Goblin Heavy Dependence

Chapter 362 Grafting
The Cashmere Rust-Nailed Tavern, main hall.

Horaco sat in a corner of the hall, the bowls on the table in front of him having been cleared away by the waiter and replaced with two glasses of bubbling ale.

The dwarf Soldin sat opposite him.

Because the tavern did not provide chairs specifically designed for their race, the wooden chairs that would allow ordinary people to sit with their upper bodies fully exposed were clearly uncomfortable for this stocky, short man.

He sat down normally, and the edge of the wooden table almost reached his chest. He had to raise his hands slightly to put them on the table properly, making it look as if he was supporting himself on the table with his hands.

The chair creaked and groaned as it swayed, looking rather comical.

However, perhaps because he was already used to it, or perhaps because he was just a carefree person, Soldin didn't care about it and just kept sipping the ale in front of him.

Clearly, for him, being able to drink so freely so early in the morning was a very enjoyable and pleasant thing.

There's no need to worry about being too drunk and causing any mistakes or oversights.

With his level 4 [Shield Warrior] physique, it's practically impossible for him to get drunk on drinks with such low alcohol content, even if he drinks them like water.

It was purely for venting.

In contrast, Horako, on the other side of the table, was not as unrestrained.

While Soldin had already downed three cups into his stone belly, the wine in the merchant's cup had only gone down a small layer, appearing to have barely been touched.

He looked thoughtful, his fingertips tapping the table unconsciously, his slightly dazed eyes gazing out the window, seemingly lost in thought.

He was indeed the owner of the caravan, but having built his business to such an extent, he no longer took charge of the specifics, leaving all the necessary matters to the caravan manager, Afu. At this moment, Horak seemed rather idle.

He chatted idly with Soldin, who was acting as his temporary bodyguard.

"I've heard that the ore produced in your area is of good quality and inexpensive. How are your distribution channels? Do you have any good partners?"

“Too far.” Soldin waved his large, fan-like hand in the air and slammed his wine glass down on the wooden table. “There are almost three provinces in between. Even for your Golden Wheat Merchant Guild, if you want to transport goods from the mountains to Newme and River Valley, the losses during the transportation will probably exceed the value of the goods themselves.”

"Is it feasible to distribute costs? Perhaps we could negotiate with other organizations if the price is high enough..."

Clearly uninterested in this topic, the dwarf slumped over the table and yawned.

"That's your business. For most dwarf clans, being able to exchange the ores from the mountains for grain and wine is already considered a successful mission."

"As for how to handle it afterwards, that's your own business."

For the dwarves living in the mountains and mines, although there is no shortage of so-called "brewing masters" within their race, they have also cultivated some food crops that can adapt to the terrain of the mines and grow freely over generations.

However, only a minority were truly willing to put down their pickaxes and stay away from the furnace, and their output was insufficient to meet the needs of the entire large clan.

Therefore, in peacetime, when there is no significant external pressure on the clan, dwarves often tend to trade minerals of relatively lower quality to intelligent beings in nearby settlements for the resources they want.

It was just a casual remark, and he hadn't taken it to heart. Hearing the other party say that, Horak wasn't particularly disappointed.

As if he had thought of something else, he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he saw the dwarf Soldin across the table suddenly look up and look to the side.

The gaze follows that direction.

The hotel owner, a chubby middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion, was walking over with a smile, carrying two glasses of rye wine.

"Mr. Horako," the hotel owner said with just the right amount of concern, "you've been sitting here for a long time without touching your wine. Are you feeling unwell, or is the wine in our establishment not to your liking?"

"How about I try a glass of our newly arrived rye beer with you? Don't worry, it's definitely strong and has a rich flavor!"

Horak instinctively exchanged a glance with the dwarf in front of him, who nodded slightly. He then turned to the tavern owner, politely smiling and waving his hand in refusal:

"No, no need. The wine is very good. I just... don't feel like drinking."

Unexpectedly, the hotel owner seemed not to understand the refusal in his words, and instead pulled out a chair next to his table and sat down, leaning forward slightly to create a caring posture.

"Sigh, when you're traveling, you're bound to encounter some troubles."

"Is it a business problem, or are you tired of living in this small town?"

As he spoke, the boss kept his eyes fixed on Holak's face, carefully observing his every expression.

“No, that’s not it.” Horak spoke slowly, as if he were organizing his thoughts in his mind, trying to give the other party a reasonable explanation without revealing any information about the gem as much as possible.

"Giethoorn is very nice, quiet and peaceful."

"But... the business in River Valley Town can't wait. The agreed transaction date is fast approaching, and we can't linger here any longer."

"We plan to process the goods as soon as possible and then set off immediately."

"Leaving right away?" The hotel owner's face showed a strange look of surprise.

"Yes."

Horak nodded, his tone calm yet firm.

"Now we're just waiting to see when we can get the supplies we need for the journey ready."

Hearing what the other party had said, the tavern owner's expression also showed some regret.

"That's such a pity! I thought you would stay in town for a few more days!"

As he spoke, he suddenly paused, as if he had suddenly thought of something, while his eyes were fixed on Horak in front of him, watching the other's expression change.

"Speaking of which, Mr. Horako, are you a little regretful that you're leaving so soon?"

"I received some information this morning about what you asked me when you first arrived yesterday. Why don't you wait a little longer? You might be surprised by what you find."

Upon hearing this, Horak was taken aback.

He knew perfectly well what he was asking the other person.

When he first arrived in Giraffe Town yesterday, he hadn't yet broken free from the spell of Xia Nan's charm, and naturally, he only wanted one thing—

Pastel gemstones!

However, when he inquired about the matter, even with the promise of a generous reward, the hotel owner remained extremely impatient and practically tried to kick him out.

Why say such things now, when you've already lost control and decided to leave the town?

His brows furrowed unconsciously, a barely perceptible hint of wariness flashing in his eyes, and he gently shook his head at the other person.

"No, thank you for your kindness."

"I will have the caravan manager deliver the payment you mentioned earlier to you later, but the itinerary is already set and cannot be changed, so... please understand."

Upon seeing his decisive and straightforward refusal, the tavern owner's friendly smile froze for a moment before quickly returning to normal.

He chuckled twice and stood up from the table.

"I understand, I understand, business is the priority!"

"Then I won't bother you any longer. Have a safe journey!" The tavern owner turned and walked back to the bar, picking up a glass and wiping it with a towel, just like before.

The knuckles, however, turned noticeably white from the excessive force.

His gaze, which was turned away from the two people, then lowered, as if one could glimpse the countless thoughts flowing through it.

After a while, when the two people sitting in the corner of the hall stopped paying attention to him, he beckoned a waiter over and asked him to watch the counter in his place.

Then, with hurried steps, he rushed out of the hotel.

……

……

Meanwhile, in the orange grove.

“That winter was particularly cold, and the orchard’s harvest was poor. I developed a high fever and was lying in bed unable to even open my eyes.”

Standing in front of Xia Nan and Margaret, the simply dressed girl recalled that snowy night that she could never forget.

"My parents are almost frantic with worry."

“Back then, Grandpa Moen wasn’t like he is now… always looking very tired. That night, after hearing about it, he didn’t even have time to put on his thick robe before he grabbed a lamp and ran to my house, stumbling along the way.”

"My father said that when he opened the door after hearing the knock, there were ice crystals on Grandpa Moen's beard."

"He knelt by my bedside and prayed to the Mother of All Things all night long... Of course, it may not have been that long, after all, he was a powerful and respected priest, and may have just waved his staff."

"Anyway, by daybreak my fever had miraculously subsided, but Grandpa Moen was still worried. He said..."

The girl imitated the old pastor's calm and firm tone.

"The root cause of the soil's disease is gone, but the seedlings are still weak and need to be nourished with the best nutrients."

"And then, guess what?"

The girl's eyes sparkled.

"Braving the still-snowy wind, he walked alone into the frozen orange grove, found the orange tree that had once been the most robust, but was now almost dead, and carefully cut off the strongest branch with the dagger he always carried."

"He said this: 'Take this branch and graft it onto the most vigorous tree in your yard, and its life will flow through the graft, like the grace of the mother of all things caressing her child.'"

"From now on, this tree will be connected to your child's life, and the disease will be gone forever."

"The second year, the grafted branch survived, and the oranges it produced were exceptionally sweet. My illness never recurred, and my originally frail body became stronger year by year."

Sunlight fell on the girl's rosy face, glistening with sweat, and her smile was sweeter than a tangerine.

She turned around and gently stroked the rough bark of the orange tree, her movements as tender as if she were touching the arm of a loved one.

"Grandpa Moen said that this is not magic, but the principle of the cycle of life."

“I didn’t understand much, but he was willing to brave the wind and snow and rush over at night for me, an ordinary farm boy… People in town all say that he is a good person who truly puts the doctrine in his heart and puts it into practice, a truly respectable gentleman.”

The bright, warm sunlight filtered through the gaps in the branches and leaves, falling on the girl. The dappled light and shadow, swaying in the wind, seemed to gild the old man who had only caught a glimpse of her in the square with a dazzling golden edge.

—A pure saint who sacrificed himself to practice the doctrine.

At this moment, Xia Nan even felt a faint sense of guilt for having previously linked the circulation of pastel gemstones with Pastor Moen.

Could such a kind and beloved old man, beloved by the entire town, really be the culprit behind everything that happened in the town?
he does not know.

His gaze unconsciously drifted upwards.

Following the orange tree's weathered trunk, covered with dark brown, longitudinally cracked bark.

A branch, about the thickness of an adult's arm, merged with the main branch in a way that was far from natural and somewhat abrupt.

The bulging, twisted tissue at the junction resembled a healed yet still clearly visible, hideous scar, forcibly merging two different life forms.

The "miracle" the girl spoke of was growing from this scar, lush and vibrant, its leaves even brighter and greener, and its branches laden with plump, tempting, orange-red tangerines, like the sunset.

The grafting process may have left permanent, twisted scars, but the withered orange tree was ultimately reborn on another living organism.

……

……

Church in the center of Giethoorn.

Bright sunlight from above was divided into soft spots by the window panes and vine-like window frames, scattering across the bluestone floor. The air was filled with the fragrance of hay and earth, mixed with dust motes dancing in the beams of light, making the whole space feel like a warm and tranquil barn on a quiet afternoon.

Deep within the church, against the backdrop of the colorful stained-glass windows, stands a stone statue of the goddess of agriculture, Santia, on the altar.

It is not the sacred, solemn, and aloof great deity one might imagine; the statue itself is simply a kind and serene middle-aged woman.

Wearing a heavy silk robe embroidered with various plant growth patterns, vines, flowers, and leaves adorn her body like decorations.

With both hands slightly forward, each palm holds a few plump grains of wheat and a rosebud about to bloom.

They knelt down beneath the goddess statue.

An elderly man, dressed in a brown-green linen robe, with white hair and beard, lowered his eyelids and moved his lips, silently reciting a hymn.

"Clap."

A series of hurried, fragmented footsteps broke the silence inside the church.

From "Cashmere Rust Nails," the hotel owner's plump figure hurried across the neatly arranged wooden chairs on both sides of the lobby.

Panting, he bent over and whispered a few words in the ear of the priest, who was still in a praying posture.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the other party nod almost imperceptibly.

With utmost respect, I carefully withdrew from the church.

The air returned to stillness.

Pastor Moen never looked up, but remained kneeling quietly before the statue of the goddess.

Just then, the clouds drifted by, blocking out some of the bright sunlight from overhead.

The sunlight that had just illuminated the interior of the church was now reduced to a single, gentle beam that fell through the vine-covered window frames, dividing the entire space in two.

The tall and benevolent goddess is bathed in sunlight, while the devout priest in front of her is right at the edge of this beam of light, his body shrouded in deep shadow.
Pastor Moen's head was lowered, his face was covered by shadows, and his expression was not visible.

The goddess statue's eyes are fixed and serene, but the benevolent gaze that once fell upon the believers from above now seems to carry a hint of scrutiny and pity, accentuated by the light and shadow.

(End of this chapter)