Reralt rode on until the sun hung high overhead.

  By now, his servants would normally have prepared a proper midday picnic:

  a silk cloth laid just so, warm bread still steaming, goblets that caught the light just right.

  But there were no servants.

  He glanced around. Still none.

  He waited—dramatically.

  Still nothing.

  The hunger hit him like a lance to the belly.

  Which, for Reralt, meant about five minutes had passed.

  “All right,” he muttered. “I am a grown man. Thirty-five years old.”

  He straightened his back as if to prove it.

  “I should be perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

  With newfound (and slightly trembling) resolve, Reralt dismounted beside the road.

  A small, grassy pasture revealed itself—a suitable enough stage for greatness.

  He laid out a horse blanket with a flourish that might’ve made a squire weep.

  Then he unpacked the food he had “liberated” from the zombie cart.

  It wasn’t elegant, but it was edible:

  bread, wine, some meat—all stacked unceremoniously in a pile.

  When the blanket was ready, he stepped back, hands on hips, and surveyed his work.

  Something was missing.

  Reralt looked around.

  No applause.

  No one to say he’d done a good job.

  He pointed firmly at the blanket.

  “Look,” he declared to absolutely no one, “whatever you think, I am no longer a dependent man.

  I am Reralt. Grown-up.”

  He nodded, proud.

  Grown men, Reralt reasoned, were tragically under-celebrated.

  While settling down, he accidentally kicked the cheese off the blanket and into the grass.

  “Oh no,” he thought. “Someone should get that.”

  A moment passed.

  Then another.

  He quickly realized there was no someone.

  So, naturally, he did the only sane thing:

  he forgot about the cheese and took a long chug of wine.

  Then another.

  All that heroism had left him parched.

  ***

  Reralt was now stuffing himself without mercy—meat, wine, bread, a few slightly dented eggs.

  He was mid-bite when—out of nowhere (which is to say, from behind)—a small girl appeared.

  She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.

  She stared silently at the food.

  Reralt blinked, startled.

  “I’m sorry, little girl,” he said. “You should announce yourself more clearly.

  I could’ve choked from the shock.”

  He gestured grandly at the blanket, the food, his own magnificence.

  She didn’t react.

  “Hungry,” the girl said flatly.

  “Well then ask your cook for something,” Reralt replied, confused. Even he knew that.

  “I don’t have a cook,” she said.

  And without waiting, she reached for the bread.

  Reralt batted her hand away with the sausage he was eating.

  “Not with your filthy hands on my food!”

  And with that, he resumed chewing, noisily.

  The servants in this region, he thought, were astonishingly rude.

  Obnoxious, even.

  “Well then ask your mommy. I’m not done yet,” Reralt added through a mouthful.

  “I don’t have a mommy,” the girl replied.

  Her voice shifted—less pleading, more… ravenous.

  Reralt, without breaking eye contact, grabbed an egg and shoved it whole into his mouth.

  He chewed defiantly, staring her down.

  A single tear welled in the girl’s eye. Her lip trembled.

  Then she let out a wail that split the air and echoed through the hills.

  Reralt flinched and gagged through his mouthful.

  “Smeck—don’t—munch—cry—slick—not—swallow—working!”

  The girl fell instantly silent.

  Then—slowly—a glint sparked in her eye.

  It bloomed into a smirk.

  “Wha—” Reralt managed, just before—

  WHUMP.

  The girl launched a devastating kick squarely into his groin.

  “Ooohhhwwww,” he gasped, folding like a badly written tent.

  His cheeks bulged with half-chewed egg and heroic regret.

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  She grabbed a tin plate from the blanket and smashed it into his nose.

  Blood spurted. His arms flailed.

  Then came one punch to the eye.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Mercy!” Reralt tried to shout.

  It came out a nasal whimper.

  She jumped on his face for good measure.

  Then—everything went black.

  ***

  The child took her time.

  She sat on Reralt’s chest like it was a cushioned stool, calmly devouring his picnic.

  Eggs. Bread rolls. Sausage.

  Like a black hole, everything disappeared—no one knew where it went.

  When she was finally full, she stood, wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve, and got to work.

  She bundled the horse blanket, retrieved the cheese from the grass, and tied it all into a makeshift knapsack.

  Then, as a parting gesture, she kicked Reralt in the ribs.

  Hard.

  Without a word, she turned and walked away—well-fed, well-equipped, and carrying enough food to last another fortnight.

  ***

  Reralt woke half an hour later.

  His nose was broken and gushing blood.

  One eye was swollen shut—thick as a steak.

  His loins throbbed with betrayal.

  Something in his ribs clicked ominously every time he breathed.

  He groaned as he sat up, spotted the wine.

  Apparently, the girl had shown some mercy.

  He took a long swig and looked around, dazed.

  “Wow,” he muttered. “That must’ve been the devil himself.”

  He nodded. It had to be.

  “Winning against Reralt is nearly impossible.”

  Another swig.

  Then, louder, with newfound conviction:

  “Yes, Devil! I am still alive! That means I win again!”

  With great care and theatrical groaning, Reralt limped to his horse.

  Bruised. Bleeding. Battered.

  But proud.

  Proud that he had survived a battle with darkness incarnate.

  Proud that—even against the devil himself—he had not been broken.

  ***

  After a much-needed health potion—his last—

  Reralt was riding again, toward the sun.

  He scanned the landscape for landmarks.

  There were many.

  He recognized none of them.

  At a crossroads up ahead, a man on horseback was studying a map.

  “Good man!” Reralt called out as he approached. “Behold, I am Reralt!”

  The man didn’t respond.

  “Of Givia,” Reralt added, a little less confidently.

  He struck a pose: hands on hips, chin angled heroically skyward.

  A silence fell.

  Then another.

  “Yes, well... hello, Reralt. I’m Narro,” the man finally said.

  “Of There.”

  He gestured vaguely toward a small city behind him.

  “Well, Narro of There,” Reralt said, “perhaps you can show me where Givia lies?”

  He leaned in slightly. “You know, just to test your cartographic skill.”

  Narro raised an eyebrow, then pointed toward the distant mountains in the far north.

  “Of course it is,” Reralt said confidently, as if that were exactly what he’d meant all along.

  He made to ride off toward the mountains—eager to leave this unimportant man behind—

  But something caught his eye.

  The saddle bags.

  Specifically, the lute sticking out of them.

  The bags were stamped: Reachtown Couriers.

  “You there,” Reralt said, narrowing his eyes. “Are you by any chance... a bard?”

  He pointed at the lute as if revealing a hidden weapon.

  “Well, no. I mean—I can play three notes,” Narro replied, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Halt!” Reralt barked, wheeling his horse in front of Narro’s.

  “So you are a bard.”

  He flipped two gold coins into Narro’s hands.

  “I have epics that demand song.”

  Narro stared at the coins—more than he’d ever held.

  Then at Reralt, who looked very rich. And very serious.

  “Well...three notes? Good enough to score a legend” Narro said, smiling.

  Reralt beamed.

  Together, they rode west.

  “You know,” Reralt began, “I just fought the devil. And won.”

  “Well,” said Narro, pulling out a quill, “tell me everything, my friend.”

  ***

  A ballad rarely sung twice in the same tavern

  Reralt rode until midday, with hunger in his gut,

  He spread a cloth, uncorked the wine, and sliced some sausage cut.

  A child crept close with empty hands, and eyes so sharp and wide,

  She asked if she could share a bite—

  He simply turned aside.

  “No bread, no wine, no meat for you,” our gallant hero swore,

  “A grown man needs his strength to fight, and I have fought before!”

  But swift as wind, she struck his groin—he crumpled like a scroll,

  A plate came down upon his brow,

  And darkness took its toll.

  He woke up in a field of pain, his body bruised and red,

  One eye was black, his ribs were cracked, the world spun in his head.

  But still he smiled through bloodied lips, with barely breath to give:

  “The Devil came to kill me, friends—

  And still I chose to live!”

  “To clash with evil face to face—

  And limp away again…

  I hope next time the Devil comes—

  It’s not a girl of ten.”

  He found his steed and rode once more, proud though slightly lame,

  For Reralt, even when half-crushed, still gloried in his name.

  And if you hear this tale retold, remember what befell:

  Some demons wear a dress and grin—

  And steal your lunch as well.

  Next… Reralt gets philosophical.

  It’s basically the real world, but with even less accountability.