“Longhills is a fairly disgusting city. For me, who don't like sailors and people pissing in the middle of the streets, it is something akin to hell. The town is noisier at night than during daytime, half the population consists of fat dockers and seamen, the other half are back-alley shady guys and unsightly girls. Can't say I've ever spent a comfortable night in this town. You can't possibly have a sleep worth the price of the room. When it's not loud drunkards banging on the rooms' door in the inn in the middle of the night, it's the idiot thieves trying to lighten you from your possessions that wake you up when they god-damn feel you in your sleep. Do I look like I have secret pockets and pouches in my pyjamas ?! One time there also was this creepy girl trying to sneak into my room. I don't know what she wanted because I promptly gave her a proper kick in the face and threw her out before she could do anything. My instincts told me to do it.

-Anonymous traveller”

* * *

Azcheron

The following day, Anton went to the castle to meet with a member of the Sarlas family to give his false bit of the story. Azcheron checked out a few stores and took a walk in the city. There wasn't much new to him as he had spent the last months in port towns and villages on the islands. Apart from the sailor-filled night life peculiar to large port cities, he did not get to discover anything else.

Azcheron had told Anton about the incident in his room. The old mage had some kind of proud expression, and even congratulated the Saint for not outright killing the girl. He felt like a savage barbarian child facing a haughty civilized citizen. Who did he think he was ? He'd slap him with a mana blast if he wasn't so old, that scoundrel.

In any case, the day passed quickly, in an uneventful manner, and they were spending the night in another inn as per Azcheron's dearest wishes. He desired to avoid meeting the creepy girl once again.

Who knows how many 'brushes' she got in stock as a pretext for... whatever she does. Don't want to know.

Azcheron was not feeling guilty for ruining and melting the lock of her room with magic. She deserved it. That would teach her not to mess with the wrong people.

She was lucky, in fact, because I'm a rather nice person as long as you avoid doing anything that'd provoke my anger, in which case I'll behead you. Hm ? That sentence doesn't really work in my favour. I'll rephrase it. I'm polite but mess with me and I'll behead you.

Still not very good, but the main point was here. You didn't mess with Azcheron.

Well, in any case, she had been lucky. It could have been some strange sadist or a boorish pervert in Azcheron's place, and it would not have ended well for her. Worst case scenario with the Saint, she'd have left the room with one or two broken arms, but otherwise she'd have been fairly untouched, both in mind and body. Arms aside.

Now that I think of it this way, I'm feeling rather pleased about the incident. I got to show my good side. Surely she'll see me in a positive light when she remembers me from now on.

Not that he really wanted her to remember him. Azcheron was having enough trouble with him remembering her.

Morning came, and they were both standing at the north gate. The capital was in the north-west of Longhills, but according to Anton the shortest road was through the north.

“Are you sure you don't want to come with me ?” Anton said while fastening the saddler of his horse. He already knew the answer, but he still asked again.

“Are you already feeling lonely ? Don't worry, I'll find my way to the capital, even if I take detours. It's not like you'll only have a brief stay there. You'll be stuck for quite a long time, no ?

“A few years, at least.” Anton looked dejected.

“Hahaha ! I admit I'm quite eager to see this infamous Academy that is able to make you do such a face by merely thinking about it.”

“I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Our library will surely interest you. And you'll be able to meet all sorts of people when you visit,” Anton replied while making a face that said 'once you do, I'll make sure you share my misery'.

Azcheron acted as if he didn't catch that.

“I wonder whether I should go north or west. What do you think ?”

“If you're planning to take your time with leisure detours, go west. You don't want to be stuck in the north when winter strikes, and it soon will. It'll come earlier than usual, seeing how it's already cold here.”

“I thought so. How far is the capital by horse, by the way ?”

“I'd say a good month is enough. Might take a bit more this time because of those brigands.”

“Ah. I've read stories like that.”

“What ?”

“Friends separating while there's danger mentioned – foreshadowing, I think they call it ? – and then one of them tragically dies because of said danger.” Azcheron's mouth twisted in a grin. “Be careful, dear friend.”

“What kind of tear-jerking literature have you been reading ? That's something you'd find in some of the less inspired tragedy books. Who brought you that crap ?” Anton said in a mocking voice.

“You did.”

The old mage could only scoff. “You should worry about them instead. I could make a living out of frying bandits if I wanted.”

“Actually, is that not what you did when you served in the army ?”

“Damn right you are.”

With unexpected vigour, he jumped on his horse.

“Well then. Farewell, old man.”

“Farewell, brat.”

And just like that, Anton rode toward the capital.

Quickly thereafter, Azcheron marched to the west and found the western road, and began his journey.

Azcheron didn't bother to buy or rent a horse. He was fine with walking. He didn't look like it, but he was actually in good shape and could boast stamina. Most of the Rahal clansmen didn't care much for their body since they could do everything with magic, but his father encouraged him to exercise a bit, a least enough so that he would not be too dependent on mana.

It'd prove useful if he had to survive and flee a fight because he ran out of mana. Not that the Saint could afford to run from a fight on the island when he is supposed to protect it. Or that he would run out of mana. That would be even more unlikely.

But you could never be too careful, and setting aside his blunder with Koven, Azcheron was always careful. Well, not always. He was a playful person after all. Still, he believed he was at least careful when it mattered. Whatever that meant.

But then someone careful would always be careful. Not being always careful would mean being careless. Frowning, Azcheron thought about what it entailed to be careful now that he wasn't on the island anymore.

Perhaps he could learn to use a weapon, or some kind of martial art, if the opportunity presented itself. He was thinking up ways to face situations where he couldn't use magic freely.

Therefore, while pondering all that, Azcheron was walking. He could use Manasprint anyway if he felt it was taking too long, though that'd defy the point of his exploration trip. As he strode along the dirt road, Longhills faded in the distance behind him. Soon enough only hills and plains could be seen on each side of the road with the faint shapes of mountains in the western horizon. The mountain range would have to be tremendously huge for him to be able to see it from here, where everything else was hidden in the distance of the hills.

Longhills. Figures. I do hope the places here aren't all named in the same fashion.

He searched through his bad, unfolded the map Anton gave him, and began to think about his travel plans. The west road led through a series of small villages bordering a large forest. He had high expectations, for he had never seen a forest aside from the one on the island. Then again it was more of a jungle according to the books, and it was still rather modest.

A few weeks in from Longhills and he'd arrive at a town called Quarras, south-south-east of the capital. Supposedly trade was active there, so he'd be able to refill and observe the economy a bit. See what's being bought and sold on a continental marketplace. Meet and talk with a couple of mercs perhaps, ones that he wouldn't have to kill.

Not that Azcheron felt bad or anything for the ones they had killed, back on the island. Mercenaries knew the risk of their own job. Hell, risk was the point of their trade, he'd say. But he wanted to avoid killing every mercenary he'd meet. They were part of the continent's folklore, after all.

I could even become a mercenary. I'd be the strongest ever, I'm sure. But no. It wouldn't do for the Rahal Saint to be led around by an employer, probably a noble at that, and do menial tasks like finding his dog or protect his life.

Regardless, I'm looking forward to this trip. I wonder what kind of people I'll meet, what kind of enemies I'll make.

Why would he make enemies, you ask ? It was obvious, every good legend needed antagonists.

But for now, he simply walked on the dirt road, gazing at the mountains in the far far west.

* * *

???

The posterity will note that some authors, in their version of Azcheron's legend, having found an easy opportunity to make the reader cry, depicted Anton meeting his demise during his return trip, fighting bravely to the death against a horde of lawless ruffians.

History tells of a much less coloured truth : when he went back to the capital, Anton did not meet bandits. He actually didn't encounter anything worse than a beggar snatching his boots.

But the story of Anton's bootless arrival to the capital shall be spoken another time – or perhaps never, its protagonist being fairly displeased with it –, for the legendary mystery of the Great Cursed Forest is now about to be told.