifting through the forest.

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