Chapter Thirty-Eight: Radiance-Class Weapon

At night, the men took turns standing watch. Under Lucas’s guidance, they set up simple triggered traps around the area. The materials were cowbells and grass ropes; the bells hung between trees on taut ropes, the height mimicking the lift of a deer’s legs to ensure only large creatures would trigger them. Additionally, they scattered powdered urine and dung of winter wolves around the perimeter as territorial markers. The urine and dung had been collected during dissection; winter wolves were apex predators in the wild, marking their domain with urine much like hunting dogs. Any beast with a keen sense of smell would instinctively avoid the scent of a winter wolf. This was an effective and convenient safety measure—adventurers often employed it when camping outdoors.

Once preparations were complete, the women, elderly, and children entered the tents to rest. The young men lay down on woven mats beside the fire, covering themselves with wool blankets as they slept. Vaid sat alone by an outer bonfire, holding his sword. He had no need for sleep; it had been five days since he arrived on the snowy plains in this incarnation, and he felt no fatigue. Mia was different—she spent half her time in dormancy. At that moment, she was curled up asleep in a small cloth pouch hanging inside Vaid’s clothing. Vaid had tied a pouch at his ribs as a tiny sleeping bag for the little ghost.

Vaid pretended to maintain his iron sword, taking out a bowl of sheep fat to rub along its blade. Wealthier adventurers would buy specialized sword oils from alchemists, granting their blades temporary enhancements—sharpness, anti-magic, durability. Those without such means used animal fats; sheep, pig, or cow fat could all serve to protect and lubricate the blade, making it less likely to wear during combat. Vaid appeared to cherish the old iron sword, and the other sword at his waist, which remained sheathed, only heightened curiosity.

Lucas judged that the sheathed sword was likely the knight’s primary weapon, while the plain iron blade was merely a secondary tool. Against common foes, the iron sword sufficed, but for mightier monsters, the prized blade would be drawn. Perhaps it was a sword of extraordinary rank—excellent, superior, or even the radiant grade, imbued with magical abilities or sacred rune engravings. Maybe it was something greater still, a destiny-bound weapon tied to its wielder’s soul.

Lucas recalled a bard from his childhood who had stayed in the village for a spring. The elf, with long ears, had come for the Tanya lilies that bloomed only during the spring on the ice fields. He lodged in the village for a brief time. The elf spoke in poetic phrases, recounting tales of adventure that stirred Lucas’s imagination. Lucas loved the stories of treasure-seeking adventurers most. His eyes would gleam as he listened, and when he left home at sixteen, he often dreamt of braving perilous labyrinths, discovering a sword that had awaited him for a thousand years in the depths. He would raise the blade, its brilliance piercing the sky, becoming its destined master, slaying evil dragons, banishing villains, and having his deeds sung by bards.

In dreams, he was a hero without equal. But upon waking, he found only drool dampening his shirt. Seventeen years on, he could afford only an excellent-grade Tanya military spear. It was not a common piece, but only because its forging included a bit of dragon blood ore, earning it the excellent rating. It had no special properties; its greatest merit was durability. Extremely durable, in fact—the old companion had served him nearly ten years, with several repairs to its shaft, but its tip remained steadfast as ever. Lucas, meanwhile, had grown from a young lad into a scruffy, bearded man, no longer possessing his youthful vigor.

Speaking of weapons, the Viking pirate leader’s sword was likely a true radiant-grade artifact. Such weapons started at a price of one hundred gold coins; the poor could only envy from afar. Lucas thought, he would probably never own a radiant-grade sword in his lifetime. He had accepted reality: he was not the protagonist of those adventure tales, not even a supporting character—at best, a backdrop, standing by as scenery while heroes took up quests at the Adventurers’ Guild.

Characters like the wandering knight, or the mysterious savior of the village, were the true protagonists. Suddenly, Lucas found himself curious about the knight polishing his blade—what kind of past did he have? When he realized this thought, he smiled ruefully. Thirty-three years old, and he still hadn’t shaken old habits. But that was who he was; without that irrepressible curiosity, he’d never have become an adventurer.

Having slept enough on the ox cart during the day, Lucas wasn’t tired. He walked over to Vaid. “Sir Vaid, may I sit here?” Vaid looked up at Lucas, not minding another by the fire. Still, he was known as a solitary oddball, so it was hard to guess why Lucas wished to strike up a conversation.

Did he want to get close? Or perhaps probe into Vaid’s background? Vaid couldn’t fathom Lucas’s intentions; he’d had little interaction with this Tanya professional. He did not refuse, simply nodded, indicating Lucas could sit wherever he liked by the fire. Vaid was interested to learn more about the ways of professionals himself.

Lucas sat across from Vaid. He didn’t pepper Vaid with questions, but began to explain the origins of their group. “Sir Vaid, perhaps you wonder why we are driving oxen and sheep, bringing women, children, and elders on the road in the dead of winter.” “As you see, we are not a merchant caravan, but merely a group of homeless souls.” “A Viking pirate band invaded our village over ten days ago. Our homes were burned, and it was no longer safe. So we voted—every survivor would journey together to Alvado, seeking refuge with the Viscount.”

Lucas reminisced, describing the details of the Viking raid in vivid terms. He spoke well, with plenty of detail. Vaid listened from his perspective, learning what had unfolded that day, and incidentally, confirming the grade of his own extraordinary longsword at his waist—a radiant-grade blade, a rare treasure indeed.

Lucas said, “In the end, we never learned who the hero was. May the goddess bless and keep him safe.” Vaid thought to himself, I am right here, safe and sound—but if I were to remove my helmet and meet your gaze, you would surely be startled. He kept his thoughts private, merely writing in the snow with a twig.

He asked Lucas whether he could discern any special abilities in the longsword. Naturally, he did not expect Lucas to be able to appraise it. But perhaps this former adventurer could offer some useful insight.