This was a small house covering less than twenty square meters.
Its layout was simple and cramped. Once the bed, desk and chairs, storage cabinets, weapon rack, and small bookshelf were in place, hardly any room remained.
Yet simple did not mean shabby. The little house was solidly built, with cement filling even the tiniest gaps between the walls and roof. Glass had been fitted into the windows. Though neither perfectly flat nor clear, it kept out the wind and rain. A rug made from an entire Bullfango hide covered the floor, blocking the damp that rose from the ground.
The room was not exactly spotless, but it was undeniably tidy. The quilt was neatly folded, and even the top of the bookshelf held little dust, clearly the result of its owner's daily cleaning.
Altaïr, the owner of the house, now sat cross-legged on the Bullfango hide rug, carefully polishing and maintaining an ornate sword.
Once dominated by purplish blue, the sword had changed after being reinforced with a large quantity of Arbiter Estrellian materials. Its guard and the decorative fittings around its scabbard were now the dark red of molten magma.
The mere sight of it conveyed the destructive power contained within.
Tyrant Blade [Heaven Swallower]. That was the sword's new name. Compared with its original name, [Solar Eclipse], [Heaven Swallower] sounded outrageously grandiose.
The name, as it happened, had been Hubert's suggestion.
Had Altaïr named it himself, he might have chosen something like "Setting Sun" or "Afterglow."
Isis had proposed "Dark Red," which, given her gift for naming things, was already an exceptional effort. At least she had not called it Tyrant Blade [Arbiter Estrellian], right?
After considerable thought, Altaïr ultimately chose the smith's suggestion. A weapon's name was not a person's name, after all. No one would laugh at him just because it sounded grandiose.
In terms of performance, [Heaven Swallower] had undergone a fundamental improvement after being reinforced with Arbiter Estrellian materials.
It was sharper and more destructive, and the intensity of its Dragon Element energy had increased by more than thirty percent. For an already formidable weapon, the upgrade was transformative.
The current Tyrant Blade [Heaven Swallower] was exceptional even by the standards of High Rank Long Swords.
Using a soft cloth, Altaïr carefully wiped away dirt that did not exist, overlooking not even the smallest detail. Once he had completed the entire maintenance process to his satisfaction, he put away his tools, donned his armor, slung the sword across his back, and stepped outside.
More than half a year ago, the Mangrove Outpost had been little more than a sprawling construction site, with freshly erected walls and more piles of lumber than houses. Now it was beginning to look like a proper major outpost.
Dozens of small houses stood in neat rows around him, and his was one of them.
Such lodgings were neither spacious nor luxurious, but compared with the cramped ship cabins, where the bunks were less than a meter wide, these proper houses gave their occupants an entirely different sense of stability.
The large ship that had served the advance team in countless ways was no longer used as a dormitory, though the tavern and Guild Hall remained aboard.
The cabins that had once been living quarters were gradually converted into meeting rooms, offices for the clerks, and research rooms for the scholars. Not a scrap of space went to waste.
According to the Village Chief, he had no plans to build dedicated administrative offices or facilities such as a Research Institute at the Mangrove Outpost anytime soon.
After all, office work and research could be done just as well aboard the ship, where it was even quieter than in the outpost.
As Altaïr stepped out of his house, Morgan happened to pass by carrying a large box of materials.
"Good morning."
"Morning."
After their brief greeting, Altaïr smiled and asked, "All those Bomb Casings and Fire Herbs... Just get back from the nursery?"
"Yeah." Morgan nodded.
Then, as though he felt it would be impolite to answer with only one word, he added, "Honeysuckle and the others run an excellent nursery. Everything they grow is top quality. Not having to gather the materials ourselves saves a great deal of time, and the Bowgun Ammo I craft from them is consistently reliable."
"The Uruki are experts at growing things, after all."
"That's true."
Neither man cared for idle chatter, so after a few brief exchanges, they went their separate ways.
Altaïr stepped onto the stone-paved road through the center of the outpost. The steel studs in the soles of his battle boots clicked crisply against the flagstones.
The road ran through the entire outpost, connecting its entrance to the floating bridge and docks on the Great River. Important facilities such as the general store, medical clinic, smithy, and restaurant all stood alongside it.
The smiths had poured enormous effort into building the road. Ms. Meow-It-All and Francesca had suggested several times that the Village Chief take his time with the project, but on this matter, he remained unusually firm.
According to the Village Chief, trudging along muddy roads was miserable, and paving one with stone slabs would greatly improve everyone's happiness.
Altaïr had no idea whether it improved anyone's happiness, but the paved road was certainly much easier to walk on than the original muddy path.
Beside the smithy, Hubert was adjusting the waterwheel. Spotting Altaïr as he passed, he called out in a booming voice, "Hey, Altaïr! How's the adjusted armor treating you? Still feel tight?"
"Not at all! It fits perfectly. Come by the tavern after work; let me buy you a drink!" Altaïr called back.
"Haha! Then it's a deal!"
Altaïr smiled and continued on his way.
In the nearly twelve months since he had joined the advance team, he had grown almost two centimeters, officially passing the 190-centimeter mark to reach 191 centimeters.
His relentless daily training had also increased his muscle mass, making his entire frame look a size larger.
It turned out the old saying was true: men could still hit a growth spurt after twenty!
Good news: he had gotten taller.
Bad news: Isis was still taller.
Good news: Isis had finally stopped growing, her height settling at 195 centimeters.
Bad news: he did not seem to have much growth left in him either. Maybe he could squeeze out another centimeter or two, but overtaking Isis in this lifetime seemed unlikely...
Ahhh...
Altaïr was still wallowing in melancholy when he heard someone call his name again.
Isis came jogging over. "Hey, I heard the trading ship arrived! Let's go check it out!"
Altaïr had no choice but to set aside his inexplicable competitive streak and let her drag him along. They followed the flagstone road until they reached the bank of the Great River.
A simple pier had been built there.
A trading ship barely thirty meters long was moored at the dock, its crew busily loading and unloading cargo.
Francesca stood atop a stack of crates, clipboard in hand, recording and inspecting the goods being unloaded from the ship.
When she saw Isis and Altaïr approaching, she grabbed a cloth bundle beside her and tossed it to Isis.
"Your order. Keep it safe!" she said, then immediately returned to her work without another word.
Isis caught the bundle with a blissful expression.
"What is it?" Altaïr asked casually. He understood now. The moment Isis heard the trading ship had arrived, she had rushed over, and this had to be the reason.
Isis fidgeted for a moment, then handed the bundle to Altaïr.
"For me?" Altaïr accepted it in surprise.
"Yeah."
His heart skipped a beat. "Can I open it?"
Isis nodded eagerly.
With a faint spark of anticipation, Altaïr unwrapped the package. Several smaller bundles lay inside, and a rich, almost overpowering aroma rushed out.
"...What are these?"
"I wrote to Jara and asked him to buy some spices," Isis said with a sheepish grin. "Didn't you say you'd run out of the seasoning you brought with you? Steak doesn't taste very good with only salt..."
"..."
"AHAHAHA!" Standing atop the crates, where she had appeared to be hard at work, Francesca pointed at Altaïr and burst out laughing. "Look at that disappointed face!"
"..."
Looking at Isis's perfectly innocent face, Altaïr could not help asking himself, What exactly had I been expecting?
"All right, all right, I'll stop teasing you. Here, Isis ordered this for you too. I wrapped it separately so the scents wouldn't mix."
Francesca cheerfully tossed a second bundle to Altaïr.
He caught it instinctively and looked at Isis again.
Isis scratched her head. "A present for your twentieth birthday, though it's a few months late... It's a special oil for maintaining high-quality blades. My mom uses the same brand."
"Th... thanks." This time, Altaïr was the one who felt guilty.
His and Isis's birthdays were only a few days apart. This year, everyone had celebrated them together at the tavern. Altaïr had not prepared a gift for her then. He had merely gone into the kitchen and helped the Felyne Chef make a few extra dishes she liked...
Ahem... Maybe I should make it up to her with a belated birthday gift of my own.
Altaïr pondered.
(Translated by yourtl.app)