Chapter Forty-eight: Strength Comes from Courage (Part Two)

Bang! The temple’s main doors were kicked open, and the gruff voice of the first Filth-Axe Troll echoed off the walls: “Once I get my hands on you, thief, I’ll tear you to pieces and boil you in the pot!”

By then, I had already hurried up the stairs and reached the second floor of the temple. At the top of the stairs were three wooden doors, each leading to a different room.

A clamor of footsteps sounded on the staircase; the enraged trolls had sensed my presence and were surging upstairs together.

Without a moment’s hesitation, as planned, I pushed open the northernmost door and dashed into the room beside the window. It was a simple bedroom, containing nothing but a battered coat rack, an old chair, and a double bed draped in a faded pink coverlet. Scattered atop the bed were a few pieces of nearly transparent women’s undergarments, and a portrait of a woman with a rather flirtatious expression sat on the bedside table.

Hmm? Wasn’t this supposed to be the room of the village’s only monk? I had thought these devout followers were all earnest, simple-minded souls…

Thud, thud, thud… The trolls’ heavy footsteps on the stairs were incessant, and it sounded as if the fastest among them had already reached the second floor.

This was no time to ponder the private life of the temple monk. Shaking off all such speculations, I stepped squarely onto the suggestively colored double bed by the window and leapt out in one swift motion.

Of course, I wouldn’t jump out the window facing the cliff, as the dwarven warrior before me had done—far from being a safe escape, that would be a direct route to the underworld. Nor would I choose to leap into the village square, which would have been equally foolish; trolls were still pouring into this battered two-story building from all corners of the village. If I jumped there, I’d land right in the midst of a bloodthirsty mob, eager to hack me to pieces with their heavy axes and sturdy cudgels.

From the start, I’d chosen my escape route: the rocky outcrop on the west side of the small temple. There was a gap just over an arm’s length between the window and the rock. It wasn’t far, but peering down from above always made my heart quail.

I’d hoped to make the leap with the agility of a seasoned hero—springing forward, landing on one hand, flipping gracefully in mid-air, and alighting with effortless poise. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t as heroic as my imagination. The moment I tried to support myself with my right hand, my elbow buckled, and I lost my balance entirely, crashing onto the rock like a stiff statue. I sprawled there in a star shape, undignified and flat. For a second, I felt as if I’d been flattened into two dimensions; my nose and lips seemed mashed into my face, senseless and numb. When sensation returned, it came as an ache, my nose stinging and my eyes brimming with involuntary tears.

To be honest, even I wasn’t sure if those tears were merely a reflex from the impact or a sign that the pain had briefly overcome my courage.

Regaining my senses, I scrambled to my feet, found a safer perch on the rock, and cautiously peered back into the temple to see what was happening.

What I saw inside at last allowed me to breathe easy.

The Filth-Axe Trolls were still cramming into the small bedroom, filling it to the brim. Their bloodshot eyes swept every corner of the room in search of the stolen tribe banner; if their gazes had substance, the place would have been reduced to ashes. Yet not one of those lumbering fools guessed I’d escaped through the window at the last moment; none even thought to look outside. Watching their impotent fury, I felt both a measure of satisfaction at having outwitted them and a touch of contempt for their own misfortune.

Behind the rocks, I found a small path leading to the road out of the village. Most of the Filth-Axe Trolls had been drawn away by the theft of their banner, but a few checkpoints remained, and some trolls still wandered the village. These, however, posed little obstacle. It took me only a few minutes to discern their patterns and slip past them, leaving the crude troll encampment behind.

After leaving the abandoned village of Arbel, I headed straight for Reed City. At the entrance to the city’s garrison, I once again encountered the imposing female martial trainer.

“As you wished, ma’am, I have retrieved the troll tribe’s banner,” I said, producing the banner from my pack and presenting it to her with both hands.

Obtaining it had taken great effort, not to mention risking my life, but the trainer seemed utterly unimpressed. She snatched the banner, inspected it with disdain, squeezed it between her fingers as if it were some worthless rag, and then tossed it carelessly over her shoulder.

“I didn’t expect you to succeed. It seems you’re not as stupid as you look…” Whether she intended it as praise or not, I found her words far from flattering. Still, for the sake of my career advancement, I stifled my irritation and waited patiently for her to finish.

Sure enough, she continued, “Your performance proves you have the courage and wit to shoulder greater responsibility. Geoffrey Kidd, I accept you as one of the valiant Martial Warriors. Welcome—strength is born of courage!”

A purple aura rose from beneath my feet, enveloping me in its glow. A strange energy coursed through my nerves, transforming my body. In an instant, my attack and defense were each increased by ten points, agility by five, and both health and spirit by fifty.

Yet the greatest change was not merely in those numbers, but something within my heart. For reasons I could not explain, as soon as my advancement was complete, a surge of pride and ardor welled up inside me—a thing called “courage” filled my chest and made my blood surge with new vigor. Never before had I felt so invigorated, so eager for battle, yearning to charge into the fray against the minions of the Apocalypse Kings.

“Strength is born of courage!” This is the Martial Warrior’s creed. We believe true power comes from the staunchest, most indomitable part of ourselves; it is fearless resolve that drives us to fight, undaunted by any foe. Perhaps, at this moment, I was truly inspired by that very ideal.

My job advancement wasn’t the only reward; the formidable trainer also presented me with a Martial Warrior’s badge and a longsword. The badge bore a shield brimming with blossoms, atop which stood a proud sea-swallow—a bird famed for its courage in battling stormy seas. Each badge was enchanted: once every fifteen minutes, it could activate “Heart of Valor,” dispelling all fear, charm, confusion, and hallucination, freeing us from inner turmoil in an instant.

If the badge was a seldom-used accessory, the “Braveheart Flameblade” was a godsend. Until now, I’d still been using the “Sabertooth Ripper” seized from a mountain brigand—once formidable, with its rending effect, but by level thirty-five, it was woefully inadequate. I’d long considered replacing it, but never found a worthy weapon—until now.

Compared to the “Sabertooth Ripper,” the “Braveheart Flameblade” was unremarkable in appearance—no elaborate engravings or unusual shape. Its smooth blade was three fingers wide, sturdy and slightly heavy, with two finely etched blood grooves on either side. The bronze hilt was ringed with uneven bands, offering a secure grip.

This sword increased attack power by thirty, agility by ten, and health by thirty. It was also imbued with fire magic, dealing an extra ten points of fire damage with every strike and raising my critical hit chance by ten percent.

Had I possessed this sword earlier, perhaps my battle with the vampire Marquis Menerval would not have been so arduous.

Having received the badge and sword, I spent a little more time under the trainer’s guidance, raising my swordsmanship to “proficient” level and mastering new skills: “Hold the Line,” “Turning Slash,” and “Blade Barrier.” Just as I was about to leave, a desperate, indignant scream rang out behind me:

“Let me go! Help—no, I don’t want to change classes…!”

(Still time for an advertisement: “King of Kung Fu in Another World” by the martial artist. Didn’t I say this guy was “probably” a real practitioner? Now it’s basically confirmed—he is, and he lives nearby. So… you all know what this ad is about. Any readers sympathetic to Xiao Xianzi, come help me take revenge—book number 1012358, let’s all go stomp on him… Ow!)