Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Adventurer

The negative emotions seemed to vanish from Lucas’s heart. Though he had stepped into the true valley of death—more perilous even than that night when he was surrounded by that silver-ranked Viking and his pirates—he felt none of the crisis he had then. His wounds were more severe than before, and he could only stand because York’s healing potion still lingered in his veins, sustaining his battered body.

Yet he felt no fear, no tension.

The tall Icelandic warriors, armed with shields and swords, encircled him. Only the night owl above still circled in the sky; the undead hounds did not pursue further. Perhaps there was an agreement between the necromancer and the warband, each confined to their own domains—unless permitted, they would not trespass on the other’s territory.

The warband soldiers approached him slowly. The archers raised their bows, aiming for his limbs. Though their orders were to capture him alive, there was no directive to keep his body intact. Facing a professional like him, they would likely cripple his arms and legs, sever his tendons, and only then feel safe bringing him in.

What expression should he wear in the face of such an end? Should he feel unwilling? Resentful?

His mind wandered back to a spring many years ago—one he’d always resisted recalling since growing up. In those distant, sunlit days, he was just a carefree boy, his life spent between the sheep pen and the fields, always returning home caked in mud. He had no curiosity for the world beyond, his thoughts simple: if he had a slice of buttered bread or found a blooming arctic lily in the meadow, he was content.

He lived alone. The grandmother who raised him he had buried with his own hands beneath the spring flowers. He’d never known his father or mother; sometimes he recalled his grandmother’s presence, but he had learned to live by himself.

Until that spring, when the silver-haired elf arrived in the village.

He had never seen such pointed ears, nor heard anyone who spoke as if they were singing. When the elf played the lute, the melody was enchanting. He was not alone in this fascination—all the village children would gather around to hear the elf’s sweeping, turbulent epics of heroes and legends.

At every climax and low point, Lucas’s emotions would rise and fall with the tale. The children would take up sticks as swords, don clay pots as helmets, and play every kind of game—dwarves and knights, mages and priests—shouting childish attack names at each other or at motionless wooden posts.

Lucas did the same. He carved himself a wooden sword, made a wooden helmet and armor, and, clad in his rough wooden gear, stood tall on a hill ablaze with lilies. Gazing down at the wind-tossed flowers at his feet, he imagined a crowd cheering for him.

He dreamed of perilous adventures, slaying dragons, rescuing princesses, the castle roaring with applause as he raised his wooden sword, face solemn as he rode a white horse.

Those were, perhaps, the happiest and most ignorant days of his life.

He would hurriedly clean the sheep pen, then dash to the cottage where the elf stayed, hoping to claim a spot near the front.

He realized then how vast the world was, how much wonder lay beyond the sheep pen and the fields—dragons and demons, saints and kings, heroes and epics, ruins and legends.

He was deeply captivated by the elf’s tales and began to long for the world beyond his village. The very word “adventurer” made his heart race.

He asked the elf, “How can I become an adventurer?”

The elf replied, “Anyone can be an adventurer. As long as you have five silver coins, you can register at the Adventurers’ Guild.”

Five silver coins—he remembered that number. At the time, he could scarcely grasp what it meant. In the village, money was rarely used; barter was the norm, except when the traveling merchants came every few years or if one walked days to Bronte or Alvado.

But if only he had five silver coins, he could become an adventurer.

He started saving, working odd jobs for others, asking to be paid in coins instead of cheese or bread.

At sixteen, he finally resolved to leave. He packed his things, sold his sheep to other villagers, locked the wooden door of his house. He joined a merchant caravan bound for Alvado.

That year, the sixteen-year-old boy was filled with courage and hope.

Seventeen years later, the boy was no longer a boy, and his high spirits had worn away. He returned home, to the old house where he once lived with his grandmother. He hung his old companion on the wall, sometimes using the spear that had once tasted blood as a poker for the fire.

He no longer dreamed at night—no longer dreamed of being a hero.

He bought a few sheep, rebuilt the pen, cleaned it every day, milked the sheep, sometimes told stories to the village children, or took some of them hunting in the forest or the wilds.

He considered starting a family with Mary from next door—a quiet life, perhaps just right for him. His grandmother would have been proud.

Among the villagers, he boasted loudly of his adventures. Only he knew that, late at night, he would sit alone by the hearth, recalling that spring day among the lilies, gently oiling the tip of his old spear.

Now, that sun-drenched spring day came to him again, and with it, the elf’s question:

“Porter, why are you so obsessed with stories of seeking the legendary sword? Do you want to find one yourself?”

“Of course I do!”

“And when you find it, will your adventure be over?”

“How could it? That would be so dull. I want to be a hero—one the whole world admires!”

Lucas remembered why he left the village. He had not become an adventurer for wealth or jewels; what he longed for was an epic adventure.

He always believed that finding the sword was only the adventure’s beginning.

Yet, after all these years, he had never won the world’s admiration, nor had he found a true legendary sword.

He was about to die—the hopes he carried would be buried with his weakness and failure.

But even so, he would endure to the end.

Suddenly, his body felt light, as if his soul had left him; the pain faded. He reached down and broke the arrow in his calf, tossing the feathered shaft into the snow.

Bruised and battered, he stood once more, raising his spear.

“Loose!” the Icelandic knight commanded with a gesture.

The archers drew their bows. Strangely, Lucas sensed the rhythm of their movement—not just the bows and arrows, but the swords in the Icelanders’ hands, the shields they gripped.

The weapons and armor he had tried and abandoned over seventeen years of adventure somehow seemed to speak to him now.

Most of all, the Tania military spear he held pulsed with meaning.

Only now, in this final moment, did he truly understand how to wield it.

He raised the spear; its tip trembled. With a single thrust, he knocked all four arrows from the air into the snow.

Bearing his grievous wounds, he took up his fighting stance again.

Though his body was torn and poisoned by the necromancer’s toxins, he felt lighter than ever, as if his soul was freed and the world had grown clear.

Facing the knights with raised swords, he swung his spear with the wild abandon of a child—its arc as chaotic as lines scratched in the dirt with a stick.

Yet, with those attacks, he sent four knights’ swords and raven shields flying.