Chapter Six: Dericht

Carlos’s restriction of personal freedom had shifted from the confinement chamber of the Overseer’s airship to his own backyard. Now, he was doomed to a life of decadent idleness, spending his days as a nobleman shut in the garden, bored out of his mind. His only entertainment was watching Grant in a distant corner, endlessly scrubbing the three purebred horses in the stable.

It was the industrial age, and yet his noble family’s mounts remained so primitively traditional—this vexed Carlos greatly, especially after experiencing the Augusta family’s steam-powered flying bike yesterday. The motorcycle, adorned with rotor-like wings, had soared down from hundreds of meters in the air, and the thrill of that flight still lingered in him.

Grant, the usually taciturn coachman, was startled by the young master’s desire to sneak into Augusta’s steam valve workshop and steal the flying bike. Fearing for his own job, he hurriedly tried to dissuade Carlos with a mixture of bluff and earnest pleading. “Young sir, you really can’t go out—there are bounty hunters everywhere outside, those are penniless rogues grabbing children to sell for cash!”

“What? Young sir, it’s true the Black Hats catch criminals, but this is the frontier. In Cyprus City, they’re expert at nabbing thieves, but here, their rules don’t apply!” Grant explained.

Carlos, eyes shining, asked, “So if I manage to steal the Koman family’s bike, the Black Hats won’t arrest me, is that what you mean?”

Grant was momentarily taken aback; it seemed logical, but he wasn’t sure. He nodded and then shook his head, hesitating, “Young sir, yes, but if Augusta finds you, he’ll tie you up and toss you into the steam engine for fuel!”

Carlos widened his eyes, “He wouldn’t dare. My father is the mayor.”

Grant gave a bitter smile. “Here, the steam guards only obey the Overseer.”

“The Overseer seems to have kicked the bucket.”

“Mm, then Augusta, that old mule, won’t give anyone face.”

Carlos frowned. “Uncle, ‘old mule’—who taught you to say that?”

“Young sir, that’s what the two barking dogs from the Dubei family, guarding the alchemy hut, call him.”

Carlos let out a sigh and collapsed into the fluffy sofa chair, downing a glass of homemade fruit juice in one gulp.

In truth, Morley’s house arrest for Carlos was rather ineffective. As long as he wished, none of the servants or the night patrols in the manor dared to stop him. The real reason Carlos didn’t venture out was simply because Saltwell Town was in chaos. Bounty hunters and Black Hats, heavily armed, prowled around the estate, each searching for stray “mudwalkers” emerging from underground cracks, as if those who crept out of the earth weren’t terrifying devils but ripe grains waiting to be harvested.

These men, living with their heads hanging by a thread, might resort to desperate measures. To them, the identity of a noble young master was nothing less than a lump of pure gold.

Yet Carlos wasn’t truly afraid of them. After all, Saltwell was a remote outpost of Cyprus, and if you told any local it was governed by the Stevenson family, none would object.

The other reason he dared not leave was his brother—
His half-brother, Dericht Stevenson.

To Carlos, Dericht was a pitiable soul, born without a trace of the Winter Moon’s bloodline and raised wild in the wilderness by their father. And now, today, he had returned home.

In Carlos’s memory, Dericht was recklessly fearless. He’d foraged in the wild as a child; the last time he returned home, he bore more than a dozen knife wounds, and his abdomen was gashed open—a gruesome gift from a shotgun blast at close range.

That year, Dericht, gravely injured, rode a mottled chestnut horse, fleeing for a day and night back to Saltwell Town—he survived, astonishingly. Not only did he survive, but he also outwitted and exhausted a gang of horse thieves who pursued him, leading them into traps until they perished.

Such was the caliber of the man—
The eldest son of the Stevenson family.

Grant, the coachman, praised him in private: “A fine swordsman. An excellent rider.” But in public, the two never exchanged words.

Dericht was tall, with golden hair and blue eyes, his hair beautifully tousled, and a pair of bright, keen, slightly suspicious and cold eyes.

“Carlos, you’ve grown taller.”

“Big brother, you’re looking even more handsome.”

Their opening banter made Grant, who was pretending to scrub the horses again, drop his brush and hurry off for a stroll.

The brothers, long separated, shared a smile at their own ostentatious chatter.

Dericht, adopting a reserved manner, said, “The Mudwalker Legion burned Silin City to ashes. There’s a hefty bounty now, and the wilderness is crawling with hunters and Black Hats drawn by the scent of blood. Father decided it was time I came home.”

“Brother, you…”

Dericht placed his rough hand affectionately on Carlos’s shoulder, smiling warmly, “That’s my wish too. I want to be home.”

Carlos tried to guess his father Morley’s motives, all the while exchanging heartfelt greetings with this brother he rarely saw but felt a deep affinity with.

There were things he could say to Uncle Grant, but not to Dericht. For instance, his desire to ride Augusta’s flying bike. Because if he mentioned it, Dericht would surely do it for him—even knowing Augusta would beat the unwelcome Stevenson son senseless if caught, he would go anyway, without hesitation.

Just as last time, before Dericht ventured far afield, young Carlos lamented how he wished for a glass of “Ice Cola.” Dericht, not even knowing what “Ice Cola” was, rode for days across the wild, braving beasts, searching Silin City for traces of the drink.

In the height of summer, he returned with a wooden barrel wrapped in layers of cotton.

Carlos would never forget how this stoic swordsman and hunter, clutching a barrel of ice, handed it to him with an apologetic smile: “I managed to bring back some ice. Cola… I’m still looking.”

Carlos couldn’t fathom whether Dericht’s actions reflected willpower or were simply the natural affection of an older brother. But growing up in such a narrow circle, never having left Saltwell Town, he knew Dericht was the most impressive person he had ever met—the sense of protection he felt from him outweighed even what he got from his father Morley.

So he dared not leave the Stevenson estate—at least, not until this sunny young man, barely eighteen or nineteen, had recovered from his wounds.

“How’s your injury?”

“It’s nothing, just a scratch. It’ll heal at home.”

Though he said so, Carlos, looking at his tall brother, saw his arm hanging limp as if the joint had been severed, held together only by steel wires like veins. It hardly seemed minor.

They said his mechanical arm had been fashioned by the old alchemist at the west end of town. Every time Dericht returned home, he would visit the alchemy hut for repairs.

Carlos, hunched on the sofa with his chin in his hands, gazed gloomily at the arm, reaching out to examine it. Dericht merely smiled, letting him fiddle as he pleased.

“Brother, how did that old pervert forge this arm? With its smoothness and precision, no machine could possibly make it.”

Dericht paused, frowned, and after a moment’s thought, replied slowly, “It wasn’t forged—it was alchemy.”

Carlos’s curiosity soared. “What is alchemy?”

Whenever he went alone to the old man’s alchemy workshop, he was always turned away, so he’d only heard rumors of alchemy and never seen it practiced.

Dericht, fierce as a wolf in the wild, was gentle as a toothless lion when at home with his brother. But noticing Carlos’s keen interest in alchemy, he wisely fell silent.

If Morley ever found out Dericht was encouraging his younger brother to pursue alchemy instead of dutifully inheriting the family’s bloodline puppet craft, the consequences would be far more severe than being thrown into the wilderness alone against armed horse thieves.

“Carlos, alchemy is really just sleight of hand. Compared to our Stevenson family’s genuine bloodline summoning puppetry, it’s a small trick beside a grand art.”

Dericht softened his tone, coaxing gently.