Time flowed unusually slowly through the forest-sea of the Giant Tree City, as if even time itself was enamored with the quiet here and reluctant to leave.
In the days that followed, the Capitano's group, accompanied by Anya, lived through a rare stretch of peaceful time as Greenwood Village's most honored guests. For more than ten days, the village remained immersed in the joyful atmosphere of the Annual Ring Era celebration.
By day, the villagers wove enormous wreaths from vines and hung them from the branches of every ancient tree. By night, the bonfires never went out; the aroma of roasted meat and the sweetness of home-brewed fruit wine drifted through the air. For the crew—who had just endured the mechanical catastrophe in Port Alexandra and then been tossed about at sea for so long—this place was practically the legendary paradise hidden from the world.
And yet, as a scholar accustomed to thinking in terms of efficiency and logic, Faith's keen eyes detected a faint, discordant crack within this seemingly perfect pastoral idyll.
It was the afternoon of the eighth day of the celebration.
The village men were working together to move a massive stone stele used for rituals. It was brutally heavy labor: seven or eight strong men were drenched in sweat, veins bulging, each step accompanied by deep, ragged breaths. And on the meadow not far away, groups of huge, gentle-tempered long-haired horn beasts grazed lazily on the grass. These animals were powerfully built, and looked even better suited for labor than the cattle and horses of the outside world.
Standing in the shade, watching this, Faith finally couldn't help voicing the question that had been bothering him to Anya beside him.
"Miss Anya." Faith pointed at the beasts lounging at ease, then at the villagers nearly collapsing from exertion. "From my observation, those long-haired horn beasts have extremely developed shoulder muscles, and their temperament is docile. With a bit of domestication, they could absolutely help plow fields, transport goods, even turn mills. In that case, the villagers' labor efficiency would increase by at least five times. Why not do that?"
Anya's hands—she had been weaving a wreath—paused. She lifted her head; a trace of reverence flashed in her clear eyes, and then she shook her head with solemn firmness.
"You can't, Mr. Faith." Anya's voice was gentle but resolute. "This is also one of the customs passed down from our ancestors—more than a custom. It's an iron law."
She stood and walked to a long-haired horn beast that was chewing grass, gently stroking its coarse hide.
"In Greenwood Village's faith, humans and these animals are equal creations of the gods. They are children of the forest, and so are we. We share this land—equal existences. We hunt them only to survive and to fill our bellies; that is the cycle of life. But if, for the sake of comfort, we enslave them—put yokes on them—and let our hearts be filled with the intention to 'use' them… that would be blaspheming the gods' fairness."
Anya turned back, her eyes carrying a deep dread. "Doing that would break the forest's balance. It would bring divine punishment. Someone tried it before, and that year the village suffered a terrifying plague. Everyone said it was the Tree God's punishment."
"…Uh, alright." Faith looked as if he wanted to say more, but in the end, out of courtesy, he merely nodded and didn't argue.
But when he returned to the others and relayed the conversation, everyone's mood became complicated.
Frank blew out a smoke ring and looked at the primitive village with a deep, thoughtful gaze. "So-called 'divine punishment' was most likely just because people back then didn't understand animal hygiene or disease prevention, leading to a zoonotic outbreak… but because of ignorance, it became myth, became taboo."
Only then did they truly realize: the reason this village had remained in this almost stagnant, primitive backwardness for thousands of years was not because they were foolish, but because of those heavy, insurmountable "traditional customs." These rules were invisible chains—locking their hands and feet, and locking the steps by which they might have advanced toward civilization.
…
Time passed in the blink of an eye, and soon it was the evening of the eleventh day.
This was the last night before the Annual Ring Era arrived, and also the moment the celebration reached its peak.
In the village's central square, a bonfire larger than ever burned. Flames shot up toward the sky as if they wanted to lick the stars. Every villager—men and women, young and old—held hands in concentric circles and danced an ancient, mysterious sacrificial dance to the pounding drums.
The dance was rough and powerful, without any fancy technique. Every stomp seemed meant to shake the earth; every shout sounded like a summons to primordial souls.
Miguel was also pulled into the dance line by enthusiastic villagers. His limbs were stiff like a puppet, but he still twisted clumsily to the rhythm, drawing good-natured laughter from all around.
When the ritual dance ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving only embers flickering in the night wind, Anya sought out the Capitano's group.
She looked tired, but her eyes were brighter than the stars above. She sat on a log opposite Giovanni, cradling a cup of warm fruit wine in both hands. After a long silence, she finally spoke softly.
"Honored Drifters… thank you so much for coming."
Anya looked at these outsiders before her—freewheeling pirates, a taciturn warrior, learned scholars, and that miraculous chubby white bird. Over the past ten-plus days, they had told her stories of the sea's vastness, of the outside world's splendor, and of freedom and dreams.
Those stories were like sparks, igniting the wilderness that had once lain dormant inside her.
"If there were a chance…" Anya's voice trembled slightly, carrying a wistful longing that didn't quite feel real. "I really want to go adventuring with you. To see that sea where the sky isn't blocked by trees… to see that city built from steel."
"Hahahahaha!"
Hearing that, Giovanni burst into hearty laughter. He knocked his wine cup hard against the stump and leaned forward, his eyes—always smiling—filled with encouragement.
"Of course there's no problem! My ship isn't big, but carrying one more adorable guide like you is more than doable!"
Giovanni blinked, his tone carrying a hint of temptation. "Even if you want to run away from home, that's fine too! We're pirates—kidnapping a priestess who wants to see the world sounds like a pretty good tale!"
Anya froze for a moment, then smiled—a little tragic, and a little relieved.
"Even if… it means being cursed by the Tree God's 'memory'?"
"Hmph, a curse?" Giovanni waved it off disdainfully. "We crossed the abyss. We're even planning to go crash into that so-called 'The Wall of Angramainu'—why would we fear a mere Tree God's curse? For us, it doesn't matter."
But he paused, drew back his smile, and looked at the girl seriously. "But if the villagers believe they're cursed… then there's nothing to be done. A lock in the heart—outsiders can't open it."
Faith frowned as he listened. He felt Giovanni's words were too heretical for a priestess bearing responsibility, and he was about to caution, "Captain, that's a bit—"
"It's fine. Let Ollie translate it directly." Giovanni cut him off, his gaze steady.
Ollie, perched on Giovanni's shoulder, immediately and dutifully translated this "blasphemous" statement into the local language.
After hearing it, Anya fell silent. Head lowered, she stared at the rippling surface of the fruit wine in her cup and didn't speak for a long time.
"…"
The atmosphere suddenly grew heavy.
"Hey…" Miguel scratched his head awkwardly and elbowed Giovanni. "The mood just got cold all of a sudden. Look at you—scared the little girl, didn't you?"
"It's alright."
Anya suddenly lifted her head. To Miguel's surprise, she wasn't angry, nor panicked. Instead, her face carried a gentle warmth—as if she had been understood.
Miguel blinked, then asked instinctively, "You can understand what I'm saying?" He hadn't had Ollie translate that line.
"No." Anya shook her head, her gaze sweeping over each face. "Even if I can't understand the words, I know… you're worried about me."
"Ah—n-no, you're welcome…" Miguel, hard as he was, had no defense against warmth like that, and he immediately looked at a loss.
Anya set down her cup, drew a deep breath, and seemed to make some major decision.
"Mr. Frank was right."
She looked toward the historian who had been quietly smoking.
"I am the guardian of 'memory,' the incarnation of faith in this village… to the villagers, I'm like a totem that will never fall. If I leave for my own freedom, their world will collapse."
Anya's eyes hardened. The dignity of a priestess appeared on her youthful face for the first time.
"Before deciding my own future, I must first fulfill the duty I owe these villagers. For their future… whatever suffering I bear, perhaps it is worth it."
"…" Everyone fell silent. They could feel the crushing weight on the girl's thin shoulders.
"Sorry. This got a bit heavy." Anya smiled apologetically, trying to lighten the mood. But what she said next sent a chill through everyone's bones.
"Do you remember what that Federation general said before? He said we were 'uncivilized barbarians.'"
Anya's voice lowered, sounding especially eerie in the firelight of that night.
"Actually… some of our traditions truly are bloodthirsty and cruel."
"The coming-of-age ceremony in the village isn't just a simple celebration." Anya pointed at a few young people nearby whose bodies bore scars. "To receive the Tree God's blessing of 'memory,' every child who becomes an adult must brand a family mark onto specific parts of their body with a red-hot iron. That pain is carved into the bones. Only those who endure it can be said to have truly begun life in the village."
Frank's hand trembled slightly; ash fell from his cigarette to the ground.
"And that… is only the beginning."
Anya lifted her head. Her eyes met Giovanni's directly. Her voice was as light as wind, yet each word cut like a blade.
"In tomorrow's inheritance rite, as the next 'Memory Guardian'… and as well as certain selected firstborn sons in the village, we must perform a special ritual."
"We will… eat the brains of deceased elders."
Dead silence. Even Ollie forgot to flap its wings.
"This is to inherit 'memory.'" Anya's tone was calm in a way that broke the heart. "Our ancestors believed wisdom and memory are stored in the brain. Only by doing this can the previous generation's wisdom be passed to the next without reservation. That's why we are called 'guardians of memory.'"
"This… is probably why those Federation people look down on us and call us cannibals."
Frank's face turned a little pale. As a historian from a civilized society, he had read countless dark records, but hearing a custom like this still being practiced made him feel physically unwell.
Yet he kept his reason and said in a low voice, "Forgive my bluntness, Miss Anya. In my view, this is more of an excuse for their invasion. No matter what your customs are, plunder is plunder."
"But at least this fact makes those soldiers completely despise our traditions, doesn't it?" A trace of sorrow flickered in Anya's eyes.
"No matter how you look at it… I hope people can receive gentler protection. I hope that one day, our children won't need branding irons to prove courage, and won't need to devour their elders to inherit wisdom."
Even Faith, rarely, showed a troubled expression. This cruelty rooted in cultural genes made the rationalist feel powerless.
"Isn't this… something you can change just by making a 'choice'?"
"Enough."
Giovanni suddenly cut Faith off. The captain stood, all his playful grinning gone. He looked at Anya, and in that gaze there was no pity—only equal respect.
"No matter what, Anya has made her choice. We are outsiders. We have no right to interfere with a civilization's self-redemption."
Anya looked gratefully at Giovanni and nodded hard.
"Yes. Precisely because of that, tomorrow's rite is even more important."
The girl stood. The firelight stretched her shadow long, like a lonely sapling.
"All day tomorrow, I'm going into the sacred tree's interior to prepare the inheritance rite of the Memory Guardian. That is the most dangerous, but also the most sacred step."
She turned her back to them, her voice filled with hope for the future.
"When it's all over… when I become a true guardian, when I have the power to change the rules… I want to go adventuring with you. I want to find a new way—one that hurts less—to protect my people."
"Then it's settled!" Giovanni raised his cup. "We'll wait for you on the ship!"
"Yes! Deal!"
…
The twelfth day.
This day, Greenwood Village was unnaturally quiet. There was no singing, no dancing. Even the usually noisy children had been ordered by the adults to stay inside.
The entire village seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for that sacred moment to arrive.
The Capitano's group didn't leave. They gathered by the treehouses at the village entrance and waited in silence. Even Ollie was no longer noisy, obediently perched on Giovanni's shoulder.
Time ticked by, second by second—from the faint early morning light, to the sun overhead, to the sun setting in the west.
The forest light gradually dimmed, and an inexplicable oppressive feeling settled over everyone's heart.
"Why is it taking so long?" Miguel paced irritably. "Does that inheritance rite really take this long?"
"Be patient." Frank said it, but the fingers holding his cigarette kept tapping lightly against his knee.
Finally, when the last strand of sunlight vanished beyond the horizon and night was about to swallow the entire forest-sea—
Heavy footsteps came from the direction of the temple.
Everyone stood at once and looked over, full of expectation.
But the one who emerged was not the lively, bright-eyed girl Anya.
It was the high priestess, leaning on her crooked wooden staff—the old grandmother—shuffling forward step by step toward them.
She looked even older than a few days ago, as if all her life had been drained overnight. The wrinkles on her face had sunk deep; her formerly sharp, capable eyes were now cloudy and hollow.
Giovanni's smile froze. He took a step forward, opened his mouth—yet nothing came out.
The old woman stopped before them and slowly lifted her head.
She did not cry, but her voice was more despairing than any sob.
"Anya…"
Her voice was hoarse and shattered, like dry leaves cracking in the wind.
"Anya… she didn't make it through the rite."