When imprisoned, the Traveler had sought to improve his fighting technique only enough to win his freedom. Once he began to study in earnest, he excelled at swordplay and pyrotechnics because he wanted to receive the mixed admiration and fear that the Alchemist’s very presence inspired from all. After the Alchemist’s farewell, freedom and the pitiful bundle of travel rations were a pitiful consolation prize. Armed with only a sword, a navy wool cloak, and the bundle of food, the Traveler had been shooed from the Sun Army training grounds to fend for himself. Instead of the awe of his peers, he received the shame of dismissal. His shock soon turned to anger, and he stormed away from the training grounds without another backward glance.

After that unfortunate moment, the Traveler took a roughly southwest heading to seek the fellow Silver Militia who had fled from the Alchemist’s attack. Although his hometown sat firmly within the borders of the Sun King’s domain, the rebel army had progressed eastward like an arrow aimed for the Capital. The result was a narrow swath of conquered land that left vast regions north or south of this line untouched. Several such towns fell within the guardianship of the Silver Militia, that sworn brotherhood to which the Traveler technically still belonged. The Traveler wandered southwest for several days, seeking those towns that might contain some trace of familiarity.

The Traveler had learned much over his time as the Alchemist’s prisoner and student. For instance, an ordinary militiaman might feel indebted to the Alchemist for teaching him swordsmanship, yet the Traveler now understood that debt only extended insofar as the other party was stronger than oneself. Only the powerful could afford to collect their dues; only the weak could not refuse to fulfill such open obligations. An ordinary militiaman might resent the Alchemist for attacking his town in the first place, but the Traveler owed nothing to that hometown anymore. What had his town given him but defeat, in the end? And what had the Alchemist given him but insult, in the end?

No matter. There were always new places to go, new populations to impress. One’s origins did not define one’s loyalty, for this was one’s own to choose or not—this much, the Traveler remembered from the Alchemist’s lessons.

In fact, the Alchemist’s actual words were: “One’s birthplace need not command one’s true loyalty, which always falls to oneself until a worthy leader is found,” but the Alchemist did so enjoy babbling on about such nonsense as honor and worthiness. In addition to learning how to use swords and explosives, the Traveler had developed a keen ability to tune out of a conversation when his temporary mentor went off on peculiar tangents. Most of the Alchemist’s lessons were useful, and the Traveler fully intended to bring such practical information to the Silver Militia to enlighten his fellow guardsmen. Anticipation of their awe and gratitude brought a satisfied grin to the Traveler’s face.

A town appeared over the crest of a hill, and the Traveler felt great relief at this sign of civilization. Though capable of wilderness survival due to the Alchemist’s army training program, the Traveler missed the comfort of sleeping in sheltered barracks instead of on damp soil. Chewing on roots could keep one alive, but a well-cooked meal at a local inn would be luxurious after days of travel.

Like the Traveler’s home, this town was built on a hilltop and had a wooden fence surrounding it. At twice the Traveler’s height, the wooden fence could be climbed, but the Traveler decided against it. Getting spotted and shot full of arrows seemed painful. The Traveler circled around the outside of the fence until he spotted a large wooden structure: a fort similar to the one by his own town. At the base of the fort, a gate blocked a dirt road wide enough for two wagons to comfortably pass. As the Traveler watched, a person in merchant’s clothes ambled down the road and knocked on the gate three times. Not so much as a head popped over the fort walls to check on the merchant. The gate merely swung open, and the merchant passed through without trouble.

The Traveler stepped away from the fence and scuttled downhill to enter the dirt road at a point not easily visible from the fort. Once on the road, he walked up to the gate at a leisurely pace, knocked three times, and thus gained entrance to the town. A boy in oversized silvery armor pushed the gates shut behind him.

“What useless security measures,” the Traveler said, taking in the deserted state of the fort. The boy was the only person visible for miles, aside from the retreating merchant and the few distant figures in the town on the hilltop. The Alchemist would have called this a poor distribution of assets at the very least, and the Traveler agreed wholeheartedly. Had his own town ever left the fort unguarded? The Traveler frowned as he recalled—yes, they had indeed left only one or two militiamen to guard the fort normally, and those were usually the unfortunate new or unpopular members. Only when a lookout reported an attacking army did his town’s Silver Militia gather at the fort in large numbers. Not that it had done them much good, in the end.

The road cut between waist-high stalks of wheat, and the light breeze sent ripples of wind through the sea of grass. A distant farmer waved at the Traveler. He nodded and raised a hand in reply, smiling at the simple goodwill of the motion. Upon reaching the town proper, the Traveler drank in the familiar sights of a prosperous town: roads, buildings, shop stalls. People dressed in casual wools and linens rushed about their daily affairs.

A flash of metal appeared between two buildings. Two Silver Militia members, identifiable by their shiny breastplates, were deep in conversation with a shabbily dressed individual. The conversation went thus:

“This is the eighth time we’ve caught you harassing the weaver’s daughters. You know it’s inappropriate. Quit it, alright?” entreated the militiaman with a turnip decal on his silver breastplate.

“Yea... sure I will, buddy. For sure,” said the shabby individual. His toothy attempt at a grin was not at all convincing.

“Sounds good. Off you go, and don’t let us catch you making trouble again,” said the militiaman with a hammer decal on his armor.

The troublemaker sauntered away, bumping the astonished Traveler with a shoulder as he passed. His presence reeked of drink. He mumbled an insincere, “oops,” and the Traveler only refrained from gutting the disrespectful lowlife because the two militiamen were looking in his direction. To gain their trust, the Traveler would need to make a good first impression.

The Traveler stepped forward. “Silver brothers, I am a member of the Militia from a couple of towns over. I have an important message for your leader. Where are your headquarters?”

The two militiamen welcomed the Traveler with hearty claps to the back.

“A brother from afar is always welcome! Right this way,” said the one with the turnip.

The militiamen led the Traveler to their headquarters. It was a short walk, and along the way, the Traveler spoke with them on such topics as the weather and the season’s harvest. At no point did they question the Traveler’s shoddy backstory, which he found rather careless of them. What if he had come with ill intentions? The Alchemist had taught him that learning the status of enemy supplies could provide a massive advantage in battles. These militiamen were too free with their information; the Traveler would have to rectify that immediately.

Headquarters was located in a repurposed root cellar with a shiny metal door. The Silver Militia had stashed a huge pile of mildly dangerous farm implements just inside the door, including several pitchforks, shovels, and harvester’s scythes. The main chamber was spacious and well-lit by glass-paned skylights cut into the ceiling. Within, the Traveler found a familiar scene. Almost three dozen members of the Silver Militia lounged about on low benches, drinking or chatting with each other. The daily habits of the Silver Militia seemed utterly chaotic after the strict discipline of the Alchemist’s training program.

All conversation stuttered to a halt when they spotted the newcomer in their midst. The Traveler grimaced at the dozens of pleasantly surprised expressions. Not one of the off-duty militiamen were armed; all of their weapons were stashed by the door, well behind the Traveler. He turned to berate the two militiamen who had led him here.

“How could you let me in here without checking my story? If I were a spy for the Sun King, you’d have given up your central location,” the Traveler said.

The turnip-decaled militiaman shrugged.

“No need. You have an honest face. I knew right from the start that you were a friend.”

The hammer-decaled militiaman nodded in agreement, and the Traveler sighed. He glanced around at the vacant smiles of the militiamen. A bench nearby was unoccupied. Stepping onto the bench for extra height, the Traveler raised his voice to the stern drill-sergeant tone most favored by the Alchemist when training recruits.

“Attention, everyone! I am a member of the Silver Militia from lands north of here, and I bring you this message. The Sun King will soon set his eyes upon this town. If you want to keep living as you are, you must be more vigilant with security and discipline. Else the Sun Army will conquer your land, draft your sons to war, and strip you of independence.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” said a grey-haired senior militiaman, setting aside a pair of gambling dice. “We are a peaceful town. We have never interfered with the rebels’ business. They have no reason to attack us.”

“Your lenience invites ill intentions. If you do not strike first, you may never strike at all,” the Traveler retorted. “Never mind the Sun King’s army—you even have trouble controlling even your own people. Just this morning, I saw Turnip and Hammer over there detain a troublemaker. You know what they did? They talked to him and let him go. Chances are, he’ll be right back to his old ways by tomorrow. You should have chopped off a few fingers. He’d never forget that lesson.”

“A few fingers?” The senior shook his head. “Look around you, lad. This here is a civilized town. We don’t do... torture. It may be different whatever backwoods butcher’s hovel you came from, but over here we believe in second chances.”

“And eighth chances?” the Traveler asked, folding his arms.

“Everyone deserves trust, whether they be our own people or travelers like yourself. As guardians of a prosperous town on a main trade route, we all have the responsibility to extend kindness to strangers and citizens alike.”

“Good way to lose your guardianship,” the Traveler muttered, eyes narrowing. How could these people not see the sensibility of his proposal?

“Then what would you suggest?” asked another militiaman. By the tone of his voice, he was rather offended by the Traveler’s commentary.

“Consequences, for one. If the law isn’t enforced, people won’t obey it. You should punish those who defy your rules. A man touches what isn’t his, he loses his fingers. Talk back, and he loses his tongue. Nobody would disobey you once, much less eight times.”

The assembled militiamen winced in unison.

“You go too far. What you propose is cruel and unjust,” the senior gasped. “We received you with open hearts, yet you mock our ways and threaten our peace. Please leave at once.”

“Don’t bother begging. I don’t answer to you.” The Traveler raised his chin. Surrounded by these pathetic excuses for law-keepers, he finally understood the Alchemist’s obsession with worthiness. It was an insult to the Traveler’s skill to even call such cowards his comrades. Disdain flashed in the depths of his dark eyes. “I came to help. Rejecting my aid is your choice. If you are too weak to protect your own town, then you don’t deserve to wear the armor of the Silver Militia. Either fix your ways or disband.”

“You... you... brothers! Arrest this upstart,” the senior shouted, face red with fury.

Three militiamen tackled the surprised Traveler to the ground. As he hit the floor, the flash of pain invoked finely honed reflexes. He kicked shins and clawed eyes until one arm was free. He then drew his sword—how careless of the fools, to allow him access to a weapon inside their headquarters! The Traveler managed one good stab, and the recipient crumpled with a piercing screech. The other militiamen sprung away, dragging their wounded comrade to safety, but it was already too late for the fellow. Crimson bubbled from his throat and spilled across the ground.

The Traveler rolled back to his feet, holding the bloody sword in front of himself. Voice low with rage, he spat, “I came here to help you, and this is how you repay me? With suspicion and mutiny?”

As one, a new batch of militiamen rushed the Traveler with pitchforks and butcher’s knives. The Traveler fought fiercely, fueled by anger at their betrayal. If these so-called Silver Militia would repay his well-intentioned advice with violence, then they could very well expect violence in return. He slashed one across the throat. The man fell to the ground and did not move. Two more attacked with knives, and he whirled in a basic attack pattern. The two butchers collapsed, streaming from multiple wounds.

All restraint lost in the frenzy of slaughter, the Traveler threw back his head and laughed bitterly. “I admit, I was wrong about you. It’s not that you’re too weak for guardianship. Rather, you’re too weak for life!”

The Traveler cut the militiamen down, one by one, until none remained but those who had fled early in the fray. Even after he stood alone, surrounded by dismembered limbs and bodies gasping their last into the air, he could not forgive those who remained. Their very existence was a stain upon the proud name of the Silver Militia to which the Traveler had once belonged. Sword now drenched with blood, cloak a deep blue stained into black, the Traveler rushed into the night.