Chapter Ten: The First Drop of Blood

Apart from a magic crystal, the Mad Dog Caplan left us a few other things. His hide was flayed by Aria of the Bowstring—who, in addition to being a clumsy ranger and a hopelessly incoherent orator, is also an atrocious leatherworker. The process of skinning was even bloodier than the battle we’d just fought. The skinning knife, in his hands, felt heavier than an axe; he nearly tore the dog’s pelt off Caplan in ragged chunks with both hands. By the time he’d finished, I could hardly believe the heap of tattered rags he held had once been a single piece of smooth, supple animal hide. At that moment, I almost felt sorry for the dead dog—no matter what atrocities it committed in life, this posthumous retribution seemed a bit too cruel.

I no longer believed the tales about elves being a race that loves nature and animals.

What baffled me most was that after completing this appalling task, Aria of the Bowstring—the worst tanner I’d ever seen—actually leveled up!

As I was picking my share of the spoils, I thought of the claw and bite marks left on my sturdy shield by Caplan—the beast’s fangs and claws were naturally sharper and harder than most swords forged from fine steel. Its two longest fangs were four inches long, curving ferociously, the needle-sharp tips making me wince just to look at them. They were natural weapons, and it took considerable effort to pry them from the mad dog’s jaws.

During this grisly tooth-pulling, I discovered that Caplan’s blood wasn’t the usual bright red but a foul-smelling, viscous dark green. Curious, I asked Bullion for an empty potion vial and collected a small sample of the dog’s blood.

Having done all this, we dragged our exhausted bodies toward Campnavia as dusk fell.

...

“Oh, you’ve dealt with those fanged beasts? That’s wonderful! They’ve been causing me no end of trouble lately, and my wife has been wanting a dogskin rug... In any case, thank you for your service to the city’s peace. Here, this is your reward.”

This was my first meeting with Sheriff Gerard, though he was—perhaps “formerly”—my superior officer. He clearly had no memory of his own city gate guards, so he gave me no special recognition.

Gerard was a lackluster middle-aged man—corpulent, red-nosed, with a large bald patch on his brow. If he weren’t wearing the City Guard officer’s uniform, I’d have mistaken him for a butcher or some other humble tradesman. He took the three stray dog pelts from Bullion and me and placed the reward in our hands. The fee should have been five silver coins, but I received twenty-five copper more than Bullion—a testament to my “mercantile” human instincts. At the same time, we gained 800 soul points—a sign that slaughter isn’t the only path to a soul’s growth.

After this simple process, Gerard sat back down at his large desk, frowning as he leafed through a thick stack of documents. Clearly, he was troubled by some difficult matter and in need of strong assistance, for whenever we spoke to him, he would only answer, dejectedly, “I have some troubles that need solving, but you’re clearly not strong enough.”

Leaving the sheriff’s office, Bullion stretched and yawned, “It’s late. I need to sleep or I’ll be late tomorrow.”

“I should rest too...” Aria of the Bowstring sounded equally weary. “...Will you come again tomorrow?”

“We probably will, around the same time...” Bullion turned to me and asked, “...What about you, Jeff?”

“Me?” I hesitated. The Voidwalkers always seemed to communicate in ways I couldn’t understand, as if their concepts of time and space were entirely different from ours. I knew my two friends regarded me as one of their own—a “player,” as they called it. It wasn’t their fault; after all, a native like me, so restless and free-spirited, was a rare sight. When I was with them, I almost fooled myself into believing I was a Voidwalker too.

After a moment’s hesitation, I decided not to emphasize my difference. I had a strange premonition: they would never understand my origins or my life. If I told them my story, they’d see me as a freak, mock me, or distance themselves. I didn’t want to lose the friends I’d just made, nor to be treated as a monster.

“I’ll always be here...” I forced a smile and replied vaguely, “...I’ve nowhere else to go anyway.”

At my words, Aria of the Bowstring let out a long sigh. “You must be young. Youth is a wonderful thing—so much time to waste, without the burdens of life...”

Young? Perhaps, for a long-lived race like the elves, even an adult human is little more than a child. But I sensed the ranger’s words held a deeper meaning.

“Let’s add each other as friends, keep in touch.” Bullion suggested. He pulled out his magic diary and scanned it at me and Aria. Aria did the same.

I’d just learned the diary had this function and tried it out. Bullion and Aria’s names instantly appeared in golden script on the “Social” page.

“All right, I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

As they finished speaking, their bodies blurred, dissolving like mist until they vanished completely. The magic diary in my hand was still open, and I saw their names fade from shining gold to gray—signifying, I supposed, that these two Voidwalkers no longer existed in this plane.

How peculiar the habits of Voidwalkers were! To sleep, they could simply find a cheap inn for the night—though I found this entirely unnecessary, for in all my memory, I’d never once “slept.” I simply “knew” what it was, understood in theory how it should be done, just as I “knew” many other inexplicable things. Yet the Voidwalkers had to leave this world and travel to another plane just to perform this simple biological necessity. Perhaps, somewhere in the infinite cosmos, there’s a dimension reserved for these travelers to sleep in.

To me, this seemed utterly pointless—troubling oneself for nothing.

Well, for now, my only two friends had left my world to sleep elsewhere. I was alone, and now, I should... um... I should...

Damn. Suddenly, I realized a serious problem: ever since I’d escaped my fate as a city gate guard and gained my freedom, I’d spent all my time in adventures and hunts with my companions. My actions had always followed their goals; my choices had been shaped by their advice and wishes. It seemed that from start to finish, there had been no decisions truly my own.

And before all this began, in that short, solitary moment after I became free but before I met Bullion, I had been...

...thinking about what I should do...

It is said that behind every person, there follows a god who will watch over them until their end. These gods wield a whip called Desire, driving us along the path of fate, making us strive and yearn, making each of us know what we want and how to achieve it.

I looked back behind me. There was only the sheriff’s office door—dim, shadowy, with no sign of the god of my fate.

And that was the problem. I seemed hollow, without goal, without direction, without anything to pursue for myself. My origins were strange, unlike anyone else. On my path, I traveled alone. I didn’t know where to go, nor could I return to the start. My life was awkward and lonely, always seeking direction from the commands and wishes of others.

So what should I do now? Continue the tiresome hunts and slaughters, aimlessly raising my soul level? Or stand here in a daze until my two companions returned and follow their wishes?

I stood forlorn in the corner, idly rummaging through my pack. Suddenly, my hand touched something small, cold, and unfamiliar. I took it out—it was a vial of green liquid.

I remembered then: during the division of the spoils from Poireau’s corpse, I’d collected a small bottle of its blood. I’d been curious when I noticed the beast’s blood wasn’t the usual red, so I’d taken some. Come to think of it, this might have been the first time I’d found something “strange” and wanted to investigate it.

A pack of wild dogs suddenly harassing the city, a beast leader mutated into a magical creature, a vial of green blood—these all seemed to hint at something meaningful, pointing toward a suspicious conclusion. I liked this feeling—though confused, I felt my mind at work, better than being empty and alone.

I thought I should take this to the sheriff. After all, the unusual blood came from the wild dog leader, and the city was under attack by wild dogs.

I returned to the sheriff’s office and approached him. “Sir, I have something to report...”

“I have some troubles that need solving, but you’re clearly not strong enough,” Gerard replied, just as I expected, still sunk in his worries.

Saying nothing more, I took out the vial of green dog blood and placed it before him.

My guess was correct. The honorable sheriff perked up at the sight of the vial. He picked it up, examined it, uncorked it, and sniffed it gently.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his face changing slightly.

“This is the blood of the wild dog leader outside the city. I thought it was unusual and should be reported to you,” I replied.

He frowned. “This looks like something I’ve seen before, but I can’t be sure. You’d better take it to Elder the apothecary. His shop is just behind the Trade District—you should be able to find him easily.”

With that, he buried himself once more in his pile of documents and troubling thoughts.

I quickly found Elder the apothecary—in fact, I’d been to his shop several times. Every time we came to resupply, Bullion would set up a stand outside his shop, selling small vials of healing potion at slightly lower prices.

Elder didn’t seem angry about our competition. When I explained my errand, the gray-haired old man just grumbled, “Oh, that troublesome sheriff again. He’s bothered me enough times and never pays for anything. Maybe I should send him a bill for the analysis—lest he spends all the city’s funds trying to cure his baldness.”

He placed the green dog blood in a clear crystal dish, handed me back the empty vial, and said, “To figure out what this is, I need a blood analyzer. Lucky for you, I ordered one just a few days ago—you’ll need to fetch it from Alchemist Edgewell for me.”

Alchemist Edgewell lived in a remote corner in the south of the city; I found the place easily. No one could mistake it: in a city where houses were packed together, his stood alone, surrounded by empty ground, the nearest building fifty paces off—a rare sight in land-hungry, expensive Campnavia.

On the way, I stopped by the city’s warrior trainer to further hone my longsword skills, raising both “Thrust” and “Slash” to level two, and learning a new skill—“Smite”—which uses raw power to numb an opponent’s arm, lowering their attack speed.

I felt these trainers taught only basic combat techniques. We used them often, but they never seemed as effective as skills we discovered for ourselves in real battle.

Entering Edgewell’s house, I felt as if it had just weathered an earthquake or hurricane. A three-legged bookshelf lay toppled, a broken table half at the door, half at the stairwell. The floor was strewn with all manner of clutter—ordinary household goods arranged in the strangest ways: rotting, greasy vegetable leaves, shattered bottles, cracked plates, and bottomless pans. Among these, rare and valuable items—or rather, their remains—could be found: a marble statue with its head smashed in, a large painting half-burned, an opulent robe with gold thread and gems but missing a sleeve and half the hem, and thick, water-stained tomes gnawed by mice.

I picked my way across the hall and finally reached the stairs. On the wall by the stairwell, red firelight flickered, casting a gaunt shadow that swayed across the wall, accompanied by shrill, manic laughter. As the only human in the house, I had reason to believe this was my target: Campnavia’s alchemist, Edgewell.

I was about to climb the stairs when a sudden bang erupted overhead. The firelight flared, shards of glassware whistled down the stairs, smashing against the wall and making me jump.

When all was quiet, I dared to climb. At the top, the spacious room was crammed with strange contraptions, barely leaving space to turn around. I wasn’t sure these things could even be called “instruments”—most were broken, some pieced together from scrap, and if they weren’t here, most people would have called them “junk.”

A tall, thin figure stood among the debris, before a stone slab piled high with fragments. A twisted metal frame, warped in agony, stood on the slab, still smoking blackly—a reminder of the recent explosion. In the wall were two gaping holes, jagged and raw, replacing the windows—clearly the results of some forceful detonation.

Now I understood why this house sat so isolated—no one would want to live near someone likely to blow up his home at any moment.

As I stood there stunned, the figure turned to me. His face was blackened, hair curled, clothes in tatters; he exhaled a thick cloud of black smoke.

“Don’t worry...” he chuckled, his teeth flashing white against his soot-black face.

“...It was just a little accident.”