Chapter Forty-Eight: Strength Comes from Courage (Part One)

Just as the dwarven warrior had managed to successfully infiltrate the troll camp before, I pressed myself close to the roadside trees, carefully skirting around the four crude watchtowers built of logs on the far side of the path, and crept forward toward the troll encampment, step by cautious step. Twice, my care slipped just a little, and it seemed a troll in one of the towers sensed something amiss, turning his head abruptly in my direction.

Fortunately, I reacted swiftly; at the first hint of danger, I retreated into the dense shadow of the trees, waiting until I was certain his attention had shifted away before moving forward again. Damn it all, this really ought to be a rogue’s task! I muttered nervously to myself, inwardly envying those rogues and their unique “Stealth” abilities. If only I could vanish from sight as they do—how much trouble would that have saved me now.

After much effort, I slipped past the four watchtowers and, seizing a moment when no one was watching, quickly retreated behind a secluded thicket to hide. No sooner had I concealed myself than a patrol of two Axeblade Heads rounded the mountain wall on my flank, passing right over the spot where I had just stood moments before.

Better lucky than early, as the saying goes. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, wiping the cold sweat from my brow. A mountain breeze swept by, chilling me to the bone.

With the watchtower sentries behind me, the next part of my task became somewhat easier. When the two troll sentinels passed before me again, I slipped silently after them, keeping a safe distance all the while, never once being discovered.

Soon enough, I drew close to the temple gates. Timing my move as the two pairs of sentries rounded the back of the temple and met each other, I dashed forward in a burst of speed, diving headlong through the ruined doors.

The Axeblade Spiritcaller lurking within the temple reacted the instant I burst inside, wasting no time. Much like the one the dwarven warrior had faced amid his exaggerated sobs, the troll before me deftly planted a “Flamefissure Totem” onto the floor, then immediately raised both palms before his chest, chanting a spell in a low voice, aiming to unleash a powerful lightning attack.

Forewarned by the dwarf’s earlier encounter, I already had a strategy for dealing with the Spiritcaller’s tricks. Before he could get halfway through his incantation, I lunged forward, shield raised, and slammed its edge into his head, executing a “Shield Bash.” I must admit, this particular combat skill I devised myself is far more effective than the routine techniques taught by the warrior trainers. Not only did my blow disrupt his spell, it also sent the Spiritcaller reeling into unconsciousness.

At that moment, however, the fireball from the “Flamefissure Totem” struck me full on, a searing heat exploding across my right shoulder.

It was my first time being hit by fire magic. Though it was only the most basic fireball spell, it still gave me a hard lesson. It didn’t pose a real threat to my life, but in the instant the magical flames erupted, the air around me seemed to boil; every breath burned with pain, and as the scalding steam filled my lungs, I wondered if my very flesh was being cooked from the inside out.

I’d much rather take a good clean blow from a battleaxe than endure this kind of magical searing again.

While the Spiritcaller was still dazed, I hacked furiously at the “Flamefissure Totem” by my side. The little totem pole was hardly sturdy—it didn’t hold up to my blade any better than a stick of firewood. Three or four strikes and it toppled, its magical glow guttering out.

I stabbed the Spiritcaller three or four more times before he regained his senses. The long-faced, green-skinned brute wasn’t ready to yield; as soon as he recovered, he began summoning his lightning magic again. At first, I ignored him, landing two more blows while he chanted, but as his incantation neared its end and the orb of lightning in his hands grew brighter, I gathered my battle energy, channeled it to my head, and suddenly rammed upward, smashing him square on the bridge of his nose.

That “Headbutt” instantly broke his spell, easily neutralizing his counterattack.

And so, this unfortunate troll never even got the chance to fight back before his health had dropped to less than a third. He managed to cast only two weak instant spells before I forced him into a corner.

He struggled to flee for the temple doors and call for help, but I was ready for that—a “Lunge” struck him square in the back, and before he could utter a sound, his life was ended. His soul immediately merged with mine, becoming part of my strength.

It’s ironic, when you think about it: he was a “Spiritcaller” of the Axeblade, yet his soul would never again answer anyone’s call. Up to this point, everything had gone remarkably smoothly. The banner of the Axeblade troll tribe lay slanted before me; I only had to reach out and pluck it from the ground.

But I knew this was both the closest I’d come to success and the moment I was nearest to disaster. If I’d miscalculated, if my plan hadn’t worked as well as I’d hoped, I’d soon face the same fate as the weeping dwarf—alone, surrounded by dozens of furious trolls.

I was no Riftwalker, with their countless lives to spend. If I died here, beset by these savage brutes, my life would end for good, with no second chances.

All ties between my soul and this world would be severed. The thought made my heart quail—was I really to wager my one and only life on such a reckless gamble?

Even now, I still had the chance to turn back. Perhaps… perhaps, if I waited a little longer, I could call on my friends to help me, to finish this class-change quest together—just as we’d aided the beautiful elven beast-tamer, Wild Goose Formation.

Watching the two patrols of Axeblade trolls gradually move away from the temple, I wavered for a moment, tempted to abandon this mission, to slink away from the troll camp and return to my safe, peaceful life.

I glanced once more at the troll banner. The crimson, blood-soaked fangs on its surface seemed to drip and glisten like a wide, mocking mouth, sneering at my cowardice.

Am I a coward? I asked myself. When I saw this peaceful, lovely village ravaged by these bloodthirsty monsters, reduced to shattered ruins; when I heard that every last villager had been slaughtered with no survivors; when I witnessed the idol of the High God cast down, their pure and noble faith trampled into the mud—did I not feel rage?

I am a warrior, one who should stand against brutality with blood and flesh, who is meant to shield the weak.

If I shrink from death and let evil run free, betraying the earnest trust placed in me—then what meaning does my life still have?

A person should never lightly abandon their soul, nor squander their one life on meaningless adventures; but there are times when certain things must be done, even at the risk of one’s own life.

No, I am not like my Riftwalker friends, blessed with endless lives. I may be weaker than they. But that is no excuse to cower or to rely entirely on their strength. No matter how powerful your friends, they cannot live your life for you. There are many things in this world that each of us must face alone.

Standing before the banner of the troll tribe, I steadied myself once more, forced my breathing into rhythm, and wiped the sweat from my palm onto my trousers.

The troll sentinels had reached the far edges of the village on their patrols; the nearest Axeblade trolls now were the two Axeblade Heads standing at the barn. It would take them at least fifteen seconds to reach me—I had to accomplish everything in that time.

Reach out, seize the banner, and sprint away—a pillar of green magical alarm-fire burst skyward, casting a pallid glow over the entire village.

Long-faced, tusked trolls were drawn by the alarm, their faces twisted with fury as they brandished their blades, hell-bent on making any thief bold enough to steal their tribal banner pay the price in blood.