Ever since the Arcane Rings shattered, magic had bled from the world—yet alchemy's quick fixes survived in vials.
"That's highway robbery. What's it do?" Lind eyed the potion skeptically.
Cheli scratched his leathery cheek, the sound like fingernails on a calloused heel:
"Run faster? Hit harder? Maybe stay awake for a week? Only 100 scrip!"
"My gold's not exactly storm-foraged," Lind countered. At least not as easily as gale-tossed coins.
Herding players was a special kind of hell.
So much for Cheli's sudden generosity—this was the trap. A potion's flashy thrill couldn't outweigh practical supplies.
The trader sighed. "Some witch-girl pawned this off. Demanded I sell it—says it's worth every scrip."
"Ronin have a daughter?"
"No wife, no kin," Cheli muttered. "But she brews things even the mayor needs. Like this overpriced swill."
You admit it's a scam yet push it on me?!
"Players would lap this up," Lind mused silently before shaking his head. "Pass. Not worth a winter's salt."
He turned heel, leaving Cheli staring at unpriced pelts and dwindling excuses.
Had anyone else brought them in, Cheli would've haggled till their pockets wept. But one detail gave him pause—these wolfskins reeked of fresh kill, all taken within a day or two.
Slaughtering twenty jackals that fast? Lind's crew must be monsters in human skin.
Even vultures need exit strategies.
Prey Town's cramped alleys made Starcrest's barracks seem spacious. Lind dismissed his men to guard the supplies, wandering alone past:
A stone bridge straddling an ankle-deep trickle—no fish, just memories of rivers
Ruins gnawed by time, still echoing the Arcane Rings' cataclysmic shattering
The mayor's faux-castle, its gates yawning as a wagon creaked out, laden with bloodied dwarves
"The Jester's Troupe," someone sneered. "Must've botched Ronin's entertainment."
Survival was hard enough for full-sized men. Seeing these "useless" dwarves once fed for mere buffoonery twisted bystanders' faces with envy.
Lind ignored them. His gaze cut through the rubble to the distant Cathedral of the Sun.
Once, this faith had sprouted across the realm like dandelions—every town worth its salt housed one. He'd hoped to find working courier pigeons, maybe even word from Goliath's kin... or her.
Then he reached the doors.
The famed "Frostbane Choirguard" statue lay in pieces, wings snapped, as spiders wove coronation webs over its corpse.
Stepping over the toppled sentinel statue, Lind noted the cracks between once-pristine flagstones now sprouted wiry weeds.
These mutant plants thrived anywhere—but gave nothing back. Consuming them induced mental fog worse than cheap ale, their sole purpose seemingly to announce: "This land had nutrients... until we sucked it dry. Surprise! Now it's worthless."
The cathedral doors stood ajar, their three-man-height frames dwarfing him. The lintel bore a relief of an armored knight astride a dragon—weathered but defiant.
He pushed. Hinges groaned like dying giants.
Inside, no dust choked the air—odd for ruins.
Dusk's fractured light seeped through shattered stained glass, painting the nave in bruised twilight. Among the shadows loomed statues, the nearest being:
A life-sized figure with a greatsword plunged into its podium, its neck willingly pressed against the blade's edge—as if frozen mid-execution.
Movement at his back!
Lind whirled—a wrinkled face hovered inches from his own, expressionless as a funeral mask. He recoiled, boots skidding on stone.
The figure resolved into an ancient nun, her black robes swallowing the dim light. Her unblinking gaze held more in common with corpses than the living.
"The Stormknight," she intoned, voice tuned to decades of liturgical dramatics. "Symbol of penance and valor. He sought absolution for failing to save the borderland infants—thus offers his neck to the blade."
Dude's got anger management issues, Lind mused silently.
"Are you here to worship, child?" the nun pressed.
Lind ignored the question—faith had never been his language, not before his transmigration, certainly not after.
"My associate's clergy at Goliath's Cathedral," he deflected. "Comms are down. What's the status there?"
He could have waxed poetic about some long-lost flame... but the truth was simpler: Two years in this world, and that "relationship" felt like someone else's save file.
What mattered? Intel on the capital's mobilization. Had the prince rallied forces? Were there player-friendly strongholds? And—
Most crucially—
Where were the undying carving their mark?
Without the luxury of grinding mobs for XP, Lind's sole edge was intel—scraps of it, at least.
This fossilized nun seemed unlikely to cough up tactical briefings, but in for a copper, in for a crown. If anywhere still hoarded secrets, it'd be the Cathedral of the Sun's corpse.
He'd pry loose every usable datum—even if it meant humoring geriatric theatrics.