NOVEL NEXT Chapter 3: The visit from the Elf Monk, Kraft
The elves exchanged quiet glances, their expressions heavy with nostalgia. The village elder, a tall elf with silver hair that shimmered under the moonlight, stepped forward. His ancient robes, woven with traces of old mana, billowed slightly as he spoke.
"The last time our village knew true joy," he began, voice deep with memory, "was nearly five hundred years ago, long before the Great Calamity of the Southern Lands. It was a time when we still welcomed travelers, when our hearts had not yet hardened against the passage of time."
Minus, arms crossed, narrowed her golden eyes slightly. "And what happened?"
The elder exhaled softly, lost in the past. "A visitor came to our village. An elf monk named Kraft."
At the mention of the name, several elves smiled faintly, as if remembering a dream from long ago.
"He was unlike any elf we had ever met," the elder continued. "Wandering aimlessly, he had no home, no attachments—only his drinking gourd and a love for mischief. He did not carry himself with grace, nor did he speak with wisdom, as elves are expected to. Instead, he laughed freely, drank until he collapsed, and told the most ridiculous stories, as if he had long abandoned the burdens of our kind."
A younger elf chuckled. "He even scolded our elders for being too uptight."
A murmur of agreement spread through the villagers.
"The night he arrived, he brought a terrible drink—some kind of human alcohol he had picked up along his travels. It tasted like burnt wood and regret."
"It was vile," another elf added, shaking their head.
"But somehow… it made us laugh," the elder said. "His presence, his absurdity, the way he carried himself so carelessly—it shattered the silence that had hung over our village for centuries. That night, we drank, we told stories, we laughed until we could no longer stand. It was as if, for a single evening, we had remembered something long buried beneath our ancient lifespans—the ability to live in the moment."
Minus remained quiet. She could picture it clearly: a lone monk disrupting the stillness of an elven village, forcing them to break free from the weight of time, even if only for a fleeting moment.
"But Kraft never stayed in one place for long," the elder sighed. "By morning, he was gone, leaving behind only his empty gourd and the echoes of laughter. And in time, the village fell silent once more."
Minus glanced at the empty house before her, her fingers resting on its aged wooden frame. "And then, centuries later, Milliarde arrived."
The elder nodded. "Yes. Like Kraft, she was unlike us—too emotional, too reckless. She brought with her the Emperor's Wine, hoping to share in something joyous. And for one night, it was as if Kraft had returned. We laughed, we drank, we remembered. But unlike Kraft… Milliarde never left."
Minus could feel the weight of the tragedy unspoken in their words. She had seen it before—elves struggling against their own nature, clinging to fleeting moments that could never truly last.
"…She was poisoned," Minus said quietly.
The elder's gaze darkened. "Yes. Whether by fate or by intent, we do not know. But she died here, in this very house, before she could ever continue her journey."
Minus exhaled, a rare flicker of sorrow crossing her expression. A foolish elf monk who lived without care. A kind-hearted elf who unexpectedly rekindled long forgotten joy. Both had left their mark on this village—one in memory, the other in tragedy.
For some reason, Minus felt like fate brought her here, it suddenly all made sense why she was welcomed by the elves so grandly, it was almost like she arrived here to fufill a purpose.