It is time to open our eyes. It is time to rise from our slumber. The Nation of Man is being invaded while we snore. Brothers, rise! Brothers, awaken! No orc can save us now. The enemy is not far beyond our borders. The enemy is among us. It has a face like ours, hands like ours, feet like ours. The enemy walks our cities and roams our countryside. Woe to the blind! Woe to the deaf! This sacred land, which belongs to us humans alone, is tainted and defiled by our enemy every day. And yet our leaders, the Princes and the Pope, tell us to turn a blind eye. They ask us to be slaves and souteneurs. But I ask them, until when?

….

Do not be deceived by what you hear from bribed priests. Brother who has just awakened, listen well! There is a scourge ravaging this land, and it has a name: the half-humans! Wherever they settle, there is crime and debauchery. They come from the north to steal our jobs and women. Even our children are not safe from their depravity. They are violent. They are criminals. They are savages. The lives they live cannot be more repulsive. They are born underground. They do not suckle but drink the insipid blood of their mothers. And when they are mature, they start to rape and ransack. They pile up the gold and diamonds. They amass the wealth of Amirani so that no human can ever partake in it. They are a disaster. They are a plague.

….

Those who harbor sympathy for the half-humans should know better. Yes, you should know better! The half-humans may look like us from one angle or another, but they are like distortions in a mirror. When Amirani created the world, He shaped our bodies from the purest of water and then breathed life into us and granted us a soul. We are noble. We are holy. The bodies of half-humans, however, were shaped out of the muddy swamps of Geblene—the murkiest waters of the universe—and it was not Amirani who breathed life into them. No, my ignorant brother! It was the foul breath of Chaos that animated their pygmy skeletons (or “pigmy”; they are pigs). They are a curse. They are evil. Call them by no other name: the Evil Pigs.

….

Do not let your daughters marry the half-humans, or they would give birth to more half-humans. Do not let your children near the half-humans, or they would seduce them and drag them into their beds. Do not let the half-humans into your houses, or they would murder you and rob you of your wealth. A half-human belongs in the darkness of a cave—chained and put to the task that its miserable body was made for. We humans must rise as one and put the half-humans in their place. We must return to the old times, when we reigned over this land, when all non-humans were beneath us. This is the true will of God. This is how Amirani made the world. And we cannot accept what goes against nature and common sense.

The Nation of Man must rise as one and shout as one: “End the Scourge!”

***

A gust blew through Blackmoss Forest like a postlude. It traveled among the old moss-clad trees, through the flowering vines, past the wandering Royal Moths. Then it descended upon the clearing where the Lunar Elves had lived long ago. Here it weeped and danced in the ruins of the Seventh Moon Temple. Remember the lost ones. Remember the everlasting bloodshed. Remember the great elven exodus. Tamed by ancient yearnings and forgotten pinings, the gust slowly transformed into a gentle breeze, and by the time it reached the worship hall—the only building still standing since forever—it had lost all its remaining strength and, in its mellowness, could only turn a yellow page.

Vance Wolfe put down the outlawed book that he had been reading—End the Scourge by Samuel Ackard. He yawned before he stretched his tired arms and looked up at the summer sky. There were no clouds today. The sun was shining uncontested, as if in a solar-elven dream, with the forest trees forming a green halo around it. All the yapping about evil dwarves made me forget we had this nice weather. He had sat down near his firepit and started reading early at dawn, but now it was already past noon. Time sure flies. He stood up and looked around him for his faithful companion and exemplary student. Where’s the little rascal? We have an appointment that we can’t miss.

“Timathor-je-wekhe!”

“Ow-je-ikhe!”

Vance turned toward the voice and looked up with a smile. The little rascal was there—standing on the roof of the half-collapsed worship hall, the ruins whose cellar Vance called home. He held a sling in his small green hand and seemed to be on the lookout for any bird monsters. I should’ve known. Around seven weeks ago, after he returned from Middlerift, Vance had taught Timathor which bird monsters were edible and which were harmful, and ever since, the little goblin had had a strong incentive to practice shooting. It was a beneficial hobby, and on any other day, Vance would’ve encouraged Timathor to disrupt a few migrations. But today was different—today there was important business.

“Timathor-hujghami-ket!” Vance said.

“Kvu-hujghami-ket!” the little goblin protested. “Ow-qwashi-baikahj!”

Vance paused to process the unexpected influx of goblin vocabulary. That was “Why-move-down?” and … if memory serves me right, “I-collect-food.” After he had arrived at this translation, Vance built up his confidence, looked up again, and shouted, “Timathor-hujghami-ket! Abje! Ow-gkill-hujma!”

Those last three words were everything that little Timathor needed to hear. I-kill-human. He understood them, despite Vance’s accent, and with the naive enthusiasm and excitement of a child, he shouted back, “Ow-ushga-Vance!” Not a moment later, he jumped off the roof and landed into Vance’s arms. The latter caught the goblin, spun once playfully, and lowered him to the ground. Then he ruffled his few silver hairs, which were still growing, and gave him a warm, fatherly hug. Regardless of the task at hand, it is always nice to have a dedicated team member on board. And Timathor always put his heart and soul into every hunt, especially those involving human adventurers. In a mysterious way, his energy breathed life into Vance.

“So … I guess we’re all set and ready to go. Grechen-mi-zaal! Timathor!”

“Chen! Vance! Chen!”

***

The human heart is a mysterious vessel. It can weather the most tumultuous storm if it perceives meaning on the other shore. Little can stop a ship full of purpose; few could stand in its way. But when it does reach the other shore, that is when the cracks in the hull begin to appear, and when the tears in the white sails lengthen and spread, and when the rudder refuses to turn. Emotions tend to develop over time, and even when the body is caught up in the present, the heart continues to dwell on the past. Even when the seas are calm, the vessel remembers the storm.

Vance had thought that it would take him only a few weeks to forget about Shannon and Middlerift, but the thoughts and images continued to haunt him. In his dreams. In his meditations. In the moments of silence that permeated his solitary days. He felt weak at times, regretful at others. If he had been alone, he would’ve collapsed under the continuous pressure of these feelings—losing his Manotic Mastery and gifting his body to the parasites. But luckily, Timathor was always there. The little goblin reminded Vance that their vessel was still afloat. There were new shores to explore, new stormy seas to challenge, and it was thanks to this that Vance emerged from his springtime hibernation in the summer—weeks later than he thought he would be ready.

But this delay wasn’t without concrete gain. Even as he struggled with the trauma of bygone days, Vance had a chance to practice his new powers, to learn more about the goblin language, and to train Timathor to obey sophisticated orders. And at the same time, he gave Raine a chance to clean up the mess at the guild. While Vance practiced and improved his skills, the archives employee was able to find the Benedict party papers, the condemning evidence that had gone missing from the guild database—it was on sale at the black market, along with the stats of the doomed party. “A corrupt guild official probably did it,” Raine explained, around one week before the start of summer. “I’m not sure how they erased you from the database, but I’ll look around some more and figure things out on my own. In the meantime, you can get back to the guild and start joining new parties. Make up for lost time and money. But also be careful.”

Motivated by this good news, seeing the perfect opportunity to return to his pre-Middlerift course, Vance started visiting several taverns on busy nights, and from among all potential targets, he chose one: a promising party of three adventurers. They called themselves the Cromish Dawn—one was a Light Mage; the other a Pyromancer; the last a Paladin. A shiny trio. Vance got them drunk before he robbed them blind. The party’s horses, wagon, and prize money were lost on that fateful night, and so at dawn a void appeared that Vance generously offered to fill. Full of sympathy, he made a kind proposal. He would finance the party’s next exciting quest under one condition: that they let him join for its duration. Why? Well, he wanted to feel the thrill of adventuring again—as if he had never lost his feet “to the terrible parasites of the far north.” This reason seemed convincing enough, and so the present was born.

***

The wind howled; the trees rustled.

“Wekhe-ushagbi-owa!” Timathor said, skipping playfully.

That was, “Where-go-we?” Vance decoded the sentence as he walked among the trees of Blackmoss Forest. Now that’s a difficult question. He laughed, and the buzz of Royal Moths echoed his loud laughter. I’m not sure I can translate place names yet. I guess I could give him the vaguest answer possible. That should keep him excited. He smiled and said, “Owa-ushagbi-ijhedanya!” We-go-forest.

Timathor seemed a bit confused.

I don’t know what else to say. Vance averted his eyes.

Although the answer was concise, it did contain the essence of the truth. Two days ago, after a discussion with the Cromish Dawn, it was decided that Vance should meet them at the outskirts of Earthgate Forest. This forest would be the stage for their adventure, and if everything went according to plan, it would also become their grave (a true Earthgate, so to say). If all went according to plan … This general condition was always the trickiest to fulfill. Vance had done his homework: he studied the three classes of his future victims; he flattered them into divulging the details of their previous exploits; and he even read the dull works of Samuel Ackard, since the Cromish Dawn were passionate dwarf haters. But even after these preparations, there were still uncertainties.

“Vance! Ow-ataag-Huuth!” Timathor drummed on his belly.

“No … Let the Royal Moths be,” Vance said, preoccupied with thought.

For starters, the Cromish Dawn had not revealed to him all the details of the prospective job. He knew the setting, but the objective was still a mystery. If he had to guess, he would say that they needed to protect goods or cargo. Because Earthgate Forest was on the trade route between Cromsville and Beaucourt, there was a high chance that a merchant needed help. But even if this guess was right, it was not informative. Would the enemies be monsters, non-humans, or bandits? Would the job end in a day or many weeks? Would the circumstances force the party to stick together, or would each member have an independent task? There were too many dimensions, too many variables. And the fact that they withheld this information from me means that they don’t fully trust me.

“Ow-jahmaar-nijgkanya!” Timathor pointed up.

“Yeah, the sky is blue and beautiful,” Vance smiled and petted him.

Another issue was the current level of the party. Through a drunken slip of the tongue, Vance had learned that the Paladin was at level 40. I’m still at 27, so the difference is significant. 325 stat points, to be exact. Assuming that the other two party members had the same advantage, a direct confrontation would be a fool’s errand—self-destructive and suicidal. I will have to whittle away at their advantage and break their party chemistry … Just as I did with Severus and Luke. But the present circumstances were different, and the high average level of the Cromish Dawn meant that the cost of a mistake wouldn’t be a salamander bite. Vance needed to be patient and play the long game.

“Ow-gkill-hujma! Ow-gkill-hujma! Gar! Gar! Gaaar!”

And this last fact was connected to another possible complication: Timathor. The little goblin was not particularly known for his patience or self-restraint. A safer choice would have been to leave him behind, but Vance disliked this easy approach. He wanted Timathor to gain more experience and to grow through new challenges. And in the worst case scenario, he could use the powers of the Anima Elettrica to save the little goblin. I have a guarantee on Timathor’s life, but I don’t have one on mine. He reasoned without emotion, with attention only to the facts. So I should always put my life first. As long as I survive, I can revive him and give him a chance to grow stronger … But of course, I shouldn’t let anyone know that Timathor and I are working together. If that happens, it’s game over.

“Ow-gkill-hujma! Ow-gkill-hujma! Gar! Gar! Gaaar!”

At that moment, as Timathor continued to sing his macabre song, the walk through Blackmoss Forest came to an end. Vance exited into the sunlight and arrived at a long, winding road that continued north—it was the road leading through the plains, past the hills, toward Earthgate Forest.

***

Among the Cromish landscapes—the expansive plains, the scattered tors, and the patches of verdant growth—Earthgate Forest was the most feral region. Even after a history of human expansion in the area, neither the kings of old nor the princes of today could subjugate this wilderness or rob it of its defining character. Here there was no earth to tread on: the soil and dirt had been long replaced by a network of massive roots, the solid foundation that supported the Noble Giantuas. These trees rose two hundred meters and had trunks as wide as thirty. Their flowers were white like snow; their leaves dangled like drapes. And in their inky shade, among their roots and deep inside the ground, a mysterious ecosystem developed that eluded all eyes—a well-guarded secret.

Several hours after he appropriated a wagon from a gullible farmer, Vance arrived at the outskirts of this natural wonder. He was now alone: Timathor was nowhere to be found. After he parked his wagon, he alighted, searched for any signs of the Cromish Dawn, and found them fifteen minutes later. They had already arrived at the outskirts of the forest, evidently much earlier than he did. They familiarized themselves with the area and even went on a hunt. A small campfire was burning on the side of the main road, and a wild boar was being roasted into a crispy delicacy. I shouldn’t have expected less from professionals. With a fake smile, Vance stepped forward, greeted his three targets, and joined them in their feast. On his left was the Paladin; on his right the Pyromancer; opposite him the Light Mage. Lagerfeuerromantik.

“Good to see you again, friend,” Maxwell the Paladin said. “I’m happy you made it all the way out here. Breathtaking sight, aren’t they? The Giantuas.”

“Yeah, they’re amazing,” Vance smiled.

Maxwell was the leader of the party. He wore a full set of plate armor and had his helmet on the ground next to him. Many unpleasant sounds left his mouth as he chewed the boar meat. He was a messy eater, undoubtedly, but he seemed to be a decent man overall. His beard was neatly shaved, and his brown hair was arranged into curling arcs with a middle part. Crowned by two light brows, his dark brown eyes had a warm gaze that made his companions feel safe. He could have been considered handsome, had it not been for his large nose, which was also rather pointy, and for a few red blemishes that marred his fair skin.

From previous conversations, Vance knew the following about him: he was generous and large-hearted; he never reproached others for their mistakes; and he had a pseudo-religious code of chivalry, which taught that men were the “superior sex” and thus had a sacred duty to protect women. Perhaps it was this code that compelled him to form a party with two women, or perhaps forming a party with two women was the motivation behind this code. Both possibilities seemed equally likely. And while Vance had no interest in chicken-or-the-egg problems, he still couldn’t help but laugh and wonder which was the case.

“This stuff is just too juicy! It’s criminal!” Maxwell laughed, revealing the meat stuck among his teeth. “How’ve you been? Ready for adventuring?”

“Well, you’ll do the adventuring,” Vance said. “I’m just here to watch.”

“Don’t say that,” Maxwell swallowed, with a disturbingly audible gulp. “You bought the two wagons, the horses, even the new weapons. I’d say you’re more invested in this job than any of us. Joking, of course. You’re part of the team, so remember that.” He took another large bite. “But stay safe, of course. Always behind me when a fight starts, got it?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll always—”

Before Vance could fully reassure Maxwell, a new voice popped up in the conversation. It belonged to Fairuz the Pyromancer. She didn’t hold back and said right away, “You better do as you’re told at all times.” She looked at Vance’s feet—they were wrapped with several layers of compression bandages. It was hard to see their true shape or form, but the grime that oozed out gave a clear indication that they had been devastated by monster attacks. “You managed to lose your feet to a bunch of Verglas Spiders. Sure, their poison could’ve ruined anyone. Sure, they spread parasites that cause monstrificaton and whatever. But they’re still low-level spiders. Nothing compared to what’s out there. The monsters of this forest are said to be level 35 and above. So trust me, if you don’t follow orders, you’ll die this time.”

“Come on, Fairuz!” Maxwell choked. “Spiders, orders, poison, death! You’re ruining my meal! Can a man enjoy his roast or what?”

“It had to be said,” Fairuz retorted. “It’s nothing personal, Vance. I’m glad to have you with us, and I’m grateful for the supplies you bought. But you’re just a nobleman from the north … and I don’t want you to die young.”

“I understand,” Vance said solemnly.

“I hope.”

“I really do,” Vance smiled.

Fairuz was a twenty-five-year-old Pyromancer from the east of Carcassia— a full six years younger than Maxwell but perhaps twenty years more mature in demeanor. She had beautiful black skin, dark hair running long down her back, and brown almond eyes. Her right ear was decorated with a shiny pearl earring, and her rosy lips had a golden piercing, which was common among dancers in the south. She wore a two-piece red dress made out of the fire-resistant silk of Pyroworms, and the three rings in her left hand seemed to grant buffs. Because she was the most difficult to get drunk, Vance had talked to her the longest.

She was born at a remote oasis town, wasted a full decade on an unsuccessful dance career, and then found her calling in Pyromancy. Ifrits disgusted her, and by an openly illogical extension, so did the majority of dwarves. When she first arrived at Cromsville, she was shocked that people treated her the same as ifrits, but then she met Maxwell and found solace in their common hatred for dwarves. She seemed honest, forthright, and strong-willed—traits that may have inadvertently killed her dancing career. And she had a habit of glaring at people even after the most minor disagreement. To escape this guilting glare, Vance had to turn in his seat until he was facing the last of the adventuring trio.

“Fairuz is just something special, isn’t she?” Kathi the Light Mage said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fairuz protested.

“Nothing.” Kathi smiled at her angry friend and then at nonchalant Vance.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Vance asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

“I’m not a fan of meat,” Kathi said. “You can have my share.”

“Mine!” Maxwell stabbed the roast with his fork. “I call dibs on it!”

A round of laughter echoed.

As Maxwell stuffed himself even more, Vance continued to watch Kathi. She had blond hair that bordered on white, and pale-blue eyes with invisible lashes. Her skin was too pallid—so much so that one would think she was either sick or vampiric. A small heart-shaped locket decorated her neck, with the picture of her late mother enshrined inside it, but other than this piece of jewelry, there was little shine in her appearance. She wore a gray robe with a gray belt and a gray pair of shoes—global gray. It seemed to have taken her as much time to pick her clothes as it had taken Maxwell to pounce on the wild boar. She sat with an idiotic smile on her face. And yet, despite her appearance, despite it all, she was known around the guild as “one of the rising heroes of Cromsville.”

It was hard to believe, but even Raine had corroborated this fact. Ever since she started her career as an adventurer, she had not failed at a single job. Her official class was the supportive Light Mage, but her role in practice extended far beyond plain support. Word had it that she not only healed and shielded but also dealt the highest damage in the party. The Cromish Dawn was named after her light magic, and although it had only three active members, owing to her presence on its roster, it was internally classified as a five-member party. In other words, she was the greatest hurdle in Vance’s path, the greatest mystery for him to unravel, and the perfect skull to claim for his shelf.

“Maxwell gave me all the welcomes; Fairuz gave me all the warnings,” Vance smiled. “So, Kathi, why don’t you tell me why we’re here today? Our adventure doesn’t start and end with this boar, does it?”