Chapter 9: Reminiscing About Bygone Days

  The moonlight poured its silvery tenderness over the ground without reserve, softening the jagged edges of the bizarre rock terrain until they no longer seemed so sharp. Leaning against a stone beside the campfire, Ethan gazed at the moon, reluctant to close his eyes.

  The moon’s glow was so beautiful and gentle that his exposed skin seemed to feel the caress of its light as it spilled down. A moon like this could never be seen in Kalendor—perpetual clouds and coal smoke hung over the basin, dashing any hope of a clear view of the sky.

  It had been over a month since he left Kalendor. Yet at the mere thought of it, the smell of molten iron and coal would instantly fill his nostrils, and the clang of a hammer striking steel seemed to have faded only a minute earlier. The image of his father swinging a hammer that night before he left was burned into his mind so deeply that it had almost replaced all the other feelings from his twenty years living in Kalendor.

  His father’s face—steadfast and taciturn as a boulder—glowed like a shrine in the firelight. Muscles, thick as gnarled tree roots, coiled around his arms. With each strike of the hammer, the vibration traveled through the blade straight to Ethan’s hands. It was a tremor from his father, a touch that made Ethan feel, for the first time, a bond with his father unlike any he shared with others.

  As the blade’s shape gradually took form, his father took it from him to turn it over. Ethan lost that resonant pulse of connection with his father—and he knew that this bond would fade once the blade was forged. In its place, a surge of excitement welled up: this blade symbolized the start of his new life, the true beginning of his own journey. That anticipation was hammered into the blade with each ringing clash of metal.

  This would be a finer sword than any his father had ever made in his shop—forged from fine iron ore Ethan had secretly saved up over five years.

  Among the thousands of children in the Kalendor Basin, Ethan had been the most rebellious. It wasn’t that he’d been mischievous as a child, nor had he run wild like other boys in his teens. So unlike them, he would never grow tired of rebellion and return to the same old life. His rebellion wasn’t against small parts of life—it was against the entire life that had been mapped out for him, from the very start.

  The Kalendor Basin had a centuries-old history of metalworking and forging. The mountains surrounding the basin held seemingly inexhaustible mineral deposits, and the dwarves who lived in the caves there were accustomed to interacting with humans—even mixing with them. This made the basin’s metalworking skills the best on the continent. People had grown used to this tradition, passing down metalworking and forging as a family trade from generation to generation. Few ever left the basin; the land itself not only confined their steps but seemed to freeze their hearts in place. Growing up amid mining, smelting, and forging, they had no choice but to become part of that world when they grew up.

  Years of tradition had given the basin an unwritten rule: every man, upon turning twenty, must take up his father’s trade—whether farmer, merchant, or more often, miner or blacksmith. No one knew when or who had first set this rule, yet it was strictly obeyed, becoming one of the few spiritual touchstones in this culturally barren basin.

  Before he turned five, Ethan had been no different from other children, growing up amid the glow of forges and the clatter of hammers. But at five, he became obsessed with the stories an old adventurer in the village told of the world beyond the basin: giant flying dragons that could snatch a cow into the sky and devour it; beautiful mermaids who lured sailors with their songs; corpses and mud golems that moved on their own; all kinds of subhumans; kingdoms that worshipped the elements; strange customs; an endless blue sky dotted with wispy clouds; a vast, mysterious sea; and grasslands that stretched so far, you could ride a horse for three days and nights without reaching the end.

  Unlike other children, who only enjoyed listening to these stories and daydreaming, Ethan believed that world was real life—that it was where he truly belonged. So he began learning everything he could about the outside world from the old adventurer: how to survive in swamps and deserts, how to identify plants, the habits of different subhumans, how to fight, how to set traps. He explored every desolate, uninhabited corner of the basin, staying there for months at a time, imagining he was in that magical outside world and practicing his survival skills. To build a strong body—strength enough to stand against orcs—he trained every day, fighting boys much older than himself. By the time he was fourteen, no thugs or bandits in the entire basin dared to go near his village. At fifteen, he went to work in the fine iron mines, sneaking out the best ore whenever he found it.

  His father was a quiet man, the owner of a small weapons shop. His mother had died of illness long ago. To Ethan, home had always been just a place to rest, and his father just an elder he lived with. He had spent his days gazing at his dream, immersed in training and secretly hoarding ore, savoring each step closer to leaving.

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  A week before his twentieth birthday, he gave all the ore he had hidden to his father, asking him to forge a sword for him—and told his father he was leaving.

  His father didn’t stop him, nor did he ask where he was going. After a long silence, he took the ore to the smelter, turned the refined iron into a sword, and that was that. Then Ethan left Kalendor, the sword at his side, joining a merchant caravan that had come from outside to buy goods.

  His fingers glided gently along the blade. This sword was the sum of his twenty years of life. He flicked it with a finger, and it let out a low “hum”—like a sigh in a poem, or a song of praise.

  “Fine sword,” came a harsh voice, like two dull blades scraping against each other. The old soldier beside the campfire woke up, opening his one good eye to look at Ethan. The firelight illuminated his face—if it could even be called a face.

  Half of it was sunken, a jumble of twisted muscle and shattered bone—the mark of a blunt weapon. The other half was split by a deep, long scar that ran from his forehead to his mouth, crisscrossed by smaller, shallower scars. His features were pulled out of place by the scars. It was a face made grotesque by wounds—and what was even more bizarre was that he had survived so many of them.

  Ethan gave the old soldier a friendly smile. This man had fought in wars for decades and somehow never died; rumor had it he bore over a hundred scars, big and small, all over his body. Because he refused to stay dead, many in the unit called him “Old Undying.”

  “Where’d you serve before?” The old soldier, noticing the sword wasn’t standard military issue, assumed Ethan was a lone mercenary.

  Ethan shook his head. He had joined the army only after seeing a recruitment drive for mercenaries in Bracada. After leaving Kalendor, he’d quickly learned that living freely in the outside world wasn’t easy. He needed money for food and supplies for his adventures. He’d been on the verge of joining bandits or fighting for thugs when he saw a scouting unit recruiting temporary soldiers—and signed up on the spot.

  Half of this hundred-man unit had been recruited locally, near Bracada: farmers, drifters, even a few fugitives mixed in. They were unruly, but lively. And this strange-looking old soldier was actually a regular soldier.

  The old soldier, probably unable to sleep, struck up a conversation. “You look like you can handle yourself, kid. Why’d you sign up to be a soldier?”

  “Because I had nothing else to do. Honestly, I was about to become a bandit,” Ethan said, telling the truth.

  The old soldier let out a laugh like a pot being smashed. Ethan noticed a scar on his throat—likely damage to his vocal cords. “You’re a funny one, kid. Sometimes being a bandit’s better than being a soldier, y’know? At least it’s less dangerous. Bandits rob if they can win, run if they can’t. Soldiers? When you should run, the officer might still order you to charge.”

  “Then just don’t charge. Run when you need to,” Ethan said.

  “Disobey an order, and the officer’ll cut your head off,” the old soldier replied.

  “Then cut the officer’s head off first, and run after that,” Ethan said, speaking as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  The old soldier laughed again, a rasping sound. “There’s no soldier like that.”

  “Who’d let themselves be ordered to die when they know it’s a death sentence?” Ethan frowned, confused. “You gotta find a way to survive. If he tells me to go die, why doesn’t he go die first to show me how it’s done?”

  The old soldier shook his head, his one eye clouding over with confusion. His twisted features twitched into an expression no one else could understand. “That’s just how it is… when you’re a soldier.”

  A clinking sound echoed through the camp. Ethan knew it was Captain Sanders—he was the only one who still patrolled in his steel armor at this hour.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Sanders asked. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow.” He was fully equipped as always: steel armor, a steel helmet, a sword at his left hip and a shield at his right. These things seemed to grow on him—Ethan had never seen him take them off. Both the armor and shield bore the engraved symbol of a holy cross. Ethan had heard this was the mark of the Paladin Order—a unit so famous, even in his dull, backwater hometown, everyone knew of it. It was the empire’s strongest force.

  “We were just talking about what it’s like to be a soldier,” Ethan said, still telling the truth.

  “Captain, why aren’t you asleep? We’ll turn in right away,” the old soldier said quickly, afraid Ethan might say something reckless.

  Sanders nodded, his tone warm. “Just making my rounds.” His voice and expression were gentle, even his face had an inexplicable sense of familiarity. This young captain was highly respected by the regular soldiers, though the other mercenaries Ethan had joined with seemed less impressed.

  Commoners at the bottom rarely had a good opinion of nobles—so the fact that they didn’t dislike Sanders already proved how approachable he was. But Ethan felt a certain awe for him. He’d never seen Sanders fight, yet he could tell the captain was far stronger than himself.

  Sanders looked at Ethan. “Are you the new recruit who took down four infantrymen during the trials?” Prospective soldiers had to fight a few infantrymen to prove their strength and stamina. Ethan had easily taken down several soldiers much larger than himself.

  “Yes, sir,” Ethan replied. Sanders nodded, his voice approving. “You’re very skilled. Keep up the good work, and you’ll do well.”

  Even though his conversation with the old soldier had left him questioning the life of a soldier, Ethan found himself nodding eagerly.

  It seemed not all nobles were arrogant and unpleasant. Praise always made people happy—and Ethan could barely remember the last time someone had praised him.

  Suddenly, a sharp alarm rang out from the sentries outside the camp, slicing through the silence of the wilderness night.