Fjord had half a mind to curse the young lord Lacheart. Sadly, the man was his only legal source of income at the moment, and Fjord found that he liked having a legal source of income. Even if it was an errand runner. With the young lord, the role paid well.

  “If I don’t get killed first,” Fjord muttered, scratching his head.

  He was seated on a stool at the counter of a very busy tavern. The air was rend with the sweet smell of alcohol and the sour taste of vomit not yet thrown up. The entire room was illuminated by lights, yellow and bright, that it was as if somehow had placed a mini sun amongst them.

  Then there was the heat, Fjord could write an entire parchment on the heat. It was everywhere, crawling down his neck in the form of sweat as his body tried and failed to cool him down. How the patrons were not complaining was beyond him.

  To his back, the patrons sat at desks and tables, almost eight people at each table, filling the entire space of the tavern. They varied vastly in dress codes as well as looks. When he walked in, he had spotted at least eight people from south of the kingdom. Naina to be precise. Pale and built like six-foot-tall bricks, their accents were as unmistakable as their looks.

  They were popular for their mercenary work and their inability to keep their mouths shut. It was known that they always wanted to be the loudest in the room, and they did not disappoint. Right now, there was a Naina woman with hair the color of blood that was bellowing her tale of how she’d wrestled some serpentine monster as large as a house with her bare hands.

  Was it true? Fjord had no idea. The Nainites were known for being loud. As for whether they were truthful or not, no clear rumors or reputations existed. Fjord guessed they were as truthful as the next man. So, it was better to take the woman’s story with a touch of doubt. Not that he was listening to her story.

  Groaning, he returned his attention to the parchment in front of him. Beside the parchment was a cup of alcohol. His frown returned in full force and a tremor ran up the hand that held his pen. He had no idea how to pen down what he had seen in the forest today or how.

  “Barkeep!” someone bellowed like an abusive employee. “A barrel of your finest, ale.”

  Fjord couldn’t help but raise his head at the request.

  A barrel? He wanted to ask in disgust but held his tongue. For all he knew, the people in this tavern could kill him without batting an eye. The [Gambler] class was not known for its combat prowess.

  Ignoring the call for a barrel of alcohol, Fjord returned his attention to the parchment in front of him. The barkeep. A slender and oddly tall man, reached behind him and arranged a thing or two. A moment later he placed a large jug on the counter and made a vague gesture at someone with his hand.

  The barkeep’s name was Feltin, from what Fjord knew, but everyone called him barkeep. Even out in the town of Elstrire, he was called barkeep. Tall and lanky, he looked somewhere between the age of forty-five and fifty. He had long and thin fingers that made you want to put something down a tight space and ask to reach in for you just to see if he would make it.

  With hollow eyes that often seemed lifeless when he was in the bar, eye contact with the barkeep was often disturbing.

  “Why do you even work here, boy?” the barkeep asked, moving over to stand a little too close to Fjord. “How do you handle the noise?”

  Fjord shrugged as if it didn’t bother him, but it actually did. The noise made it hard for him to think and articulate his written opinion properly. The truth was simple, though. He liked coming here to work because taverns like these were a treasure trove of information.

  Just yesterday he’d learned that the town over, unnamed as it was, had an issue of missing people and the king had dispatched a handful of unknown adventurers accompanied by a knight to sort it.

  A little listening informed him that the issue of missing people wasn’t new and everyone had learned to stay away from the town. However, just recently, a relative of a noble had gone missing too.

  Everyone said it was why the king had personally intervened even though people had petitioned to the adventure society multiple times to look into it.

  A lot of people said monsters were responsible, but Fjord thought differently. He’d been a poacher long enough to know his monsters. Monsters did not kidnap or abduct people. They worked quite differently. The few that did weren’t so meticulous that so many people would go missing and there would be no signs of a struggle or some blood or something.

  Monsters did not hide their tracks that meticulously. If anyone asked him, he would say that they should look to the people of the small town.

  Then again, that was just his bias. Ever since gaining his class and becoming a poacher, he’d come to view people as questionable and untrustworthy.

  “I very much like the life,” Fjord muttered after a while. The barkeep hadn’t moved away from him.

  “Life?” the man’s small voice sounded amused. “What life? This is what a bar sounds when it’s full of people just waiting to die.”

  His words prompted Fjord to look to his left. At the end of the bar, just against the wall, a waifish woman sipped at a cup of liquid. Fjord had no idea what the contents were. She wore the customary cloak most people with sneaky classes tended to wear. She could as easily have the [Assassin] class as she could the [Thief] class.

  Whatever her class was, Fjord had a feeling that business was bad. She looked like a strong enough breeze could blow her away, or a child could beat her in a fight.

  Truthfully, if he had not seen her face when he’d walked in, he would have thought she was a child.

  “So what has you so bothered tonight?” the barkeep asked.

  Fjord took his attention from the waifish woman to look at him. “I’m not bothered,” he said, his first instinct to lie coming to the forefront.

  The barkeep gave him a smile that somehow looked feral yet friendly and tapped the parchment on the counter. “You’ve been here for almost an hour, and you haven’t written a single word. Normally, it should be half full by now.”

  The empty parchment looked up at Fjord, mocking him. Without intending it, the scene he’d witnessed in the very early hours of the morning before the sun was up came to mind. The grotesque tree. The corpse hanging halfway out of it, the rest of the body merged into the tree as if they were somehow trying to become one.

  The tears in the girl’s unseeing eyes.

  Fjord’s stomach threatened to upend his lunch. It was all he could do to keep it down. Clenching his jaw in determination, he banished the thought.

  The barkeep shook his head solemnly. “I would ask what you write every day, but I believe today is not the day for that.”

  “Thanks.” Fjord did not know when the words left his mouth. He wasn’t feeling in the mood to explain anything to anyone.

  “It’s no problem.” The barkeep flipped a small cloth, hanging it over his thin shoulder. “I am a barkeep. Part of my occupational hazard is recognizing when someone has experienced something traumatic. My advice, call it a night. You can go back to writing tomorrow.”

  I’m not traumatized, Fjord told himself.

  He’d seen far worse as a poacher. He’d seen men killed in the most horrible way. He’d seen monsters tear a man limb from limb. He’d seen a noble pluck a living man’s eye out simply because he could. He’d seen…

  His lips quivered slightly as a realization dawned on him. In his lifetime as a poacher, he’d seen a lot of terrible things happen, but not to people. He’d seen a lot of terrible things happen to men.

  This was the first time he was seeing something terrible happen to a woman. Worse, she had looked young, more like a girl than a woman. She was definitely his age. Two years older at best.

  Something flopped down on the counter in front of him. It was a tissue. Fjord looked from it to the barkeep who had dropped it. The man motioned silently at his eyes before moving on to get another pitcher of wine from somewhere.

  Fjord picked the tissue up. He sniffled, realizing he was crying. Quietly, with a slight touch of embarrassment, he wiped his tears.

  This task Lord Lacheart had set him on paid a lot, but it seemed like it was coming at a price. Just the other day he’d been forced to run from a goblin that had the power to teleport.

  His mind was still feeling fried about the idea. How did a goblin teleport? Teleportation was high level magic. Monsters did not have magic. Not goblins at least.

  What do you have me doing, Lord Lacheart?

  Now that he thought about it, there were rumors of the king finally intervening because of a lord’s relative. Was the lord in question Lord Lacheart or at least his family?

  It would make sense that he had sent him to look into matters. Fjord’s eyes widened in realization. He wasn’t just here to take random records of things that were happening. He was here to investigate.

  Fjord ran a hand through his hair. He’d been going about this the wrong way. Lord Lacheart had not told him explicitly, but he was supposed to show some initiative. Figure things out.

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  He drank from his cup, downing the alcohol in one gulp as an idea came to him. It wasn’t the kind of idea you executed sober. That was for sure.

  Drawing the barkeep’s attention with a tap of his knuckle against the table, he gestured at the cup. It implied his request for another.

  At the other end of the counter, the barkeep poured another drink for the waifish woman before returning to him.

  Standing before him, the barkeep gave him an odd look. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Fjord almost laughed. The man was asking if he was sure he wanted to keep spending money.

  His thoughts must have shown through his expression because the man sighed and said, “You have the look of a person about to do something you aren’t supposed to do.”

  “More like something I have to do.” Fjord rubbed an absent finger along the lip of his empty cup. “As a man, in life you have to take some risks, push beyond your limits.”

  The barkeep gave him a kind smile. “If you have to be inebriated to do it, you probably shouldn’t be doing it or aren’t qualified to do it.”

  Fjord had no idea what the word inebriated meant, but judging from the context it probably meant being drunk.

  He pushed the cup a little in the man’s direction. “Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  The barkeep looked at him for a while. Eventually, he nodded, his smile vanishing to something sad but in agreement. “Well said.”

  He reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle, and refilled Fjord’s cup. Then he stepped away, moving on to another customer at the counter.

  Fjord wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, cleaning off any tears left. He still couldn’t believe he had cried because of a dead girl. He’d thought he was harder than that, capable of looking at the evil in the world with a cold heart.

  He downed his refilled cup. The liquid went down, trailing a path of fire to his stomach. It was just the kick he needed. Rolling up his parchment, he took a deep breath and pulled up his interface.

  He zeroed in on his class skills. Only two stared back at him.

  [Gambler’s Heart]

  You have the heart of a gambler, a risk taker. Your level of adrenaline increases upon activation.

  [Effect: 10% increase to all stats and senses for survival]

  [Duration: 00:03:00]

  …

  [Unsure Odds]

  The world is one big betting table. There is always a chance that something will or will not happen. Make a bet and receive your reward.

  [Effect: the lower the chances of success, the higher the reward for success]

  [Duration: until outcome is determined]

  Fjord hated his skills. Even their descriptions sounded like a gamble. But he’d used them enough to know how they worked. [Unsure odds] was definitely a gambling skill. It worked in a simple way. Whenever he found himself in a situation, he made a bet on the outcome of the situation. Whenever he did, he got a prompt of how unlikely it was to happen. The more unlikely it was, the higher the reward.

  Fjord had once used the skill with the criteria being that he would be able to land a blow on the leader of his former poaching crew. The reward on success had been a ten-point increase in his strength stat for three hours. Obviously, he had not landed the blow. Alternatively, if he bet on something as simple and risk free as being able to finish another drink in one gulp, he could find himself with a reward of nothing.

  The higher the possibility, the lower the reward. If he used to the skill to gamble that he would wake up tomorrow, he’d get the most miniscule reward for the most miniscule period of time.

  [Gambler’s Heart] was a bit different. It claimed that he got an increase in survivability stats but all he ever felt increase was his perception. He saw better and heard better. But it came with the heavy thumping of his heart that came whenever he was afraid, adrenaline willing him to flee, to survive.

  Fjord got up from his stool.

  “Are you sure?” the barkeep was suddenly on his side of the counter once more, staring at him with gentle eyes, fatherly eyes. “Having an interface does not mean that you suddenly have to be a man.”

  “It doesn’t,” Fjord agreed. The memory of the girl popped up inside his head. Her dark hair and highlights that were a bright green even in the darkness. He sighed. “Sometimes we don’t get to choose.”

  As much as he hated his skills, there were some benefits to them. Sometimes, they helped him know things. For example, as he walked out the tavern doors, leaving the chaotic noise behind, and into the evening breeze, he activated one of his class skills.

  [You have used Class skill Unsure Odds]

  She’s alive, he thought, feeling like a man betting against the world.

  His interface lit up as he crossed the street and made his way down the road that would lead him to the forest the fastest.

  [Survival of girl in green highlights]

  [Odds calculated]

  [Alive 10.28 vs Dead 1.42]

  Fjord’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know. However, the odds were better than zero. Even if there was a very miniscule chance, there was a chance. And if there was a chance, then he had to know.

  Alive, he thought.

  [You have chosen Alive with odds of 10.28]

  Terrible odds.

  But odds, nonetheless. At least, regardless of the odds, he’ll gain something.

  He could live with that.

  Barely past three buildings, his interface popped up again.

  [Survival of girl in green highlights]

  [Recalculating odds]

  [Alive 11.99 vs Dead 0.29 vs Body not found 2.19]

  Fjord stopped in his tracks, hands trembling.

  This was a problem. Now there was a chance of losing. He’d learnt long ago that anytime the odds fell below one, he received a consequence upon its conclusion. Once upon a time, he’d ended up with odds that were less than zero and had lost stat points for a short period of time.

  Is this really worth it? He asked himself. If he ended up with negative stats and found himself in a dilemma, that would be really bad for him.

  But she could be alive.

  The odds of that were less than zero, but they were not zero. Gritting his teeth, Fjord flexed his hands, freeing his stiffened muscles. The girl could be alive. And if she could be alive, then he had to try.

  He owed it to humanity.

  …

  Standing here hammering against the door for over a minute was slowly beginning to take its toll on Drax’s patience. Patience he had honed over years of having to deal with annoying siblings.

  “Maybe he’s not around,” Letto offered.

  Drax shook his head. “He’s got to be around. I refuse to believe that Sam, Anita, Ariadne and Ted are missing. That only makes sense if they decided to abandon us.”

  To his side Sir Thompfer, the knight that had come with them, coughed lightly. “Is it possible that they have?”

  “No,” Letto answered before Drax could. “Ted and Ariadne, yes. But not with Sam and or Anita.” He waved the idea aside. “They all don’t get along like that.”

  Sir Thompfer didn’t seem convinced but said nothing.

  They currently stood in the hallway of a small inn called the ‘Bone marrow.’ It was a strange name, but if Drax was being honest with himself, so was ‘Fairy tail,’ and that was the name of a bar in the capital city.

  From the walls, glowing orbs illuminated the hallway in blue lights that reminded him of LED lights. There was a door down the hallway closer to the stairs, but that was not the door they wanted.

  Drax banged against the door once more, a little too loudly. At this point, he was worried he would wake the occupant of the room closer to the door.

  Behind him Sir Thompfer was silent. He was a tall man with an athletic build. His hair was cut short, brown as brown could be. For some reason, it always looked as if he had come out bed without giving it any attention. With his squared jaw, he would’ve made a for a good face model.

  He was currently dressed in casual clothes with nothing but his spear held casually in his hand.

  “Perhaps we should all go to bed and try again in the morning,” he offered, baritone as calm as it always was.

  For a man who could not find the people he had been put in charge of, he was a little too unbothered for Drax’s liking.

  Drax banged on the door once more, reminding himself that his anger was not in the fact that he was being made to wait but in the accumulated annoyance of how Jaderd, the adventurer he’d spoken to earlier in the day, had treated him.

  He raised his fist to knock again when the sound of a drawn bolt came from behind the door. There was another short length of delay after that. The doorknob glowed an almost imperceptible blue-black before it finally turned.

  Door held slightly ajar, Ted’s face came into view.

  “You knock like you own the place,” he said, taking in all three of them.

  He’s not the reason you’re angry, Drax reminded himself as he put on a simple smile. “Can we come in?”

  “Smiling like that?” Ted snorted. “Not a chance in hell.”

  Drax’s brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with my smile?”

  “It makes me feel as if you’re running for student council president and you’re trying to get my vote. And you’re good at it. More reason to distrust it.”

  Drax turned to Letto with a question on his lips only for Letto to offer him an apologetic shrug.

  “Stop smiling.” It was all Letto said.

  With a sigh, Drax dropped the smile. “Can we come in, now?”

  Ted did not look ready to let them in. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Strategy, Lord Lacheart,” Sir Thompfer said. “A few of your companions are missing and we intend to look for them in the forest.”

  “Wouldn’t it be smarter to look for them during the day?”

  “We can’t wait till tomorrow,” Drax argued. “Something terrible could’ve happened to them by then.”

  Ted’s expression turned thoughtful. After a while, he said, “Fair point.”

  But he didn’t open the door.

  “Lord Lacheart?” Sir Thompfer said.

  Ted kept the door the way it was a moment later before letting out a defeated sigh. “How do you guys feel about spiders and snakes?”

  Drax and Letto shared a look.

  “Not a fan of snakes,” Letto said. “I’m guessing no one is. But I don’t mind spiders.”

  Ted nodded as if it made perfect sense, then opened the door completely for them to enter.

  “Careful now,” he said as they walked into the room. “I’m currently running a durability experiment so don’t interrupt it.”

  Drax didn’t get the chance to take in the entire room when Sir Thompfer took a combat stance, spear at the ready. The knight was suddenly on full alert, his weapon pointed at the opposite end of the room.

  Ted groaned as if he was in mild pain before scowling. “What did I say about interruptions?”

  Drax was about to apologize on the knight’s behalf when Letto grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt. His friend was not looking at him. He was looking in the direction Sir Thompfer’s spear was aimed.

  Standing in the corner, if it could really be called standing, was an abominable amalgamation of a freaking basilisk as wide as four men and tall enough that it had to bend its head not to break the roof. Drax’s gaze settled on the eight spider legs that protruded from its sides to keep it ‘standing’ and realized why Ted had asked how they felt about spiders and snakes.

  Their team [Summoner] had just summoned a half basilisk half spider abomination. And it was currently hissing at them.

  “What the hell, Ted!?”

  …

  Their jepats came to a slow stop. In the distance was a small town with a small sign that said nothing. Even if it had said anything, from how far away they were, reading it would’ve been difficult. It was nighttime, dark as dark could be, and there was not a flicker of light in sight.

  “Just so you know,” Valdan said from beside Aiden. “I’m still angry that you made me change my clothes.”

  Aiden kept his eyes on the town. “Better safe than sorry,” he said absently.

  “Why does it look so creepy?” Elaswit asked.

  Because it is. Aiden left the words unsaid.

  He’d scarcely wondered what it would feel like to come back to this place. Now that he was here, he would be lying if he didn’t say that he felt some sense of nostalgia. It was in an odd way, like looking back on a terrible part of your life that you had survived and being able to smile about it.

  Once upon a time, while they had been trained in their earlier days on Nastild, they had all thought of knights as powerful beings that could not be defeated. Being in their early twenties and being taught by knights with levels as high as fifty, even higher, it wasn’t very surprising.

  But this place had changed their ideas of knights. Whatever grand epic fantasies they had dreamed of when they’d arrived had been washed away with their experiences. This town had reminded them that there were also low fantasies and horrors lurked in every world.

  Be it Earth or Nastild.

  “Shall we?” Valdan asked.

  Aiden nodded, nudging his jepat in the side and swaying as the creature walked forward. “We shall.”

  Together they approached the unnamed town, the town of little to no popularity. Together, they marched their way into the town of cannibals.

  The first place they had seen a knight sworn to guide them eaten alive.