TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 13

When Albin awoke, he found himself in an unfamiliar room, his head still slightly dizzy.  

He tried to recall the events before he fainted.  

It seemed like the people from the Temple of Wine had cast a sleep spell on him.  

But… why?  

They had properly paid their dues upon entering the city and hadn’t violated any laws, right?  

This wasn’t the first time he’d encountered something inexplicable. After a brief moment of confusion, Albin quickly calmed himself, suppressed his doubts, and began to examine his surroundings.  

The room was cold and damp, somewhat reminiscent of a prison. Stone bricks formed the walls on all sides, and one of the walls had a solid iron door that obscured the view outside. There were no windows, and the only sources of light were a wall sconce and an oil lamp on a desk.  

Yet the room had two single beds with a softness far superior to those in inns or taverns, as well as a set of fine wooden furniture.  

Would a prison have such comfortable beds?  

This room resembled more of a guest room in a castle—albeit one without a balcony.  

Unable to see the sky, Albin couldn’t tell how long he had been asleep or how his father was doing. Was he worried about him?  

Exhaling deeply to calm the rising anxiety in his heart, Albin turned his attention to the other bed.  

On it sat a little girl with red-brown twin pigtails, hugging her knees. She looked younger than him and had clearly woken up before him.  

“Hello, I’m Albin. What’s your name? Were you brought here as well?”  

The girl looked up at him but didn’t say a word. She buried her lower face in her knees, her body trembling slightly.  

She’s scared, he thought.  

Albin fumbled in his pockets, but they were empty; he had no treats or toys to offer.  

After a moment of thought, he noticed the oil lamp on the desk, and an idea struck him.  

He adjusted the position of the lamp. The girl glanced over, curious about the noise.  

Albin placed his hands together and held them behind the lamp, forming a shadow puppet on the wall. It was a little dog.  

“Woof, woof!” The shadow dog opened and closed its mouth, bouncing energetically. “Hello there, I’m Little White from the Paw Patrol!”  

The girl watched the shadow dog intently.  

The shadow shifted closer to hers, creating the illusion that the little dog was approaching her.  

The girl extended her hand, watching her shadow edge closer to the dog’s.  

The shadow dog bowed its head, as if being petted.  

The girl’s eyes lit up. “My name is Margot,” she said softly.  

The shadow dog wagged its tail and rubbed against her shadow affectionately.  

“Nice to meet you, Margot,” Albin said warmly. “Do you know why we’re here?”  

Margot nodded hesitantly. She raised a hand, her shadow forming a scene, and began to recount her story as if performing a play:  

—

The Villager’s Tale:

– A man in black robes: “This girl has a high affinity for both water and fire elements. She’s the most promising candidate this year.” 

– A man in white robes: “The carnival is approaching. She will be our best offering. May Lord Bacchus find her pleasing.”

– Margot’s mother: “But Margot is so young… The previous ones…”* 

– The village chief: *”To be chosen as a candidate for Saint or Saintess is an honor for Margot and our village. We must thank Lord Bacchus!”*  

The chief’s shadow approached Margot’s.  

“Margot, you must be brave. Earn the favor of Lord Bacchus and become the next Saintess. When your goblet overflows with wine, plead to the Lord for a bountiful harvest for us.”

The chief gestured to Margot’s mother. “You foolish woman, clean her up so she can be presented to the priests!”

Margot’s mother’s shadow moved closer to her own, trembling.  

“How can this be? Every year, the chosen children die one after another… Margot, my Margot, my child… What am I to do?”* 

“Lord Bacchus, embodiment of joy, why must you take my only daughter and leave me in eternal sorrow?”*

Her mother cried: “Margot! Margot! Let’s leave! I won’t let you become a corpse floating in wine! We’ll flee to the south, to gardens of roses and mermaids, or to the west, where the sun’s mercy shines upon the holy city!”

But the village chief and priests intervened, dragging Margot away.  

“This delusional widow! Do you wish to anger Lord Bacchus and be torn to pieces? Take her away! Margot is eager to serve the Lord!”

—

Albin was stunned by her vivid recital, repeating every line perfectly.  

Her story horrified him. The Temple of Wine was abducting children with elemental affinities and sacrificing them during the carnival in hopes of selecting a new Saint or Saintess.  

But the process was so dangerous that previous candidates had all died.  

The pieces began to fall into place. Was he taken for the same reason? Did they intend to sacrifice him too?  

Albin clenched his fists. This wasn’t just wrong—it was evil.  

Thinking about the tavern owner and her son, about Margot and her mother, Albin trembled all over. His heart felt as though an earthquake had struck, and a tidal wave of sorrow consumed him, almost overflowing from within.  

He wanted to say something to Margot, but his throat tightened, and no words would come out.  

The mere thought of the lively carnival outside being accompanied by the sacrifice of a child sent chills down his spine.  

Whether the tourists knew or not was unclear, but it was evident that some locals were aware of the sacrificial practices and deliberately kept them hidden from outsiders.  

This was not like the situation with the homeless man before, where he could easily help. This time was different.  

He was just a novice in magic, unable to perform even a decent spell. He had no status, didn’t know where he was, his father was not with him, and the antagonists he faced were the Temple of Bacchus with its numerous sorcerers, countless deluded followers, and an entire nation reveling in the rituals of the wine god.  

He was overwhelmed by a suffocating sense of helplessness, difficult to endure, yet impossible to escape.  

What pained him most wasn’t just the possibility of Margot dying—it was the certainty that even if Margot died, countless other children like her would die too.  

Margot wasn’t the first, and she might not be the last.  

The fire in Albin’s eyes burned brighter than the oil lamps.  

He muttered, “This isn’t right. The village chief who sent you away was wrong, the Temple of Bacchus demanding your sacrifice is wrong… If this is the will of the god of wine, then even the god of wine is wrong and must be stopped and corrected.”  

“I will find a way to protect you!”  

Margot looked at him in astonishment.  

She had grown up in a circle that revered the god of wine. Even now, she had never thought to question Bacchus.  

Yet, she wasn’t a true believer. Unlike the fanatics, she didn’t scream in rebuttal; instead, she found the opposing idea novel and intriguing.  

Albin frowned deeply, racking his brain for what he could possibly do.  

He ran to the iron door and peered outside, but there was nothing to see—no view of the outside world, no way to plan an escape route.  

The carnival lasted four days, but he didn’t know which day the sacrificial ritual would begin. Today was already the first day, leaving him little time.  

As he pondered, he noticed something moving in front of him.  

He looked up and saw Margot, usually so quiet, imitating his hand shadow gestures, waving her hands in front of the light.  

Turning to the wall, he saw a little shadow-puppet dog circling his shadow, as if trying to comfort him.  

Albin froze.  

“Thank you.” He smiled and responded with a shadow-puppet dog of his own.  

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from outside.  

Albin immediately turned around, shielding Margot behind him as he vigilantly watched the door.  

The iron door creaked open, revealing two guards in uniform standing at the entrance.  

Was the sacrifice about to begin?  

Albin’s heart raced, and Margot behind him nervously clutched his arm.  

One of the guards looked at them and said, “The priest wants to see you.”  

The two helpless children were forced to follow the guards.  

Albin used his peripheral vision to memorize the route, but along the way, he saw no windows or exits—only the pervasive scent of wine everywhere.  

They were brought to a chamber resembling a prayer hall, arranged in a T-shaped layout. There were still no windows, and on either side of the path were pools filled with wine. The wine’s aroma was strongest in this space.  

The chamber’s ceiling was three or four stories high, with grapevines climbing the stone walls. Embedded in the walls were glowing crystals used for illumination, resembling glistening grapes or a breathtakingly beautiful green starry sky.  

At the center of the T-shaped hall stood a massive statue of the god of wine, holding a golden goblet tilted to pour out fine wine.  

Before the statue reclined a man with disheveled, wine-red hair exuding an air of malevolence. He lounged against a stone couch, gazing at the approaching children with an interest focused solely on Albin, sparing Margot no attention.  

Albin stopped in front of him, still shielding Margot behind him.  

Without waiting for the man to speak, Albin bluntly asked, “Why sacrifice so many children?”  

His crimson eyes locked onto the man’s, seeming to burn with flames.  

The priest, caught off guard, raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be scared and ask why I brought you here.”  

Still, he answered Albin good-naturedly, “It’s not a sacrifice. It’s the selection process for the next Holy Son or Daughter of the Temple of Bacchus. The children who weren’t chosen by Bacchus just… didn’t make it.”  

“The process is indeed painful, but there’s no need to fear—it’s a blessing,” he said, his tone languid and slurred as if still tipsy. “Once chosen as the Holy Son or Daughter, you’ll succeed me as the High Priest of the Temple of Bacchus after my death, a supreme honor.”  

“Is that how you were chosen?”  

The priest seemed amused by the naive question, chuckling softly. “Of course. Every High Priest comes through this process.”  

“Allow me to introduce myself: I am Latu, the High Priest of the Temple of Bacchus. Perhaps I’ll be your mentor, predecessor, or even foster father in the future,” he said, his tone kind of like an elder. “Feel free to ask me anything.”  

Albin stared at him, his mind filled with doubt.  

If this man had once been a victim, why did he now force other children to endure the same?  

“If I become the High Priest… can I change this selection process?”  

Latu studied the white-haired boy before him with interest. The string of questions revealed Albin’s innocent curiosity.  

Suddenly, Latu burst into laughter, his crimson hair shaking wildly, his eyes clearing slightly from the hilarity.  

“Maybe you could. Maybe not. Who knows? I’ve never heard of anyone trying. Are you wondering why I haven’t tried to change it?”  

Albin nodded.  

“Because…” Latu’s wine-red eyes gleamed with madness, his smile dripping with malice as he leaned forward and said, “Why should those who come after me be spared from what I endured?”

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