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Chapter 46: Level Up
The "Copper Dragon Tales" tavern was one such establishment, its entrance tucked between Bonneau Market and the Traveler's Bridge on a bustling street. Operating throughout the night, it catered to mercenaries, adventurers, prostitutes, and merchants peddling dubious goods, thriving in the shadows of Ridenburg’s underbelly.
If one could stomach the raucous atmosphere and vulgar banter, it offered cheap ale, scantily clad waitresses, and hearty meals—enough to fill any belly without emptying your coin purse. You could whistle all night long here without fear of guards hauling you off to some dank dungeon for public indecency.
Yet as Freya approached this den of vice, her nerves were stretched taut like bowstrings. The country girl clutched her sword tightly, Brandon’s advice echoing in her mind. Her face flushed crimson as she kept her head down, weaving cautiously through the crowd. So consumed by anxiety was she that even her ponytail seemed to droop lifelessly behind her. Her thoughts raced wildly—what if someone tried to grope her? Should she chop off their hand or run them through with her blade?
She stole a glance at the revealingly dressed waitresses, her ears burning with embarrassment. How could they behave so shamelessly? It was utterly scandalous!
With trembling hands gripping her sword, Freya finally reached the counter. The portly bartender rested his chin on his palm, scrutinizing her from head to toe. “This isn’t a place for little girls,” he said bluntly.
Freya’s face turned an even deeper shade of red as realization dawned—Brandon had tricked her. She clenched her teeth, the hilt of her sword creaking under her grip, but pride kept her from lashing out at the stranger before her. Still, recalling her earlier awkwardness made it impossible to meet his gaze. “I… I’m looking for someone…” she stammered.
Retto watched the young woman nearly bury her head into the bar and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Taverns sell information, lass, but we don’t work for free.”
“I know, I’ll pay. Please, just tell me what I need to know.”
“Alright then, who are you asking about?”
“Hood—the textile merchant in Bonneau Market.”
“That fellow? Are you a relative visiting from the countryside?”
Freya shook her head vigorously. “No, no! Someone asked me to deliver a letter to him, that’s all.”
Retto raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. Just then, a group of guards hurried past outside. He noticed the subtle tension ripple through the girl’s frame—a reaction so faint only someone with years of experience reading people would catch. And Retto, having run this tavern for a decade, prided himself on being unmatched in that skill. This detail alone told him something unusual was afoot.
Ironically, fate decided to play its hand. The same patrol stopped abruptly and doubled back. One of the guards called out, “Hey, Retto! Seen anyone suspicious around here?”
Retto glanced down at the girl, whose fingers had gone ghostly white around her sword hilt despite her attempts to appear calm. Sighing softly, he leaned closer. “They’re after you, aren’t they?”
Freya froze, instinctively reaching for her sword.
“Relax, kid. It’s just habit.” Retto smirked knowingly.
In a flash of inspiration, Freya blurted out, “I—I have money! Can you hide me?”
“One hundred torr. Do you have it?” Retto grinned. His tavern saw its fair share of fugitives seeking refuge, and there was something oddly endearing about this flustered young woman.
One hundred torr equaled one silver coin. Freya nodded quickly.
As the guards entered the tavern, Retto swiftly ushered Freya into a wooden barrel hidden behind the counter. In a place like this, where thieves, smugglers, and mercenaries mingled freely, no one batted an eye at authority figures. Everyone adhered to an unspoken code—rules within the gray areas of society. Guards came for information; criminals did the same. They coexisted uneasily, respecting boundaries while silently acknowledging each other’s presence.
Such was the delicate balance of power.
But Freya, inexperienced and overwhelmed, immediately regretted climbing into the dark, cramped barrel. Freya, she scolded herself, how naive can you be? Did you really think nobody would betray you? What kind of third squad captain are you?
She listened intently as Retto exchanged casual pleasantries with the guards outside, her heart pounding in her chest. Every fiber of her being braced for the moment they’d yank open the lid and drag her out. Though she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew exactly what awaited her if caught.
After what felt like an eternity, a voice broke through her panic. “They’re gone. Come out.”
Peering cautiously through a crack in the barrel, Freya confirmed the coast was clear. Relieved, she emerged to find the tavern patrons smirking at her, some raising their mugs in mock salute.
“Well done, lass! Not everyone dares cross those army boys!”
“Cheers to that!”
Freya flushed again, turning to Retto. “Thank you.”
“No need for thanks—it’ll cost you one hundred ten torr,” the rotund man replied with a grin. Waving over a plain-looking girl wearing a simple leather skirt and sporting a long braided ponytail, he added, “This is my daughter, Su. She’ll take you to Hood’s place. And listen, lass—one piece of advice: don’t wander alone this late at night. Where are your companions?”
At the mention of companions, Freya’s thoughts drifted to Brandon. She wanted to feel angry, yet found herself unable to muster the energy. Perhaps he had sent her out alone intentionally, hoping she’d learn something. Reflecting on her earlier behavior, she felt nothing but shame.
Tightening her grip on her sword, she resolved to do better.
“I’m Su,” the girl introduced herself, extending a hand. “I help Father run the tavern when needed, but I’m free now. Follow me.”
“Thank you. I’m Freya.”
….
“There’s someone stirring the pot, my lord.” Chael observed the distant flames engulfing the noble council hall, his tone measured.
Brandon furrowed his brow, surprised to discover another faction operating independently within the city. The fire hadn’t aided their escape as planned—in fact, it complicated matters further. Yet the timing was impeccable, suggesting insider involvement. Someone knew they’d broken out of prison.
He replayed the events in his mind, wondering which noble might have orchestrated this. But why? And to what end? Shaking off these tangled thoughts, Brandon reminded himself that as an insignificant pawn, he lacked the luxury of indignation. Being used was part of the game.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t cause too much trouble,” he muttered. “Still, if others want to lend a hand, we shouldn’t complain. We’ve got our own tasks to focus on.”
“And what task is that, my lord?” Chael pressed.
“Someone borrowed a sword from me. Now I intend to retrieve it.” Brandon smirked wryly, thinking of Obergu VII—not exactly known for his generosity. Whether the king’s envoy truly held sway remained uncertain.
“Who?”
“An earl.”
Chael snorted. “I’ve never met anyone as reckless as you, my lord. Do you honestly believe your neck is stronger than a noose?”
“We escaped execution once already. Does it matter whether the rope tightens once or twice?” Brandon laughed nervously, though his companion’s wit brought a small measure of comfort amidst the tension.
“That’s true enough. But how do you plan to proceed?”
“A frontal assault—with as much noise as possible.”
Chael studied Brandon closely. Despite his composed demeanor, the lack of color in his face betrayed his inner turmoil. Even so, he remained eerily calm, meticulously planning every move.
“What happens if you die?” Brandon asked suddenly.
“If I perish in battle, my card will enter the graveyard. Until you find a way to revive me, I’ll remain there indefinitely,” Chael replied matter-of-factly.
“In that case, I’ll tread carefully.”
As Brandon spoke, he mentally calculated the time, estimating how much of it they had at their disposal. Once satisfied with his calculations, he raised his right hand, signaling for the Gargoyle hovering above to descend and grab them.
Chael followed suit, raising his hand as well.
The two exchanged a glance, nodded in silent agreement, and the Gargoyle swiftly ascended into the air. Under the cover of night, it soared toward a wooded hill within Ridenburg.
The wind whipped around them as Chael shouted over the roar, “Are you certain an earl resides in this forest, my lord? Or should we aim for the castle instead?”
He gestured toward the imposing fortress situated on an island at the confluence of the Usson and Wesha Rivers.
“What was that? The wind drowned you out!” Brandon teased.
“I said—are we flying in the wrong direction?”
“Me? Never. Did I mention we’re rushing straight to confront the earl tonight?”
“So… what are we doing?”
“Leveling up, of course! Sharpening our tools before the real fight begins. Understand?”
“Leveling up? Is that some ancient tongue?”
“Nonsense! Let me enlighten you. In any game—or life, for that matter—three metrics always exist: skill, equipment, and attributes. Master these, and you’ll excel. If you ever become an archmage, remember to thank me for teaching you this secret.”
“Game?”
“Life is a game, and games reflect life. Get it?”
“Vaguely, my lord. Your wisdom astounds me,” Chael deadpanned, shivering against the biting cold. Flying at night was far colder than he’d anticipated.
Brandon, however, fixed his gaze on the forest below, estimating they had roughly fifteen minutes left.
…
Inside Usson Castle—
A middle-aged man sat on a plush sofa, examining the leaf-shaped sword with meticulous care. Setting it aside, his expression remained impassive, though the frostiness in his eyes deepened noticeably.
“What do you make of it?” a shadowy figure behind him inquired.
“It’s the sword, alright. How that young man acquired it remains a mystery. Regardless, he must vanish from this world entirely. As for the women accompanying him—they’re quite fetching. Very much to my liking.”
“A harmless indulgence won’t hurt, provided it doesn’t interfere with business.”
“Without giving those shortsighted fools a nudge, how would they think to act in my name? Let them dirty their hands—the blame will fall squarely on them. No one suspects us when everything appears logical. Personal reputation? When have we cared for such trivialities?”
A thin smile curled the corners of the man’s lips. “As you said—a harmless indulgence.”
The shadow chuckled, returning his attention to the sword. “Did you notice anything peculiar?”
The man shook his head. “Some things aren’t meant to be deciphered easily.”
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