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Chapter 6: Going with the Flow
No one knows when Valor Fortress was built. The ancient castle seems as old as the Uzig Mountain it guards. The massive stone walls are rough and thick, weathered by countless years.
From its name, Valor Fortress appears to have once been a purely military bastion for stationing troops, but that was long ago. Today, it resembles an ordinary small town, with shops lining both sides of the streets and pedestrians leisurely walking along open roads, passing through the always-open beechwood gates freely.
I had been in Valor Fortress for two or three days, my first time leaving Kampnavia's jurisdiction. For someone lacking travel experience like me, this journey was far from pleasant.
Located in the southeastern mountainous region of Uzig Mountain, Valor Fortress wasn’t marked on my magical map since I'd never been there. I wandered aimlessly like a headless fly, struggling on the rugged, narrow paths. These winding trails often disappeared into dense grass and bushes, only revealing my lost state when I reached dead ends.
The worst part? Getting lost anywhere inevitably introduced you to packs of hungry wolves, venomous spiders, wild boars, or other ferocious beasts. They were always eager to invite you for dinner—though, if unlucky, you'd become the main course.
First, I completed Gerald’s task, delivering Rabid Hound Kaplan’s blood analysis report to Colonel Pekla, the fortress garrison commander. Around fifty, Pekla had gray hair and seemed more like a pedantic teacher than a soldier.
This report didn’t seem important to him. “Ah, Withered Lands—I haven’t heard that name since I was ten, almost forgot it. Gerald is always a bit paranoid, but thanks for bringing this news. Anyway, I’ll send someone to investigate… if I have anyone to spare.” Pekla said slowly, tossing me a small pouch of silver coins.
I felt compelled to tell him about the soul lich Mekenskar escaping his two-century seal at the abandoned mine. My instincts told me it might relate to Rabid Hound Kaplan’s mutation. But no matter what I said, Pekla just shook his head impatiently: “I need to check my schedule. At my age, you realize anything can be forgotten… Uh…. Did I say something?”
I could only bid farewell to this forgetful officer. As I passed his office door, another weary Planewalker entered, holding a familiar-looking yellow envelope sealed with red wax.
What? Did Gerald fear I couldn’t deliver the report and send another messenger?
“Are you also from Kampnavia?” I asked impulsively.
“Ah…” Caught off guard, he hesitated then nodded absently, “Yes.”
“You’re delivering the blood report too?”
“Yes, why, are you?”
“Yes. You don’t need to give it to him; I already did—it’s useless.” I explained that I’d handed it over and that Pekla showed little concern. No need to hit the same wall.
“Really?” He looked stunned again, “I asked many people; they all said give it to him.”
“Look at him…” I glanced back at Pekla, still dozing in his comfortable chair, “…you see? Even giving it to him won’t help.” I added irritably.
The Planewalker seemed to understand yet appeared even more confused. He muttered "Ah, ah," looked at me, then at Pekla, and nodded dumbly, thanking me before leaving.
Later, I saw this person several times on the street. Perhaps due to my changed armor, he didn’t recognize me. Each time, he was urgently asking people questions like “report… mission… who… where…” looking quite anxious. I didn’t listen closely.
Eventually, I never saw him again. Rumor had it some mischievous person in Valor Fortress deliberately obstructed others from completing missions, intentionally giving wrong directions, making victims run around the city multiple times.
If I ever met such a boring and shameless person, I’d teach them a lesson.
Thankfully, not everyone was as scatterbrained as PeklaColonel. Marquis Menewal, Valor Fortress’s governor, welcomed me warmly. A supporter of “The Quencher” Robert Wilanster, the marquis expressed sorrow for the dwarf metallurgist’s unfortunate fate:
“Oh, my poor friend, he always loved uncovering buried secrets, but some secrets shouldn’t be unearthed. May Darmos have mercy on him; hopefully, his mistake won’t bring irreparable loss…”
The marquis was a pale, elderly man with high cheekbones casting deep shadows over his eyes, his gaze calm yet somber. Perhaps Robert Wilanster’s death shocked him; he appeared agitated, an abnormal flush under his white skin, raising concerns about his health.
The marquis promised to inform the king about Soul Lich Mekenskar’s escape, rallying Falvy continent’s forces against the impending disaster. As a reward for my efforts, he gifted me a “fine chainmail.” Made of interwoven metal rings, it was not heavy, offering better resistance to slashes. This armor bore special magic effects, boosting defense by 10 points and adding 100 health points.
Leaving the marquis’s residence, I felt an uncontrollable pride swelling within. I believed I’d accomplished something significant. Perhaps delivering this message to a diligent noble would change the continent’s future. All intelligent races under the blue sky would gain a chance to unite, resist the coming evil invasion, preserve life and freedom, and suppress slaughter and tyranny—all because I timely delivered crucial information.
Only later did I learn that before reality revealed itself, every so-called “correct” action was merely a temporary illusion. Often, harsh reality shatters these illusions before our eyes, awakening us painfully. Facing reality often meant enduring pain and regret.
Much later, I realized many things in this world are predetermined. You can’t prevent their occurrence, alter their course, or decide their end, no matter how hard you try.
If anything can be changed, it’s only yourself. Your life is like a small boat in raging waves, destined to drift in the tide of time. All you can do is reinforce your hull, steer your sail, and pray to any deity you believe in for good fortune, hoping not to be swallowed by the irresistible surge.
That’s all!
Back then, I knew nothing of the future. Ignorance brings happiness, though sadly, for many, this bliss doesn’t last.
Just after leaving the marquis’s estate, my magical adventure journal alerted me to a received message. It informed me someone sent me goods.
I don’t know who conceived the brilliant idea of the “postal system” and initially implemented it, but I believe it’s one of history’s greatest inventions. Regardless of who you are or where you are, handing items and the recipient’s name to any city or village postman allows delivery to anyone you know. Recipients can collect items anytime from postmen.
It’s a crazy idea, and the craziest part is it actually works. Humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, orcs, taurens—all intelligent races on Falvy continent enthusiastically participate in this great feat. Every village—even tribes of a dozen people—has dedicated postal workers. In no other aspect have Falvy’s intelligent beings reached such consensus, breaking barriers between each other. In this sense, the “postal system” might hold more power than any religion or cultural propagation, as it successfully united the world’s races.
Postal fees aren’t cheap; you must pay five percent of the item’s value. If someone calculated daily gifts across the continent, it would amount to an enormous sum.
Perhaps this explains why stubborn taurens and proud elves collaborate.
Curious, I found Valor Fortress’s postman and learned Ding Ding Xiao Ge sent me something. This slow-reacting but generous orc miner faithfully kept his promise, sending substantial metals and minerals. His generosity far exceeded my imagination; I didn’t know how to thank him. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse—my total money wouldn’t cover the postage to return these items. So, reluctantly yet secretly pleased, I packed these heavy, valuable gifts into my magical backpack.
Life in Valor Fortress continued my Kampnavia routine. I spent nearly half my day helping townsfolk complete tasks for rewards. Sometimes dangerous tasks came up, which I set aside until finding suitable companions or leveling up enough to handle them confidently.
Without appropriate tasks, I hunted beasts and monsters outside the fortress. Northwest lay a viscous swamp, breeding giant mutated mosquitoes and snakes, my primary hunting ground.
There were creatures called “Clay Golems.” These clumsy beings seemed made entirely of clay and mud, rolling like water sacks, indistinguishable heads and faces. Don’t be deceived by their appearance; these seemingly frail creatures actively attack anything nearby, enveloping victims within themselves until fully digested. Observing closely, you’d find bones of various sizes inside each Clay Golem, remains of unfortunate victims.
Killing these monsters yields “Corrosive Water,” vital for alchemical experiments. This was why I primarily hunted them.
In my remaining time, I shuttled between Valor Fortress and Kampnavia. Valor Fortress wasn’t a self-sufficient city, especially lacking an alchemy mentor skilled in explosions. Traveling between cities wasn't strenuous—stations provided transportation services. Paying a fee, you could rent a carriage to another city, the journey surprisingly short. Honestly, it felt unreal, arriving almost immediately after boarding, making me doubt if we ever departed.
Ding Ding Xiao Ge’s raw materials saved me substantial costs, greatly aiding my alchemical studies. After four or five trips, I learned various alloy-making methods and techniques like extracting glass from ores. Most gratifyingly, my investment in alchemy began paying off; many were willing to buy my synthesized metals and purified substances. These earnings covered all expenses and left a small profit—the best motivation for studying alchemy.
Soon, my alchemy skill reached level five. Simple synthesis no longer granted experience, and Edgeville couldn’t provide more formulas. My learning hit a bottleneck, requiring new recipes and blueprints to create novel items.
Completing tasks, clearing monsters, learning combat skills, studying alchemy, selling alchemical products—this was my daily life. Honestly, sometimes I pondered why I lived this way. Was leveling essential to my life? Were learning skills necessary for my soul? Earning money—was it out of need or greed? Often, I felt maintaining life and living peacefully wouldn’t be problematic without all this.
Gradually, I realized I acted this way not out of necessity but because everyone else did—those Planewalkers full of adventurous spirit and delightful imaginations. Compared to rigid Natives, I preferred their company, enjoying conversations with them. Choosing friends who lived this way, I thought I should live similarly.
It’s a comical phenomenon. Often, we do things not because we want to but because others do. We fear loneliness, being different, drawing suspicious glares. Thus, we follow the majority, becoming resigned mediocrities.
Truthfully, some things aren’t necessary; others only we can do.
Given another chance, perhaps I’d make completely different decisions.
Sometimes, I recalled the undead decayer, escaped soul lich, and Darrendel’s impending invasion. Marquis Menewal promised to prepare defenses swiftly. Yet, Valor Fortress showed no signs of war readiness—perhaps preparations were secretly underway—I consoled myself.
Even I gradually lost vigilance, doubting my judgment. PeklaColonel was right; we hadn’t heard from Withered Lands for too long. Any minor event could trigger nervousness, often unnecessarily. Many things were forgotten by us, and perhaps past events weren’t remembered by Withered Lands’ inhabitants either. War might not happen; our fears could be baseless self-scaring.
Thus, amidst fulfilling yet empty days, unknowingly, my level surpassed thirty…
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