Paragon of Destruction

After Brightblade’s departure, Arran spent some minutes inspecting his wounds. It wasn’t too bad — some burns, a few shallow wounds, and more than a few bruises, but nothing that would take more than a few hours to heal.

Just two years earlier, these same injuries might have killed him. And even if he’d survived, he would have been bedridden for weeks if not months. But his body had grown far stronger since then, and now, the injuries were little more than an inconvenience.

Still, he did not hurry in leaving. He sat quietly for several hours, looking out over the mountains around him as he chewed dried dragon meat and waited for his wounds to heal.

Evening was already nearing when he was well enough to travel, but after giving it some thought, he decided to remain for the night. Without knowing the region, traveling in the dark would be both dangerous and foolish.

Of course, he felt some unease at camping out so close to the formation — and the creatures behind it — but he forced himself to suppress it. The barrier had lasted for thousands of years already, and it should endure another night without issue.

And if this was the night the formation would finally collapse... well, there was no point in worrying about the sky falling down.

Arran slept unexpectedly well that night, better than he had in weeks. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the previous days, or perhaps relief from having escaped the mountains’ creatures, but whatever the reason, he awoke the next morning well-rested and eager to start his journey.

Yet before he could depart, there was one last matter to handle — his appearance.

He didn’t exactly look like a typical mage, but in the borderlands, few people would mistake someone in long robes with an enchanted sword for anything else.

Moreover, his status in the Ninth Valley meant that he could no longer expect to go unrecognized. Few of the Valley’s mages might have seen him in person, but any single one of those could reveal who he was.

He was unwilling to take that risk, and so, he decided to do a thorough job in disguising himself.

He began by shaving off his beard. He’d had it since he spent a year breaking Master Zhao’s seal, and without it, many of the Valley’s mages would have a hard time recognizing him. But he didn’t stop at that. His blond hair was almost as recognizable as his beard, and with a deep sigh, he decided it would have to go as well.

Barely ten minutes later, he was as good as unrecognizable, albeit with a rather cold head.

It wasn’t a style he preferred, but he knew it would make for an effective disguise. Shaven heads were common enough among mercenaries, bandits, and other rough folk, and being taken for one of those would stop most other travelers from asking too many questions.

Next, he took Brightblade’s bag from his void ring and inspected its contents. He was relieved to find that most of the clothes it contained were sensible — which, with Brightblade picking them, had been far from a certain thing.

He briefly rummaged through the pile of clothes, then picked out a pair of thick linen trousers and a gray shirt, along with a pair of good boots and a weathered leather coat. All of those were things a rough-edged traveler might wear, and together with Arran’s newly shaved head, they completed the picture of a former mercenary who was best left alone.

Next, he belted on one of the unenchanted swords his void ring held. Although it had a fine blade by common standards, it would do Arran little good in a real battle. But then, the contents of his void ring were only a thought away if he needed them.

Finally, when he was satisfied with his disguise, he set off toward the edge of the mountains — the first steps on what would be a long journey.

He soon discovered that simply leaving the mountains was no small task. Whoever had created Brightblade’s map had clearly decided that mapping out the mountains was too great a task, and had instead filled the area with small triangles that bore little relation to the actual mountains.

That left Arran to navigate a path for himself, and although he knew the general direction, the small mountain paths twisted and turned with annoying frequency, throwing him off course whenever he thought he was finally heading in the right direction.

Yet after half a week, he finally reached the foothills. And here, without inconveniently placed mountains and ravines blocking his way, his pace quickly increased.

Another half-week passed before he came upon a large village — the first sign of habitation since he had left the Valley with Brightblade.

The village vaguely reminded him of Riverbend, but then, that was true for most villages. Just like most others, this one had a blacksmith, a butcher, a baker, a small inn that doubled as a tavern, and no small amount of villagers to cast suspicious looks at outsiders like Arran.

He ignored the locals’ distrustful gazes and sought out the bowyer — another staple of villages around the world.

The fat, bearded man received him with barely veiled distrust. "You’re not from ’round here," he pointed out somewhat needlessly.

"Aye," Arran replied. "Spent a decade as a caravan guard in the Empire, but I got enough of the bandits there. Decided I’d try my luck across the border, and word was that the borderlands had good lands for hunting and fishing."

At this, the bowyer’s expression softened. Arran’s appearance suggested he was either a mercenary or a bandit, and he had clearly worried it was the latter. But while caravan guards could be every bit as rough as bandits, at least their job was a proper one. "Didn’t join the mages on your way here?" he asked.

Arran shook his head. "Don’t trust ’em."

The fat man nodded. "Too true. What’re you here for?"

"Broke my bow while out in the wilds," Arran replied. "I was hoping you could sell me a new one."

A quarter-hour later, Arran left the village again, a fine new bow slung across his back and a quiver full of arrows at his side. While these were every bit as useless as the sword at his side, they would further help his disguise. Few travelers would venture far without a hunting bow, and anyone without one would need some other means of keeping himself fed.

Of course, Arran had plenty such means — to hunt normal animals, he needed no weapons at all — but it would be best not to make that fact obvious to others.

Outside the mountains, he made good distance, and for the next three weeks he traveled much like any other commoner would have. He resisted the urge to speed his pace by moving at a run, instead maintaining a steady march as he moved across the roads that crossed through the borderlands.

The region was still every bit of peaceful as he remembered. While the area away from the Valley’s gates was only lightly populated, he came across a fair amount of other travelers on the road, and there was little sign of any bandits.

There were plenty of villages, however, and Arran happily took the opportunity to sleep in the warm beds of their inns whenever he could, while also making sure to get a good taste of the local cooks’ specialties.

As he traveled, he felt a distant sense of melancholy. This, he realized, would have been his life had his father not been killed by bandits. He would likely have become a guard or mercenary, and unless he had spent his life in Riverbend, he would have traveled through the Empire much like he traveled through the borderlands now, with only a sword at his side and a bow across his back.

It would have been a simpler life, though perhaps not less dangerous. Because while mercenaries and the like faced far smaller dangers than the ones he had faced, to them, they were no less deadly. As he knew all too well, a single arrow from a lowly bandit could take a life just as easily as a thunderstorm conjured up by an Archmage.

Still, he relished the opportunity to travel like this, with neither mages nor monsters behind him. And it was a taste of the life he could have had, though perhaps not an entirely authentic one.

Three weeks into his travels, he came upon a small town — one not much different from the half dozen he had passed already. And as always, he quickly made his way to the nearest inn.

But this time, the moment he stepped into the common room, he knew something was wrong.

At the back of the room sat a brown-haired man. He wasn’t particularly large or well-dressed, and Arran could Sense no magic on him. Yet from the man’s posture and movements, Arran could immediately tell that he possessed strength far beyond anything a commoner would have.

A Hunter, then.

Arran gave the Hunter a friendly nod, then turned to the innkeeper. "How much for a bed and a warm meal?"

"Half a silver," the innkeeper replied.

It was a normal price, albeit on the high side, and Arran paid it without objection. Then, he sat down at one of the tables at the center of the room.

While he would rather have left the moment he recognized the Hunter, doing so would only have drawn suspicion. And if he was to live among the Hunters in their own lands, then he surely should be able to escape the notice of a single one of them.

The innkeeper brought him a bowl of stew and a mug of ale some minutes later, and Arran ate his meal in silence, careful not to let his curiosity get the better of him.

Yet just as he finished the last of his stew, the door to the common room opened, and three young men walked in. Arran only barely managed to suppress a groan when he saw them — they were all mages.

"You’re not welcome here," a deep voice sounded from the back of the room before the three mages had even fully stepped through the door. The Hunter had noticed the mages as well, it seemed.

Arran clenched his teeth, hoping against hope that the three mages would do the sensible thing and seek another inn.

But they were young, with the arrogance that only mages and nobles possess. And although the Hunter’s voice caused them to pause briefly, one of the mages stepped forward a moment later.

"Nobody tells us what to do," he said, a trace of fear in his voice. "And certainly not a Hunter."

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