Chapter 2: The Land of Barbarians
Althea Magic Academy. Present (14 months after the expulsion).
Charlotte held the second scroll in her hands. The paper felt slightly rougher than the first, but the red wax seal remained perfect, untainted. In the Academy library, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic turning of pages from other students, unaware of the secret she held between her fingers.
With a sigh, she broke the seal. William's calligraphy here was even more flowery, almost boastful, imbued with absolute certainty—as if he wanted to convince her that no matter where he went, everything would be fine.
[Letter Fragment 2]
Date: One week after arriving in Xitalia.
"My dear Charlotte, Xitalia is a fascinating place. Although the Empire's books describe it as a land of savages, I have found a rustic charm that Althea could never understand. I have taken residence in an inn called 'The One-Eyed Boar'; do not be fooled by the name, it is a place of enviable warmth where the locals have received me with a mixture of wonder and respect. I have decided to travel under the name Filian; it is a simple name, fitting for a gentleman seeking to know the heart of the people before claiming his true glory. The wine is strong, the hearth fire is always lit, and for the first time in years, I feel truly welcome."
The Reality: The Frostbound Hell
14 months ago. Xitalia Border.
The air in Xitalia was not "rustic"; it was an ice knife trying to slit my throat with every breath. As I stepped out of the transportation circle, the first thing I felt was the frozen mud sinking beneath my boots and the sickening stench of rotting fish and sewage. The sky here was not blue, but a leaden gray that seemed to crush the shoulders of anyone who dared to look up.
According to the mage and the guide I hired—which wasn't cheap and drained most of my Imperial gold coins—the nearest city was a half-hour journey if one rode fast. But I didn't have a horse. I was at the mercy of the "wolf and wind." On this quarter-day trek toward the city, I saw more deceased lying in the ditches than in the Imperial cemetery. Stiff bodies, some with faces frozen in a grimace of perpetual terror, others simply consumed by hunger and cold.
The city I spotted in the distance had no porters or honor guards. It only had something like a wall, an amalgam of blackish stones and reinforced wood that seemed to have survived a hundred failed sieges. The scars of the civil war were visible on every stone block.
I walked through the streets of this border city that seemed built from the wreckage of a shipwreck. Rotting wooden houses piled on top of each other, defying the laws of physics and common sense. The looks I received from passersby were not of "wonder," but of a murderous greed filtering through their narrowed eyelids. My straight posture—a noble habit I couldn't shed in time, a curse of my upbringing—clearly screamed "I am important" in a place where importance is measured by how many lives you've taken before breakfast. Damn it, was everyone here born hunched over? My presence was an insult to their misery.
I could recognize an inn or tavern only because it had a sign with a worn drawing of a boar with an eyepatch. It was literally the only thing with a trace of color in the entire district.
I pushed open the door of "The One-Eyed Boar." The hiss of the wind was replaced by a sudden, heavy silence. The place was a dark hole, saturated with thick smoke that stung the eyes, lit barely by a dying fire that spat more soot than heat. The "respect" I wrote to Charlotte about manifested in the form of a giant with an eyepatch behind the bar. He was the innkeeper, a silent wall of flesh watching me as if I were a biological anomaly.
"Name?" he grunted. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol and stale tobacco.
"Filian," I replied, lowering my voice so as not to sound too refined, though my vocal cords still held the echo of Althea's ballrooms.
"Staying or just eating?" It wasn't a question, but a statement of terms. The guy knew that if I stepped out into the alley right now, I'd be ambushed before I could say my false name.
"Does the inn come with protection included?" I asked, looking directly into his single eye.
"If you pay, yes. But hide that rich kid face," he replied as he pulled out a rusted iron key. "So?"
"Both," I said, dropping a couple of Imperial silver coins onto the greasy wood.
Xitalia was absolute chaos. Its own currency was worthless after ten years of uninterrupted civil wars; the major cities were nothing more than independent factions fighting over the scraps of a broken kingdom. Imperial silver was the only language everyone understood.
Heading up to my room, I felt the violent tug of the Cursed Chains of the Goddess. By now, I've grown used to that sensation of invisible metal tearing at my spirit, but the cold of Xitalia seemed to make the shackles tighten even more. Ironically, this curse has already fulfilled its original purpose in the story, and the Goddess would take it away if I only asked... but no. I'm not going to waste an "item of such quality" for just a bit of comfort. It will be useful for what's coming.
For now, I just needed to rest and use my few potions to heal my wounds. In this "Maximum Difficulty" world, knowledge about alchemy is vital. Potions are valued according to their Quality and their Rank. The Rank (Bronze, Copper, Silver, Gold, Diamond, and the mythical Transcendent) is decided by the rarity of the materials. The Quality (Low, Medium, High, Perfect) indicates how skilled the alchemist was in extracting the essence.
A Copper Rank Potion of Perfect Quality can be superior to a Silver Rank Potion of Medium Quality, as the purity prevents side effects and maximizes cellular regeneration. I only had Copper Rank, High Quality vials; enough to close gashes, but not to soothe the soul.
After a few hours of restless sleep, grayish light filtered through the cracks. I decided it was time to gather information about the city. However, as expected, I hadn't gone fifteen paces in the hallway before a giant—different from the innkeeper, this one was a hired thug with a dislocated jaw—and his lackeys blocked my way.
They don't even ask anymore; they simply strike. Is this the pinnacle of mercenary monotony? I began to ramble internally to keep my temper in check as adrenaline began to pump in my chest.
The giant threw a slow punch but one charged with a brute force that would have killed an ox. Instead of backing away, I stepped forward, invading his personal space and letting his fist graze my shoulder. My right hand flew to the hilt of my black iron sword. I didn't draw it; I used the heavy steel guard to strike his windpipe and immediately the base of his nose. The sound of cartilage breaking was like a dry branch snapping. The man fell backward, crashing into a chicken coop that seemed to be there out of pure neglect.
Three other men closed in immediately. Come on, I haven't even shown real money yet; are they this determined to die for a stranger?
"Tell me what you want," I said, fixing my eyes on a guy hiding in the corner's shadow. He was the leader, the brains behind this clumsy ambush.
"That necklace... take it off," he ordered in a shrill voice.
Dammit. I overlooked it. Despite looking like a luxury accessory, the necklace was an Epic-Grade Magic Item, capable of translating any language—a gift from the Sea God to the pirates who protected his temples. In this fragmented kingdom, an object capable of understanding all factions was worth more than a thousand lives.
I clicked my tongue and lunged at the one who seemed most skilled on my left. He blocked my sword with a long knife, but my kick was faster, hitting his solar plexus directly. A thief fighting like an academy knight? How bad must this kingdom be for even bandits to have technique. I dodged the other two by a hair, nearly losing my balance; it wasn't necessary to fight "nobly" here. I ducked, sweeping the legs of one, and stabbed the tip of my sword into the last one's thigh, immobilizing him instantly.
With the three on the ground, I turned to the leader trying to flee around the corner. I caught him in two strides, and as I placed a hand on him to stop him, the man simply collapsed.
"Damn it..."
His face was pale, almost translucent, covered in strange lumps under his skin that moved rhythmically. With the tip of my sword, I flicked his shirt open to see his torso. What I found chilled my blood: I hadn't been here a day and I had already stumbled upon the traces of the Sleepers. The fungus was colonizing his internal organs, using him as a walking nest.
It was the first sign of the Plague DLC.
I returned to the lower part of the tavern under the watchful and now cautious gaze of the eyepatch giant. I sat in the darkest corner. My ribs, incorrectly fused by the curse, sent a stab of agony through my chest that forced me to grit my teeth. The curse prevented me from dying, but it ensured I felt every second of the defective "healing."
I ordered a mug of that murky liquid they called wine and pulled out a piece of parchment. While the remaining mercenaries watched me from a distance, plotting how to kill me in my sleep or simply waiting for my departure, I began to write with feigned elegance:
"The wine is strong, the hearth fire is always lit..."
Lying was easier than explaining that I was in a kingdom where death lurked in every shadow and grew inside people's lungs. Charlotte couldn't know that her brother was now a mercenary fighting for a piece of stale bread while an ancient plague began to stir beneath his feet.
That night, as I guarded my room's door with my sword on my lap, I noticed a small white mushroom growing on the damp wood of my room. It released an almost invisible dust, a dust that glowed with a ghastly light.
Fate wouldn't give me even one night of rest. The real difficulty was only just beginning.
