Eternal Realm: Shadows and Radiance

Volume One: “Omen of Fate”

Chapter 3: The Lost Scroll

The midday sun, a pale, weak disc, struggled valiantly to break through the stubbornly persistent, oppressive cloud cover, casting long, watery shadows that stretched and wavered across Oakhaven’s muddy, rutted main street. The usual midday bustle, such as it meagerly was in a town that primarily existed at dawn and dusk, revolving entirely around the relentless rhythms of farm work and sleep, was just tentatively beginning to stir, to rouse itself from its slumber. Chickens, scrawny and opportunistic, pecked hopefully, incessantly in the dusty earth, searching for stray grains, a lone, mangy dog yawned widely, displaying pink gums and yellowed teeth, in front of the butcher’s shop, basking in a patch of weak sunlight, and the blacksmith’s heavy hammer rang out with a steady, rhythmic clang, a sound as familiar and deeply comforting as the slow, protesting creak of the old well pulley.

Suddenly, a jarringly different sound violently interrupted the mundane, predictable symphony of Oakhaven – the sharp, rhythmic clip-clop of approaching hooves on the uneven, scattered stones, echoing crisply in the still air, approaching at a hurried pace that clearly suggested urgency, or perhaps simply a blatant disregard for the town’s typically sleepy, languid tempo. Heads abruptly turned, eyes involuntarily squinted, narrowing against the weak, diffused light, and hushed conversations momentarily paused, breaking off mid-sentence, as the source of the unexpected sound finally dramatically came sharply into view at the eastern, dusty edge of town.

It undeniably was a rider, perched precariously, almost comically, atop a weary-looking, dust-caked mule that limped slightly, its head hanging low. But it was not the rider’s humble mode of transport that immediately snared undivided attention; it was undeniably the rider himself, his very presence that commanded notice. He was old, undeniably, profoundly so, his countless years meticulously etched deeply into the intricate lines that crisscrossed his aged face like a detailed roadmap of hardship, relentless sun, and tireless study. His frame was alarmingly thin, almost skeletal beneath the heavy robes, hidden beneath multiple layers of travel-stained, once-rich robes of a faded, almost ghostly purple hue that shifted in the weak light. The robes, though clearly dusty, rumpled, and worn thin at the elbows, subtly hinted at a long, past life spent in places undeniably far grander, far more opulent than dusty Oakhaven, places where learned scholars and ancient knowledge were highly valued, precious commodities. A heavy, worn leather-bound satchel, bulging with unseen contents, slung diagonally across his bony shoulder, thumped heavily against his gaunt side with each jarring jolt of the weary mule’s uneven gait.

His face, what little could be clearly seen of it beneath a voluminous, deep hooded cowl that effectively shadowed most of his delicate features, was a stark study in deep wrinkles that crinkled around his eyes and sharp angles that defined his jaw. A long, thin, aristocratic nose prominently dominated his aged face, jutting sharply outwards like the weathered prow of a ship defiantly cutting through choppy waves, and his lips were tightly pressed into a perpetually thin, disapproving line, clearly suggesting a long life predominantly spent in quiet contemplation, hushed study, rather than boisterous laughter and loud revelry. Wisps of startlingly white hair, stubbornly escaping from beneath the confines of the deep cowl, delicately framed a high, intelligent forehead that spoke of years bent over ancient tomes. But it undeniably was his eyes that truly, immediately arrested the captivated gaze of any observer. Even from a considerable distance, they strangely gleamed with an unnerving, unsettling intensity, startlingly bright and unnervingly sharp in the deeply aged face, like glowing embers stubbornly flickering in slowly dying ashes. They nervously darted about, constantly scanning, relentlessly sweeping over the town with an almost feverish, desperate eagerness, as if he were frantically, urgently searching for something specific, or perhaps someone particular amongst the mundane faces.

Old Man Hemlock, who always inexplicably seemed to eerily materialize from the very shadows whenever anything even remotely out of the ordinary, however minor, occurred in predictable Oakhaven, suddenly hobbled creakily out of his perpetually cluttered, dusty shop, his cloudy, cataract-ridden eyes, grotesquely magnified by his comically thick spectacles, immediately fixated, locked onto the undeniably intriguing approaching rider. He leaned heavily, swaying slightly, on his gnarled, twisted walking stick, his frail head involuntarily cocked sharply to one side, his wrinkled expression a peculiar mixture of ingrained suspicion, morbid curiosity, and something unsettlingly akin to anticipation. Martha from the bakery, her strong arms still liberally dusted with white flour, abruptly paused from her morning chore of sweeping the doorway clean, her steady gaze now intently following the unusual scholar with a more measured, thoughtful interest that belied her usual stoicism. Even Jedediah, the perpetually gruff, taciturn farmer, abruptly stopped mid-sentence in his loud, boisterous bartering with the butcher over the price of mutton, his head involuntarily turning sharply, his thick brow involuntarily furrowing deeply with a farmer’s inherent, ingrained distrust of anyone who clearly didn’t remotely look like they actually knew the honest, earthy feel of rich soil firmly beneath their calloused fingernails.

The scholar slowly, deliberately guided his weary mule down the dusty main street, his sharp, intelligent eyes relentlessly sweeping, probing over the ramshackle buildings that lined the street, the curious faces that peered from windows and doorways, even the very dust itself that swirled at his mule’s hooves, as if desperately seeking some hidden, profound meaning in the utterly mundane. He finally reined the tired mule to a weary halt in the small, open space directly in front of the notoriously disreputable Crooked Tankard, undeniably the town’s de facto, albeit unofficial, gathering place for gossip, rumors, and strong ale. He visibly swayed slightly in the worn saddle, a fleeting flicker of profound weariness momentarily crossing his deeply lined face, then resolutely straightened his thin spine with a clearly visible, determined effort, projecting an air of fragile dignity. He carefully dismounted with a surprising, unexpected agility for a man of his undeniably advanced age, his heavy robes dramatically swirling around his thin frame like swirling wisps of dark purple smoke in the weak sunlight.

He slowly turned, his keenly intelligent eyes finally landing, focusing directly on Jedediah, who, despite his initial ingrained suspicion and gruff demeanor, was now openly staring with unconcealed, almost childlike curiosity. The scholar deliberately moved purposefully towards him, his measured gait surprisingly brisk and energetic despite his apparent age, his silent footsteps almost inaudible on the soft, muddy ground. He firmly stopped directly before the farmer, his piercing, intense gaze resolutely locking directly onto Jedediah’s slightly bewildered face, holding it captive.

“Excuse me, good sir,” the scholar politely said, his voice surprisingly strong, clear, and resonant, though undeniably laced with a slight, subtly unfamiliar accent that faintly hinted at distant, exotic origins far beyond the familiar confines of Oakhaven. “I urgently seek crucial information. Perhaps, good sir, you can possibly assist me in my urgent quest.” He deliberately paused briefly, his sharp eyes quickly flicking, assessing Jedediah’s sturdy build, his weathered, sun-beaten face, his calloused hands. “You clearly appear to be a man intimately familiar with this… town.”

Jedediah, momentarily, visibly taken aback by the scholar’s unexpected directness and unnervingly intense gaze, instinctively shifted his considerable weight uncomfortably from one heavy foot to the other, his usual ingrained gruffness momentarily, surprisingly softening into a wary, hesitant politeness. “Aye,” he reluctantly grunted, slowly nodding his head curtly in reluctant acknowledgement. “Jedediah’s the name. Farmer, born and bred. Been here… well, long enough to see seasons turn more times than you’ve likely seen summers, old man.” He vaguely gestured a calloused hand dismissively around at the familiar, unremarkable buildings of Oakhaven. “What specific kind of information exactly are you desperately seekin’, old man? Spit it out.”

The scholar’s thin lips slowly curled upwards into a thin, almost imperceptible smile, a brief, fleeting flash of surprisingly sharp, white teeth that briefly appeared, then vanished. “Knowledge, good farmer, I seek the invaluable commodity of knowledge. Specifically, knowledge pertaining to… ruins.” He deliberately paused again, meaningfully letting the potent word deliberately hang heavily in the still air between them, his piercing eyes intently scanning Jedediah’s weathered face for any fleeting flicker of dawning recognition, any spark of understanding. “Ancient ruins, located nearby this… settlement.”

Jedediah’s thick brow involuntarily furrowed even deeper, his forehead creasing into lines of confusion. He instinctively scratched his untamed beard again, his gaze involuntarily drifting slowly towards the distant western horizon, towards the vast, rolling plains that eventually, relentlessly gave way to the rugged, imposing foothills of the dark, mysterious mountains beyond. “Ruins?” he slowly repeated, his deep voice now noticeably laced with a growing suspicion. “There’s old stones, tumbledown walls, scattered all over these wild parts. Been here since before… well, before even the oldest amongst us can properly remember. What specific kind are you actually lookin’ for, old man? Be specific.”

“Lost ruins,” the scholar patiently corrected, his clear voice deliberately dropping slightly, becoming more confidential, almost conspiratorial, leaning closer still. “Ruins that are… utterly forgotten by all but the stones themselves. Specifically,” he leaned even closer to Jedediah, his voice now a low, conspiratorial murmur that barely carried on the wind, “ruins intimately associated with… the legendary Scroll of Erechia itself.”

Jedediah’s eyes suddenly widened dramatically, a distinct flicker of something undeniably akin to genuine… fear? … briefly crossing his weathered, sun-beaten face, replacing the initial curiosity. He nervously glanced sharply around, darting his gaze about as if suddenly, acutely aware that others might be intently listening, eavesdropping on their hushed conversation. Even Martha from the bakery had abruptly paused her sweeping, her broom resting silently in her hands, her head now deliberately tilted sharply, her sharp ears clearly straining intently to catch every whispered word. Hemlock, still precariously leaning heavily on his gnarled walking stick, had stealthily moved noticeably closer, his thick spectacles suddenly glinting ominously in the weak, diffused light.

“The… Scroll of Erechia?” Jedediah nervously stammered, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, his usual booming tone completely vanished. “You actually mean… the… legend?”

“Legend?” the scholar sharply echoed, raising a thin, skeptical eyebrow that arched high on his wrinkled forehead, his lips curling in faint disdain. “Is that all they dismissively call it here, in this… backwater? A mere ‘legend’? I vehemently assure you, good farmer,” he firmly declared, his voice regaining strength, “it is demonstrably far, far more profoundly significant than just a fanciful fireside tale.” He resolutely straightened up, his thin spine now ramrod straight, his piercing gaze deliberately sweeping over the small, suddenly hushed gathering of curious townsfolk who were now openly, unabashedly staring, gaping at them with rapt attention. “I have extremely compelling reason to firmly believe,” he deliberately announced, his voice suddenly louder, more resonant, more commanding, “that the Scroll is absolutely not just a childish story, a meaningless myth. And that it… has undeniably recently been sighted, with credible witnesses. In long-forgotten ruins located not far from this very town, Oakhaven.”

A noticeable ripple of excited murmuring immediately rippled audibly through the small, previously silent crowd. The Scroll of Erechia. Even in a remote, isolated backwater town like humble Oakhaven, the very name itself undeniably carried a significant weight, a powerful resonance of ancient prophecies, forgotten destinies, and untold power. Whispered tales of the legendary scroll, said to meticulously record the entire shrouded history of Erechia from its very mythical beginnings and accurately predict its entire future, circulated in hushed, reverent whispers, carefully passed down through countless generations like precious, fragile, invaluable heirlooms. Most practical townsfolk routinely dismissed it all as mere folklore, superstitious nonsense suitable only for impressionable children and the overly credulous. But still… the mere word itself undeniably held a certain undeniable power, a lingering resonance, a potent mystique that clung to the very air.

Elvin, who had been restlessly pacing inside his small house, still inwardly wrestling with the lingering, unsettling sensations and profound implications of the Dawn Stone’s awakening power, suddenly heard the unexpectedly raised voice of the intriguing newcomer and the rising, excited murmuring of the assembled townsfolk outside. Curiosity, a persistent, nagging itch he simply couldn’t readily ignore, sharply pricked at his restless mind, demanding attention. He quickly moved purposefully to the doorway, his hand instinctively going to the worn pocket of his tunic where he now constantly carried the Dawn Stone, its faint, reassuring warmth a constant, tangible presence against his skin, a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts. He resolutely stepped boldly out into the weak, diffused sunlight, his keen gaze immediately falling, magnetically drawn, upon the strange, undeniably intriguing scholar now resolutely standing in the very middle of the muddy street, conspicuously surrounded by a growing knot of increasingly agitated, whispering townsfolk.

He quickly watched intently as the scholar, clearly emboldened by the rapidly growing, captivated attention, dramatically elaborated on his initial pronouncements. “I am Scholar Theron,” he confidently proclaimed, his resonant voice now ringing clearly out across the small, hushed town square, commanding silence. “I have resolutely traveled far, tirelessly enduring hardship, faithfully guided solely by fragmented whispers and incomplete fragments of ancient, forgotten texts, desperately seeking the legendary, lost Scroll of Erechia. And I now firmly believe,” he deliberately paused dramatically for maximum effect, his unnervingly bright eyes slowly sweeping, assessing over the upturned, eager faces directly before him, “I now firmly believe, with unwavering conviction, that I have finally found it. Or at the very least… its long-lost location, its current resting place.”

He dramatically pointed a long, bony finger westward, purposefully towards the hazy, indistinct outline of the distant, looming mountains that rose on the horizon, shrouded in mist and mystery. “The Whisperwind Ruins,” he finally announced, his voice once more deliberately dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that nonetheless somehow perfectly carried clearly in the sudden, expectant silence that had abruptly fallen completely over hushed Oakhaven. “Hidden deep, deeply concealed within those treacherous hills, nestled amongst the whispering pines and shadowed valleys. I have personally received undeniably reliable accounts… credible sightings… unequivocally suggesting that the Scroll itself may have mysteriously resurfaced there, after centuries of being lost to the world. Recently.”

Elvin suddenly felt a jolt, a sharp, electric thrill that inexplicably had absolutely nothing to do with the Dawn Stone now warming his pocket, and everything profoundly to do with the scholar’s momentous, unexpected pronouncements. Whisperwind Ruins. He undeniably had heard the ominous name before, whispered in hushed, fearful tones by his grandmother during long winter nights, chilling tales of a forbidden place of utterly forgotten magic and ancient, dangerous secrets, a place best resolutely left undisturbed, shunned by all sensible folk. And now, this strange scholar, this unexpected harbinger of momentous news, was confidently claiming that the legendary, lost Scroll of Erechia, the very scroll of destiny itself, might actually, impossibly be found hidden there, waiting to be rediscovered.

He resolutely pushed his way purposefully through the small, tightly packed crowd of townsfolk, his heart now pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a wild mixture of exhilarating excitement and creeping apprehension violently churning in his stomach. He desperately needed to hear more, to know more, to understand the full implications of this astonishing news. He finally reached the very edge of the hushed gathering, his own dark eyes abruptly meeting, locking directly with the unnervingly bright eyes of Scholar Theron. The scholar’s sharp, intensely intelligent gaze, unwavering and penetrating, resolutely locked directly onto his own, inexplicably seeming to boldly pierce directly through him, to somehow magically see something far deeper, far more profound, something inexplicably hidden carefully beneath the mundane surface. A fleeting flicker of sudden… recognition? … inexplicably crossed the scholar’s deeply wrinkled face, a brief flash of understanding.

“Young man,” Scholar Theron unexpectedly said, his clear voice surprisingly gentle now, directly addressing Elvin specifically, his unnervingly intense gaze still resolutely unwavering, still holding his captive. “You undeniably look… thoughtful, deeply contemplative. Do you, by any chance, good sir, actually know of these… Whisperwind Ruins that I speak of?”

Elvin nervously swallowed, his throat suddenly inexplicably dry, his mouth suddenly tasting like dust. He slowly nodded almost imperceptibly, his own eyes still resolutely locked, held captive by the scholar’s intense gaze. “I… I have vaguely heard of them, in hushed whispers,” he hesitantly stammered, his voice barely audible above the renewed, excited murmuring of the now thoroughly agitated townsfolk behind him. “Whispers… legends… old wives’ tales…”

“Legends indeed,” Scholar Theron quietly murmured, a subtle hint of something utterly unreadable, something deeply profound flickering briefly in his strangely bright eyes. “But legends, young man,” he gravely intoned, his voice gaining weight, gaining gravitas, “often carefully hold, concealed deep within their fantastical narratives, the crucial kernels of undeniable truth. And truth, especially in these undeniably… uncertain, turbulent times, is undeniably a profoundly precious, invaluable commodity indeed.” He deliberately paused significantly, his unnerving gaze abruptly shifting back to the hazy outline of the distant mountains, his wrinkled expression suddenly becoming noticeably somber, almost mournful. “The legendary Scroll of Erechia… it is anciently said to meticulously hold the very destiny of this entire continent, every kingdom, every soul. To truly know its long-hidden secrets… is to potentially hold the very fragile fate of all Erechia directly within your own mortal hands.”

He abruptly turned his thin frame back to directly face Elvin once more, his strangely bright eyes now undeniably burning with an almost feverish, unsettling intensity, boring into him. “And I now firmly believe, young man,” he deliberately said, his voice suddenly dropping to a near-inaudible whisper, yet somehow still clearly carrying with it the immense weight of countless ages, the accumulated wisdom of centuries, “that destiny itself… is undeniably calling out to you, directly calling your very name.”

Elvin silently stared directly back at the intense scholar, the weighty words resolutely hanging heavily in the suddenly still air directly between them, pregnant with unspoken, profound meaning and the immense, terrifying weight of ancient prophecy yet to be fully revealed. The weak midday sun, still pale and watery, inexplicably seemed to subtly dim even further, as if even the vast heavens themselves were suddenly resolutely holding their collective breath, intently listening to the weighty pronouncements of the aged scholar and the nascent stirrings of destiny within the awakened heart of a young, unremarkable man now resolutely standing in a dusty, forgettable frontier town, unknowingly, irrevocably poised precariously on the very precipice of his own unfolding, terrifying destiny. The soft whisper of the wind, gently rustling through the dry, brittle grass of the endless plains beyond Oakhaven, suddenly eerily seemed to silently carry a dramatically new, undeniably different message, a message no longer merely of biting chill and vast distance, but now of ancient, long-forgotten secrets, whispered prophecies, and the slow, inexorable unfolding of a long-foretold, momentous prophecy that was only just beginning to truly awaken. And Elvin, his hand still instinctively, protectively clutching the now familiar warmth of the Dawn Stone hidden deep within his pocket, finally, undeniably felt the irresistible, undeniable pull of that terrifying destiny, a clear, resonant call he could no longer possibly ignore, resolutely echoing in the scholar’s dramatic pronouncements and the increasingly frantic, awakened beating of his own suddenly changed, undeniably destined heart.

《永恒之境：暗影与光辉》卷一《命运预兆》

第三章：失落卷轴

正午的阳光，惨白无力，勉强穿透云层，在橡木镇泥泞的街道上投下长长的、摇曳不定的影子。这座以日出而作、日落而息的小镇，白日里本就没什么生气，此刻却渐渐喧闹起来。几只瘦骨嶙峋的鸡在尘土中刨食，一条癞皮狗在肉铺前晒着太阳，打着哈欠，露出粉红色的牙龈和发黄的牙齿，铁匠铺里传来铁锤敲击的叮当声，和着那口老井的辘轳发出的吱嘎声，熟悉而令人安心。

突然，一阵急促的马蹄声打破了这单调的协奏曲，马蹄敲击在石子路上的声音清脆地回荡在静谧的空气中，那节奏分明透着一股子急切，又或许，是对小镇慵懒节奏的蔑视。人们纷纷转过头，眯起眼睛，在昏暗的光线下搜寻着声音的来源，原本窃窃私语的人们也停了下来，话说到一半戛然而止。终于，声音的主人出现在了小镇东边的入口处。

那是一位骑手，坐骑却是一头疲惫不堪、满身尘土的骡子，走起路来一瘸一拐，脑袋低垂。但吸引人们注意力的并非这寒酸的坐骑，而是骑手本人。他很老了，老得让人一眼就能看出来，岁月在他脸上刻下了一道道深深的皱纹，像是饱经风霜的地图。他身形瘦削，几乎可以用皮包骨头来形容，身上套着好几层长袍，原本的紫色早已褪去，在微弱的光线下不断变幻，沾满了旅途的尘土。尽管这长袍已经破旧不堪，袖口磨损，却依旧能看出他曾经生活在一个远比橡木镇气派、奢华的地方，一个崇尚知识和学问的地方。一个沉甸甸的、破旧的皮包斜挎在他肩上，随着骡子的颠簸，沉重地撞击着他瘦骨嶙峋的身躯。

他的脸，大部分被宽大的兜帽遮住，只能隐约看到一些轮廓，满是皱纹的眼角和棱角分明的下巴。一个高而瘦的鼻子格外醒目，像是一艘饱经风霜的船的船头，嘴唇紧紧地抿成一条线，一看便知他这一生大部分时间都在静思和苦读中度过，而不是在喧闹和欢笑中。几缕花白的头发从兜帽里钻出来，衬托着他那高高的、智慧的额头。但真正吸引人注意的，是他那双眼睛。即使隔着很远，也能看到他那双眼睛闪烁着令人不安的光芒，在那张饱经风霜的脸上显得格外明亮、锐利，像是即将熄灭的余烬中，依旧顽强闪烁的火星。它们不安分地四处扫视着，仿佛在疯狂地寻找着什么，又或者是在这群人中寻找某个人。

老亨洛克，这个每当镇上发生哪怕一丁点不寻常的事情时，总会像幽灵般突然出现的老头子，此刻正从他那杂乱不堪的铺子里颤颤巍巍地走出来，他那双患有白内障的眼睛，透过厚厚的眼镜片，被放大得有些吓人，此刻正紧盯着这位有趣的来客。他拄着那根扭曲的拐杖，身子微微摇晃，脑袋歪向一边，脸上的表情既有怀疑，又带着一丝难以言喻的期待。面包店的玛莎，那双强壮的胳膊上还沾满了面粉，她停下了清扫门口的活计，用一种更加审慎、更加专注的目光注视着这位不寻常的学者，这目光与她平日里的坚忍截然不同。就连一向粗暴、沉默寡言的农夫杰迪，也停止了与肉铺老板关于羊肉价格的争吵，转过头来，浓密的眉毛皱了起来，脸上带着一个庄稼人对那些手上没有沾过泥土的人本能的不信任。

学者缓缓地策着骡子走在尘土飞扬的大街上，他那双锐利的眼睛不停地扫视着街道两旁破旧的房屋，那些从门窗后面探出头来好奇张望的面孔，甚至骡子蹄子下飞扬的尘土，仿佛要从这平凡的一切中找出某种隐藏的、深刻的含义。最后，他在“歪把酒壶”酒馆前停了下来，这里是镇上人们闲聊八卦、发泄情绪的地方。他在马鞍上微微晃了晃，脸上闪过一丝疲惫，但很快，他又挺直了腰板，强撑出一副尊严的样子。他下了骡子，动作之敏捷，对于一个如此高龄的人来说，实属罕见，他那宽大的长袍在微弱的阳光下，如同一团紫色的烟雾般飘动。

他转过身，目光最终落在了杰迪的身上，尽管杰迪一开始对他充满了怀疑和不信任，但此刻却也睁大了眼睛，好奇地看着他。学者径直走向杰迪，步伐稳健，丝毫不像是一个上了年纪的人，他走路悄无声息，几乎听不见脚步声。他在杰迪面前停下，那双锐利的眼睛紧紧地盯着杰迪那张略显困惑的脸。

“请原谅，这位先生，”学者礼貌地说，他的声音洪亮而清晰，但带着一丝不易察觉的口音，暗示着他来自遥远的、充满异域风情的地方。“我急需一些重要的信息。也许，先生，您能帮我解答这个疑问。” 他停顿了一下，目光迅速扫过杰迪那结实的身材，那张饱经风霜的脸，那双粗糙的手。“看得出来，您对这个…镇子，了如指掌。”

杰迪被学者突如其来的直接和那令人不安的目光弄得有些措手不及，他下意识地将重心从一只脚换到另一只脚上，往日的粗鲁态度也收敛了许多，取而代之的是一种谨慎的礼貌。“没错，” 他咕哝道，不情愿地点了点头。“我叫杰迪，土生土长的庄稼汉。我在这里…嗯，待的时间比你见过的夏天还要多，老头子。” 他用那双粗糙的手指了指周围。“你到底想知道些什么，老头子？直说吧。”

学者那薄薄的嘴唇微微上扬，露出一个几乎难以察觉的微笑，一口整齐的白牙一闪而过。“知识，好农夫，我寻求的是无价的知识。特别是，关于…遗迹的知识。” 他又停顿了一下，意味深长地让这个词在空气中回荡，他那双锐利的眼睛仔细地观察着杰迪脸上的表情，寻找着任何一丝认同或理解的迹象。“古老的遗迹，就在这附近…”

杰迪浓密的眉毛皱得更紧了，额头上挤出几道深深的皱纹。他下意识地挠了挠他那杂乱的胡子，目光不由自主地飘向了西边的地平线，飘向了那片广阔无垠的平原，飘向了远处那崎岖的、若隐若现的山脉。“遗迹？” 他缓缓地重复道，声音中带着一丝怀疑。“这荒郊野岭的，到处都是些破石头、塌了一半的墙。在…嗯，在咱们这帮人还没出生的时候就有了。你到底想找什么样的，老头子？说清楚点。”

“失落的遗迹，” 学者耐心地纠正道，声音压低了一些，变得更加神秘，身子也凑得更近了。“那些…早已被世人遗忘的遗迹。特别是，” 他凑得更近了，声音低得像耳语，几乎被风吹散，“与…传说中的埃雷希亚卷轴有关的遗迹。”

杰迪的眼睛猛地睁大，脸上闪过一丝恐惧，取代了先前的好奇。他紧张地环顾四周，仿佛突然意识到他们的谈话可能会被别人听到。就连面包店的玛莎也停下了手中的扫帚，身体微微前倾，竖起耳朵，生怕错过每一个字。亨洛克，依旧拄着他那根拐杖，不知什么时候已经悄悄地靠近了，他那副厚厚的眼镜在微弱的光线下闪烁着不祥的光芒。

“埃…埃雷希亚卷轴？” 杰迪结结巴巴地说，声音低得几乎听不见，往日的洪亮嗓门早已消失得无影无踪。“你…你说的…是那个…传说？”

“传说？” 学者反问道，他那稀疏的眉毛怀疑地扬了起来，嘴唇微微撇了撇，带着一丝不屑。“这就是你们这里对它的称呼？一个…‘传说’？我向你保证，好农夫，” 他坚定地说，声音又恢复了力量，“它远比一个虚无缥缈的故事要重要得多。” 他挺直了腰板，目光扫过周围那些鸦雀无声、却又目不转睛地盯着他们看的人群。“我有充分的理由相信，” 他提高了声音，变得更加洪亮、更加威严，“卷轴绝不仅仅是一个幼稚的故事，一个毫无意义的神话。而且…它最近被人发现了，有可靠的目击者。就在离这里不远的一个早已被遗忘的遗迹中。”

人群中立刻响起了一阵骚动。埃雷希亚卷轴。即使是在橡木镇这样一个偏远闭塞的地方，这个名字本身也承载着沉甸甸的重量，回响着古老的预言、被遗忘的命运和未知的力量。关于这卷传说中的卷轴的种种传闻，在人们的窃窃私语中流传，据说它记录了埃雷希亚自诞生以来的全部历史，并准确地预言了它的未来，这些传闻像传家宝一样，在一代又一代人之间小心翼翼地流传着。大多数务实的镇民都将其斥为无稽之谈，认为那不过是用来哄骗小孩子和轻信之人的迷信故事。但是…这个词本身，却拥有着某种不可否认的力量，一种挥之不去的回响，一种神秘的气息，弥漫在空气中。

艾尔文一直在屋内烦躁地踱步，内心依旧在与黎明石觉醒后残留的、令人不安的感觉和深远的影响作斗争，他突然听到屋外传来陌生人那高亢的声音，以及人群那越来越兴奋的议论声。好奇心，像一只在他脑海中不停挠痒痒的跳蚤，强烈地吸引着他的注意力。他快步走到门口，手下意识地伸进口袋，摸了摸那块黎明石，它那微弱的温暖，已经成为他生活中一个不可或缺的存在，一个在他纷乱的思绪中，一个静谧的锚点。他走了出去，站在这稀薄的阳光下，目光立刻被那位奇怪的学者所吸引，他正站在人群中央，周围是一群越来越激动、议论纷纷的镇民。

他仔细地观察着这位学者，学者似乎也因为人们的关注而变得更加自信，他继续说道：“我叫瑟隆，是一位学者，” 他自信地说，声音响彻整个小广场， “我不远万里，历经艰辛，只为寻找那本失落的埃雷希亚卷轴。而现在，我坚信，” 他故意停顿了一下，好让人们充分消化他的话，他那双锐利的眼睛缓缓地扫过面前一张张写满了期待的面孔，“我坚信，我终于找到了它。或者至少…找到了它失落已久的地点，它现在的藏身之处。”

他伸出一根长长的手指，指向西方，指向远处那笼罩在薄雾和神秘之中的、若隐若现的山脉。“呢喃谷遗迹，” 他宣布道，声音又一次压低，却莫名地在鸦雀无声的人群中清晰可闻。“就隐藏在那些险峻的山峰之中，隐藏在松林和山谷之中。我亲耳听闻…有可靠的消息来源…明确指出，卷轴可能已经在那儿重新出现，在被世界遗忘了数个世纪之后。就在最近。”

艾尔文突然感到一阵悸动，一种与口袋里的黎明石无关的、触电般的悸动，这悸动与学者那惊人的言论息息相关。“呢喃谷遗迹”。他确实听说过这个不祥的名字，在漫长的冬夜里，祖母用低沉的声音讲述着那些令人毛骨悚悚的故事，那是一个充满被遗忘的魔法和古老、危险的秘密的地方，一个最好不要去打扰的地方，一个所有明智的人都会避而远之的地方。而现在，这位奇怪的学者，这位带来惊人消息的使者，却信誓旦旦地说，那本传说中的、失落的埃雷希亚卷轴，那本命运之书，竟然就藏在那里，等待着人们去重新发现。

他拨开人群，走上前去，心脏在胸膛里怦怦直跳，兴奋和不安在他胃里翻腾。他需要听得更多，知道得更多，理解这惊人消息背后的全部含义。他终于来到了人群的最前面，他那双黑色的眼睛，与瑟隆学者那双锐利的眼睛，撞在了一起。学者那双锐利的、充满智慧的眼睛，坚定而锐利，仿佛能洞穿一切，能看到他内心深处隐藏的东西。学者的脸上闪过一丝…认同？一丝理解。

“年轻人，” 瑟隆学者突然开口说道，他的声音出奇地温和，直接对艾尔文说话，他那锐利的目光依旧没有移开，依旧紧紧地锁定着他。“你看上去…若有所思。你是不是，这位先生，听说过…我所说的…‘呢喃谷遗迹’？”

艾尔文咽了口唾沫，喉咙突然变得干涩无比，嘴里像塞满了沙子。他微微地点了点头，眼睛依旧没有离开学者的目光。“我…我听说过，” 他结结巴巴地说，声音几乎被身后人群那越来越兴奋的议论声所淹没。“一些…传说…老妇人的故事…”

“传说，” 瑟隆学者轻声说道，他那双明亮的眼睛里闪过一丝难以捉摸的神色。“但是传说，年轻人，” 他郑重地说，声音变得更加有力，“往往在它们那奇幻的故事中，蕴藏着重要的真相。而真相，尤其是在这个…动荡不安的时代，是一种极其珍贵、极其宝贵的商品。” 他意味深长地停顿了一下，目光突然转向了远处那朦胧的山影，脸上的表情变得阴郁起来，几乎是哀伤的。“传说中的埃రే希亚卷轴…据说，它记载着这片大陆的命运，每一个王国，每一个灵魂。真正了解它那失落已久的秘密…就等于将整个埃雷希亚的命运，掌握在自己手中。”

他猛地转过身来，再次面对艾尔文，他那双明亮的眼睛此刻闪烁着近乎狂热的光芒，直直地盯着他。“而我现在坚信，年轻人，” 他郑重地说，声音突然压低到几乎听不见，却带着一种沉甸甸的、仿佛来自远古的重量，“命运…正在召唤你，直接呼唤你的名字。”

艾尔文默默地凝视着这位目光如炬的学者，他那沉甸甸的话语，在两人之间凝滞的空气中回荡，充满了未竟之意和古老预言那沉重的、令人敬畏的分量。那轮正午的太阳，依旧苍白无力，却仿佛变得更加黯淡了，仿佛连天空，也屏住了呼吸，静静地聆听着这位老学者的庄严宣告，以及在一个年轻的、平凡的人心中，那正在觉醒的命运的萌芽，他静静地站在这座尘土飞扬、被人遗忘的边陲小镇，不知不觉地，已经站在了自己那正在展开的、令人敬畏的命运的边缘。微风轻拂，吹过橡木镇外那片无垠的草原，干枯的野草发出沙沙的声响，这声音此刻听上去，带着一种全新的、截然不同的意味，不再仅仅是寒风和遥远的距离，而是古老的、早已被遗忘的秘密，低声的预言，以及一个早已注定的、伟大的预言，正在缓缓展开，而这，仅仅是一个开始。艾尔文，依旧下意识地、紧紧地握着口袋里那块温暖的黎明石，他终于，无可否认地感受到了那命运的召唤，那是一种他再也无法忽视的、清晰的、响亮的召唤，在学者那戏剧性的宣告中回响，在他那颗突然改变了的、注定要踏上征程的心脏那越来越剧烈的跳动中回响。

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