Chapter 101
Written by Bayzo Albion
I stepped out into the street, the cool air slapping my face like a wake-up call. Only then did I exhale, the tension uncoiling slightly.
The pouch weighed pleasantly against my chest. But the real burden—and boon—was the silence and the secret it guarded.
I glanced down at the bracelet, its white-green glow pulsing softly, as if whispering: You're not alone anymore. The forest watches over you.
A wry, bitter smile tugged at my lips.
"Wealth loves silence," I murmured to myself. "And secrets thrive in shadows."
I melted into the city, aware that every step I took would now be measured with wary eyes.
After the guild, I headed straight for the bathhouse. It had become my ritual after every quest—to wash away the grime, the sweat, the blood, and the invisible scars. Calling it a "spa" would be generous: a sturdy wooden structure with a steam room redolent of resin and damp stones, copper tubs filled with scalding water.
I splurged a full gold coin for the premium private chamber—just for the luxury of steaming alone, undisturbed. For once, I could afford such extravagance without a second thought.
The hot vapor enveloped me like a comforting embrace, easing the invisible weight from my shoulders. I sank into the tub, the water searing my skin in a cleansing burn, stripping away the sticky residue of fungal juices, crusted blood, and lingering fear. With each bead of sweat, fragments of that harrowing week in the forest dissolved—the hiding, the self-doubt, the brush with oblivion.
I summoned the attendants and ordered the finest from the kitchen. Another gold bought me a feast fit for nobility: smoked meats glistening with fat, nut-studded bread still warm from the oven, a jug of honeyed wine that warmed my insides, and a fruit pie bursting with tart sweetness—a indulgence I'd never dreamed of before.
I savored every bite, eating deliberately, not for show but to celebrate. To honor my survival, my triumph over the forest's gaze, over death itself, and my return as something more.
After the meal, I lounged back in the tub, stretching out my limbs as the water cradled me. My trusty skillet and knives rested nearby, silent companions in this rare moment of peace. For now, I wasn't a fighter or a frightened child—I was simply a man who'd earned his respite.
Late that night, I retired to the room I'd reserved at the inn. The best they had: a sprawling bed with crisp linens, a wide window draped in heavy curtains.
I paid for a full week upfront. Seven days of unadulterated luxury. Seven days of quiet.
And that's exactly what I did: I rested.
I slept in late, rousing only when the sun was high. Servants brought meals on trays—rich stews, fresh fruits, whatever struck my fancy. I perused books from the nearby stall, losing myself in tales of far-off adventures that paled against my own.
My old clothes went to the laundresses, and I donned fresh garments—soft, nearly new, wrapping me in unfamiliar comfort.
The week blurred into a dreamlike haze, free of nightmares for the first time in ages.
– – –
The seven days of indulgence slipped away like sand through my fingers. I devoured rich meals, slept on feather-soft beds, soaked in herb-scented baths, and wandered the quieter streets with books under my arm. For a moment, it felt like I'd carved out a pocket of peace—until the bill came due. Ten gold coins vanished between food, baths, books, and an upscale inn room.
On the eighth morning, clarity hit: enough. I couldn't burn through my fortune, and I certainly couldn't ignore the bracelet. A spatial relic with infinite storage wasn't a convenience—it was a target. If word spread, hunters wouldn't chase mushrooms; they'd chase me.
So I set out to find a magical bag.
The city's markets brimmed with ordinary pouches, satchels, and purses enchanted with basic durability spells—nothing more than trinkets for novice adventurers. But I needed something special: a decoy, a shield to conceal the bracelet's true power. A bag that would draw eyes away from the real prize hidden beneath my sleeve.
After hours of haggling and discreet inquiries in shadowy back alleys, I found it. A plain black leather satchel, unassuming at first glance, with subtle silver stitching and faint runes etched into the lining. The seller, a wiry old man with a perpetual squint, leaned in close and whispered its virtues: "Holds three times what it should, lad, and masks the aura of whatever's inside. No prying mage will sniff out your secrets." Perfect.
The price? Twenty gold.
I didn't haggle. I just handed over the coins without a word. When you're carrying wealth that could buy half the city, such expenses are mere insurance— a small price for peace of mind.
Back in my room, I carefully transferred a portion of my belongings from the bracelet into the bag. Let anyone who glanced my way assume it was just an ordinary enchanted satchel, the kind every mid-tier adventurer flaunted. No one would suspect the boundless artifact tucked against my skin, pulsing with its quiet, otherworldly energy.
With that sorted, my next stop was the guild.
Pushing through the heavy doors, I felt the familiar shift in the air: whispers rippling like wind through leaves, eyes locking onto me with a mix of awe and wariness. People parted before me, not out of courtesy, but as if I were a wild beast prowling their den. I ignored it all, striding straight to the counter without sparing a glance left or right.
The registrar looked up, her eyes widening ever so slightly as I stated my request: "I want to retake the quest. 'Dawn Gorge: The Vanished Silence.'"
The hall fell deathly silent. It was as if everyone had collectively held their breath, the weight of my words hanging in the stagnant air.
"You... again?" she stammered, disbelief etching lines across her face.
"Yes," I replied evenly, my voice steady despite the knot twisting in my gut.
She glanced down at her ledger, her hands fumbling slightly—a rare crack in her usual composure. That quest had been a graveyard for adventurers, claiming dozens over the years with its treacherous illusions and lurking horrors. It was whispered about in hushed tones, a fool's errand. And here I was, not only having survived it once but daring to plunge back in. The shock rippled outward.
Murmurs erupted like distant thunder:
"He's going back there?"
"Madness."
"No, look at him—he's got that confidence."
I accepted the quest stamp on my card and turned away. No need for explanations; actions spoke louder than any boast.
This time, the trek into the forest felt subdued, almost welcoming. The bracelet hummed faintly against my wrist, hidden under layers of cloth, while the new bag swung innocuously at my side. My secret was secure, a fortress within.
Once more, I stepped into the underbrush, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and silence often masked impending doom.
I didn't rush back to the city. Any fool knows that returning from a quest too swiftly invites suspicion. People would wonder: Did he even complete it? Or did he stumble upon something he shouldn't have—and now he's hiding it? I wanted neither rumor dogging my heels.
Instead, I meandered through the woods, feigning aimless exploration while my mind raced ahead. What I truly sought was a place to linger, to build roots—literally.
A home.
Not some flimsy shelter of branches and leaves, but a proper dwelling, however modest. With the bracelet's hoard of mushrooms, weapons, artifacts, and my growing stash of gold, I had the means. But without a safe haven, it all meant nothing—a glittering target on my back.
The idea struck me as absurd at first. Build a house in this monster-infested wilderness? Amid the mycelium networks, prowling beasts, and hidden perils? Yet, the more I wandered, the more it solidified as the only logical choice.
I was too small, too unassuming to navigate the cutthroat politics of nobility or the scheming underbelly of the city. Parading back with miracle after miracle would paint a bullseye on me. But here, in the forest's embrace... I could vanish. I could fortify. I could grow my power in the shadows.
I stopped in a secluded glade, ringed by tall firs whose canopy broke the sunlight into dancing beams. Soft grass cushioned my steps, a stream murmured nearby, and the ground felt solid—no hidden sinkholes.
"Here," I said into the quiet. The word settled naturally in my chest.
A familiar ache rose within me, memories from that idyllic "paradise" where I'd once built a wooden cabin with a snap of my divine fingers. Now, as a powerless child, every plank would cost sweat and ingenuity.
But the essence was the same. I'd come full circle, returning to where my story had first begun.
I sat on a fallen log, rough bark biting into my legs as I thought. A home wasn't just shelter—it was an anchor, a base for my plans. And my plan was simple: turn my secrets into quiet wealth. The city swarmed with spies; the forest, however, could be my vault and command center.
I hugged my knees and chuckled. "Here we go again. Me and the woods. Only this time, it's real."
I circled the glade, eyeing the trees. In theory, it was easy: cut a few trunks, trim them, stack the walls. In paradise, it had taken a flick of my fingers. Here, it was all sweat and steel.
I placed my palm on a massive fir, then dragged my knife across the bark. Nothing. I struck harder; the blade sank only millimeters before jamming, the impact numbing my hand.
"Damn…"
I stared at my small, calloused palms—still a child's hands. They weren't made for felling giants. In paradise, I'd been a creator god. Here, I was a boy pretending to build.
Back on the log, defeat washed over me. Alone, I'd manage nothing more than a flimsy lean-to. Real walls and a roof would take months—years—and my body simply wasn't enough.
No anger, just a tired acceptance. Reality didn't bend for me anymore.