Tomorrow came like a jolt. Arin woke, washed up, and headed straight for the guild. The board was crowded, odd jobs stacked in neat rows. Cleaning stables. Hauling crates. Guard duty.
Then he saw it:
Escort to Ashenvill Barony.
Twenty adventurers required.
Duration: Three months.
Pay: 5 silver coins.
Three months were long. But twenty people? Safer than wandering alone, also their pay was really generous, one silver is around 100 copper. He pulled the slip and went to the counter.
The receptionist checked his badge, stamped the paper, and slid it back. "Meet at East Gate by noon."
The gate was busy when he arrived. Horses snorted, carts creaked, and adventurers clustered in small knots. Arin scanned faces, rough leather, patched cloaks, blades that had seen work.
Then he saw her.
A young woman stood near the cart, chin high, eyes sharp. Her clothes were clean, too clean for the road. Beside her, a maid adjusted a pack, quiet and efficient. Noble huh? Had to be.
Arin walked closer, keeping his tone neutral. "You're the one hiring?"
Her gaze flicked to him, cool and quick. "You're late."
"I'm on time," Arin said.
She looked him over like weighing a coin. "You'll do. Just don't slow us down."
"I'll keep up," he replied.
Her lips curved, barely. "See that you do." She turned away, speaking to the maid in low tones.
Arin exhaled softly. Tsundere, huh? Great.
While waiting, he triggered Lord's Eyes. Names and stats flickered in his vision:
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Ryn – Swordsmanship. Rank: Captain. Potential: Low.
Lira Ashenvill – Fire Magic. Rank: Soldier. Potential: Mid.
Elen – Light Healing. Rank: Soldier. Potential: Low.
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Others had talents like Dash, Stealth, and Combat Sense. Only one healer, that is, the maid Elen. Most were average.
But Lira's potential made him pause. Mid-level. Fire magic. That was rare.
He filed it away.
The captain, Ryn, looked barely twenty, blade at his hip, posture sharp. "We move at noon," he said. "Stay tight. Monsters on this route are soldier rank. Don't wander."
They left when the sun tilted west. Wheels rolled, boots thudded, voices rose and fell.
Two weeks in, the road ran long. Forest to hills, hills to open plain. Nights were cold. Canvas snapped in the wind. Bread tasted like dust.
Arin kept his distance. She was the reason they were paid, not someone to chat with.
That night, he sat by the fire, wiping the blade clean. The maid slept near the cart. Lira watched the flames, face set, copper in her hair where the light caught.
Her voice cut through the quiet. "Escort."
Arin glanced up. "My lady."
"Why did you sign onto the Ashenvill route?"
"Coin, points." He paused. "Better odds with twenty bodies than one."
"Too many men and too little focus get people killed," she said, voice flat, like she had spat the words against the wind.
"I will keep that in mind, Milady," Arin said, firm.
A pause. The sharp edge in her gaze softened just enough to make him catch his breath.
"I'm glad you understand," she said, shifting slightly, tossing a small, wrapped heel of buttered bread into the firelight. "Here, have it. Hired blades who faint are useless."
Arin caught it, mud-crusted hands trembling slightly. "Thank you."
"That wasn't kindness," she said, chin tilting up, voice colder than the night. "It's an investment."
He gave a single, tight nod. "Understood, milady."
She's totally a tsundere, he thought, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even under the firelight, even with the cold wind and the weight of the watch ahead, he couldn't help noticing how sharp, how impossible, she was.
She turned back to the flames. Shadows licked her face, and for a moment, he thought he could see the weight of every life she'd carved from the world. "Keep your eyes north on dawn watch. Ash wolves favour the ridgeline. One slip, and they'll carve you up before you hear them coming."
"I will," he said, swallowing hard.
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The wind hissed through the canvas, tugging at edges and flaps. The fire crackled, throwing sparks that danced like tiny predators across the dirt floor. Arin bit into the bread carefully, the crust dry, the butter hard and cold. He ate slowly, chewing deliberately, listening. Every snap of twig, every rustle in the leaves, made his shoulders tighten.
He forced himself to breathe evenly, counting each inhale and exhale. Hunger was a distant pain now, dulled by vigilance and exhaustion. His arms itched from the day's training, muscles screaming in protest, but he ignored them. Even sitting, he felt ready to spring, ready to strike if the shadows moved.
The firelight painted her face in flickers of orange and black. She didn't look at him again, but he knew she was watching. Every muscle, every line of posture, is judged. He kept his head low, hands wrapped around the bread, sensing her presence like a predator scenting weakness.
When he finished, he tore a small piece off and tucked it into the folds of his tunic for the morning. He stayed still for a long moment, listening to the night. The wind. The creak of the canvas. The distant howl of something too large to count as prey. His body ached in every joint, but the ache reminded him he was alive.
And alive meant one thing: he could fight. He could endure. He could learn.
Finally, he let himself lean back on the hard ground, staring at the shadows flickering in the corners of the firelight. Sleep would come in shallow strips tonight, like always. But tomorrow, he would stand again, sword in hand, eyes sharp, ready.
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By the second month, they encountered regular monsters and fought twice. The third came before dawn.
Mist clung to the ridgeline. The air tasted like charcoal.
Ryn lifted a hand. "Hold."
Heat rolled off the slope. Then the scrub broke, a large pack, paws hissing on wet earth. Ash wolves. Coals with teeth.
"Shields left. Blades low," Ryn said, voice calm. "Don't let them latch."
Elen eased Lira behind the cart's wheel. Lira didn't sit. Chin up. Hands steady. A thin wire of flame danced between her fingers, small, controlled.
The lead wolf lunged.
Ryn stepped into it like a knife through cloth. Guard, beat, cut. One.
Pivot, short draw, throat. Two.
Side step, backhand, clean finish. Three.
No wasted motion. Just work.
Two more broke right.
Arin didn't swing wide. He let the first rush past, clipped the hamstring, turned on the second, caught the jaw, drove steel up behind it, done. He finished the limper with a short push. Arin: One.
On the line, a wolf clamped a shield. The man grunted, the bite blistering fast, ash heat in the flesh. The spear beside him pinned the wolf; another blade ended it. Team: Five.
"Fire will rile them," Ryn said without looking back.
"I know," Lira answered. Her flame thinned to threads. She snapped one low across the grass; steam jumped, a white curtain for a heartbeat, blinding, not feeding.
Three wolves burst through the haze toward the cart.
Ryn arrived first. Cut, turn, cut, step, four, five, six, bodies dropping like he was counting. He didn't slow.
"Count," he called, eyes never leaving the slope.
"Nine down," someone panted. "Seven circling!"
"Hold the ring. No chasing."
Two peeled off for the flank. The quick-feet scout and the stealth talent met them in the scrub, short work. Team: Six.
Ryn moved again, tight feet, tight blade. A feint drew a snap; he took the jaw, then the neck. Four.
Another tried for his back. He shifted one step, let his teeth close on air, and ended it on the turn. Five.
Two more pressed together; he split them, one cut high, one low. Six, Seven.
The circle held. The pack hesitated.
"Last two," Ryn said.
One darted at Arin. He set his hip, edge through the eye, then under the jaw, fast, efficient. His sword finished the first. Ryn took the second with a single, bored stroke. Silence returned. Heat thinned with distance. The ridge breathed cold again.
Ryn lowered his blade. "Report."
"One bitten, cooled and wrapped," Elen said calmly. "No deep tear."
Arin checked faces, hands, and breathing. All steady.
Lira's gaze flicked to him. "Three?"
He nodded.
Her chin dipped, barely. "Good." A beat. "Keep it that way."
Ryn glanced over the bodies. "Sixteen down. No runners. Move before they circle back."
They put the ridge behind them at a steady pace. No one talked.
Arin stayed centre line, eyes on the brush. Lira sat in the carriage, posture sharp.
They were alive. That was enough.
Two months blurred into dust and sweat. Bonds formed, thin, fragile, but real. Jokes traded over fires. Shared curses when the wheels broke. Even Lira laughed once when Arin burned bread so badly it looked like charcoal.
He stored those moments quietly. Because he knew this world.
He remembered every laugh. They were currency. And this world charged interest.