Chapter 29: The Eve of Departure
Thornfall Outpost’s small tavern was always noisy, filled with people of all kinds.
The air was thick with the scent of food, stories, ale, and life itself.
“Make way! Please make way!” The waiter carried stacks of dishes and large wooden mugs, even balancing a cup on his head.
With agile precision, he set the mountain of food and drink from his arms and head onto seventeen or eighteen tables around him, without a single mistake—showcasing astonishing professional memory.
“In the Age of the Gods, there was a hero who loved dragons, yet the gods ordered him to slay an ancient one!” A bard sat on a greasy old stool beside the counter, plucking his lute with nimble fingers that moved like a leopard cat scratching a scratching post.
He hummed a mournful tune, singing a ballad—a tangled story of heroes and folly.
“He couldn’t bear to harm his beloved, yet dared not defy the gods—cornered, he sought refuge with the evil ones…”
People came here seeking music, listeners, and voices—just to escape, for a while, from the pressure of life.
Perhaps that was the very meaning of stories—to let the weary experience another kind of life.
Being an adventurer was a high-pressure occupation—filled with exhaustion, anxiety, danger, and pain.
Many even lost more than they earned, trapped in place, unable to see a future.
After a day of running about, to drink half a cup, chat nonsense, pull strangers into tall tales and boastful lies—this too was a vital necessity of life.
After all, the wastelands’ living pressure and climate could crush hope itself—an interwoven web of cold logic and the law of the strong devouring the weak.
Many adventurers had their souls ground to dust by reality, or minds crushed by despair, ending their own lives.
No one could maintain a sound mind forever, especially in such a perilous world where the future was never in sight.
Silly jokes, wild stories, boastful chatter, card games, marble games, steaming plates of food, and even that annoying, shameless teammate who always leaned in your face—these were the spider’s silk strands that kept one from falling into the lightless abyss.
Oh, and recently, there was a new, popular dessert.
Though it only consisted of ice, sour fruit jam, and a few sweet berries, it was said that the cool, tangy sweetness could cheer you up—help you forget your troubles, if only for a while.
No one knew who started it.
“Buying high-grade materials! Buying high-grade materials from Varak Dungeon at high prices!” A merchant squeezed into the tavern, shouting twice above the din, but no one paid him much attention.
Seeing he’d failed to stir interest, he didn’t get angry—just hurried off to shout elsewhere.
“Ahmak, ahmak (idiot).” The dusky-skinned dancer wore a gold-trimmed leather armor with gray scales, her wax-smooth abdomen and supple waist exposed beneath a cloak.
A thin veil covered her face, a blade hung at her waist, and golden bangles jingled at her wrists and ankles.
She muttered a phrase in the Suparl Empire’s dialect, scooped a spoonful of Fruit Jam Ice Shards, and slid it beneath her veil.
“Those who raided Varak Dungeon all got rich, huh? Brought back more than ten wagons of high-grade materials… starting to regret not going.” A turbaned, bearded man with bronze skin dug a big spoonful of Fruit Jam Ice Shards from his plate, the tips of his beard stained with drops of jam.
A heavy curved blade hung from his belt, its hilt adorned with a small gold trinket shaped like an oil lamp—symbol of a folk tale from the eastern Suparl Empire, about a magic lamp and a young wish-maker.
“We didn’t come here for money, but to lay low.
In the eastern Suparl Empire, gold and jewels lie on the ground and no one even bothers to pick them up.” The dancer scoffed, savoring her ice dessert.
“The Grand Vizier Ib Sinpasha’s coup succeeded—the Sultan’s now a puppet. It’s the Vizier Dynasty. The Sultan’s confidants will all be purged. We came out to escape the storm. Once the aftermath of the Burning Sands Coup settles, we’ll return to claim the treasures the Sultan buried in the desert.”
“I’m not like you. You were raised like a falcon, pampered and prized since childhood. I was born a nomad—our family had only three sheep. I was poor, starved of everything. Even after rising under the Sultan, growing tall and strong like a camel, I’m still a scrawny little sheep inside. When I see good prey, envy’s only natural.” The turbaned man laughed.
“These days, when traders see high-ranking adventurers carrying sacks into the market, they swarm like flies to meat scraps, throwing money at them.”
“Ahmak, ahmak—idiot! Only a donkey would sell high-grade loot to tukad (merchants).” The cloaked dancer spat the mixed dialect curse, her purple-painted lips pursed around the spoon of her Fruit Jam Ice Shards.
“Tukad resell through layers upon layers—buy cheap in Thornfall, then sell for two or three times more in the Habitable Zone. Low-grade materials make little profit—scraps fit only for tukad.
But high-grade materials from the dungeon’s inner rings? That’s camel meat. Anyone with a clear mind would haul it to the Habitable Zone and sell it themselves.”
“Long-haul transport’s a pain. Too much trouble. And not every adventurer has their own camel—uh, I mean, wagon team.” The bearded man took a drink, wiped the foam and jam from his beard, and lowered his voice.
“You think the Sand Tyrant Setika had something to do with the Vizier’s coup?”
“Absolutely.” The dancer twirled her spoon.
“Without the Demon King Setika’s help, Ib Sinpasha could never have acquired so many demon-slave soldiers—and those golden collars used to control them. Those are sorcerous constructs forged from Witch Gold, a type of enchanted metal.”
She finished her dessert in one clean sweep and set the spoon down.
“It’s been six months. The aftershocks of the Burning Sands Coup should’ve faded.” She stood and motioned to the bearded man.
“This is our last meal in Thornfall Outpost—it’s time to prepare for the journey home.”
“Ah, but we still need to beware of the Sand Tyrant’s slave soldiers.
Who’ll take us in now? Who dares shelter the Sultan’s Scorpion Warriors?” The turbaned man sighed heavily.
“Aren’t we going to try rescuing the Sultan? He brought me into a palace of gold, fed my family with cattle and sheep. If I don’t repay him, how am I different from a jackal?”
The dancer hesitated, then sighed softly.
“We get the treasure first. Find our footing. Gather the remaining Scorpion Warriors. Then, we’ll talk about rescuing the Sultan. Otherwise, we’d be throwing our lives away. Ib Sinpasha doesn’t dare kill the Sultan yet—he needs a puppet to hold power.” She added quietly, “Follow the footprints in the sand before the desert swallows us whole.”
The two left the tavern, but the noise continued inside.
“Lots of top adventurers retired lately… wonder how much they made from that Varak Dungeon run.”
“If only my level were high enough. I’d love to see the inner rings just once…”
“Don’t be stupid! Half the people who went in died—including Level Eleven Flame Lance Augusta…”
“That was Augusta’s own stupidity, not ours…”
“You’re not stupid—you’re greedy!”
“Hey, did you hear? There’s some creepy undead swordsman near the Beastbone Hills lately—only knows two combat techniques, Footwork Focus and Blade-Deflection Stance! If you turn your back, it sneaks after you with Footwork Focus; when you turn around, it raises Blade-Deflection! So damn pervy!”
“Hard to deal with? Not really. But its behavior’s freaky. When it meets a strong adventurer who breaks its stance, it drops Blade-Deflection and runs! Those bones are light—it sprints off faster than anyone! And low-level adventurers who can’t use techniques? They can only back away covering their butts!”
“Now that pervy undead swordsman’s pretty famous! Folks near the Beastbone Hills call it the Butt Killer!”
“Oh!” Samael snapped out of eavesdropping.
That was the first undead swordsman he’d made for testing—and he’d forgotten to clear its skill slots before burying it!
“What’s wrong, Brother Samo?” Randall asked from across the table.
“N-no, nothing,” Samael answered, a little guilty.
The two sat in a corner table of the tavern, discussing matters related to traveling to the Edric Empire.
But as they talked, Samael’s mind wandered.
He realized that his helmet’s UI could isolate and extract specific audio channels even in chaotic environments—allowing him to freely eavesdrop on selected conversations in the noise.
The two Suparl Empire Scorpion Warrior remnants had spoken in near-whispers—impossible to catch in such clamor.
But after fumbling through his helmet’s settings, Samael managed to amplify and separate the audio, hearing every word clearly.
The name “Demon King Setika” sounded familiar.
The first time he met Varak, Varak had mentioned “Setika and Marna”—two Demon Lords who sent troops to hunt Thaleia and took part in Londoran’s destruction.
While the two spoke, Samael searched his database for the term Witch Gold—it was another type of enchanted metal, alongside Nether-Copper and Bloodsteel.
According to the description, it was used to craft precision instruments and advanced scientific devices—including Spiritual Implants.
Sounded like the Sand Tyrant Setika also possessed relic technology from the Ruins of the Divine Era.
Samael pondered.
Perhaps each Demon Lord, and every major kingdom, race, and faction, held fragments of divine-era tech—building their power through those remnants.
Even if Varak never showed signs of using such technology, one couldn’t become a Demon King or build an underground city through brute force alone.
“Brother Samo?” Randall’s voice pulled him back.
“Oh, sorry, drifted off for a moment.” Samael returned to focus.
“Our spoils from that bandit mission—the three wagons and two horses—we didn’t sell them. Had the blacksmith repair and modify them a bit. They’re ready to drive,” Randall said.
“We can travel long-distance now.”
“Many merchants recently bought up large amounts of enchanted materials, planning to transport them back to the Edric Empire or Floren Kingdom.
Because the sums are huge, they’re hiring many adventurer teams as escorts.”
“Some high-level adventurers plan to sell their goods and retire—but instead of selling to Thornfall’s merchants, they’ll haul them to the Habitable Zone themselves, to maximize profit. Those adventurers are posting temporary missions, hiring smaller teams to help escort the cargo.”
“We can take an escort mission bound for the Edric Empire. After the job, we’ll send Ruby to Erolos, the imperial capital, for her exam. You two can go where you wish afterward. Brother Samo, which kind of mission do you think we should take—merchant or adventurer?” Randall asked.
“Uh… merchant, I think. Merchant jobs are fine.” Samael replied instinctively.
High-level adventurers were too perceptive; traveling long-term together risked exposing his identity.
“Alright, sounds good!” Randall replied cheerfully.
“Anything else to add? If not, I’ll go register for a merchant escort mission.”
“Oh, right—replace the horseshoes.” Samael remembered what Thaleia had pointed out earlier.
“Those two horses seem to be imperial warhorses, probably taken by the bandits. Their shoes have the Empire’s Sword-Crown crest.”
“Seriously!?” Randall froze, fumbling for his notebook.
“I’ll change them right away—good thing you caught that.”
Clack!
A hand pressed down on Randall’s shoulder.
“Ryska,” a familiar voice said.
“Long time no see.”
They both looked up—Samael nearly flinched.
Norman Passat stood beside the table, clad in blue robes and steel armor, a Bloodsteel Greatsword strapped to his back.
“Good morning, senior,” Randall greeted, pulling out a chair.
“Long time no see—how did things go in Varak Dungeon?”
“Not bad.” Norman held the chair but didn’t sit.
“One must know contentment, or lose everything. Contentment brings peace.”
His gaze lingered on Samael, noticing the half-full mug before Randall and the empty space before Samael.
“You’re not offering this War Knight a drink?” he said to Randall.
“Brother Samo’s from a monastery—he’s fasting today,” Randall replied.
“Oh, pardon me. Didn’t mean to offend your faith.” Norman nodded to Samael, then continued casually, “How did you two meet? The first time I saw him in your team, I was quite surprised.”
“Uncle Robin and Uncle Carlisle at the city gate introduced us,” Randall answered.
“I’m starting to think the Guild Guards know every adventurer in this city.”
“I see.” Norman nodded slowly.
“I won’t sit then. You two carry on—I’ll be heading back to the Floren Kingdom soon, escorting my…”
He seemed to hesitate between daughter, niece, fellow countrywoman, and a friend’s child—but ended up saying none of them.
“Escorting someone while selling enchanted materials,” he said simply.
“I’m leaving soon, just wanted to say farewell. Been a while, after all.”
“I’m off.” He released the chair.
“Take care, Ryska. Steady steps bring solid gains. Though I became an adventurer out of necessity, you’ve still been one of the honors of my harsh career.”
“Yes, Senior Norman!” Randall stood and waved.
“See you again, sir!”
Norman waved back and turned to leave.
Randall and Samael exchanged a silent glance.
“It’s fine,” Randall said after a moment, shaking his head.
Samael exhaled in relief.
“Let’s take that merchant escort mission,” he said with a nod.
“We’ll set out tomorrow—for the Edric Empire’s border.”