Chapter 493: The Warrior’s Path
To have everything was to have nothing.
After all, for those who had surpassed the limits of their potential, there was no difference between the silence found atop the highest peaks and the bottom of the abyss.
That was the fear of all warriors.
Once every foe was defeated, every quest was complete and every challenge was overcome, solitude was the only reward. A final obstacle that only they could not overcome.
Even so, to wade a path of song and blood towards their own ruin was the warrior’s path. And so they persevered, seeking to master themselves until they could master all around them, and even the dragons who roamed the sky dipped their heads.
That was the tale of the Wanderer.
Spoken of in roadside taverns when the nights were darkest and the candles burned lowest, he was a mysterious stranger, a brigand, a hero or a villain depending on the drunkenness of the speaker.
However, while his purpose was not known, there was no mistaking his appearance.
A figure clad in glassy black armour, as though he had stepped out of the nocturnal realm as Lady Umbra’s own champion. And like a night consuming the day, he would engulf the spark of life of those he deemed worthy.
Unless, of course, they ran away from him.
“–Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!”
Within a narrow Reitzlake alley, only the cats were there to witness the screaming of a proud fighter as he ran from the Wanderer’s towering figure.
His armour immune to the brief snatches of sunlight filtering down into the alley, he approached with each step echoing like the slow waltz of a headsman climbing towards the guillotine.
As the fighter rushed away, the Wanderer’s crimson eyes gleamed with disdain. He paused before all that had been tossed aside in the bid for escape.
The scraps of a warrior’s dignity.
That man had been a gladiator who had earned the applause of the crowds. And yet all that remained of him was a sword pulled in desperation, an abandoned satchel thrown like a weapon and a tankard of ale discarded last of all, its liquid spilling into the gutters where the coward belonged.
Even amidst the shadows, the Wanderer’s disappointment could be seen as his challenge went unanswered, for although his figure was unmoving, the silence was damning.
A silence that also let him know that nobody else was there.
A moment later, he glanced behind him … just before pulling a miniature abacus from the pouch by his waist, crouching down and counting the day’s earnings.
The Wanderer nodded in satisfaction.
It was a good haul. A hefty bag of mixed crowns. A decent sword he could sell. And also several executive tickets for the Arena Grand Tournament.
All the things a quarter finalist of the previous tournament could be expected to have.
But the Wanderer hadn’t expected anything different.
He’d chosen the fighter specifically because he was just famous enough to have amassed considerable sponsorship money from his bouts, while also not being powerful enough to face the mass of black armour suddenly appearing from behind, courtesy of a [Silent Shadow] enchantment.
Yes.
The Wanderer was no mystical avatar of darkness. He was not Lady Umbra’s champion. And he was certainly not a man on the warrior’s path on the way to beat a dragon.
After all, even the very idea of poking a dragon was moronic.
He could not think of anybody who wanted to defeat a dragon or even had a reasonable chance of doing so. Because dragons were extremely strong, could breathe fire, generally weighed a minimum of 20,000 kilograms and absolutely no warrior could kill them regardless of how disciplined they were.
The Wanderer knew this very well.
He was mentored by the greatest warrior monk from the famed Qalrin Monastery in the valleyed mountains of eastern Rozinthe.
That man was S-rank. He could parry 20 swords simultaneously, sit under a waterfall for a year without suffering from hypothermia and go without food or drink for 3 months straight.
He was invincible in both body and spirit. At least until a young blue dragon who came to visit accidentally landed on him and that was that.
In the moment, the Wanderer decided that it really wasn’t necessary to be the absolute strongest.
It wasn’t even necessary to be the second strongest.
Or even anywhere near the top ten.
Because if he wasn’t going to be the absolute strongest, then there really wasn’t any benefit to try to be near the absolute top from a cost-benefit point of view.
Like all young men told to abandon vice, he simply wanted a life of luxury and comfort. And he wouldn’t find that from simply training to become the strongest warrior all the time.
But somewhere in the top 200?
That would do.
With a hum of satisfaction, he bundled up everything worth keeping into his pouch, then went about the business of enjoying the Kingdom of Tirea’s finest summer festival.
Granted, there wasn’t much to enjoy.
Compared to the rival festivals held in Granholtz or even Weinstadt in the midst of a civil war, it was so rustic that he could find himself picking up the accent of a farmer despite having never farmed.
But there was a certain charm in simplicity.
Most of all, however, there was also the Snow Dancer.
Emerging into the sunlit market district, the Wanderer paused by a notice.
Wanted: Ophelia the Snow Dancer
Sought for questioning in connection with a series of robberies throughout the city. The Snow Dancer was last seen traversing the rooftops of the noble district and is accompanied by a pair of ducks.
Any sightings are to be reported to the Reitzlake Guard or the Adventurer’s Guild.
The Wanderer nodded in respect.
Few were worthy of his acknowledgement. The Snow Dancer was one of them.
He’d briefly managed to catch a glimpse of her. A beautiful elven sword saint with silver hair.
That was enough for him to be a fan for life. For while he had the heart of a rogue, that didn’t mean it never fluttered. Few could see her and not feel drawn towards her mystique.
She was A-rank the last he’d heard. But given her talents at robbing people even more effectively than he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was higher.
The Wanderer may not have been gifted with all the talents that his master had, but he had a unique gift. The ability to glean the true strength of those he saw, even more than any of the famed guildmasters of the Adventurer’s Guild, who were said to be unrivalled in the matter.
Still, while he amused himself with the thought of earning the Snow Dancer’s attention, he was not a fool. More than anyone else, he knew precisely what his own strength was.
And right now–
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaah …”
–the Wanderer was in the worst condition of his life.
He stopped where he was, then sucked in a deep breath, before repeating the process several times.
Relaxing his muscles, he did everything his physician told him to, ignoring the crowds around him as he found his inner calm. Because the more calm he was, the more he could be prepared to endure when the stomach cramps started again.
And they would. Just as they always did.
For a moment, his hands went to his armour, pressing it down upon his stomach as his memories betrayed him.
By this point, it was an instinctive flinch. Just the smallest rumbling was enough to cause him to grimace as he prayed for salvation, hands gripping the nearest surface and brows drenched in sweat while willing the nausea and occasional vomiting to stop.
It usually did. But not without damage.
The result was that while he would normally brave the thought of tussling with the Snow Dancer, all he could do now was frighten the odd B-rank who wandered down the wrong alleyway.
Sometimes by the sounds he made of a diseased ghoul.
Yes, there was a reason the Wanderer had chosen to ply his trade in the Kingdom of Tirea.
Because for a man of his talents, few of them were needed here. He had utterly no reason to visit this kingdom of cows and farmers … at least until the stomach aches started happening.
Something immeasurably powerful resided in the kingdom.
The force was so severe he could feel it like a weight upon his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Each time it revealed itself, his stomach rolled as though a thousand hamsters were dancing upon it.
The symptoms had begun during spring.
The first time it occurred, he fell off his chair eating breakfast and vomited oatmeal all over his carpet. At first, he just assumed he’d been poisoned. But there were only so many times even a relentless foe would try the same tactic.
Over and over again, at random times throughout the day, whether he was bathing, threatening a rival or decorating his conservatory, his stomach would suddenly cramp and the floor would be his cradle.
An extremely worrying ordeal. But not because the physicians couldn’t tell him what was wrong.
After all, this was no illness he suffered from.
Instead … it was something he sensed.
And here in the royal capital, it was enough to cause him to instantly break his breathing exercises.
The Wanderer swept around at once, his eyes locking onto all the crowd. He’d felt as every hair on his body had reacted. A shiver ran through him that only his master being sat on by a dragon could do.
And then it was gone.
However, just like a wolfhound could sense the blood of its prey from beyond the horizon, so too could the Wanderer track the source of his discomfort.
And what he found … was her.
“–That is inexcusable! To sow crime throughout this fair city is amongst the gravest of offences!”
Yes.
Her.
The girl who was foolish enough to go after the Snow Dancer, despite the fact that anyone not a master thief would struggle to even catch her ducks.
She was querying the trolls for information. A bizarre sight given not only her age, but her disposition.
Usually, there was no need for any warrior’s senses for this. Her manner of speech clearly painted her as a nobleman’s daughter more than any budding heroine. But aristocratic daughters didn’t carry enchanted swords, bottomless pouches or went about while accompanied by clockwork dolls.
That was something adventurers did.
And only the very finest of them.
From Trierport to Stermondt, he’d followed the nauseating sensation, and everywhere he went he heard the same tale.
A calamity passed. A town saved.
And somewhere amidst the confusion and the broken doors, hints and rumours of a girl with dark hair, a shining sword, a clockwork doll by her side … and an astronomical rise through the Adventurer’s Guild, so swift that all thought it was an invention of Timon Quinsley, famed guildmaster of the Reitzlake branch.
Seeing what he saw now … the Wanderer was starting to believe they were right.
This girl … was utterly unremarkable.
He had no idea what had caused his hair to stand on end. But it was more likely to be a drop of dew than this so-called adventurer. He would have gladly bet all the crowns he had that of all the things she was, anything involving leaving her bedroom was not it.
It wasn’t just that she lacked the appearance. There wasn’t a single ember of the adventuring fire within her.
Even so, there was no doubt about her identity.
She didn’t have a copper ring on her. But that didn’t hide the fact that so few fit her description.
Even fewer would brave going against the Snow Dancer–not unless they themselves believed they were strong enough.
That or more likely, it was all an act.
There was a reason the Wanderer chose the lifestyle of an adventurer without joining the guild. He trusted them as much as he trusted a wild boar not to shank him in his sleep. The guild had an agenda and he had his own.
Seeing this poster child loudly claiming her right to the Snow Dancer’s bounty, all the Wanderer could do was clench his fists in disgust.
There was something here. In this kingdom. A power so great he needed to spend all his monthly income on digestion medicine just to ease the constant aching. And it wasn’t this girl.
A red herring.
But not a penniless one.
Frustrated that his leads had come to naught, he nevertheless decided not to leave poorer than when he started. There was still the Arena Grand Tournament and a chance the source of his ills would reveal itself. So while it wasn’t this fraudulent adventurer, he would humour her claims.
Or at least as much as he could while she ran away screaming with her sword abandoned.
Composing himself, the Wanderer professionally went about the process of following after her, keeping at a distance as she took a meandering route to the Adventurer’s Guild as though she could barely remember where it was. Another strike off her credentials.
He waited as needed, scowling at the passersby asking about his sponsorship rates until she exited, this time with someone notable.
Unlike the girl, the elven woman who came out with her was not powerless at all. She was strong. Enough that the magic flowed from her even as she tried to keep it hidden.
It was an unnecessary complication.
However, while the addition of a witness was usually enough to deter the Wanderer from acting rashly, he was in no mood to adhere to caution. Should the adventurer embarrass herself before a client, then that was all the better.
He followed as they decided to lounge in the middle of a busy square, surrounded by so much noise that he could hear it echoing inside his helmet. But it made no difference.
Adjusting the troll’s club hidden in a cloth wrapping, he made his way over to the most sickeningly peaceful gathering in the city.
He’d be fined for this. Perhaps earn a day in a cell. But that’d be the worst of it.
When it came to daylight robbery between the strong, laws no longer applied.
It was a given that the powerful would be drawn towards each other. And like two swallows fighting over territory, guards would turn a blind eye when it came to anything above their pay grade. That counted all the more so if it involved a high-ranking adventurer.
… Especially if they could bend the fabric of reality.
“Gardening Form, 12th Stance … [Summer Sprinkling]!”
Yes.
The Wanderer realised many things in that exact moment.
Because as he watched a fragile girl with utterly no warrior spirit within her cajole a literal whirlpool of water to wrap around her blade with more ease than an archmage controlling the elements, he realised that Timon Quinsley was in fact correct.
As was he.
The girl was very much the source of his constant nausea.
He could tell because his stomach was cramping up like no tomorrow.
However, instead of dismay and fury at seeing his own doom swirling before him, what he felt was an emotion he’d never quite experienced before.
At the moment the girl lowered her sword and the water began ready to sprout forth, he saw something beautiful.
A sight that he as one who’d abandoned the path of the warrior did not deserve.
It was of one who had reached the peak.
This adventurer had no warrior’s flame within her only because there was nothing left to stoke the embers.
She had no opponent. She had no foe. She had no rival.
She was a bird escaped from her cage only to be imprisoned in a greater cage. A world where none could ever match her strength or her power.
It was the most beautiful and saddest thing the Wanderer had ever seen.
Thus, as he watched an enormous beam of literal watery death hurl towards him accompanied by a rainbow, all he could do was shed a tear in acknowledgement of the sacrifice this adventurer had made.
The Wanderer could not accompany her to the top. But for a single moment, as he hurled himself forward without any means to stop, he hoped that enough of the top of his head could be seen to remind her that there were others who sought to join her.
PWOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH.
The rest was a blur of gurgling and pain.
A sensation he didn’t experience often. But not quite never.
While his obsidian armour prevented everything but the most powerful of weapons from piercing it, that didn’t mean blunt force was ineffective.
As he was thrown backwards, he felt as though a family of brown bears were taking turns to pounce on him. A noise rang around his head even as nothing remained to make an echo. His helmet had been launched away by his own club in a futile effort to defend himself.
All that remained now was to see out his part as the defeated.
Gurgling and disoriented, he just about saw as the girl stepped over him, her frown alone somehow managing to block out the sun.
“W-Wait, mercy, I–”
“No.”
His eyes widened as he waited for the end … and yet instead of a sword, what he received was something sweet and velvety. And also very slightly soggy.
“If you are bored, find a new hobby. That means less violence, more cake. Understood?”
The Wanderer could only look up while blinking.
However, as he began to chew the cake as expected, he found that the pain in his stomach started to disappear. Something else took its place instead. A warming sensation in his stomach as the taste of nostalgia and a forgotten childhood memory ran through his mind.
There was no mistaking it.
It was a carrot cake stuffed in his mouth. And it tasted of a time when the Wanderer was still a boy with a home. When the dreams he had were not of song and blood, but flour and eggs.
The memory came like a flash before the end. Except perhaps this was a new beginning.
The Wanderer, real name Jimothy, had no more need to wander.
He’d found the warrior’s path at last. And it would involve learning to bake.
… Perhaps he could even begin with carrot cake?