Chapter Twenty-Four: Going with the Flow

No one knows when Valen Fortress was first built; this ancient castle seems as old as the Uzig Mountains it stands guard over. The massive stone walls, rough and thick, have been weathered by countless years. Judging by its name, Valen Fortress must once have been a purely military bastion, built solely to house troops—yet that is evidently long past. Now, Valen Fortress differs little from any ordinary small town. Shops selling all manner of goods line the streets, idle townsfolk amble along the roads, and the great doors of solid beech wood stand open, never closed, admitting all who come and go as they please.

I had been in Valen Fortress for two or three days—my first time stepping beyond the jurisdiction of Campnavia City. For someone as inexperienced in travel as I, this could hardly be called a pleasant journey. Valen Fortress is nestled in the southeastern mountains of Uzig, and since I had never been here before, my magic map showed no markings. I wandered aimlessly, like a headless fly, moving in what I hoped was the right direction. The narrow, rugged mountain paths were a torment, often disappearing suddenly into thick grass or tangled shrubs, so that I would walk on until the way was utterly lost before realizing I had strayed.

Worst of all, wherever you lose your way, you are sure to encounter a pack of voracious wolves, venomous spiders, wild boars, or other savage beasts, all eager for a taste of your tender flesh and organs, intent on inviting you to their dinner table—though, of course, if luck is not with you, you become the dinner itself.

Upon arriving at Valen Fortress, I first completed Mr. Gerard’s commission, handing the analysis of Rabid Keplan’s blood to Colonel Peclara, commander of the fortress garrison. Colonel Peclara was a man past fifty, distinguished only by his gray-white hair, with nothing else remarkable about him. He looked nothing like a soldier—more like a pedantic schoolmaster or someone of that sort.

The report seemed to inspire little concern in him. “Ah, the Withered Lands. I haven’t heard that name since I was ten—I’d nearly forgotten it. Gerard is always a bit nervous. Still, thank you for bringing me this news. No matter what, I’ll send someone to look into it… if I have anyone to spare,” Colonel Peclara said unhurriedly, tossing me a small sack of silver coins.

I felt it necessary to tell him what had occurred at the bottom of the abandoned mine—that the Lich Lord of Souls, Makenscar, had escaped a two-hundred-year seal. My instincts told me this might be connected to Rabid Keplan’s mutation. But no matter what I said, Colonel Peclara only shook his head impatiently, saying, “I’ll need to check my schedule. At my age, you’ll realize there’s nothing in the world you can’t forget… Eh? What was I just saying?”

With no other choice, I bade farewell to the forgetful officer. As I passed his office, another travel-worn Seeker was just entering. By chance, I glimpsed what he held—a letter, its yellowish envelope sealed with bright red wax. It looked familiar—very much like the report I had just handed the colonel.

What was going on? Had Mr. Gerard, fearing I might fail to deliver the report, also sent another messenger?

“Are you from Campnavia City as well?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Ah…” He seemed startled by my sudden question, then nodded instinctively. “Yes.”

“Are you here to deliver the blood report too?”

“That’s right. Wait—are you as well?”

“Yes. There’s no need for you to hand the report to him—I already have, and it’s pointless.” I tried to explain. I meant that I’d already given it to the colonel, who clearly cared little about the matter. There was no need for him to suffer the same frustration.

“What? Really?” He was taken aback. “I asked around—everyone said to give it to him.”

“Hmph, look at him…” I glanced back at the colonel, who was still dozing in his wide, comfortable chair. “See? Even if you do, it won’t matter,” I said, not without irritation.

The Seeker seemed to grasp something, or perhaps he was only more confused. He stammered a couple of acknowledgments, looked at me, then at the colonel, then nodded foolishly and said, “Thanks…” before turning to leave.

I saw him several times again in the streets, though perhaps, having changed my armor, he did not recognize me. Each time, he was accosting passersby, anxiously asking, “Report… task turn-in… who… where…” or the like. I didn’t listen closely.

After that, I never saw him again. But I heard talk of a mischief-maker in Valen Fortress who deliberately hindered others from turning in their tasks, even sending them the wrong way, so that some poor victim ran around the city for ages before finally completing his errand.

If I ever encountered such a shameless, tedious person, I would certainly teach him a lesson.

Fortunately, not everyone in Valen Fortress was as muddle-headed and indolent as Colonel Peclara. The fortress governor, Marquis Menerval, welcomed me with open arms. He was the patron and supporter of Robert Waylanster the “Tempered,” and expressed heartfelt grief at the misfortune that had befallen the dwarven master of metallurgy:

“Oh, my poor friend. He always loved to excavate secrets buried deep underground, yet some secrets are best left undiscovered. May Darymos have mercy on him; may his error not bring us irreparable loss…”

The marquis was a pallid old man, his cheekbones jutting from his gaunt face, eyes sunken, his gaze grim and steady. Perhaps the news of Waylanster’s death had shocked him; he seemed agitated, an unnatural flush showing beneath his white skin, enough to make one worry for his health.

He promised to report the escape of the Lich Lord Makenscar to His Majesty the King at once, and to unite all the powers of the continent of Falwe against the coming disaster. As a reward for my diligence, he presented me with a “finely crafted chainmail.” This armor, woven of metal rings, was not overly heavy and offered excellent protection against blades and axes. Moreover, it was clearly enchanted, boosting my defense by ten points and increasing my vitality by a hundred.

Leaving the marquis’s residence, I felt elated, a pride I could not suppress welling up from within. I believed I had accomplished something worthy, that perhaps, because I had delivered this message in time to a steadfast noble, the fate of the entire continent might change. All the intelligent races beneath the blue sky would be given a chance: to join hands, stand together, and resist the coming evil, to preserve life and freedom, to halt slaughter and tyranny—and all because I had delivered a message to the right person at the right time.

It was not long before I learned that, until the truth is plain, all so-called “rightness” is but a fleeting, lovely illusion. Often, harsh reality will shatter this illusion before your eyes, and with painful needles, awaken you from your dreams. “Facing reality” seems always to be synonymous with bearing suffering and regret.

Only much later did I realize that, in this world, many things are already fated. You cannot prevent their coming, cannot alter their course, cannot decide their end, no matter how you strive.

If there is anything you can change, it is only yourself. Your life is a small boat tossed on a stormy sea, bound to drift in the engulfing tides of time. All you can do is strengthen your planks, set your sails, and pray to all the gods you believe in that luck will keep you from being swallowed by the waves.

That is all.

At that time, I knew nothing of the future. The ignorant are happy, yet for many, such happiness is fleeting.

Just as I left the marquis’s house, my magical adventurer’s journal suddenly alerted me to a message: someone had sent me a parcel.

I do not know who first conceived the “postal system,” nor who brought it to life, but I am sure it is one of the greatest inventions in history. Whoever you are, wherever you may be, you have only to tell any city or village’s postman the name of the recipient and the goods, and you can send anything to anyone you know. The recipient can collect it from any postman at any time.

It is a mad idea, and what is maddest is that it actually works. Humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, half-orcs, and minotaurs—all the intelligent races that walk the continent of Falwe—have enthusiastically taken part in this grand endeavor. Every settlement, even a tiny clan of a dozen souls, has someone serving as a postman. In no other matter have the races of Falwe ever achieved such unity, breaking down their barriers. In this sense, the postal system is perhaps more powerful than any religion or culture, for it has, for the first time, truly bound the races of this world together.

Of course, postage is not cheap; you must pay five percent of the value of your parcel as compensation. If someone bothered to tally up how many people receive gifts from friends and family every day across the continent, they would find it a staggering sum.

Perhaps this is the true force that can make brutish minotaurs and proud elves work side by side.

Full of suspicion, I sought out the postman of Valen Fortress, only to learn that the sender was Ding Ding Little Ax. This slow-witted but generous half-orc miner had faithfully kept his promise, sending me a wealth of metals and minerals. His generosity far exceeded my expectations—I hardly knew how to thank him. It was a gift I simply could not refuse—for all the money I owned was not enough to pay the postage to send such a trove back. So, unable to do otherwise, yet not without secret delight, I packed these heavy and precious gifts into my magical backpack.

My experiences in Valen Fortress were a continuation of my life in Campnavia. Each day, I spent nearly half my time helping the townspeople with their work, earning my pay. Sometimes, I encountered dangerous tasks; then, I would set them aside and try something else, waiting until I found suitable companions or felt strong enough to tackle them.

When no suitable work presented itself, I would hunt beasts and monsters in the forests around the fortress. In the northwest lies a viscous marsh, home to giant mutant mosquitoes and pythons—a prime hunting ground for me.

There is also a creature known as the “Clay Golem.” These clumsy beings seem made entirely of clay and mud, rolling across the ground like a sack of water, impossible to distinguish head from tail. One must not be fooled by their appearance; these seemingly frail beings will attack any living thing that strays too close, enveloping their prey within themselves and digesting it completely. If you look closely, you’ll find bones of all sizes inside each clay golem—the remains of unfortunates already devoured.

Killing these monsters yields a substance known as “Corrosive Water,” an important reagent for certain alchemical experiments. That is why they are my main hunting target.

The rest of my time was spent shuttling between Valen Fortress and Campnavia City—after all, Valen Fortress is not a city of plenty, at least not for me; it lacks an alchemy master to guide and instruct me in the art of explosives. Traveling between the two cities was not difficult; the local stables offered carriage services for a fee, and the journey was surprisingly brief—so brief that I sometimes doubted the carriage had moved at all.

With Ding Ding Little Ax providing raw materials, I saved a fortune on supplies—an enormous help. After four or five such trips, I had learned to craft several alloys, extract glass from ore, and other useful skills. Best of all, my investment of time and money in alchemy was finally paying off; people were willing to pay for my synthesized metals and purified substances. The earnings not only covered my costs but even left a small surplus—nothing could spur me to study alchemy more eagerly.

Soon, my alchemy reached level five. Simple synthesis brought me no further experience, and Edgewell could teach me no more; I had reached a bottleneck and could advance only by acquiring new recipes and blueprints, crafting something novel.

Completing tasks, hunting monsters, learning combat skills, practicing alchemy, selling alchemical products—this was the sum of my daily life. Honestly, I sometimes wondered why I led such a life. Did gaining levels truly matter to my existence? Was learning skills a necessary trial for my soul? Was all my effort to earn money need or greed? Often I felt that, even if I did none of this, I could still survive and live a peaceful, ordinary life without difficulty.

Eventually, I realized I did these things not because I must, but because everyone else did—the Seekers, full of adventurous spirit and wild ideas, whom I liked far more than the dull, stolid natives. I chose my friends, and this was how they lived; thus, I felt I should live the same way.

It is a comic truth that we often do things not because we desire them, but because others do. We fear solitude, fear being different, fear suspicious glances, so we follow the crowd, becoming mediocre by necessity and with easy conscience.

Yet, some things truly need not be done, while others only we can do.

If I could choose again, perhaps I would make entirely different decisions.

Sometimes I thought of the deathless Decayed, the escaped soul lich, and the coming invasion of Falwe by the Apocalypse King, Dalenthil. Marquis Menerval had promised to prepare for the defense. Yet, I saw no sign that Valen Fortress was preparing for war—perhaps, I told myself, all preparations were proceeding quietly in secret.

Even I, by then, had grown lax and uncertain in my vigilance. Colonel Peclara was right—we had not heard news of the Withered Lands in so long that any disturbance set our nerves on edge, but such anxious overreaction was likely needless. For us, many things had already been forgotten. For those in the Withered Lands, perhaps much of the past would remain unremembered. War might not come; all our fears could be nothing but phantoms conjured by our own minds.

Thus, in a life woven of fulfillment and emptiness, I found my level had quietly passed thirty…

(Allow me to recommend a new book: “Star Demons,” by Demon Realm. In my opinion, the preface alone is well worth reading; after finishing the short essay “A Brief History of Science Fiction Martial Emperors,” I felt it entirely justified opening the novel. Check it out, even if only for the preface—it is truly interesting. Here’s my portal for the idle: http:///Book/1000587.aspx)