Chapter 45: Death

  There was no alcohol in Oufu. Grain was too scarce to waste on such a luxury, and the drink’s intoxicating effects were far too potent for impulsive orcs—even foreign merchants were forbidden from bringing wine into the city. This was a great disappointment for the thieves. Given their current high spirits, they would have celebrated with wine, but instead, they had to make do with the same paste-like food as always.

  Still, they would leave for the empire at dawn the next day, where wine and meat were plentiful. Just imagining the gold coins soon to be in their hands made the once-inedible paste taste like a noble dish of lamb chops stewed in apple juice.

  Ethan was hailed as the hero of their success. After all, he was a master criminal who’d seen grand things and even won the affection of a noble lady—truly impressive. If he hadn’t kept his cool and calmed everyone down at that critical moment the day before, they would have lost more than just the goods; they’d all have ended up as feed for the beast-training ground. And today, he’d handled the tense meeting with the officials flawlessly. After the goods were brought back, he’d even gone to speak with those officials again. Many thieves thought he was negotiating for a larger share, but by the look on his face when he returned, it seemed the talks hadn’t gone well.

  Ethan paid no mind to the thieves’ excitement. He brushed off them with a few words, finished his meal, and returned to his room.

  He’d spent the afternoon prying information from the middle-aged officials, and after some roundabout questioning, he’d finally learned that Lord Sedros and General Gru lived together in a residence near the city hall.

  From Sedros’s tone, Ethan knew the governor recognized the book for what it was. Asking for it directly was out of the question—it would be tantamount to admitting he was with the Necromancer Guild. And no one, no matter who they were, showed mercy to the Necromancers.

  His current identity was a professional thief. If a thief suddenly produced letters of appointment from a bishop and a duke, the first thought would be forgery. And if the orcs arrested a few thieves and interrogated them, they’d discover he also carried the stolen credentials of an Imperial Envoy—irrefutable proof of his crimes.

  After weighing his options, Ethan realized the easiest way was to do what he did best: steal the book and leave tomorrow. He suddenly thought he might actually be cut out for thievery. No matter the situation, he always resorted to fighting, stealing, or robbing.

  "We’re really going back tomorrow?" Sophia sat by the bed, flipping through her notes in the lamplight. The lamp oil was made from the fat of Scale Oxen hunted in the Lizard Marsh, and its red flame burned bright. She seemed distracted, flipping the pages back and forth, occasionally staring blankly at the fire. "Do we have to go back?"

  "Yes," Ethan said, sitting down in the corner. A pile of hay lay there—his bed. He needed to rest now; he’d sneak out to steal the book once the city fell quiet. He’d learned a unique sleeping trick from his days in the wild: if he set his mind to waking at a specific time, he’d jolt awake right on cue. And if he wanted to sleep, he could do so almost instantly.

  "Can you really sleep there?" Sophia asked, watching him settle into the hay. The red glow of the Scale Ox fat flame tinted her cheeks.

  "Yes," Ethan replied, leaning against the hay and closing his eyes. Werewolves’ night vision was far beyond that of humans. Even though Oufu’s security was tight, werewolves still patrolled the streets every night. They would be his biggest obstacle—he’d need to stay sharp.

  Sophia stared at Ethan, the firelight flickering in her hazy eyes. "I know I have to go back," she said, "but… I don’t want to."

  Ethan opened his eyes. "Why?" He needed to time his move perfectly: after the workshops closed, but before the orcs retired for the night. The noise from the workshops would mask his movements. Sneaking through the city undetected in complete silence was impossible—some werewolves could hear a human’s breath from a hundred paces away.

  Sophia turned to the oil lamp, took a deep breath as if gathering her courage, then whispered: "When I go back, I have to get married."

  Ethan’s eyes flew open. He stared at Sophia, stunned. Only then did he remember she’d mentioned a fiancé in the capital. A sharp, empty sadness washed over him, wiping away all his careful plans.

  Even later, when he slipped out of the inn and into the empty streets, his mind remained muddled. For the first time in his life, he’d suffered from insomnia—even if it was just for a few hours, from dusk to night.

  She was going back to get married.

  But hadn’t he known that all along? And wasn’t it none of his business? She was a duke’s daughter; her life was her own. He had no right to interfere.

  No matter how beautiful a connection you shared with someone, you were just fellow travelers on life’s road for a while. In the end, you each went your separate ways. An old adventurer from his village had once told him that, and he’d always thought it wise. He’d already decided what path he wanted to take.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He’d made amends for the wrong he’d done her, so his conscience was clear. Once this business in Oufu was over, he’d travel alone, wandering wherever he pleased. She’d remain a duke’s daughter, doing what a duke’s daughter was supposed to do.

  The logic was flawless—even the wisest philosopher couldn’t have put it better. But still, Ethan felt a vague, lingering sorrow.

  The dry winds of the Barbarian Highlands blew in his face, carrying the smell of charred wood and molten iron. The sound of hammering grew clearer. Up ahead was the street where the workshops were clustered; craftsmen and their orc apprentices were still hard at work. Ethan suddenly thought of home. Through his melancholy, he found himself longing for the meals his father used to make when he occasionally returned. For the first time, he realized freedom alone wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  This wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Beyond the workshop district lay the city hall, and Sedros and Gru lived nearby—he’d confirmed that that afternoon. Ethan pulled himself together, forcing his mind back to the task at hand.

  As he walked past the workshops, he grew cautious. The streets ahead were silent. The air in the Barbarian Highlands was unusually clear; even without the moon, he could make out the tall silhouette of the city hall by starlight. He crept toward it, footsteps light.

  But if she was going to get married, why had she run away? She’d said she’d come to retrieve her backpack from the marsh, but he’d known even then it was impossible to recover. Had she just wanted to travel? Why had she sought him out? He liked her—but did she like him too…

  Suddenly, a strange stench wrapped around him. It was like a mix of urine and body odor, but a hundred times more pungent—a scent unique to carnivores.

  The smell jolted Ethan’s deepest memories of bloodshed and fear. This was the same stench that had filled his nose during his closest brush with death in the Lizard Marsh.

  Ethan looked up. Less than an arm’s length away, two small, glowing green orbs stared back at him. A werewolf’s breath hit his face—he’d almost run straight into its chest.

  His legs moved on their own, propelling him backward in a desperate leap. But before he hit the ground, he crashed into a furry body. Two massive paws clamped down on his arms, and the stench grew stronger.

  The werewolf behind him held his arms like a human helping a toddler walk, letting his feet barely touch the ground. He could feel the heat of its breath drift from his ear down his neck and into his clothes. All his old fighting spirit was gone. He swore he could hear his arm bones cracking again. Fear and tension stiffened every muscle in his body—he was frozen, unable to move.

  The werewolf in front stepped closer, lowering its head until its face was almost touching Ethan’s. He could smell the rankness of its breath and the remains of its last meal.

  The werewolf spoke, its mouth ill-suited to human words, making each syllable slow and awkward: "Human… no… walk… at night. This area… off-limits… after dark." Through the darkness, Ethan could see its sharp fangs glint as it spoke.

  Ethan strained his stiff neck to nod. The two werewolves lifted him like a child, carried him back to the edge of the workshop district, set him down, and pointed toward the inn. Then they vanished into the dark.

  Ethan walked slowly toward the inn, cold sweat dripping down his face, soaking his back.

  The inn was only a short distance away. He could turn back now, sleep like usual, and return safely with the thieves tomorrow. If he reported the situation in detail, Sandro wouldn’t really demand his life in return. Bishop Ronis would surely nod and say kindly, "You did your best." And it was true—who could steal a book from a place like this? The Necromancers would have their own ways to retrieve it. It was no longer his problem.

  Should he go back?

  Instead, Ethan turned toward a nearby building. He climbed its rough stone walls, hands and feet finding purchase in the cracks, and scrambled onto the roof in a few quick moves. Oufu’s roofs were framed with thick wooden beams, covered in planks and a thick layer of hay—soft underfoot.

  When he looked up, all he could see was the starry sky. It felt as if the stars surrounded him, wrapping him in their vastness. From the highlands, the largest stars were as big as his thumb; the smaller ones were countless, dotting every corner of the sky until it met the horizon. Beyond that, he imagined even more endless beauty. Under this magnificent expanse of heaven and earth, Ethan’s heart calmed. He sat cross-legged.

  He’d grown weak.

  Once, he’d had the vigilance of a wild cat, ready to react violently to the smallest danger, and the ferocity of a wolf, always prepared to unleash his fangs on anyone who threatened him. But since leaving Bracada, that strange, sweet feeling he shared with Sophia had wrapped around his senses, dulling his sharpness and his fighting spirit. Even when he first arrived in Oufu—surrounded by orcs, told he couldn’t get the goods—he’d felt only mild surprise and caution. It hadn’t been enough to pierce the gentle fog surrounding his heart, not enough to rouse him to true tension. Like dropping stones into a bucket of thick honey, it had made no ripple.

  Moments ago, he’d been so distracted by the news of her impending marriage that he hadn’t noticed two werewolves approaching. They could have killed him as easily as crushing a chicken. He’d had no strength to resist—no will to fight back at all.

  Death. The word returned to his mind, clear and unyielding, sweeping away every other thought.

  Only when you face death directly do you realize you have nothing. Everything vanishes in its presence. Human words, wisdom—compared to the horror of this reality, they’re just puppet shows. Even the sweetest feelings crumble at its touch.

  But when you dare to face death head-on, it washes away all the trivial, messy fragments of thought and emotion, leaving only what is pure and essential. And in that, you grow stronger.

  A strength like death itself.

  Ethan knew he had to get that book back. Not for the mission, not out of duty—but to reclaim himself. To prove to himself that he was still alive, still the same person he’d always been, existing in this world in his own way.

  Ethan closed his eyes, straightened his back, and placed his hands on his knees. He began to meditate.

  He hadn’t dared practice this meditation since Bishop Ronis told him its origins—but now, to get the book back, he didn’t care.

  Soon, he sank into a sea of self-awareness. He could see a brilliant sun rising from his lower abdomen, its intense heat melting his body. He felt as if he were expanding, becoming as vast as the starry sky above.