Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Deathly Silent Village

“That is indeed a Radiance-grade longsword.” Lucas recalled the sight of the sword igniting. “That Viking is a Silver-ranked professional; possessing such a weapon is hardly surprising.”

“However, I believe those gathered flames were not the sword’s ability, but rather an innate combat technique the Viking mastered upon advancing to Silver rank.” He continued, “Those flames didn’t behave like a mage’s fireball—predictable and destructive. They weren’t shaped by magic power; they were akin to the fire pirates use, burning our homes with oil and grease.”

“To my eyes, the fire around the Viking seemed alive. I’ve teamed up with mages before, yet even they can’t freely control naturally burning flames.” Lucas sighed and tossed another piece of dry wood onto the fire. “Much as I dislike admitting it, that man is formidable—a gifted talent on the path of professionals, unlike someone as mediocre as myself. If he’s still alive, given time, he’ll surely break through to Gold rank and let the fire’s blessing linger upon himself.”

Vaid listened closely to Lucas’s account, picking up on unfamiliar terms—“innate combat technique,” “fire’s blessing.” Yet their meaning was not hard to grasp: Lucas was obviously referring to Sven’s unique technique—Starlight.

During their earlier conversation, Vaid had learned a bit about Lucas’s past. Lucas was a warrior who’d wandered for seventeen years and remained at Iron rank, dabbling in a variety of skills without excelling at any. Comparing Lucas and Sven, Iron-ranked professionals were relatively common; Vaid had seen their battles before. Their techniques, though powerful, were rigid—like formulas, unable to adapt.

Sven’s Starlight, on the other hand, was flexible and varied. Not only could it manipulate the flow of fire, but beneath its glow, Sven gained heightened perception, strengthened senses, and enhanced physical prowess.

It seemed there was a fundamental difference between innate combat techniques and those common skills learned through training and study. Perhaps the distinction between Iron and Silver rank lay precisely in the so-called “innate techniques.”

Vaid pondered Lucas’s words, piecing together scant information. He gained a deeper understanding of professionals: apparently, from Silver rank onwards, they acquired unique and extraordinary powers. Furthermore, Lucas mentioned that Silver-ranked professionals possessing a Radiance-grade weapon was not unusual.

Vaid silently equated “one hundred gold coins” with “Silver-ranked professional.” An Iron-ranked professional’s earnings per mission ranged from five to twenty silver coins. After subtracting daily expenses, weapon maintenance, potions, and so forth, a frugal Iron professional might save a hundred silver coins a year—about ten gold coins. In other words, it would take ten years of thrifty living to reach the threshold for a Radiance-grade weapon.

But once they advanced to Silver rank, their income seemed to multiply fivefold, even tenfold, and the gap in combat ability was likely even greater.

No wonder Lucas had no chance before Sven.

Yet Silver-ranked professionals were not invincible—they remained mortal. But Gold rank, that was another matter entirely. Vaid wondered what changes would come with Gold rank; perhaps they would be considered “inhuman.” He imagined Gold-ranked professionals as monstrous dragons, though he’d never encountered one—only heard their legends from bards’ songs. Those heroes who could slay dragons and battle demons were surely Gold-ranked.

That seemed impossibly distant.

Vaid focused on what was within reach and, subtly, sought Lucas’s advice on weapon appraisal. He wrote in the snow: “Do you have any recommended appraisers in Alvado?”

Lucas asked, “Is this your first time in Alvado, Sir Vaid?”

Vaid nodded. Lucas guessed Vaid had just completed an adventure. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Near the Oak Tavern in Alvado, there’s a Sagebrush Alchemy Workshop. The proprietor is a dwarf named York.”

“That fellow does appraisals too. His fee is twenty percent higher than the Adventurers’ Guild’s appraisers, but he gives results on the spot—no need to wait for the next day.”

“However, the last time I saw York was ten years ago. I can’t say if he’s still in Alvado.”

“If you have something tricky to appraise, when we arrive, I can take you there to try your luck, Sir Vaid.”

“Thank you,” Vaid wrote in the snow.

Lucas smiled. “It’s no trouble.”

“By the way, Sir Vaid, aren’t you a subject of the Viscount’s domain?”

Vaid wrote, “I’m from the Netherlands.”

That was no lie; he’d lived in Herburg in the Netherlands during his lifetime. He knew nothing about Tania, and rather than invent a place he knew little about—risking suspicion—he chose somewhere familiar.

Netherlands estate wines were considered luxury goods in Tania. Lucas knew the country, but was surprised nonetheless. Tania lay in the north of the continent; the Netherlands was in the central south—hundreds of kilometers apart, almost spanning half the continent.

To travel from one country to another took years. Lucas was increasingly intrigued by Vaid’s background: a Netherlander, here on Tania’s northern frontier. Though curious about what Vaid had experienced, he felt it improper to pry further.

He refrained from asking more about Vaid’s origins, instead chatting about the customs of the Netherlands. Vaid was not unfamiliar with these topics. Besides writing, he sketched little figures in the snow, like four-panel comics.

He drew how Netherlanders made wine, how people celebrated the wine festival in October when grapes ripened, and how every October tenth, free sweet wine was served in the square for all to enjoy.

Lucas was fascinated by these unfamiliar traditions. The two conversed happily, and by midnight, Lucas was helped to a tent by Avery at the change of shift.

Nothing happened that night. After Lucas slept, Vaid sat by the fire, feigning sleep.

The next day, the people of Tania showed Vaid the bundled wolf pelts and extracted fangs. To lighten their load, the fangs and pelts were placed on their ox cart, and Vaid added his deerskin pack.

They boiled water for drinking and cooked some rye porridge for breakfast. The Tania folk packed up tents and straw mats.

“Let’s set out,” Lucas called.

The farmer pulled the ox rope; the shepherd swung his grass whip. The group prepared to depart.

They entered the Clavi mountain path, trudging up snow-covered slopes. Light snow fell that day. Together, they pushed the ox cart uphill, even the children climbed on foot.

The journey was difficult but, thankfully, they avoided avalanches and landslides. By afternoon, they had crossed the Clavi pass and reached a broad road.

Finally, there was a road ahead, marked by a wooden sign pointing toward the mountain village called Bronte.

The villagers breathed a sigh of relief; some patted their chests, panting.

They pressed on. As evening approached, rounding a bend, they finally saw the stone houses at the mountain’s base, clustered irregularly like mushrooms sprouting from the earth.

Some were eager to hurry into the village, but Lucas urged them to hold on a little longer—soon they could rest.

Their eyes were full of hope, grateful for surviving calamity.

But Vaid’s heart grew heavy.

He stood at the front of the group, raised his hand, and shook his head, stopping them from moving forward.

It was a sight only he could perceive.

He saw no flame burning with the stability of those around him.

Within those stone houses, every corner resembled a tomb—desolate and lifeless.

If his soul’s vision was not deceiving him, only one possibility remained:

There was not a single living soul left in the village.

Looking closely, he noticed not a wisp of smoke rising from any chimney.

Vaid saw carrion crows perched on rooftops, picking at their feathers, flying from one spot to another. The gathered flock had become a black mass, like harbingers of death.