Chapter Eight: Resisting the Swine Pursuit

Kevin had spent ten years traveling, relying solely on his own two feet. Mountain paths, river crossings, rugged trails, even places without roads—he had carved his way through them with a blade. His experience, though not as extensive as a seasoned mercenary, meant he was hardly a pampered or fragile soul.

The mountains here were free of magical beasts; at most, wild jackals appeared now and then. These jackals rarely attacked humans, usually targeting children if they did, and only adults if driven by extreme hunger. Walking at night with a torch was typically foolproof, but lighting a fire now would only reveal his position. Kevin trusted he wouldn’t be so unlucky.

He wielded an ordinary woodcutting knife, hacking fiercely at the brambles ahead. This blade had served him for three years—chopping wood, slicing meat, peeling apples. Though it was small for firewood and large for apples, familiarity made it workable. The blade was about as long as his forearm; national law prohibited non-combatants from owning longer knives, and all combat blades were registered. This one was already at the limit.

Glancing up, the moon shone bright overhead—it was midnight. Looking back, darkness engulfed everything; no pursuers seemed to follow. Yet, the trail he left was glaringly obvious. Kevin believed even he could easily track himself, let alone any skilled assassin.

But there was no helping it—the path was muddy and bramble-choked. He dared not take the main road, which, though faster, would leave him exposed. He could only scramble through the mountains, cutting a path toward the nearest town. Once inside, hiding would become easier.

The closest town was Urla. Kevin had mocked a bard there before leaving, never expecting to return so soon. He hoped he wouldn’t run into the fellow.

After a while, Kevin finally reached the summit. Stars glittered above—a magnificent view. Looking down, he spotted a moving firelight along the main road ahead. Someone was coming from the front, moving slowly—not likely his pursuers, but perhaps a traveler from Urla. Few visited these remote villages; was it coincidence?

Kevin pondered. His own abilities shouldn’t warrant extra assassins. Three days ago, the old priest had left for a meeting, replaced by a man named Rollu. Rollu and Linda had arrived the same day—surely not a simple coincidence. Was it the old priest coming now? But traveling at midnight didn’t fit his style.

Kevin looked skyward. Though clear, distant clouds were moving in. Rain was likely tomorrow. Perhaps the old priest had noticed and was traveling overnight?

Yet the traveler was surely an ordinary person; anyone with real skill wouldn’t move so slowly.

Might as well check it out. Kevin resolved, crouched, left hand braced on the ground, and summoned a magical shield. The translucent shield covered half a man, and its uses extended far beyond mere defense. Kevin placed both feet lightly atop the shield, left hand controlling it, right hand gripping the knife and bracing against the earth.

He slid down the slope—shield and all. The hillside wasn't steep; he'd observed it when first arriving. With muddy roads, walking was impractical; sliding on the shield was faster. His knife slowed the descent, preventing loss of control.

His left hand also adjusted the shield’s hardness, reducing suction from mud or the risk of bouncing off rocks. Still, sliding down a mountain at night was dangerous; Kevin would never do it but for urgency.

He sped down, reaching midway in moments. The shield began to strain, so he softened it, and pressed harder with his knife, slowing and then stopping.

Kevin exhaled, wiped sweat, flexed his aching right hand, switched the knife to his left, and braced the shield with his right. He was adept with these basic spells—one breath restored him. Scraping the ground with his knife for braking was laborious, though.

After two rests, Kevin safely reached the foot of the mountain, the firelight now close ahead. At this distance, he could confirm the traveler was not the old priest. The figure’s face was unclear, but the attire suggested a bard.

After a moment’s thought, Kevin jumped out from the roadside, waving politely. “Hey!”

“Robbery!” the bard shrieked, tossed the torch, and fled.

“Don’t run!” Kevin reflexively hurled a magic missile. Though merely a farmer’s punch in strength, it was at least a ranged attack. The missile struck the bard’s back, sending him sprawling.

Kevin hurried over, knife in hand. “Why run? I never said I was robbing you.”

“You…it’s you!” The bard rolled over, and both recognized each other in shock. It was the bard Kevin had chased away in Urla, the one who told the Tale of Rex in the tavern.

“What do you want?” The bard, realizing Kevin, grew bolder—even unafraid of the knife.

“Uh…nothing! Just wanted to scare you, haha!” Kevin forced a laugh, sheathing the blade.

“You bastard! You got me chased out of Urla tavern, now you scare me here!” The bard was furious.

“Well, I have a suggestion. Give me your clothes, and I’ll give you mine.” Kevin stated calmly. “It’s important for me. If you want money, I can pay you.”

“Are you joking?” The bard frowned at Kevin’s filthy attire.

“Then I’ll have to beat you.” Kevin slid a hand behind his back, quietly gathering a magic missile.

“Hmph! Beat me? Go ahead!” The bard rolled up his sleeves. It seemed anyone had the courage to fight a bard—even if both were bards.

Kevin flung a magic missile at his face, and the bard collapsed.

Kevin startled, worried he’d killed him. He hurried over, checked his breath—just fainted. Relieved, he swiftly stripped the bard’s clothes and shoes, dressed himself, and tossed his dirty garments beside the bard. Dawn was breaking; to be safe, he fetched the torch and propped it by his side to ward off jackals.

Kevin, now properly dressed, saw no pursuers had appeared—so the main road should be safe. Though the journey was three days, villagers rarely traveled at night, usually resting in roadside huts. “Three days” meant three days’ walk. Kevin’s mountain slide had saved much time; barring mishaps, he’d arrive by tomorrow morning.

At dawn, a rooster’s crow echoed through Samms Village. Rollu and Linda were ready to depart. It was obvious: they were the Albatross and the Little Spoon from the Assassins’ Guild. Upon learning the priest had temporarily left, Albatross, alias Rollu, posed as the priest, while Little Spoon, as Linda, arrived as a traveler.

Both were fans of Kevin’s novels. Out of curiosity and respect for the author, they didn’t want to end his story with a knife. Thus, they’d each taken the chance to chat with him, but the mission had to be completed. The Assassins’ Guild had issued absurd tasks before, but no one complained—that’s the way of assassins.

“It’s time to get to work,” Rollu squatted, drew a six-pointed star on the ground, which shimmered in a rainbow of colors. It was one of the continent’s common contract summoning spells. Rollu, a four-star assassin ranked fifteenth in the guild by contribution, was a level-six warrior and level-five mage, versed in light, earth, and summoning magic.

Many elite assassins were multi-talented; it was hard to judge them by a single standard.

As the light faded, a fat white pig appeared in the center of the circle, weighing at least two hundred pounds.

“What—” Little Spoon exclaimed, “Where’s your hunting dog?”

“Research shows a pig's nose is even more sensitive than a dog’s. I specially trained this pig, though today is its first field test. Since our target is just a bard, it’s a good experiment.” Rollu explained, producing a sock. “Here! Smell! Tell me where he is.”

The pig snuffled the sock, shook its head, stretched its right hoof forward, then stopped.

Rollu expertly hoisted the pig and dashed in the direction indicated, explaining as he ran, “Pigs are lazy, so I have to carry it.”

Little Spoon followed in amazement. The scene was bizarre, but the task was serious—no time for jokes.

Following the pig’s direction, they quickly reached the village tavern. The pig’s reliability was impressive; Kevin’s initial departure had been from the tavern.

Their sudden entrance startled the village chief, who instinctively said, “We’re not buying your pig.”

The two chuckled. The pig’s hoof now pointed outside; Rollu carried it out again, with Little Spoon in pursuit. The chief wondered, “The new priest…is he a pig butcher?”

Rollu and Little Spoon arrived at a hillside; the pig’s hoof indicated Kevin had climbed here. The sky grew darker—it would rain soon.

“There are fresh footprints here,” Little Spoon examined them. “Your pig is impressive, if a bit lazy.”

“We must hurry. If it pours, scent will dissipate.” Rollu, carrying the two-hundred-pound pig, climbed swiftly. A level-six warrior, capable of two breakthroughs in battle aura, was a feat many never achieved. Royal guards were level-five; his claim that four guards couldn’t beat him was modest.

The two experts crossed the mountains with ease. Midway, the pig switched hooves—perhaps its right hoof was tired, so it used the left.

Up and down they went, as rain intensified, returning to the main road. Suddenly, the pig sniffed, shook its head twice, then stretched both hooves, pointing in opposite directions.

“What’s this? Split technique?” Little Spoon wondered. “Is that even possible?”

“It must be something like stripping clothes and placing them on a summoned creature, sending it the other way to confuse the pig’s scent,” Rollu frowned. “Eventually, we’ll catch him, but it will waste time. Never mind—we’re two people, so we’ll split up.”

“Where will you go?” asked Little Spoon.

“The most dangerous place is often the safest,” Rollu looked back at the mountain village, “He’s surely returned to his old haunt, easily evading us.”

“Then you return to the village; I’ll check Urla,” Little Spoon said, vanishing into the rain as Rollu hurried back with the pig.

On the road, Rollu soon spotted a bare-backed man walking slowly, carrying several garments. Rollu leaped forward, landing before him with a splash.

The man was startled, blurting, “Pig thief?”

“Who are you?” Rollu cut to the chase. “Have you seen Kevin Inqusit?”

“Who?” The man looked confused. Though he’d met Kevin twice, Kevin had never revealed his name.

“Have you seen a bard?” Rollu pressed.

“Yes! He knocked me out and stole my clothes!” the bard complained. “So vile!”

“Do you know which way he went?” Rollu asked.

“No,” the bard shook his head. “He ran off after knocking me out.”

Rollu paused, turned to his pig, noting its hooves were still pointed at the clothes. The bard noticed and explained, “They’re too dirty—I don’t want to wear them.”

Rollu glanced around; the village was near. The main road between showed no trace of Kevin’s scent, but since they were close, returning was worth a look. He still believed in the principle that the most dangerous place was safest, having studied Kevin’s novels and their favored tricks.

Rollu, pig in tow, dashed through the rain back into the tavern. The chief said, “Bringing the pig again won’t help; I told you, we don’t want it.”

The pig’s hooves turned; Rollu had to leave once more.

The village had only about twenty households; he quickly made a circuit. The specially trained pig clearly “informed” him that Kevin was nowhere in the village. Rollu, pig in hand, stood bewildered in the center, while villagers under their eaves pointed and whispered: “These days, even pig sellers go door to door!” “We’re so poor, even the chief can’t buy a whole pig—who could afford it?”…

Rollu sighed and returned to the main road. The villagers applauded: “What a hero! Carrying the pig back to town?” “Wow, so strong! I’d collapse after two steps.” “Let’s applaud! The gentleman says that’s how we show respect to heroes!”…

Meanwhile, Little Spoon arrived at Urla’s gate. Rain poured down; the streets were deserted. Two guards huddled under a shelter. Twenty paces from the gate, several trash bins sat together, rainwater overflowing and spreading a foul stench.

Some farmers might collect the waste, but not today. The pile spoiled the mood, but in such weather, no one cared.

Ignoring the mess, Little Spoon asked the guards, “Did any bards come in this morning?”

“No,” they replied. Though she was a young woman, they took her seriously—her arrival had been swift.

“Or anyone disguised?” Little Spoon pressed.

“No. After the gate opened, not a soul entered,” said a guard. “This town has only one gate—anyone arriving must pass here.”

Little Spoon glanced at the wall; though not as tall as a city wall, it stood three to five meters high. An ordinary man could scale it, but would leave traces—even in the rain. She jogged around the perimeter, finding nothing.

Could it be, as Albatross said, that Kevin hid in the most dangerous place, believing it safest? Puzzled, she hurried back.

The two met again on the main road; one glance sufficed to know the outcome. Neither had found him. A mere bard—yet so elusive.

“The pig’s hoof still points toward the town; is it too late to chase?” Little Spoon asked anxiously.

“If he’s truly in town, we’re too late,” Rollu finally set down the pig. “There are carriages—pay a dozen copper coins and you reach the nearest city, which has a teleportation point. Once he enters, we lose all trace.”

The rain subsided; they looked up—afternoon had arrived. Despite their speed, the wasted time could not be ignored. If they pursued now, it would be too late. The world was vast; unless Kevin Inqusit told lewd jokes under his own name again, catching him would depend on luck.

“Wow, impressive!” Little Spoon shook water from her clothes. “Like a rabbit—no fighting skills, but one slip and he escapes, impossible to catch.”