The expedition was, so far, a journey of highs and lows. On certain days, Shura beasts would assault the Caravan left and right, leaving Ereth and Abraxas exhausted from the endless series of battles. On other days, one could almost consider the Caravan a luxury vacation with little to no threats emerging.

  Today was one such day, a day in which time had slowed to a crawl from the malaise of boredom.

  “Yo, boy!” shouted Freid, one of the two brothers leading the Trans-Continental Caravan. The man wore a large white cloak and a head wrap that guarded his olive skin from the sun’s piercing rays. He had a large potbelly and a bulbous nose, his mien flushed with the whimsy and drunken joy. Despite the intense heat and the strenuous heat of the environment, he maintained a cheerful disposition.

  “Come now! Come drink! Gotta feel pretty blue standing guard all by your lonesome, ye?”

  “Quite, but it is my duty to protect the people of this Caravan, even if I have to endure this shitty heat.” He whispered the last part to himself to maintain his air of professionalism while venting his frustration, but it didn’t seem to get past the drunken Freid.

  “Aye! It’ll only be a few minutes, ye? Come along and have a drink with a friend.”

  “...” After a brief period of reflection, he replied, “Very well. I will join you for a drink, but only for a moment.”

  The young man got down from the camel-driven cart and entered Freid’s living quarters. The interior immediately struck him as odd. Unlike Adra, who indulged in great hedonism and opulence, Freid’s cart was humble, or rather, it was almost destitute in design. Tattered books and documents lined the edges of the interior with a singular carpet at the center of the room, its pattern simple and yet containing a certain beauty.

  In Freid’s hand was a bottle of wine. Though Ereth had next to no knowledge on alcohol, the bottle’s design and complex brand seemed to imply a rather high-quality spirit.

  “Here ya go boy. Try some yaself!”

  With a giddy chuckle, he poured the boy a glass. The wine wasn’t quite clear, but it certainly didn’t have the dull and murky texture of cheat liquor. Its scent contained a hint of sweetness akin to grape juice.

  The first sip carried a strong bite, a sour bite, a most unpleasant bite. For a moment Ereth considered spitting out the drink in dramatic fashion, yet he knew that such discourteous behavior was unbefitting of a hero. He swallows the first sip before going for another, his mien contorted into an array of discomfort and disgust.

  “Hah! First time, eh?”

  “Yes…it is…quite…unique.”

  “Come boy, it’s alright if you don’t like it! No bad manners in that! Nobody likes it on their first try, so you oughta sip away until the bitter tang becomes sweet!”

  Despite Ereth’s distaste, he took Freid’s advice and drank accordingly. Two shots, four shots, seven shots — before they knew it, the entire bottle had been emptied, with nothing but a pair of happy drunks to show for it.

  “Heheheh…hehehe!” Ereth found himself in a strange situation. Nothing about his surroundings seemed particularly funny, yet he had an overwhelming inclination to laugh at all and everything, as though he were a clown who saw the world through jests, quips, and puns.

  He laughed and laughed away with Freid at his side, discussing a host of aimless things. Conversation needed neither meaning nor utility. They were merely fools indulging in their own whims and fantasies.

  “Can’t believe ya beat the queen of them damn Ne’fari. Unbelievable! Didn’t think anyone could take down that damn monster.”

  “Ehh~ She wasn’t allat tough!” Ereth said in a drunken slur. “Few swings did it well, cutting in clean, too bad I didn’t get the kill.”

  “Aye, that’s just how it is lad. Adventurin’ ain’t always a fair business.”

  “Yeah…definitely ain’t fair…”

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  A long, pregnant silence lingered in the air as their bacchanalian party came to a sudden halt. Freid carried an almost inquisitive expression.

  “Ya know, boy…” he said carefully. “I wanted to become an adventurer when I was younger. Read magazines as a kid — thought it was the coolest job in the world.”

  “Ohhh!” Ereth’s face lit up with the air of a child. “An adventurer! Quite the ambition, had you!”

  “Aye, was mighty confident too, that was, until I came face to face with a Ne’fari.”

  “...”

  “It was a mighty one, not a queen, but a strong fiend at that. Invaded a village, and I just so happened to be there. Tried my best to protect them, I really did, but I couldn’t do much in the face of a Shura. I’m just a human, ya know?”

  Freid lowered his white cloak at the collar, revealing a hideous scar that stretched from the underside of his jaw to the bottom of his chest and shoulder.

  “An adventurer eventually came along and saved the day, but it was already too late. I was mauled half to death and countless villagers were dead. Saw a little girl impaled with a claw, then cleaved in two, all rough-like. Her eyes were dead like a fish. Somethin’ about that changed me. Can’t bring myself to touch a blade anymore.”

  “...”

  Ereth desperately wished to express his condolences, to cry, to mourn, to hang his head in shame as a hero should, and yet, he could not help but remain expressionless and bare. It was as though he were a husk, operating on the notions of typical human behavior without any true understanding of the human heart.

  “I had a lot of resentment when I was younger. I hated the Shura who took away my dream and my people, but I also hated myself for being too weak, but eventually it all just blurs and fades away. Can’t help but drink away my days with a gangly smile. It’s all just gone. That’s why I want to thank you.”

  “Thank me…? For what?”

  “For killing that Ne’fari.”

  “...”

  “The Ne’fari you killed prolly had nothing to do with that kid, yeah, that’s definitely right. It was nothin’, nothin’ at all, but I can’t help but smile at the thought that that freak has been put down. It’s like the shame I’ve carried just…wanders off. Even if I couldn’t do anything that day, I’m sure if it’s you, boy, you can protect them peoples.”

  Once more, the room was surrounded by a familiar silence. Ereth contemplated an appropriate response, the most optimal for appeasing the man’s feelings, yet another perspective had risen from the boy’s tongue.

  “On that day, the day I killed the Ne’fari Queen, she spoke to me. She too had dreams, a self, a future to aspire towards, yet I felt nothing when I cut her down. I can’t even remember her face, really. It didn’t mean anything at all. So I’ve been wondering lately — am I deformed? Why did her tears not move me? What is this feeling, or rather, the lack thereof? If I were to cut down a human being, splitting him asunder, rending him in two, would I be able to cry tears of remorse?”

  “Can’t answer that one, lad. I don’t feel a lick of remorse for the thing, but who am I but a washed up adventurer, eh?” Freid chuckled.

  “I’m sorry I have to deny your feelings like this, Freid, but it’s the honest truth. I cannot understand them, their tears or their worries, so it would be inappropriate of me to accept the praise only a hero deserves.”

  “Ya don’t consider yaself a hero, boy? Aintcha reachin’ for the top? The Immortal Sword Saint?”

  “...I”

  A curse, a plague, or perhaps a malicious vice, seemed to bind his throat, preventing the feelings welling up from within his bowels from spilling out. It was dry and coarse like sandpaper. Every gulp a painful cut. He could not do it, or rather, he could not bring himself to do it.

  I am not a hero.