The Embarrassing Grenadier and the Line Infantry

Fang Heng's first battle in his life had been rather one-sided.

He had heard Scarpe say that most people were far too nervous during their first battle in Aethelria. It was like plunging one's brain into ice water—bone-deep cold, utterly blank. Unease whispered in the heart like a demon, making the brave hesitate and the timid go mad, ultimately throwing away their lives for nothing.

Though here, that merely meant wasting a precious chance to revive.

But Fang Heng was doing all right. Aside from being a little stunned at first, he had managed to keep calm most of the time. Keeping up with the others was difficult, though. Clutching the cold, cumbersome Seventh Style Firearm, he found the freezing air scraping at his lungs like a file with every breath, leaving a faint bloody, salty taste in his throat.

Ahead was a wall of people. The forest was bright as day, and both sides were locked in chaotic combat within the woods. Piercing whistles drowned out the clash of metal. Fang Heng saw a Guard Knight pursuing a Dual Sword Swordsman. The latter was much lower in level and was forced to raise his swords in defense. One strike, two strikes—after the third exchange, his head was severed and fell to the ground, his eyes still wide open.

Fang Heng stared into the dead man's eyes. His face was waxen, his eyes blood-red like agate, motionless as though he were nothing but an empty shell. Then the corpse turned into motes of light, scattering into the darkness like butterflies beating luminous wings.

The Silverwood Spear was collapsing.

Quilod had led his men into their left flank like a stone thrown into water, sending ripples outward. A cry rose in unison from that direction. They swept through the enemy like deadwood, and the battle line withered like fallen leaves. Everywhere Fang Heng looked, cold blades reflected one another's gleam. Sword edges bit through metal, and rose-colored blood splashed across the leaves, steaming in the air.

Fang Heng was in the ranged formation.

Suddenly, someone at the side shouted, "Three steps forward! Left to right, unarmored targets! Ready!"

Archers and crossbowmen in chainmail, Gunslingers in gleaming breastplates, and rangers in green cloaks stepped forward over the soft, leaf-covered ground with a rustle. Then they raised their Battle Gear in perfect unison—bows, crossbows, and firearms.

Fang Heng hurriedly copied the other Gunslingers and crouched halfway down, pulling out a paper packet from his dusty bullet pouch. He had some experience with firearms, thanks to his time as an apprentice craftsman in Kapuka.

The archers drew their bows. A shrill sound that made one's teeth ache filled the air, like a thick rope twisting taut.

Somewhat clumsily, Fang Heng pulled out the copper latch protecting the firearm's core—the Red Crystal—bit open the paper packet, and spat out the wrapper. He poured the blood-red catalyst into the chamber, then raised the gun and used an iron ramrod to force the bullet into the rifled barrel. Since Attribute-less Crystals were much more fragile, it could only be loaded from the muzzle.

The process was slow and exhausting. He was drenched in sweat before he had even finished half of it when he heard a low shout.

"Fire—"

The bowstrings released as one. Fang Heng heard a hum in his ears as arrows flew into the forest like a sudden downpour.

The Silverwood Spear's retaliatory volley was feeble. Only a few stray arrows passed over Fang Heng's head.

"Second volley, third botanist from the left. Finish him," that voice called again.

Only then did Fang Heng raise his firearm, fit the crystal percussion cap, pull back the striker, and kneel to aim. But the Silverwood Spear's left flank had already collapsed, retreating like an ebbing tide.

He had lost his target, and so had everyone else. He turned toward the side, and the voice decisively ordered, "Forward one hundred feet."

Fang Heng reset the striker, climbed to his feet, and followed the others. But only then did he feel a stabbing pain beneath his ribs, and stars swam before his eyes. As the excitement from his surging adrenaline faded, weakness came flooding in uncontrollably.

A Life Profession simply did not have the stamina of a Combat Profession.

He tried twice and failed both times. Panting heavily, he half-knelt where he was, his face white as paper. No one else noticed that someone had fallen behind. Yet two cold gazes in the forest did.

Two Silverwood Spear rogues had been lurking outside the battlefield since the battle began.

"Watch out!" Scarpe's voice came from ahead.

Fang Heng looked up just in time to see Scarpe nock an arrow. A thread of lingering light clung to the bowstring, while the arrowhead glinted with sharp blue radiance amid the chill mist. "Duck!" she shouted. The arrow came straight at him. Fang Heng lowered himself, and a muffled groan sounded behind him, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground.

He turned around. In his field of view, a rogue wearing frayed leather armor lay on his back, clutching his chest. The arrow fletching was divided into four sections, tawny with black tips—fine Griffin Feather. Fang Heng glanced once more at the dead man's face, utterly lifeless like a wax figure. At the edge of his vision, another figure was gradually vanishing behind an ancient trunk. Those were White Oaks, the sacred trees of the Numenor Elves.

The other rogue. Fang Heng instinctively raised his gun. "Don't fire!" Scarpe was afraid he would shoot wildly; the smoke from firearms would interfere with her.

Yet Fang Heng did not look like a newcomer at all. He calmed himself, held his gun steady, and aimed at that direction without moving.

The wind and forest mist seemed to freeze.

The enemy moved half a step. Dry leaves rustled beneath his feet, like ripples spreading across water. Scarpe's pointed ear twitched faintly, and she immediately raised her longbow and fired an arrow into the darkness. It was knocked aside by an oak branch. She cursed under her breath—the enemy had positioned himself precisely in her blind spot.

That was no coincidence. Scarpe immediately realized he was an experienced rogue—

"Ed..."

She had just been about to warn him when Fang Heng suddenly turned in another direction. He had tilted his head, and at some point, pulled down his goggles. "Wait, don't—!" Scarpe cried out in alarm.

She looked to the other side and saw the rogue moving between the trees like a shadow. At that moment, Fang Heng pulled the trigger. Fire flashed, throwing the surroundings into stark darkness. The roar was deafening, and smoke instantly spread through the forest.

"Oh no!"

This was precisely what Scarpe had feared. Her scouting skill had already calculated the trajectory. The lead ball would spin through the gap between the second and third trees, missing the rogue by half a step—by the narrowest margin.

A strange thought suddenly surfaced in her mind. His aim is actually pretty good...

Then a streak of gold flashed through the darkness, drawing Scarpe's attention. It traced an unimaginably nimble zigzag through the trees. The experienced rogue, who should have avoided the shot, froze for the briefest moment at this unexpected development—and made an irreparable mistake. He paused between the second and third White Oaks. The lead ball struck him squarely in the chest, and he screamed as he was sent flying.

The rogue was thrown out of Scarpe's blind spot. Without hesitation, Scarpe raised her bow and fired. Her arrow pierced his throat in midair. Only then did she lower her bow and turn around.

In the darkness, that golden trajectory drew an exceptionally graceful semicircle through the forest.

Fang Heng raised a hand and caught the brass ball with a click. Only then did the Silver Rail on his glove begin resetting one section at a time with a series of clicks.

He slowly lowered his hand, lifted his goggles, and let out a long breath, his face pale.

"...A Clockwork Sprite?"

Scarpe murmured it unconsciously.

She hurried over, her expression complicated. "...Did you use the Clockwork Sprite to disrupt his judgment just now?"

Fang Heng nodded. Then he flashed a dazzling white smile and smugly asked, "Well, Miss Scarpe? Wasn't that especially cool just now?"

"Cool my ass!" Scarpe slapped him across the head in anger. "What were you doing back here?"

Fang Heng covered his head with a wounded expression. "I obviously couldn't keep up with you guys. I'm just a little Life Profession player."

Scarpe did not buy a word of his nonsense. She walked over and, with a swish, pulled a large bag of money from his chest. "Of course you couldn't keep up carrying this! Didn't I tell you to convert the money into data? Why keep it on you? Waiting to die?"

Fang Heng scratched his head awkwardly. He could hardly tell her he was a stowaway and lacked the quantification abilities provided by Radiant Equipment. That would be far too embarrassing. He would not say it even if it killed him.

But Scarpe rarely did not pursue the matter. She merely sighed. "It would be nice if you had Magic Adaptability."

Fang Heng did not seem to care. He looked at his Seventh Style Firearm. "Speaking of which, this gun's damage is really high, Miss Scarpe."

"High?" Scarpe was stunned. For a moment, she even forgot what she had been about to say. It was the first time she had heard someone praise this antique for its attack power.

"It did thirty damage with one shot just now," Fang Heng said, still staring at the firearm in his hands with lingering excitement. "That's several times higher than the damage I normally do throwing things with the Clockwork Sprite."

Thirty damage. Scarpe looked at him as if he were an idiot.

She nodded. "That's true."

"It really is high?" Rarely receiving agreement, Fang Heng could not help feeling flattered.

Scarpe shook her head. "It really is embarrassing."

"Huh?"

The battle soon entered its final stage, and the Silverwood Spear's rout turned into a complete flight.

Dawnstar did not choose to pursue them. The two sides had no deep grudge, and mercenaries only fought to the death for money. When the last silver banner vanished into the forest, silence settled over the woods.

A light mist hung among the trees beneath the night sky. Behind them, ancient branches twisted like claws, strange and monstrous, reminding one of the bedtime tales common around Cape Saint Huan—werewolves, vampires, and tree spirits beneath the full moon.

Tonight's moon happened to be huge and round, its light flowing like woven silk.

Fang Heng packed away his Seventh Style Firearm and looked from afar at the others cleaning up the battlefield, feeling a little envious. But there was a ninety-nine percent chance he could not use anything dropped by the Silverwood Spear. The night was unusually cold. The sharp air carried the scent of blood, like the faintly raw sweetness left in one's mouth after chewing something—like rust.

At some point, Quilod came up beside him from behind and silently watched the scene ahead with him. Fang Heng turned back in surprise and saw the tall, silent man carrying a greatsword on his back and holding a flask.

"Mr. Quilod, you're drinking during a mission again."

"It's water, lad."

"Water?" Fang Heng stared at him in disbelief, thinking this man from a warrior people had changed his ways.

"Water of Life. Vodka." He handed over the flask. "Want some?"

"...Miss Scarpe will kill you if she sees that."

"So don't tell her."

Fang Heng was speechless.

"A boy who doesn't drink will never become a man." Quilod glanced at him. "So, are you getting used to battle?"

"It was all right." Fang Heng nodded.

Quilod nodded as well. "I heard from Scarpe. That was a very impressive battle."

Fang Heng scratched his head somewhat shyly. "Miss Scarpe said the other guy was just a rookie, and I only got lucky."

"A rookie?" Quilod looked at him, then shook his head without saying anything. He did not tell Fang Heng that the people they had encountered were members of the Silverwood Spear's main force. The battle had gone smoothly because the liaison officer had performed exceptionally well.

And the rogue Fang Heng had killed was no ordinary fighter either. Scarpe had examined his insignia. At the very least, he had been a professional team captain.

"It seems especially cold tonight. It's only late summer, but there's already a layer of frost in the woods. I remember Taren doesn't get snow in winter," Fang Heng said suddenly, looking at the mist around them.

Quilod took a sip of liquor and exhaled a cloud of white vapor. It blended into the forest as he answered, "It doesn't." Then he walked ahead.

Fang Heng followed, stepping over the humus soil thick with fallen leaves. It was soft and dense, like a cushion. A broken sword was stuck in the ground ahead. He stopped and pulled it out. It was a Corin Longsword. The blade was mirror-bright, bearing the emblem of White Oak City: a brilliant flame used to forge the sword, the mark engraved with a chisel before quenching.

He held the sword in his hand and turned the blade over. It was about three fingers wide, gradually narrowing toward the edge. The workmanship was exquisite. Its snowy reflection shone on his face, revealing his calm expression.

"It's a good sword," Quilod said, looking back at the weapon in Fang Heng's hand. "A pity it's broken."

"But it isn't Battle Gear."

"Maybe not. But Battle Gear isn't necessarily good."

Fang Heng tossed the sword aside and asked, "I'm curious. Why didn't the Silverwood Spear build fortifications inside the ruins?" He looked in that direction. The Elven Ruins were faintly visible through the mist. "Wouldn't it be easier to defend there?"

"Perhaps they didn't have time. The Jefflitte Redcoats would not simply stand by either. Both sides want to occupy these ruins." Quilod took another drink before answering, "Maybe there really is something important inside." Then he suddenly asked, "By the way, do you know them?"

Fang Heng nodded. "The Silverwood Spear's headquarters in the Second World is very famous in China. It's called the Crown of Silverwood. It also has two branches, the Silverwood Shield and the Silverwood Staff. They all belong to the Whisperer Club."

Quilod fell silent for a moment after hearing that. "It looks like something major must have happened in the Second World."

"Why?"

"Don't you check the community?"

Fang Heng broke out in a cold sweat. He wanted to.

Fortunately, Quilod did not press the issue. "More and more Major Guilds are returning from the Second World to the First World. That isn't a good sign." He patted Fang Heng on the shoulder. "You didn't experience the Battle of Bayne thirteen years ago. You'll understand when the time comes."

Fang Heng froze. "The Battle of Bayne?"

Quilod shook his head.

He shook the flask and turned it upside down, only to find it empty. Looking through it, he happened to see an angry-looking Scarpe parting the mist as she approached. He hurriedly hid the flask behind his back.

Scarpe glared at him, then seriously asked the two of them, "Have you seen that woman?"

Quilod was taken aback.

Fang Heng reacted before him. "You mean Miya, Miss Scarpe?"

"She's gone. I asked the people in Group A. Someone saw her leave by herself after the battle ended." Scarpe looked at Fang Heng. "That woman is unreliable. She's from a Major Guild, not one of us, Ed."

But Fang Heng seemed not to hear the latter half. "Miya's gone?" His heart thudded. "I'll go look for her!" With that, he ran into the forest without looking back.

"Wait—" Scarpe watched the young man's back vanish into the mist and angrily lowered her hand. "That brat."

"What exactly happened?" Quilod finally asked.

"Someone saw her enter the ruins alone. Who knows what's going on." Scarpe looked worried. "That woman is anything but simple. Ed doesn't understand a thing. I'm worried he'll get hurt over this."

Quilod stroked the stubble on his chin. His thick brows nearly knotted together as he pondered for a long while. "You noticed it too?"

Scarpe nodded. "The pair of Battle Blades she gave Ed are clearly Dragon Knight weapons, so I—"

Quilod interrupted her. "Let him go, Scarpe. Boys need to experience some setbacks." He lowered his head and looked at his girlfriend with gentle eyes. "You're becoming more and more like a mother. Let's have a child, Scarpe."

Scarpe froze, then a blush gradually rose on her cheeks. "Y-you, what nonsense are you talking about? Don't you plan to keep adventuring?" Then she suddenly stopped and stared intently at her boyfriend. "Quilod, are you planning to quit?"

Quilod nodded. "Haven't you noticed?"

"So many Major Guilds are pouring into the First World. I'm not blind," Scarpe said hesitantly. "But..."

Quilod said nothing more, only held her hand.

Scarpe leaned against him, pressing herself to his broad chest. "All right. Actually, I've been thinking the same thing. After all, no one would want to go through what happened thirteen years ago again. But I still want to stay a little longer. You know, Ed is really talented..."

"You want to guide him for a while?"

Scarpe nodded.

"But he doesn't have Magic Adaptability."

The thought made Scarpe a little angry. She muttered, "That's why I want to convince him to settle down and become an alchemist. But that guy's head might as well be carved from granite. Nothing gets through to him."

Quilod laughed helplessly. "You can't persuade him. He's serious. After this mission, he'll leave the adventuring party." He looked into the distance. The temperature continued to fall, and the mist in the forest was growing thicker and thicker. "He has his own path. I know that very well."

"Yes, exactly like you. So stubborn it's infuriating."

Quilod chuckled and merely gave his girlfriend's hand a gentle squeeze.