The road from Mori to Ostrom took nearly a week.
I sat deep inside a covered wagon, leaning against bales of wool. My traveling companion and temporary employer was a merchant named Gray—a heavy, perpetually sweating man. He needed what you might call a "bodyguard" to keep him safe.
"You could at least pull back your hood, kid," Gray muttered, egging on his tired mules.
Instead of answering, I just stared out at the rain-blurred landscape. The fields lay abandoned, fences sagging. People bartered over sacks of turnips, cursed the weather, and roared with laughter in roadside taverns. And what is there to talk about with this Gray? I thought.
By the evening of the seventh day, the walls of Ostrom loomed ahead. High walls of gray granite, towers with tiled roofs, guards clad in actual chainmail rather than tattered tunics. Above the gates blazoned the coat of arms of the local baron: crossed pikes on a blue field. The wagon rattled over the cobblestones. The sound of the wheels shifted—the soft squelch of mud replaced by a harsh, rhythmic clatter.
"Well, here we are," Gray exhaled with relief, pulling the mules to a stop by the market stalls. "You're a quiet one, kid, I'll give you that, but you keep your word. Not a single bandit even showed his face."
He rummaged in his pouch and tossed me two silver coins.
"Take care. And a word of advice for the future: buy yourself a decent cloak. That one reeks of shit."
I caught the coins. Enough for a modest dinner and a cot in some dive. Not bad at all. I hopped down from the wagon and stepped into the crowd. Ostrom was bursting with life. Barkers shouted all around, the air thick with the smell of fried onions, fresh manure, and wet dust. Someone jostled my shoulder, mumbled an apology, and hurried past. I stood in the middle of the street like a stone in a raging torrent.
Freedom turned out to be an unexpectedly heavy burden.
The Lame Goose Inn
First things first, I tracked down an inn. The sign for "The Lame Goose" didn't promise much, but the prices fit. The innkeeper, a one-eyed old man with shaking hands, didn't even look up at me as I lined up the coppers on the counter.
"Attic room. Don't waste the candles, don't crush the bedbugs—they're property of the establishment. Dinner's in an hour."
I headed up the creaking stairs. The room was tiny: a cot, a wobbly chair, and a narrow window covered with an ox bladder. But it was dry. And it had walls. I sat on the bed and immediately did what I'd been dreaming of for the last seven days. I unbuckled the straps. My right shoulder and the part of my chest where the harness fastened were a solid mess of bruises, chafing, and old calluses. My skin burned like fire. I gently felt around the stump, checking for any inflammation.
[TECHNICAL ANALYSIS OF PROSTHESIS HARNESS]
Design efficiency: Low.
Weight distribution: Uneven (critical pressure points on soft tissues).
Solution: Deep modification required.
I lit a candle stub I'd found on the windowsill. The tools were in my bag. Slowly, I pulled out a tub of cheap lard—the only lubricant I could afford. I greased the joints of the elbow mechanism so they'd stop creaking with every step.
I ate dinner downstairs in the common room. When an old maidservant slapped a bowl of thick pea soup down in front of me, I picked up a spoon for the first time in this world. A plain, wooden spoon. I ladled up the hot, savory brew and brought it to my mouth. The taste was simple—salt, onions, and meat. I ate slowly, savoring every spoonful, trying not to cough when the soup scalded my throat. Around me, people boomed with noise: local drunks argued over the price of ale, a traveling bard strummed falsely on a lute.
By morning, my savings were already dwindling. Paying for the room and food had eaten up a third of my capital. I stepped out onto the streets of Ostrom just as the sun was starting to warm the cobblestones. I didn't know how to trade. I didn't know how to sing. I didn't know how to pretend I was having a good time. But I knew how to calculate, build, and kill.
The Mercenary Guild was housed in a massive stone building at the edge of the market square. Inside, it smelled of sweat, cheap ale, and leather. Long tables lined the walls, occupied by groups of men in mismatched armor. Some were polishing swords, others counting coin, a few sleeping right on the tabletops. I walked past them, careful not to clip anyone with my shoulder. My gaze was fixed straight ahead—on the front desk. Behind the high counter sat a weary clerk with greasy hair. He shuffled through a stack of parchments, muttering under his breath.
"Name?" he asked without looking up.
"Iron," I replied.
"Surname?"
"Everfall."
The clerk sighed, dipping his quill into an inkwell.
"Class?"
I hesitated for a second.
"Engineer," slipped out of habit.
The clerk raised his head and looked at me like I was an idiot.
"Engineer?"
"Heavy infantry. Close combat."
The clerk snorted, scanning me from head to toe.
"Right then, 'infantryman,'" he jotted something down in his ledger. "Rank: Copper."
He slid a token across the counter—a small disc made of cheap copper with the number 1047 stamped on it.
The Notice Board
I stepped away from the counter and headed toward the notice board. It was plastered with papers in various states of age. The gold and silver contracts hung high up—demanding mages, paladins, or full parties.
"Kill a wyvern in the northern mountains: 500 gold."
"Find the count’s missing daughter: 1000 gold."
My tier was lower. I scanned the notices marked with a "Copper" tag.
"Gather medicinal herbs in the swamp (beware of leeches)." No, I wasn't a botanist.
"Find a runaway pig." Ridiculous.
"Clear out Master Bruce’s old winery. Complaints of noise and missing barrels. Piecework pay."
I paused. A winery. An enclosed space. Darkness. Most likely some low-level vermin. Perfect for me. I tore the sheet down.
"Hey, rookie!" someone called out from a neighboring table. "Decided to go rat-hunting? Watch out they don't chew your other arm off!"
Laughter roared across the table.
"I take it you're the local jester, right?" I said, slowly turning my head.
The laughter at the table died instantly. The guy averted his eyes and buried his face in his mug. I turned and walked out into the street, tucking the contract sheet into my jacket.
"Vector set," I whispered under my breath.
Somewhere far from the noisy streets of Ostrom, out on a boundless plain overgrown with tall feather grass, silence reigned. At the peak of a gentle hill, a man lay looking up at the overcast sky. Beside him, another silhouette noiselessly settled down.
"At it again, Valerius?" a voice said, entirely hollow of emotion.
Valerius didn't budge, only narrowing his eyes slightly.
"How could I not be? Have you seen him? His skill... intellect... adaptation... they are magnificent."
The figure beside him gave a barely perceptible nod.
"It was well done of you to eliminate those two, but it is time you wrapped this up and focused on our mission. Sooner or later, you will cross paths with him anyway."
Valerius sighed heavily and reluctantly got to his feet, brushing dry grass from his clothes.
Yes, yes, you're right,” he replied, pausing briefly before adding, “Tell me instead, what about Valt?”
“Handled. His former self-will will not be repeated.”
Saying nothing, Valerius silently turned and stared out at the distant horizon.
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter