Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Pipe
The morning light spilled down. The entire village had turned into ruins; although many items were salvaged from the blaze, numerous houses had already been destroyed. Around them were occasional suppressed sobs, as dust-covered people collected the bodies of the deceased, with friends and family occasionally crying out in grief. This night had brought them too much pain, yet it also made them significantly stronger. The surviving militia looked like true warriors, still guarding the surroundings and on guard against a potential second attack by the Lizardmen.
Given a little time, they would grow into qualified warriors.
Soren sat on the watchtower smoking. The pipe was given to him by the militia captain, filled not with high-grade tobacco, but a cheap bag of shredded leaves worth a single Silver. He put the tobacco into the pipe, lit it, took a deep puff, and then gazed distractedly into the distance. The brutal battle of the previous night reminded him of the turbulent years to come. Such battles would become common in the days ahead, and even crueler and more merciless killings would arrive.
His arm still ached intensely, the severed flesh regenerating, with a mix of itching and pain twisting his expression. He trembled slightly as he picked up the pipe for another deep breath. There was no pain relief in this world; although he had a digitized template, it could not reduce the sensation of pain. The once resilient nerves he had trained were not so effective in the face of flesh-stripping agony. He needed to dull his senses a bit and temporarily forget the injury on his arm. “Here.”
The militia captain approached, his eyes red, as if he had been crying for someone—perhaps a relative who had perished in the night. Humans in the wild were resilient, much like the men from the Northern Region. A harsh survival environment could sharpen one’s will. They wouldn’t fall easily; at the very least, they wouldn’t just give in like this.
Soren shook his head, refusing the strong drink offered, simply taking a hard drag on the pipe and slowly saying, “I don’t drink.”
He didn’t drink.
Even if he were gravely injured, he would not drink.
One of the militia captain’s arms was rendered useless. He sat down with difficulty, using his good hand to take a swig of the strong liquor, then said, “Thank you. Without you, we wouldn’t have survived last night.”
Soren said nothing.
The militia captain extended a package towards him; inside, there was a clinking sound, suggesting it contained some coins. With effort, he handed it over, stating solemnly, “I know you are an adventurer. The scroll you used last night was likely your trump card for survival. We have lost too much, so we can only offer this as a token of our appreciation.”
“This is the White Crow Sword Technique I obtained years ago. I’ve been to the southern battlefield, though it’s only the first half. It should be of some use to you. The other coins are our gratitude; although not much, I hope you can accept them.”
Soren trembled as he put down the pipe; his injury wasn’t healing that quickly, even with his regeneration talent.
He picked up the book on the White Crow Sword Technique. It was a handwritten scroll, with some poorly drawn images, but he could still understand the general techniques. Soren pushed back a small pouch of coins, took up the pipe for another puff, and slowly said, “I’ll take this book; keep the money for yourselves. This winter will be hard for you. Collect whatever you can from the Lizardmen; it should help you scrape by.”
He turned and looked at the people behind him, picking up a withered staff to support his body. A green leaf swayed in the wind as he softly said, “You’d best leave today; the Lizardmen won’t give up easily.”
“Something significant may be happening deep in the wild. Leave here and find a place to live…”
“As long as people are alive, there is still hope for the future.”
Soren let out a soft sigh, raising the pipe in his hand, managing a faint smile, and said, “This pipe shall be your payment to me. I’m departing now, and you all should make your decisions soon.”
Thus, he left.
Many people hardly noticed him; only a few saw Soren’s wearied figure fade into the distance. He was a wanderer, and wanderers were just that kind of people.
Such quiet departures were not extraordinary.
No need for flowers, nor thanks; once their deeds were done, they simply moved on to the next journey.
………………
Soren traveled back along the main road.
This route had become more dangerous. Just before he set out, the Lizardmen had attacked humans near the Black Mist Marsh, and now they were almost encroaching on the perimeter of White Horse City. If the Lizardmen did not cease their territorial aggression, a war would soon erupt. These villages in the wild were not a concern for White Horse City, but if those villages contributing taxes to the city were attacked, the city guard and stationed troops would likely be dispatched.
His injuries would not heal quickly, and he could not engage in strenuous activity for at least a day or two.
Soren intended to walk back along the path; from last night’s battle, he had gained nearly 5000 points of Killing Experience, enough to elevate his Thief class by one level or significantly boost his Wizard class. He needed time to memorize his spells, preferably in a relatively safe place. He had no interest in sticking around to assist those people since they were merely strangers. Soren didn’t even know their names, nor they his—only that he was a wanderer who could use magic.
The Killing Experience earned from the Lizardmen was considerable; two Stealth Assassins gave almost 1200 points, while ordinary warriors were about 200 points, with execution of Lizardmen and Druids using Shadows’ Black Tentacles yielding nearly 2000 points. The soul energy granted by killing spellcasters was evidently over 50% higher, but they were much harder to deal with.
Lastly, there was the battle’s aftermath:
“You vanquished the Lizardmen of the night raid!”
“After a tough battle, your skills have greatly improved!”
“Use of magical devices +10, concentration +5, listen +5, search +3, stealth +3, dodge +2, evade +1, negotiate +2, parry +2, medical +2, spell identification +2.”
“You have gained insight into your specialties!…”
…………
The gains from this battle were quite apparent.
Setting aside the many foundational skill upgrades, just the final specialty prompt exceeded Soren’s expectations.
Specialty Prompt.
This was a precursor to mastering a trained specialty, and under some special circumstances, you might directly receive insight into a certain specialty. After a period of training, you could gradually grasp this specialty. Though merely the most basic spellcasting specialty, it meant that Soren would save a necessary specialty point, which greatly helped his advancement in the Wizard class since he had no specialty rewards for being a part-time wizard.
Only when the Wizard Profession Level reached 3 could he obtain his first specialty point.
As a part-time wizard, Soren’s capabilities had not significantly increased; he only gained 4 0-level spell slots and 1 1-level spell slot. With each subsequent Wizard class level, he received a corresponding increase in spell slots and an additional 0-level spell slot. High-level Wizards and Sorcerers often had many 0-level slots, to the point that they sometimes couldn’t use them all. However, the power of 0-level spells was minimal, as they were officially named “cantrips,” falling under minor spell classifications.
Unless one possessed astonishing talent like Vivian, 0-level spells were rarely employed in combat.
0-level spells didn’t appear in spellbooks.
True Wizards seldom transcribed “cantrips” since their spell models were relatively simple, often requiring no casting time at all, such as the commonly used “Mage Hand.” Thus, Soren had not mastered any 0-level spells yet; he needed to purchase 0-level spell transcription scrolls from the city’s Arcane shop, which were very inexpensive—only one-third the cost of 1-level spells.
These items were primarily needed by apprentice Wizards.
After a day of travel, Soren was fortunate not to encounter any enemies. The effects of his regeneration talent were powerful; he could now move his arm, although fighting was still somewhat inconvenient. He found a tavern in a nearby small town to rest, as the roads to White Horse City were blocked, causing this trade-dependent small town to also fall somewhat into decline. He could hear residents complaining about the taxes every year and how such minor troubles couldn’t be resolved, wondering how much longer they’d drag on.
Soren entered the arranged room and instructed the innkeeper not to disturb him.
He needed to raise his Wizard Profession Level and then began studying to memorize his first spell model, which required him to spend a significant amount of time without interruptions.
If he didn’t instruct in advance, who knew if a part-time barmaid underneath the inn would come to knock on his door?
After all, Soren was a Half-Elf, with a Charisma of 16, and he appeared quite handsome among humans, except for his somewhat cold expression.
………………
