He had already bid farewell to his friends, but parting from his family bore a much heavier burden upon his heart.

  Marianne had curled up on the bed, back turned, tear-streaked cheeks pressed into the pillow. She had not eaten anything. He kissed her gently on the forehead. Brenda sat nearby, unmoving, her expression unreadable.

  “Must you go?” she asked quietly, careful not to wake Marianne.

  “You know why.”

  The chair creaked as she shifted. “Chasing killers doesn’t bring peace.”

  “It’s not just about Garix.” Vaan’s fists clenched. “He walked into our forge. Killed a master smith in broad daylight.”

  Brenda’s mouth tightened. “Petros—”

  “Didn’t stop Erik.” Vaan touched the sword at his hip. The leather felt rough. “I’m not after revenge. I won’t let the man who killed my father live free while we hide behind locked doors.”

  “There’s always a choice. Garix… he regretted the sword. Said the forge was better.”

  Vaan gave a bitter smile. “I remember. ‘The sword gives you stories. The forge gives you something real.’”

  He looked away. “But he also said, ‘Sometimes the world won’t wait for a blade to cool.’”

  Brenda studied him. “And you think this is one of those times?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t stay. Not if Erik’s still out there.”

  Brenda looked at him for a long time and saw the certainty in his face. She sighed sadly. “Take this,” she said, handing him Garix’s coin pouch.

  “I can’t-”

  “You will.” Her voice brooked no argument. “Those swords you two made for Weave Day? Some fetched coin, others are still owed. We’ve enough to last the season. And don’t forget, my herbs are worth more than gossip. We have no healer in the village other than the apprentice bound to the Watch.”

  Vaan took the coinpurse. Through the doorway, the abandoned forge stood silent. Moonlight caught the last unsold blades on their rack, Garix’s final work, their edges still sharp beneath the gathering dust.

  He packed what little he could carry. The soulbound sword, wrapped but worn at the hip. A rucksack with a change of clothes, dried rations, a waterskin.

  One last look at the forge, now cold. And he walked out. Out of the forge, out of his home.

  Elijah had promised to keep watch on the family. Vaan believed he would. Not out of love, but stubborn pride. Elijah would do it just to prove he could. Just to be better than Vaan. The same reason he still chased after Risa, clinging to a promise she’d forgotten.

  The thought of Risa tightened in his chest, a sharp pang of regret and longing. But he couldn’t afford the distraction. His path was already set, and he had no room for anything else.

  As he walked alone in the night, he pulled out the coin Petros had given him. It hummed faintly in the moonlight, a sword through a coiled serpent, surrounded by spoked lines. There was power in it, something old and unfamiliar. Not like the sword, which felt like an extension of his arm. The coin… it called to him. Whispered of strength. Of cost.

  Garix’s voice echoed again. “Power always leaves a mark. Even when you think you’ve paid in full.”

  Vaan gripped the coin tighter, jaw set.

  “I’ll pay what I must, but I won’t sell who I am.”

  He would avenge Garix. But he wouldn’t lose himself doing it.

  Vaan approached the western gate.

  Remy leaned against the stable fence, surprised when he saw him.

  “Huh. Won’t lie… I figured you’d take the merc coin like the rest. They’ll load you with enhancement potions, sure... right before sending you off to die in some noble’s war.” He gave a crooked grin. “Trust me! Adventure Guild’s better. You pick your jobs… and your enemies. Come on, kid. It’s time.”

  They turned toward the stables. Then Vaan saw him.

  Petros stood near the gate, armored and alert, hand resting on his sword hilt. Of course he was here. Watch captain, after all.

  Vaan hesitated.

  Petros didn’t speak at first. Just gave Remy a look like he was measuring steel, then smoothed his mustache with slow care.

  “Keep the token, kid,” Petros said simply. “Just in case.”

  He didn’t stop him. Just nodded. And he left. Vaan turned toward the stables. The air was thick with the scent of hay and the earthy musk of the ringhorns, their large forms shifting restlessly in the pens. Stablehands moved between the animals, brushing down their thick fur and checking their harnesses.

  Vaan scanned the animals, looking for one that would take him to Darven’s Roost without too much trouble.

  Ringhorns were imposing yet graceful creatures, their powerful frames built for endurance. Standing between five to eight feet at the shoulder, they ranged from travel-sized companions to hulking war mounts like those favored by Petros. Their most striking feature was the single curved horn that grew from their foreheads. It was not just a weapon, but the centerpiece of a natural armored plate that spread across their skulls like living steel. This bone shield absorbed and distributed impact forces, allowing them to charge full-speed into battle without injury.

  Their sleek coats - ranging from stormcloud gray to rich oak brown - rippled over lean muscle, offering minimal wind resistance. Its wide hoof was equally capable of gripping mountain trails or pounding across open plains for days without rest.

  Vaan's [Inspect] skill highlighted three options:

  Quickstride (Lv.5 Swiftfoot) - 6 silver ride / 4 deposit

  Sturdyhorns (Lv.8 War Mount) - 12 silver ride / 6 deposit

  Ironback (Lv.7 Beast of Burden) - 11 silver ride / 5 deposit

  The pricing in his inspect screen matched the posted rates in the display board below. He dismissed the hulking Ironback immediately - no need for a freight-carrier. Sturdyhorns, interestingly, had two horns that blended in with its cranial armor. He wasn’t riding to battle though. The Quickstride's alert posture and long, spring-loaded legs promised speed. As he watched, the creature's armored brow plate gleamed in the stable lights, its central horn catching the glow like a drawn blade.

  [Inspect has leveled up! Lv.2 → Lv.3]

  He opened Garix’s coin purse. The leather was worn but sturdy. One of the few things Brenda and Marianne had crafted together in quieter times. Inside, he counted twenty silver pieces, three of them were newly minted and a handful of copper. Looked like Brenda had added a few coins of her own, tucked in without a word. It was a fortune by Wragford’s standards but a little more than pocket change in a city like Darven’s Roost. Still, it would carry him through the next few days, if spent right.

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  Renting Quickstride from Wragford would cost him ten silver: six for the ride itself, and four as a return deposit. Of that, he’d get only two silver back when he left the beast in Darven’s Roost. The eight silver would be kept by the Beastmaster’s Guild and it covered the wear, risk, and the cost of relocating the creature later.

  Ringhorns weren’t cheap to breed or train, and small towns like Wragford had fewer of them. The deposit there was high to compensate for low return rates. Few riders came into Wragford, after all. Most just passed through or left. Darven’s Roost, on the other hand, was a trade hub, with five roads and a waiting list of outbound travelers. Every outbound ride meant a slightly emptier stable.

  Darven’s Roost, on the other hand, was a hub well-trafficked, with wide roads and a steady flow of commerce. There, the BeastMaster’s Guild ran multiple stables, and retrievals were more efficient. But in Wragford? Each departure was a gamble.

  The Guild’s soul-ink markings burned under each beast’s mane kept track of ownership and route. Sigil-seals on the saddle recorded its last stop. And the Guild took its cut. Always.

  He handed over the payment, the silver clinking softly in his hand. The Stablehand didn’t ask questions. He’d known Garix well, and one look at Vaan with his jaw set and sword belted tight was enough. The man handed over the reins and simply nodded. With a quick tug on the reins, Vaan led the Quickstride out of the stables and out of the gates where Remy was already waiting on his own ringhorn, that looked sleeker but larger than his.

  The gate’s iron bars clanged shut behind them, severing the last tether to Wragford. Quickstride’s hooves clattered over the cobblestones as Vaan adjusted his grip on the reins, the ringhorn’s armored brow plate glinting under the moon. He had ridden one a year ago when Garix’s friend Quentin let them train and race along the riverbanks, the wind whipping through their hair as the animals’ powerful legs ate up the ground. That memory of sunlit joy made the present darkness feel heavier.

  Remy rode slightly ahead, his green cloak rippling in the night breeze. The fabric parted briefly, revealing the silver-and-blue Adventure Guild badge stitched near the shoulder. It was a mark of legitimacy in a land where most travelers were assumed to be bandits. Beneath the cloak, worn leather armor creaked softly, its straps frayed from use but still sturdy for an adventurer.

  Vaan counted their progress by landmarks Quentin had shown him for a while… the lightning-struck oak where they'd rested at midday, the bend in the road where the river could first be heard. They'd ridden for nearly an hour when Vaan noticed a shift in direction. This route! It didn’t look familiar. The rocky outcroppings, the sparse, skeletal trees, the harsh wind cutting through the air… everything felt off. He’d been on this road before, and it wasn’t long before he recognized where they were heading: the wastelands.

  "Remy, where-” Vaan started, but before he could ask, Remy raised a gloved hand.

  “Hold.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the air.

  Vaan reined in Quickstride. The ringhorn stamped, its horn lowering toward the skeletal brush lining the road. Something had unsettled it.

  Remy’s cloak swirled as he turned his mount sharply, leading them deeper off the main path. Vaan felt a knot tighten in his stomach, but before he could press further, the sharp whistle of a dagger slicing through the air cut through the night. It thudded into a dead tree with a hollow sound, its tip embedded deep into the bark. The faint sound of hooves crunching against the underbrush reached Vaan’s ears just before shadows detached from the rocks. There were three figures moving with lethal intent.

  At their lead stood a woman in fitted mercenary leathers, her twin daggers glinting in the moonlight like fangs. Her posture was that of a panther spotting its prey. The ringhorn she rode was behind her, its armored form a silent reminder of how close their pursuers had come, tracking them all along. The other two had already dismounted from their shared ringhorn too. Was that from the Watch’s stable? Ironback?!

  “Remy,” she called, voice syrup-smooth. “Didn’t peg you for a chaperone.”

  Remy’s hand froze halfway to his hip, poised to draw. “Joy?” The name escaped his lips, a mix of curse and question. “Since when do you take contracts on fresh initiates?!”

  The woman shrugged; her expression unreadable. “Goblin bounties don’t pay what they used to.” She nodded toward Vaan’s sword. “Especially not when nobles offer weightier purses.”

  Remy actually laughed, the sound harsh in the tense air. “Gods below. That noble talked you into playing assassin? What has the mercenary guild sunk to!”

  For the first time, something flickered behind Joy’s eyes… irritation, maybe shame. “Times change.” Behind her, two armored figures stepped forward, their movements synchronized. “The boy and the sword,” she said, voice flat. “That’s what we were paid for.”

  Joy ??? - ???, (Lvl ??)

  Vaan’s sword slid free with a soft hiss, its duskiron edge drinking in the moonlight. The weapon hummed against his palm, recognizing the threat before he did.

  Moonlight turned the road to quicksilver as the woman stepped forward. Vaan's fingers twitched toward his sword. There was something wrong in how she moved, her daggers catching light at angles that made his eyes water.

  Then Remy's hand went to his belt.

  Vaan had never noticed the coiled leather there before. It unfurled with a sound like cracking bone, and suddenly [Inspect] burned in his vision:

  Remy Westwind- Whipmaster (Lvl ??)

  A slab of muscle in reinforced leather, Bruiser (Lvl 9), charged at him, his fist already swinging.

  The shock nearly made him miss the Bruiser (Lvl 9), a slab of muscle in reinforced leather, charging at him with his fist swinging. Behind him came a lithe figure with twin rapiers, Duelist (Lvl 10), blades crossing in a lethal X aimed at Vaan's throat.

  Vaan barely dodged, his instincts screaming as steel whispered past his ear. He caught flashes of the real battle behind them…

  – Joy moved with a ghost’s grace, her form blurring between whip strikes like mist–

  – Remy's leather lash wrapping around a tree branch as he swung to avoid her daggers–

  – A spray of blood, Remy's or Joy's, he couldn't tell, arcing through moonlight–

  "To us, boy! Bleed us some levels" the Duelist sneered, his blades becoming a silver storm. Vaan backpedaled, parrying frantically until his back hit stone.

  Then Joy shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos: "Kill the boy fools. Take the sword."

  The Bruiser's fist cratered the rock where Vaan's head had been. Chips of stone stung his cheeks as he rolled away, catching another glimpse of the Whipmasters' duel:

  A whip crack echoed from the road battle… Vaan caught a glimpse of Remy suspended midair by his own lash, Joy's dagger carving a red line across his ribs. Then the Duelist attacked.

  Vaan charged with [Unwavering Blade], his sword moving with surgical certainty. First stack! his blade nicked the Duelist's forearm, blue soulflame licking at the wound. The man hissed but didn't slow.

  The Bruiser's fist came next. Vaan ducked, rolling behind a boulder as the punch shattered the stone. Chips peppered his back. Second stack! his riposte scored the Bruiser's thigh, more blue flames flowering across muscle.

  Then the ground trembled.

  From the treeline came a blur of hooves and steel—

  Priscilla Veldrane – Stealth Blade (Lvl 4)

  Mount: Sturdyhorns

  Priscilla's spear bit into his shoulder before he could finish. The Bruiser (Lvl 9) roared, swinging wildly at her ringhorn, but the beast danced aside, its armored flank leaving a long scrape across his iron-bound fists.

  Vaan used the distraction. He lunged at the duelist [Orderly Judgment]—third stack! The soulflame detonation sent the Duelist (Lvl 10) staggering back, his fine leathers smoking where blue fire clung to the third wound. His blades wavered for the first time. "The fuck is this magic…?"

  Then, a shrill whistle from the road.

  The Bruiser's head snapped toward the sound. Joy stood silhouetted against the moonlight, one hand raised. No words, just that piercing signal.

  "Next time, whelp," the Bruiser spat, grabbing his dazed companion. They retreated in a clumsy, fighting withdrawal, nothing like Joy's vanishing act. The Duelist stumbled twice, his left arm hanging useless from Priscilla's spear wound, while the Bruiser took a throwing knife in the back from Remy's off-hand. But they kept moving, disappearing into the brush with the grim determination of men who knew what failure meant.

  Remy limped over, clutching his bleeding forearm. He looked at Priscilla, "Could’ve finished those two vermins, mercs don’t forget blood drawn.” Then his eyes caught the sword in Vaan’s hand, its soulflame embers slowly fading, leaving only the bare metal to catch the moonlight. “Fancy bit of magic you’ve got there, kid.”

  Priscilla’s eyes caught the sword for a brief moment, and a flicker of admiration shone in her gaze before she quickly looked away. She slid from her ringhorn, hands trembling as she wiped blood from her spear.

  [Orderly Judgement has leveled up! Lv.1 → Lv.2]