A week later, Roland walked along a stone-paved path, eyes drifting over the two-story homes rising on either side.
On his way to one of Valen Village's three taverns, he passed people every so often, people who looked at him with mockery, pity, contempt… and some with open satisfaction, as if just seeing him made their day better.
"Hey, look. Isn't that Roland Weiss? One of the biggest 'geniuses' in our village?" one of two men said, pointing in Roland's direction.
"Hah. He's about as much of a genius as a goat's ass is a trumpet," the other replied, staring at Roland with smug disgust.
"What do you mean?"
"You might not know, you've been out hunting all week, but that so-called genius only got C-rank at the Ceremony."
"What?! Only C-rank? How's that even possible?"
"Haha. The whole village was shocked. They say the Clan Leader had high expectations, and he was the most disappointed, and the angriest at Roland."
"Don't lie to me. When I came back from the hunt, the first thing my wife told me was that we finally got an A-rank again after years. If not Roland, then who?"
"Ohhh, that's what you mean," the first man said, grinning even wider.
"Guess who got A-rank. Paul Weiss."
"What?" The second man frowned. "You sure you've got that right? They're twins, but from what I remember Paul was… average at best. He never had anything to show compared to Roland."
"Hahaha. Even the elders were stunned. Imagine what that older brother must be feeling right now, his cultivation talent turns out to be garbage, while the younger brother everyone ignored ends up top-class."
At that, the second man shook his head, voice turning solemn in a way that still sounded like gossip.
"I don't know if I could pull myself together. If I were him, the first thing I'd do is go drink at a tavern."
The first man suddenly lowered his voice, leaning in as if sharing a secret.
"That's the thing, my friend said he saw Roland recently, getting into a boat with Lake Bile in a gourd."
"Not surprising. Not surprising at all. If it were me, I'd do it too. I'd probably drink dozens of those, drown myself in the bitterness."
Rumors really spread fast, Roland thought with a faint smile, listening as the two men didn't even bother to hide that they were talking about him.
A moment later, he reached the lake shore and saw the tavern ahead, one half of the building supported by wooden stilts over the water, the other anchored to the stone bank.
Its planks were dark and waterlogged, tinted green in places where moss and algae clung like old stains.
Above the door hung a sign: a fish nailed to a chunk of wood, the paint faded and sun-bleached.
Roland stepped inside without hesitation.
The air hit him at once, dampness and fish, yes, but above all a sour stench of cheap alcohol that ruled the room.
He crossed the uneven wooden floor toward the bar. Mud prints and dried salt marked the boards, and as he walked, he glanced over the people inside.
Aside from him, only two older men sat at a heavy table of thick planks near an oil lamp.
Fishing rods and bait leaned against the wall beside the light.
The men smiled as they whispered to each other, eating salted fish with porridge, one of the cheapest meals, the kind ordinary people ordered again and again.
Roland stopped at the low, massive bar, its surface cracked in several places, and said, "Two Lake Bile."
The innkeeper smiled slightly. From beneath the counter, he produced two dried gourds filled with Lake Bile and said, "That'll be one Primordial Stone."
Roland silently handed over the stone, took the two gourds, then turned away and headed for the door.
The innkeeper hurriedly added, "Dear customer, don't forget, today's the last day for renting boats."
Roland turned back, gave a small nod, and left without another word.
I hope he comes back safe again today, the innkeeper thought, watching the boy go. That's the only boat this tavern has.
In Valen Village, taverns didn't just serve food and drink, they also rented rooms and boats, which made up a significant portion of their income.
Well… Lake Bile isn't strong stuff, the innkeeper reassured himself as the door shut. Nothing should happen to him.
Outside, Roland looked at the sun lowering over the lake breeze and moved without pause. He untied the mooring rope, letting the boat drift out by an arm's length.
He grabbed an oar, stepped into the boat, and with one smooth push shoved off the dock. The boards creaked softly as the boat slid into deeper water.
With each stroke, the sounds of the village faded.
The boat rocked gently, leaving only a quiet whisper of split water behind it.
The lake's surface was smooth, broken only by the rings spreading outward in the boat's wake.
The scent of water mixed with cold air heavy with moisture.
After several minutes, there was no longer any sign of the village behind him, only the endless lake.
When the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and night settled in, Roland set the oar down and let the boat drift.
He reached under the bench and pulled out a small oil lamp, its glass scratched and worn by long use.
With a single strike of flint, he lit it. The flame trembled, casting yellow light over the boat's boards and a narrow patch of water.
Roland set the lamp on the bench, then picked up one of the dried gourds. He popped the stopper and raised it to his mouth.
A bitter, metallic smell immediately spread into the air.
He took a slow swallow, feeling the sour, almost vinegary taste that left a dry, mustard-like bitterness on his tongue.
Lake Bile was infamous in Valen for its sharp, sour flavor and the fact that it contained very little alcohol, so few people actually liked it.
The ones who drank it weren't looking for oblivion.
They wanted to drown in bitterness itself, in sorrow, in the feeling of having lost.
Over time, a grim tradition took root: Lake Bile became the drink of people whose lives hadn't worked out.
But Roland didn't even flinch as he took a few more swallows.
Then he tilted the gourd over the side and let a few drops fall into the lake.
The liquid vanished without a trace, swallowed by ripples spreading in faint rings.
For the next few minutes he repeated the ritual, drink a few mouthfuls, pour the rest into the water.
If I remember correctly… Zelathor the Exile of Bitter Grief's legacy should be somewhere around here, Roland thought, scanning the lake's surface as he dragged up every detail he'd stored away.
In his previous life, a hunter from the village had drifted across the lake, drinking Lake Bile after his hunting partner was killed by a Wild Beast.
The man had helped the family arrange a funeral, then gone to the tavern, ordered three gourds of Lake Bile, rented a boat, and rowed out to drink himself hollow.
And by sheer accident, he encountered a Bile-Weave Myrk, drawn in by the scent of Lake Bile.
Chasing the Myrk, the man stumbled onto Zelathor's inheritance, and his cultivation skyrocketed. He became a notable figure in the sect, someone who ended up living quite well.
So the Bile-Weave Myrk must feed on Lake Bile, Roland reasoned, pouring a few more drops into the water. That's why it appeared while he was drifting and drinking.
But I don't know the exact spot… so all I can do is drift blindly and spread the scent.
Nothing happened.
The surface remained calm, silent as it had been from the start.
Tch… not here either, Roland thought, sitting back down and rowing toward a different area.
He rowed for a long time in silence, guiding the boat toward darker, deeper water. He adjusted his course until the lamp's light stopped reflecting off familiar shoreline ripples.
Then he stopped and let the boat drift again.
A sip.
A tilt of the gourd.
Drops pattered onto the surface and dissolved into the lake, leaving only faint circles.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Then three.
The lake stayed still.
"Nothing," Roland muttered, more to himself than the water.
He tightened his grip on the gourd and slid the lamp closer to the boat's edge, as if light itself might coax something from the depths.
The water remained dead and smooth.
He took up the oars again.
Once more he moved, this time farther out, toward a place where the wind was stronger and the surface carried a slight, restless chop.
The scent spread faster there…
…and vanished just as quickly.
Roland drank again, poured again, maintaining the same rhythm.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something flicker beneath the surface, an indistinct shadow that slipped away before his eyes could catch it.
Roland froze. Held his breath. Didn't move the oar a single centimeter.
But the ripples calmed.
"…False alarm," he murmured under his breath.
And so it went for most of the night.
Roland shifted locations, changed drift direction, sometimes poured more, sometimes less.
Once, he let the boat drift completely without rowing.
Another time, he circled slowly in a small area as if drawing an invisible ring on the lake.
Every time, the lake answered with the same silence.
When the lamp flame began to dim and he had to adjust the wick, Roland stared into the darkness ahead.
Last attempt for today, he decided, and rowed longer than before until there was nothing around him but black water and a narrow halo of light.
Here, the lake felt heavier. The air felt colder, almost as if the water itself breathed differently.
Roland stopped the boat, set the oar down, and lifted the gourd.
He took a slow drink, unhurried, letting the bitterness spread across his tongue.
Then he tipped the gourd over the side and let the drops fall more slowly than usual, one by one.
The ripples spread wider, swallowed by darkness.
Roland stared at the surface without blinking.
This is my last chance. Dawn's coming, and today is the first day at the academy. I can't show up late, he thought, glancing east where the sky would soon begin to pale.
He sat in silence, pouring small drops now and then.
Nothing.
He raised the gourd again and let the last few drops fall.
Then he set the empty gourd down in the boat and simply watched the lake, waiting.
The silence was so thick it almost hurt. No splash, no hiss of water against the hull, only Roland's quiet, steady breathing, reminding him that time still moved.
Minute by minute, the lake remained indifferent.
The lamp flame flickered, dimmed, threatening to die.
Roland didn't even look at it. His focus never left the water.
After a long stretch, his gaze slid to the horizon.
Night's black began to thin.
The lake started to catch the colors of the rising sun.
Roland waited a little longer, in absolute stillness, as if giving the lake one final chance, trying to force an answer through sheer stubbornness.
The golden line widened, brightening on the water as darkness fully retreated, revealing the endless surface.
Roland's boat looked small and alone.
He slowly let the air out of his lungs.
"I see…" he whispered, though there was no one to hear him.
With no real emotion on his face, he slid the gourd beneath the bench, reached for the oar, and turned the boat back toward the village.