Chapter Seven: The First Encounter

No matter which country they found themselves in, it was both necessary and a matter of professional pride for any bard to sing that nation’s praises. This was an unwritten rule, part of the ethics of their craft, and though not codified, was almost universally observed. After all, people possessed a sense of belonging—hearing their homeland lauded by outsiders always brought them joy, and in their delight, they would tip more generously. Such was only natural.

So even in the poorest mountain hamlet, one must tell the villagers that elsewhere lived people even more destitute, who had never seen a loaf of bread, yet were happy and content. Aside from this, the bard was sometimes called upon to answer all manner of odd questions from the villagers.

“Who’s stronger, a Sword Saint or an Archmage?”

“That’s difficult to say. Each has their strengths,” Kevin replied. “Both Sword Saints and Archmages are of the Saint rank, but even within that rank, there are considerable differences. Some ninth-level mages, for instance, have been granted the title of Archmage for extraordinary contributions.”

“Oh…” The villagers clearly didn’t quite understand. “Just tell us who’s stronger.”

“I can’t give you a simple answer,” Kevin said honestly. “According to the continent’s history, Archmages have a slightly higher win rate when they’ve clashed with Sword Saints. But that doesn’t mean Archmages are necessarily stronger.”

“Oh, I see.” The villagers sat back down, a little bewildered.

“Why do Archmages, being so powerful, still have to obey the king’s orders?” another villager asked.

Kevin paused; this was a political question, touching on the tangled rights of the nobility, the influence of the Holy Church, the modern mastery of large-scale magic arrays, and so on. To be candid, Kevin himself didn’t fully understand why an Archmage would submit to the king, and it would be impossible to explain to a farmer.

“Look at it this way: your arms are thicker than the innkeeper’s, but you can’t just steal his ale. You still have to pay when you come here. The village chief is old and couldn’t best most of you in a fight, yet you all listen to him, don’t you?” Kevin offered this simple analogy, hoping it would suffice.

Fortunately, the villagers nodded, satisfied. Simple minds seldom pursued things too far. Still, Kevin, guided by a sense of responsibility, told the truth as much as possible, never pandering to their vanity by declaring “the Sword Saint is the greatest” or “the Archmage is the greatest,” followed by a litany of strengths meant to belittle the other.

“Hey! Is there really a village where all the women strip off their clothes when it’s hot?” asked a lewd fellow.

“Er…” Kevin glanced awkwardly at the young woman nearby. “I’ve traveled for ten years and never encountered such a place. I’ve read about it in books, though.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, the villager returned to his drink.

Kevin’s glance, however, revealed that the young woman was quietly reading a book, with only a glass of water beside her. She clearly didn’t care for ale, preferring plain water.

A lone girl traveling was rare enough; one in such a remote village, reading a book in a noisy tavern, was almost unheard of. Every move she made seemed laced with peculiarity, and Kevin found himself growing curious.

Approaching, he was surprised to see the book she was reading was none other than “Chronicles of the Assassins,” his own novel. The moment his eyes caught a line, he recognized it instantly.

Shock was swiftly replaced by delight. In all his years wandering, it was the first time he’d met a reader of his work. He had written several times to Baron Stadth to ask about the novel’s sales, but the reply was always “no one’s interested.” He’d nearly believed his writing had been swallowed up by the tide of mainstream literature. Who would have thought there’d be a reader here, in this remote place?

“Hello!” Kevin couldn’t help but strike up a conversation.

“Hello, bard,” the girl replied, looking up with a smile.

For a moment, Kevin found her smile extraordinarily sweet—his mood immediately lifted. He pointed at her book. “Is that ‘Chronicles of the Assassins’?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’ve read it as well. Not many people seem to,” Kevin said.

“Oh, but quite a few of my friends like it,” the girl answered.

“Really?” Kevin was surprised.

“See, there are lots of reviews.” She showed him the back pages.

Kevin was both excited and incredulous. To see his work noticed was deeply moving—ten years of risqué jokes had not been wasted! This meant he had talent; though there were few reviews, ten years had not been in vain. And yet Baron Stadth had deceived him—it was outrageous.

But Kevin’s sharp eyes caught one review in particular: “especially immersive.”

“There’s even a gold coin tip!” the girl said casually, handing him a coin.

Kevin accepted it with a grin, then suddenly froze. It felt as though she already knew he was the author. He’d never revealed his identity—though his name, Kevin Inquestine, was on his badge, the book was published under the pen name K. It shouldn’t be possible for an ordinary reader to make the connection.

And if she didn’t know, handing a gold coin to a stranger she’d just met would be… odd, to say the least.

“It seems the book does have its fans,” Kevin said, tucking the coin back into the book and returning it.

“Heh…” the girl seemed a little embarrassed, changing the subject. “What do you think of the book?”

“In the end, not many people read it,” Kevin replied. As the author, he didn’t like to judge his own work—personal feelings always crept in.

“It’s a good book—funny and clever—but…” She thumbed to a page in the middle. “Why did you make the head of the Assassins’ Guild eat… you know? That was a big mistake, I think.”

“Oh? Why?” Kevin asked.

“Well, the guildmaster is supposed to be a dignified figure. If he eats that, people will laugh at him; he’ll lose all authority.”

“I can’t agree,” Kevin replied. “Assassins are people who stop at nothing. Their behavior should be the opposite of knights, who are obsessed with their reputation. If there’s an easy method, they should use it without hesitation. As guildmaster, he must be exceptionally wise and talented, able to do what others cannot. If such a thing happened in reality, I think his followers would respect him more, not less.”

The girl fell silent for a moment. “You seem to know a lot about assassins.”

“Haha, it’s just a novel’s setting,” Kevin laughed. “I’m not even sure assassins exist in real life. Even if they do, I wouldn’t presume to guess what they’re like.”

“Fine,” the girl murmured, then threw out another question. “If he’s going to eat it, why use a spoon? Wouldn’t it be easier by hand?”

Kevin was momentarily lost. He hadn’t considered such details at the time. Now, a bit embarrassed, he could only reply, “A spoon is more… sanitary.”

The girl: “…”

Kevin: “…”

“By the way, I don’t know your name,” Kevin broke the silence.

“Ah!” She snapped out of her reverie. “Just call me Linda.”

“Traveling alone? It’s far from anywhere,” Kevin remarked.

“Yes,” she replied. “I wanted to see the world while I’m young.”

“Well done.” Kevin approved—he too had set out at fifteen, and this girl seemed about that age herself. He’d never had much strength, but he’d survived, so he didn’t ask if it was dangerous for a girl to travel alone.

“It’s all right,” Linda said with a smile. “Have you always been wandering, Mr. Kevin? How long will you stay here?”

“Perhaps a few more days,” Kevin replied. “Then I’ll return to the Stadth Library. There’s a bards’ gathering soon.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful! Being a bard must be great,” Linda said with some envy.

“It’s not an easy life—always on the road, never settled,” Kevin smiled. “What about you—what do you do?”

“I’m a kitchen maid,” Linda answered with a smile.

“Then you must work for a noble house,” Kevin said with respect. “Excuse me a moment, I need to wash my hands.”

Kevin excused himself politely and left; Linda remained, reading her book. But the drunkards in the tavern began to comment on her, some muttering quietly, hoping she wouldn’t hear—but she did. Annoyed, she closed the book and decided to leave.

Outside, night had fallen. In a small mountain village, once darkness descended, only the moon and stars lit the streets; there were no torches by the roads. Villagers out at night usually carried torches for light, but Linda clearly had no need. With confident steps, she made her way to the little church.

The new priest had tidied up the place. It still wasn’t clean, but at least he’d filled three baskets with rubbish—it looked better.

“Has he come back yet?” Linda found the priest.

Laulu shook his head. “No.”

“You really don’t need to be here,” Linda grumbled. “I can handle this myself.”

“The guildmaster insisted. I’m just supervising,” Laulu replied. “Are you truly going to do it?”

“Am I supposed to disobey the guildmaster’s orders?” Linda answered.

Laulu fell silent.

“I know. If this were a typical novel, I’d inexplicably fall in love with him, help him escape for the sake of romance, defy my father’s wrath, maybe even elope—a tale for the ages.” Linda’s eyes danced with excitement, then turned calm. “But in reality, I’ll just stab him and go back to stoking the kitchen fire. The end.”

Laulu: “…”

“Who would defy their father for a man they just met?” Linda sighed. “I can’t help it. Blame his fate. Still, he was funny. Eating with a spoon… for hygiene. Ha! Ha!”

Laulu: “…”

So they sat in the quiet church waiting. Soon, voices rose in the distance as the tavern closed and the patrons went home. But when all was quiet again and the drunks had gone, Kevin still had not appeared.

“What’s going on?” Laulu frowned. “Was he still in the tavern when you left?”

“He said he was going to wash his hands.” Linda was surprised. “Could he have fallen into the latrine?”

“I’ll have a look.” Laulu vanished as he spoke, reappearing a moment later. “I searched the whole village. He’s gone.”

They sat in silence, hardly daring to believe it, but had to admit: Kevin had run away.

“His mat and blanket are still here, but he probably won’t come back for them. Very cautious,” Laulu said, touching Kevin’s bed. As a bard, Kevin traveled light—just a few changes of clothes and his manuscripts.

“Did I give something away? Or was it you?” Linda wondered aloud, resting her chin on her hand.

Laulu glanced at her clean trousers, said nothing, and opened a drawer. Inside was a stack of drafts. Linda’s eyes lit up. “Hey, are these his manuscripts? Wow!”

“Yes, looks like the start of his next book,” Laulu said—he had already read them. “It’s about—”

“No spoilers!” Linda shouted, hugging the draft.

“Ahem, shall we pursue him?” Laulu brought the conversation back. “If we summon the hounds, we could track him.”

“Hmm,” Linda stroked the pages. “He managed to escape early. It seems we need to reassess this opponent. And that starts with gathering more intelligence.”

Laulu smiled. “Good luck. I’ll sleep in the other room.”

“Go, go!” Linda waved him away as if shooing a duck. She immediately settled on the bed, eagerly reading the manuscript.

Meanwhile, deep in the mountains, Kevin was struggling through the darkness, panting for breath. He’d snapped a branch as a walking stick, his shoes caked with mud, his white robe smeared and filthy, but he didn’t dare stop.

It had rained these past days, and the mountain paths were a mire. Yet Linda’s clothes were spotless today. If she’d stayed at someone’s house, bathed, and changed before coming to the tavern, it didn’t seem likely. A lone young woman on the road, without an inn, would usually find shelter at a church. There was no inn here, and he had been sleeping in the church, but she had not.

The only explanation was that she possessed great strength, able to traverse muddy paths without so much as a stain. And yet she claimed to be a kitchen maid? Kevin was worldly enough to know that even in a royal palace, stoking the fire didn’t require such power. No one with such skills would settle for such a post—unless they had some secret purpose.

Think about it: why read a book in a tavern? How many readers did he have in such a remote place? It was too much of a coincidence. It was as if she already knew he was the author, and read the book there just to draw his attention.

And that review—“especially immersive.” Who would find a novel about assassins especially immersive if not an assassin? No wonder she took issue with the guildmaster eating that thing. He’d gotten himself into real trouble this time.

Kevin, remarkably clear-headed, used the excuse of washing his hands to slip away, abandoning even his belongings.