Chapter 27: The Gray Pouched Beast

Grey was startled when the old Tyrell summoned the "Animated Vines" that bound his hands and feet. Anger flared on his face, and he roared, struggling mightily to free himself from the entangling vines.

"Don't hurt Grey!" Joan hastily called out to her grandfather. "He's my friend!"

"Friend?" The old Tyrell gazed deeply at Joan, his expression somewhat peculiar. "You mean that 'Ash Pouch Beast'?"

Joan had never heard her grandfather mention such a name, but it wasn't difficult to guess he was referring to Grey. She nodded quickly. "He saved my life. If it weren't for him, I would have perished deep in the marsh."

"Well... So that's how it is. Though, on second thought, perhaps it's not so impossible." Stroking his beard thoughtfully, the old man mused, "The Ash Pouch Beasts that dwell deep in the marshes are said to have a peculiar nature. Occasionally, they mistake members of other species for their own kin and care for them as tenderly as their own young, considering themselves their protectors and pouring all their affection upon them, regardless of whether the recipient welcomes such care... It seems that big fellow has taken you for its child."

Joan, who had long puzzled over Grey's unprovoked kindness, suddenly saw the truth in her grandfather's words.

"Grandfather, Grey means no harm. You don't need to hurt him."

"I don't wish to harm him either, but Ash Pouch Beasts are notoriously stubborn. They won't let those under their protection out of their sight. You can't stay in the marsh forever, nor can you bring such a fearsome creature back to town. What are we to do with him?" The old man frowned, troubled.

"Let me go talk to him. Perhaps I can convince him to go home." Joan walked toward the Ash Pouch Beast, who was still struggling against the vines.

Instinctively, the old Tyrell raised his hand to stop her, but after a moment's thought, he let it fall.

Joan approached the beast, waving and calling, "Grey! Grey! Calm down! Those vines won't really hurt you!"

The beast looked down, meeting Joan's gaze, hesitant and uncertain.

Joan turned and shouted to her grandfather, "Call off the vines! Grey won't hurt me!"

"You shouldn't!" Conti said anxiously.

The old Tyrell hesitated for a few moments, but reluctantly acquiesced, ending the spell. The animated vines withdrew into the ground, becoming ordinary plants once more.

Grey was free, his face still clouded with anger. He pointed at the old man, complaining to Joan, "Mogue!"

Joan nearly laughed aloud, but shook her head, gently and firmly correcting him. "That's not right, Grey. That gentleman isn't Mogue—he's my grandfather, a very good and motte person."

Perhaps, after two days with Joan, Grey had picked up a little of the human tongue. Hearing Joan's explanation, his gaze toward the old man was still wary, but no longer brimming with resentment.

"Grey, my grandfather has come to fetch me. I must go home." Joan explained her predicament, trying to persuade the beast to accept the necessity of their parting. Explaining something so complex to a simple-minded Ash Pouch Beast was no easy task. Fortunately, Joan was patient and had grown somewhat familiar with Grey's speech and way of thinking. With the aid of gestures and drawings, it took half an hour before Grey finally understood why Joan could not remain in the marsh, why he had to return to his own kind, and why Grey could not follow him to settle in the human town.

Joan's efforts were not in vain. After extracting a promise from Joan that he would return often to visit, the Ash Pouch Beast reluctantly agreed to part ways. Before leaving, he even imitated Joan's wave of farewell, all six of his eyes brimming with tears.

After bidding Grey goodbye, Joan followed his grandfather onward. Even after they'd gone a long way, a glance back revealed that Grey still stood in place, waving forlornly in their direction, his solitary silhouette cast long by the moonlight.

"Poor Grey. If only we could bring him home," Conti said with sympathy.

"Leaving aside the fact that the town council and most residents would never allow such a creature into their lives, even if they grudgingly accepted him, the Ash Pouch Beast could never adapt to our human environment or way of life. Sooner or later, it would cause real trouble," Guillaume Tyrell said frankly.

Joan entirely agreed with her grandfather, yet there remained an unspoken pang of guilt in his heart, as though he owed Grey far too much. He did not know how long their friendship could endure, but as long as circumstances allowed, he would keep the promise he made before parting, and return often to visit this extraordinary friend.

It was near midnight by the time Joan finally returned home. Eagerly, he heated water for a bath. Afterward, his whole body felt light and refreshed, and he longed to collapse into the soft bed and sleep soundly till dawn.

Yet, his strong will drove him to set aside any thoughts of laziness. He drank a cup of potion steeped in "Tears of the Gods" to relieve his fatigue, then mustered his energy to practice each of the spells he had mastered ten times over. There was little to say about "Introspection" or "Ray of Frost," which he now wielded with great proficiency. As for "Mage Hand," after countless hours capturing leeches, every detail of the spellcasting had been deeply etched into his memory, almost to the point of muscle memory; he could invoke and dismiss it at will, hardly needing deliberate concentration.

As usual, Joan used lead ingots to train with Mage Hand. Each weighed about five pounds, which was precisely the spell's carrying limit. Yet tonight, something was different. When he used the spell to lift a lead ingot, he felt unprecedented ease, as though he could handle something heavier.

On a whim, Joan had Mage Hand grasp a second ingot. His hunch was quickly confirmed: two ingots—ten pounds in total—were lifted with ease by the invisible hand, no strain at all.

Perplexed, Joan scratched his head, then tried picking up a third, fourth, and fifth ingot. All succeeded smoothly, leaving him increasingly curious and astounded. He kept adding to the weight until, with eight ingots—forty pounds in all—he finally felt a faint ache at his temples, as if the exertion had reached its peak.

Exhaustion and surprise broke his concentration. The instant his attention wavered, Mage Hand dissolved, and the pile of lead ingots tumbled to the floor with a clatter.

Joan sat in stunned silence, unable to fathom what had happened. Why had the carrying limit of Mage Hand suddenly increased sevenfold? Was this a blessing or a curse?

He yawned, conceding that he was in no state to ponder such complexities in his weary condition. He set the matter aside for the night, deciding to sleep and think it over when he was well rested.