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Chapter 20. An Inciting Event
🕑 Added 2025-03-23 15:20:01 +0000 UTCNoid became more transparent with each passing moment. Still, he happily sacrificed his ability to test anyone for the next million years or so. What he had not expected was for the others to help power his trial as well. There was a belief among them, that maybe, just maybe, after thousands of years, the seventh Skyholm may yet walk the multiverse.
Noid did not share their optimism. He didn't not believe in his disciple, he just didn't care if the boy grew to become a guardian-level entity or not. Having one soul finish his trial was a miracle in any case.
“How far is the boy now?” the enchantress asked.
“He has found passage back to Amariah. He will land in the North of the continent though, in the magic city of Shariah.”
“He intends to pit himself against grand mages now?”
Noid only nodded.
“How far did he decide to push the idea of a hybrid fighting style?”
“The templars were hardly impressive,” Noid said with a scoff. “Ultimately, my disciple decided dabbling in magic was not for him.”
“You sound too pleased with that, Noid?”
“Heck yeah! You won't be able to pollute his mind with your weird long-distance swordplay now,” Noid answered.
“I love it when Enith is miffed,” Sam, the most childish member of their pantheon, said.
“And it can only help him to gain mastery over the one thing he has set his mind to,” the first Skyholm commented.
“Not necessarily,” Enith said.
“Oh?” Sam said mockingly.
Enith ignored her, passing on a note to Noid. Why she needed - or even how she made - a note confused Noid to no end. They were spirits, for crying out loud.
Noid frowned. “You want him to start this slow for his first few class evolutions?”
“Yes. And mind you I didn't just develop this training plan for the boy. I had theories such a development would be good, especially for someone without too many resources and who had to figure out everything themselves. Still, developing this slowly has too many detriments, one of which is he'd be too weak to defend himself in, say a dungeon.
“But that is not a problem with this one. He doesn't need to depend on stats for power, especially in the beginning. He will need them later, but he can survive without them in the beginning. He needs to minimize his stats at the beginning. And the skills he'll gain, he might be able to crack and use them to very great effect. My final point, though, is that he is at a major disadvantage when compared to the other elites in the multiverse.”
Noid studied the instructions for a long time.
“How so?” he asked finally.
“He has only one class slot. Now that is par for the course for someone from an Essence Desert, but even in such places, there will be the lucky few. When he goes to the multiverse though, where his peers will have the benefit of, say, multiple epic classes, a class and a profession, high-affinity classes, strong bloodlines that influence their classes and magic and truths, and strong innate abilities. These little advantages we're giving him might not stack up.”
“That is no problem. There is no doubt in my mind he'll gain more slots by the time his race is A-rank,” the first Skyholm said.
“Think it over, Noid,” Enith ignored the previous comment like she'd heard nothing. “Isn't this your mantra to him? The basics have to be pinned down before he starts hunting dragons.”
Noid sighed. Tired, he was so damn tired. On the one hand, his disciple's achievements, having surpassed every single challenger the trial had ever seen were great. On the other hand, it was stressful.
Having all these nosy people in his atrium was so annoying.
“Hey look, he has turned off the adamance skill again. Now he's stressing about seeing Jonathan and the others after almost twenty-five years. Wait, he thinks the girls are married already?”
Noid snorted at Sam's running commentary. He excused himself, saying he'd varied the time dilation effect to preserve the trial's energy, centre it on the boy. In truth, he suspected he just didn't want the boy leaving the trial an emotional wreck. And maybe he'd also done it for Jonathan and the others.
“By the way, Enith, what's up with the trial helpers? It cannot be a coincidence the way things have developed.”
“How should I know?!” Enith snapped. “It is your trial, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is…” Noid said slowly, studying her.
She wouldn't meet his eyes.
“Enith!”
It wasn't every day the first Skyholm spoke in such a warning tone.
“Fine,” she huffed. “I believe it has something to do with the children, okay? Argh, let me go and do a little research. But still, this is why I need the opportunity this child presents. If the children continue the way they are now, then this was all a waste of time.”
She stormed off, they watched. They liked to tease that she had no emotions, but Enith might have been the most emotional person Noid knew. They all knew she meant something far bigger than this little trial when she said everything was a waste of time.
“Poor En,” Sam said.
Her biggest detractor in her presence, Noid knew Sam admired Enith more than anyone. After all, the girl had managed to steal all the other guardians’ mantles despite having two of her own. She'd accomplished something Sam, as the greatest thief, only dreamt of. So there was a bit of admiration there, but also envy.
“Well, the final act is about to start anyway. Let's finish the boy's training, shall we?”
Noid liked her positivity, but she didn't know, couldn't even guess. She saw it, he winced, wishing his poor ears godspeed.
“Wait, Is that supposed to be me? What in the void am I doing there?! What the void did you do, Noid?! Enith!”
****
There was a settlement just North of the Grayward kingdom, in the Sognon mountain range. Rafe had been a whole month in this place, enjoying their food, their lively nights of music and stories around hearth fires, their bubbly and friendly women, their colourful dressing and even more colourful language, and their bitter, poisonous beverages.
“Get out of my tavern!” Su’Arian shouted not for the first time. “I will not indulge your asinine bid for suicide, you flatland…stalk of wheat. If you want to die, choke on your spit, or bite your damn jewels off. Gods know no one's going to touch them for you.”
“Hey, it is not polite to talk about other people's jewels. Unless you're interested?” Rafe replied with all the hope he could put into the word.
“I suppose you want to drown in piss, you little…bucket of dung.”
“Your insults are getting a little less creative by the day.”
“Just don't come back to my tavern!” the young woman shouted as she banged the door shut.
Rafe shrugged as he picked himself up. He had always been one for drowning out his problems, and the closer he got to Grayward, the more scared he got. He had unfinished business there, way too much unfinished business.
He had been gone longer than he'd planned, lost in his search for the secrets of the universe. When he'd last seen the twins, they must have been about six or seven. That was before he'd gone off and joined Orlandir and Grunter. Now they must be in their thirties. Were they married? Did they still remember him?
And Celene? If she was married, Rafe didn't know what he'd do, what he'd think. He didn't think he still had feelings for her. He just…didn't want her to be with another man. It was irrational. It was selfish, but a part of his heart would break if that happened. And then there was Jonathan.
He slept only a few hours that day, and by nightfall, he'd sobered up. He spent a little over three hours going through his drills, making sure not to lose the edge he'd developed over the past few decades. And then he was back at the tavern, and Su’Arian couldn't turn away a paying customer.
The moment he entered the tavern though, he noticed the difference in atmosphere. All the prodigiously tall men were tenser than usual. There was no one on the seat tonight, playing a lively string instrument. The elderly storyteller was in her chair, squinting toward the counter with a frown.
There were more flat landers, as the mountain people called them, than normal. This was not strange, as there was a possibility of a caravan passing through every now and then, although this was not the most established route. Only, the people he saw at the counter were armed. Maybe they were caravan guards, but all of them?
Rafe himself had taken to leaving his sword back at his lodgings, as was only polite in the village's culture. All these little details were suspicious, but what did Rafe have to fear from people's scheming?
“Hey, Su’Arian! Give me the usual, if you please.”
She tensed when he spoke, and under his face-obscuring hair, Rafe frowned.
“You have long hair, like a woman's,” one of the men at the counter spoke. “Too bad you don't keep it clean enough.”
“I hear barbarians like to tie it into a ponytail. Marks them for warriors or some such,” a woman in the group guffawed.
“Free piece of advice buddy. You'd be able to get a few girls that way,” a man commented, earning him a few laughs from the others.
Rafe didn't rise to their taunts at all. This was not a real world. These were just Noid's mental projections. Doing it with them would have felt…sick. He couldn't imagine it. Not that if he got the chance he'd pass on it, but he'd still feel dirty. Luckily the girls always played hard to get, like Su’Arian.
Still, his new friends didn't like that he was ignoring their playful taunting.
“Hey … buddy? Are you ignoring us? Do you know who we are?”
Rafe frowned under his locks of disheveled hair. He spread out his aura senses, and they were indeed strong. They didn't sense his probe though, which had him frowning. Why were they so confident if they were this incompetent in basic aura manipulation?
“Hey, come to think of it,” one of the ruffians spoke over their noise, "doesn't this guy quite fit the description of this so-called Guy Wilde we're chasing after?”
Rafe tensed. Su’Arian was walking toward him with a pitcher filled with white brain-numbing juice. It smelled positively acrid.
“Yes…” someone said hesitantly. “That is how I'd expect this so-called Guy Wilde to have looked five years ago.”
Five years ago? Rafe didn't let his body react at all except for his initial tensing. He could see worry creasing on Su’Arian’s face. She was scared, worried. But for what, her tavern?
“So what? The great swordsman the great Duke Ellan has been wetting his pants over is a dying drank? He hasn't become more impressive than he was back then. If this is him, then I'd assume he has even lost some weight.”
Rafe allowed his head to rise at that, his eyes narrowing at his opponents from under his curtain of hair. Su’Arian had arrived by then though, and her relatively large frame covered his scan of the adventurers from sight. He stared up at her face and saw a kind of plea in her tearing eyes. He nodded slightly in understanding. He wouldn't fight in her house if he could help it, and if he couldn't he'd try to minimize the destruction.
A knife flew towards her head though, giving Rafe no choice but to kick the back of her knees. He moved his chair from behind the table so he'd catch her in his lap before she tumbled. She sat there in his arms, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise, until the knife landed with a thud on the wall of the tavern.
An oppressive silence fell over the usually lively room. Slowly, Su’Arian looked between Rafe and the woman who'd thrown the knife. Slowly, the people of the mountains got off their seats. Slowly, Rafe took his hands off Su’Arian's body and tied his hair behind his head.
Under the disorganized hair, he had a still young-looking face which he still kept clean despite the rest of him. He liked to think Su’Arian was more stunned silent by his beauty than anything else, but that was his vanity speaking. He refused to believe he was repulsive to women. He was damn handsome, or at least not ugly.
He guided Su’Arian off his lap, stood up, and pushed her behind him.
“Listen, Mr Kingsley—”
“I know,” he said with a smile and a wink. “I'll try not to destroy your tavern, promise.”
That was right. He had way more unfinished business in Grayward than the family drama he'd been dreading. A whole murder of nobles, as in murder of crows, was going to be murdered.
And there had been something about five years…
****
Kayle Hemet, the guild master of Hossford city's adventurer's guild, the second largest city in Grayward, was polishing his spear when the door to his office burst open to admit a panting Cynthia.
“You are not my secretary anymore. Haven't been my secretary for about ten years now, and you're still budging in like you own the place.”
“I have urgent news,” she said in between gasps for breath, ignoring Kayle’s prattling.
“Urgent news? Well, do go on.”
“The Ellan family is moving. The guild in Grayward… their whole roaster of jade rankers… they're all gone.”
“What?! All gone? What do you mean?”
“Months ago, someone fitting the description of a one Guy Wilde was spotted in a martial tournament in Shariah.”
“And Noid?”
“Not there. Their informants followed the boy Southward for a few weeks, but then he stopped at the Sognon mountains. The Ellans are worried he's waiting for Noid so that the two attack them together.”
“Ahh, hence our missing Jade rankers.”
Kayle tapped his fingers on his desk, biting his lips as he thought about the matter. It was anything but simple.
“What do you think they'll do once they realise their gamble hasn't paid off?”
“Something desperate, no doubt.”
“Right. Write to your friends, Jasmine and Rhea. Yeah, those two. I'll write to Jonathan.”
“Too late! I'm already here.”
Jonathan was indeed already in the office. Cynthia hadn't closed the door behind her, and so they hadn't heard the man come in. His friend did not look good. He did not seem to be doing well at all. These last five years, with no one knowing a single thing about his two monster boys, had been too hard on Jonathan. Whatever was happening now though, whatever was happening now was worse.
“What is going on, Jonathan?”
“My girls. These damn Ellan pigs got my girls. I'm going to storm the damn capital and burn it to the ground.”
