NEC Chapter 28: Under the Mage Tower  

Josie stood neatly groomed, his old leather armor polished to a shine, secured with fresh sinew straps. His shortsword’s hilt was wrapped in new cloth, faintly embroidered with some pattern.

He tried to stand tall, but when his eyes met Chen Mo’s, they darted away, betraying a mix of nervousness and shame. 

The other guide, Little John, was Old John’s grandson, as his name suggested. Slender, he carried a well-maintained hunting bow, its string taut and ready. The young man grinned, his body restless, shifting slightly as if unable to stand still, radiating one word: lively! 

The arrangement was clear—taking care of their own was the unspoken intent. 

Seeing Chen Mo’s silence, the one-eyed owner blinked his good eye and added, “Josie and Little

John are ranked, one a Copper Crest Warrior, the other a bowman. They’re like nephews to me, grew up under my watch. Trustworthy!” 

“Though young, they’ve run jobs with seasoned crews. Clean hands, sharp minds. They know the North Foothill River area like the back of their hands.” 

Old John, standing nearby, coughed to draw Chen Mo’s attention. His wrinkled face cracked a smile. “Milord, if you don’t mind, take both along!” 

“They’re young but raised in the mercenary life, tough as nails. Escorting, errand-running, scouting, night watch—they won’t slip up.” 

“Two’s perfect: one guards, one runs. If you’re camping out, they can take shifts.” 

Chen Mo nodded. Old John had a point. It was just a matter of ten days or so, a few dozen silver coins. Getting moving was the priority. 

“Alright, pack up quick. Let’s go!” There was plenty to prepare. 

Trekking to the North Foothill River on foot was more than Chen Mo could handle. A carriage was a must. 

Accompanied by Old John and Josie, he visited the trading market. After haggling, Chen Mo gritted his teeth, dug deep, and bought a four-wheeled, two-horse carriage, plus an extra sturdy horse. 

Renting from the carriage line would’ve cost more in deposits and fees, and with no quick return to Whitestone City in sight, buying made sense. 

Back at the tavern, the one-eyed owner had good news: the black market issue was temporarily resolved. Chen Mo, wincing at the cost, paid another hefty sum. 

These old hands had connections to marvel at. Without them, that money wouldn’t have even found a way to be spent. 

The black market bounty on Chen Mo still listed the Mountain Vine Squad. Though Chen Mo had sent the entire team to their graves, their bond period hadn’t expired, technically keeping the task “protected.” 

The owner’s solution was to bribe the black market’s task issuer. Using the Hedgehog Tavern’s veteran mercenaries as a front, he locked up all follow-up tasks tied to Chen Mo’s bounty. 

The black market didn’t care who took the job, as long as the bond was paid on time. 

Normally, a task only reopened if the previous holder failed or didn’t renew. But in the black market, rules bent. When someone eagerly paid, who’d turn away a cash cow? 

Chen Mo’s steep payment ensured the task stayed “locked” for six months, untouchable by others. 

The sword over his head was lifted, for now. Chen Mo could finally breathe. 

But a bounty from a prominent noble family like the Zircons wasn’t so easily erased. Chen Mo silently repeated their name, his gaze growing colder. 

Just wait. A few more calls to Motherland, and we’ll settle this score. 

With Whitestone’s loose ends tied, Chen Mo and Little White boarded the carriage. Josie drove, Little John rode the spare horse, and they set out before the sun dipped too low. 

Before leaving, a small scene unfolded at the city gate. Josie’s father, Big Josie, and Little John’s father, Middle John, arrived to see their sons off. 

Big Josie handed over a heavy sack of fragrant dried bread and cured meat. Middle John brought two glossy quivers of fresh arrows—Little John, expecting a foot trek, hadn’t packed enough spares, but with a horse, he’d asked his father to top up his gear. 

Watching their heartfelt farewells, Chen Mo felt generous and prepaid half a month’s wages for both, letting them hand it to their families on the spot. 

When the two rejoined the group, their faces glowed, backs straight, steps brisk with pride. 

At the final moment of departure, Old John leaned against the gate’s corner stone, his cloudy eyes lingering on his grandson. His lips moved, but he only waved. “Go on, stay sharp!” 

---

The expense was steep, but worth every coin. 

With two capable, locally savvy mercenaries, the journey was surprisingly smooth. Chen Mo seized every spare moment to meditate and train, and when free, he quizzed the pair on local tales, customs, and oddities, feeling his skills and knowledge grow by leaps. 

A week later, the carriage, racing along the main road, reached the Crescent Moon Federation’s greatest river, the North Foothill. 

Rivers, wherever they flowed, were strategic lifelines. 

The North Foothill River roared through the heart of the federation’s twelve major cities, earning its title as the mother river. 

Its floodplains were the federation’s breadbasket, rich with grain, fruit, and spiritual herbs. Chen Mo’s journey revealed a pastoral idyll: crisscrossing fields and fragrant orchards. 

The federation’s wines, famed for their delicate flavor and lingering finish, were prized across the Starry Continent, even exported to the fabled Eastern realms. 

Mages, who spent long hours in meditative study, favored these elegant wines. Many, when granted their choice of fief, picked these riverbank plains to raise their mage towers—part private estate, part personal academy. 

Chen Mo’s first destination was the Radiant Mage Tower at North Foothill Bay, the closest to the Whitestone highway, reachable by a straight path. 

They arrived at dusk, the tower looming against the shadowy mountains. Its centerpiece, a central spire six stories tall, dominated the view. 

This was the domain of a sixth-tier mage, a legendary Holy Light Void Chanter. 

As the carriage drew closer, the tower’s full form emerged. 

The outer fortress, a two-story structure, was built from massive, jet-black stones, each polished square and fitted seamlessly. 

The central spire, crafted from white stone, glowed faintly in the twilight, its cold light piercing the dusk. Shaped wider at the base and tapering upward, it resembled a spear aimed at the sky. Intricate runes, etched deep and shallow, crisscrossed its surface like time-worn scars. 

These runes locked magical energy into the tower, radiating power Chen Mo could feel miles away, a surging tide of purple-blue light pulsing through the stone, flickering in waves. 

This was the grandeur of a mage tower rooted in a great nation’s heartland, worlds apart from the grim, shadowy Black Crow Castle where Chen Mo had briefly stayed. 

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