Chapter Seventy-Seven: The One Who Runs Forward

Lucas bit down on the cork stopper and yanked it free from the potion bottle with a toss of his head. He drank York’s healing potion as he ran, the pale green liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth and soaking his collar along with his sweat.

The bitter taste hit his tongue, so familiar—this was the harsh potion that demanded a grimace before swallowing. Only York’s concoctions bore such bitterness, for the gnome never added a leaf of mint to soften the edge.

Every time Lucas drank a gnome’s potion, he suffered. It was truly nauseating, but to ease his pain and stem the blood seeping from his back, he had to swallow the bitterness.

He downed two bottles in quick succession. The glass fell to the ground, shattering with a sharp clatter.

His mouth and teeth were flooded with nothing but bitterness—and the metallic tang of blood. He wished York’s antidote could dull his sense of taste as well; then he wouldn’t have to grimace or fight the urge to retch.

But perhaps it wasn’t the gnome’s potion that made him sick—maybe it was the necromancer’s corpse poison taking hold.

Earlier, a Night Owl had struck his back and exploded, and the toxin must have entered his body through the bleeding wound, spreading throughout his system.

Without the antidote, he truly didn’t know what he’d do—a single Night Owl’s explosion, with its stench and venom, would have been enough to leave him collapsed on the street.

Fortunately, the healing and antidote potions were working. He could feel the pain fading, the herbal taste gradually dissipating.

Lucas poured the last bottle of healing potion over his wounded back. The sting was searing; the potion was meant for external use, and he knew well how to administer it. An adventurer lacking in strength had to master the use of tools and information to gain an edge.

If you couldn’t overwhelm your opponent with pure strength, then you had to exploit every resource at your disposal.

Even the weak can defeat the strong; even the mighty can fall to carelessness.

There was no absolute hierarchy in this world—the rules of existence were not as simple as rock-paper-scissors. Children might play that game, with scissors beating paper, but in the adult world, following paper could be a dagger thrust straight for your throat.

Seventeen years Lucas had wandered the world, and he understood this truth long ago.

He was no longer young. He no longer believed that hard work would always yield reward, or that taking one step forward each day would inevitably bring him closer to his dreams.

Some things are fated from birth; some stories reveal their ending at the very start.

Just as now, the alley ahead was blocked by several undead hounds. Behind him, dogs barked; overhead, Night Owls circled. On the road before him, magical arrows exploded in the sky.

Those were the Icelanders’ signal arrows—the necromancer had alerted the warband, and now even the fully armed knights and archers were coming to encircle him.

In a game of military chess, if all you have left is a single chariot piece, how do you break through infantry, queens, chariots, and archers?

Anyone who knows chess can see it’s a dead end. What’s more, Lucas was hardly an unstoppable chariot—he was just a humble pawn.

A lone soldier with a spear, isolated and unsupported.

At this stage of the game, victory and defeat are already decided. There’s no point in continuing—every onlooker can see the outcome.

He could not escape the encirclement. The moment the necromancer discovered him, the light of hope he carried was extinguished.

Should he surrender like a coward?

Just as last year, when he’d drunkenly told his adventuring companions about the letter from home—how his family urged him, now that he was no longer young, to think about his future, to take the savings he’d earned over the years and return home to retire.

Was he to accept his fate so passively, to be torn apart by hounds or captured by the Icelanders without resistance?

In that instant, he thought of Vaid’s figure—on the plaza, that lord who faced enemies more terrifying and lethal than any hound.

Had that lord ever given up in the face of despair?

Had that lord ever retreated in the face of certain doom?

Perhaps fate is predetermined; perhaps all men are slaves to destiny.

But the world has never operated like rock-paper-scissors.

As long as his legs could move, he would not give up!

Lucas bit down on the Mist Stone and took up the spear that had accompanied him for years. His old companion through life and death was still sharp.

He freed both hands, gripping the spear, its tip aimed at the hounds before him.

Even as he drew his weapon, his pace did not falter. The narrow alley was ill-suited to spear combat—here, where obstacles abounded, a short sword or mace would have been wiser.

Someone unfamiliar with spears would have gotten their weapon stuck in the stones just by drawing it.

But Lucas would not make such a mistake—he had trained his spearwork in both cramped and open spaces.

His body remembered the movements; without thinking, he found the perfect arc.

The spear tip sliced through the air, gathering force. The battle cry of imbalance meant nothing to these mindless hounds. He needed only to charge—to break the encirclement!

Combat skill—Furious Thrust!

He lunged forward, right foot ahead, left behind, power surging from his soles, racing through bone and muscle, finally unleashed with his whole body and the spear’s point.

In the moment of the Furious Thrust, he seemed to merge with the steel spear.

Enormous strength exploded in an instant; he darted forward, piercing nearly ten meters in a flash.

The pressure shattered obstacles before him, wood crates splintering under the force of a seasoned warrior. The undead hounds blocking his path were skewered on the spear’s tip and hurled high into the air.

He flung the hound aside; after the thrust came a sweeping arc of attack. The spear, infused with Dragonblood Ore, glimmered with a faint red light. Lucas’s blood heated, his heart pounding fiercely. The spear’s reach allowed him to clear all the hounds from his path.

Once there was a break in the encirclement, he threw himself through it without hesitation.

The hounds’ corpses exploded at his feet, but he pressed on, ignoring it, never slowing.

Every second counted; as long as he could reach the forest and mountains before the Icelanders’ net became impenetrable, he might have a tiny chance to escape.

Even escape would demand risking his life.

He ran, dragging his explosion-scarred leg; the healing potion could not erase all pain, so he relied on sheer willpower. Each step felt as if his leg would snap, yet he pushed on, breaking through the encirclement three times, unleashing three Furious Thrusts.

He drew ever closer to the edge of Aquado, almost able to see the exit. Beyond the narrow path lay open ground.

But as he burst out from the stone houses, arrows flew from the distant snowy plains.

He saw an entire Icelandic warband—ten men, blocking his path. The knights hadn’t had time to don full armor; they wielded only shields and swords.

Four archers loosed arrows at him. The night was too dark; by the time he realized they were firing, it was already too late.

Three arrows struck the snow, but one pierced his greave, impaling the flesh of his calf, the bloody tip jutting from the wound.

He couldn’t help but convulse, his breath ragged; the pain forced him to kneel, supporting himself with one knee.

He watched the Icelanders draw nearer in silence.

“Capture him alive!”

“Lord Raymond wants him interrogated—this man may be linked to the missing team from two days ago!”

He heard their voices as they approached, glanced at his arrow-stricken leg, which had already endured several explosions.

It was riddled with holes; the toxins had turned his skin a purple-black, the wounds oozing pus and swelling with blisters.

Is this the end?

Lucas clenched his fists. Astoundingly, he felt no fear.