Published at 9th of September 2025 12:38 pm

Book 5: Chapter 28 The Winds & Waves [Part 1]

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A young scholar approached the master and said, “I have watched the great waves crash against the shore, and I believe I now understand the nature of the sea.”

The master shook his head and led his student to a quiet pond. Dropping a single pebble into the water, he asked, “Does this ripple reveal the depths below?”

The young man pondered and replied, “No, Master. It is but a surface disturbance.”

The master nodded. “Just as one ripple does not show the whole pond, nor one wave the entire sea, a single event cannot reveal the totality of existence. True wisdom sees beyond the momentary truths.”

- The Book of Wise Tellings from the Land of Streams.

A splash of saltwater caught me across the visor, and I tasted brine on my lips as the surf crashed against my heavy greaves. The roar of the tide might have been deafening to mundane ears, but to me, it was little more than a dim undercurrent. My mind was too consumed by an unquenchable thirst for violence, for more precious experience, to pay much heed. Wind whipped against my armor, and the hiss of briny foam clung to every joint. Yet none of that mattered, not when my weapon sang its murderous tune. I remember the crunch of bones, the sweet screams of pain. But, before I knew it, my time on that blood-soaked stretch of the Path had ended.

Too soon. Far too soon. They fled with swift footsteps, their retreat so abrupt that my experience bar had not even reached the halfway mark. Truly vexing. In antiquity, it was seldom that soldiers stood until every last man lay dead. Instead, they broke once a fraction of their numbers fell, and even more quickly if an easy route of escape was open to them.

And so, as the last of them scrambled away to their elegant longboats, pushing them back into the sea, I found myself sinking in wet sand, the water washing up to my upper thighs. Each wave brought a dull chill as the water seeped in around the joints of my armor. The magical shield swirling around me, born from the elven elemental attack on me, had dwindled to nearly nothing.

The voices—chaotic and half-wild—clamored for more violence, shrieking for new victims, but even I could see that wading deeper would be ill-advised. The surf had grown treacherous, the ocean’s pull an ever-present danger, and I felt the small pang of self-preservation remind me that death by drowning would be an ignoble end indeed.

And though I could not see it, I felt a presence beneath the waves. A deeper thing that was waiting for me to intrude further into its territory.

Clenching my gauntleted fists, I let loose a scream of sheer frustration, a keening wail that tore from my lungs and carried across the surf. That echoing cry was the manifestation of long months spent in cramped caravans, of humiliations endured, of cunning negotiations that had fallen through. Anger at everything—at the elves, at the cowardly men of Al-Lazar, at the gods themselves. For a moment, that scream was cathartic, as though each note carried away the splinters of my old rage.

Thoughts once wholly devoted to the slaughter on the fight became scattered. It took several long drawn breaths before they began to drift back toward a semblance of coherence. My arm twitched, phantom eager for more kills, but the moment was long lost.

Still, I savored the undeniable triumph: I had tested elven blood this day and found it crimson as any other. Just… sweeter, in a way, for its spilling yielded much greater rewards than that of my fellow man. That heady rush of experience teased me, an ambrosia I had grown addicted to. Even their slender limbs, graceful as the harts of the forest, had proved no match for my black-and-gold warplate.

The arrogant elves had fled, pushing longboats into the surf, their fear lending their arms strength and their flight speed. But it was not a total rout; arrows rained upon me in a half-hearted barrage as those already aboard their escape craft sought to cover their allies. They sent a nation’s wealth in God-metal my way, clattering uselessly off my heavy Adamantine plate harness. Though much, much heavier, Adamantium really was the equal of Mithril. Despite being annoyed by their desperate attempts, I finally turned away from the seawater, cursing them as I stumbled onto the drier sand, each step a squelch of brine and foam.

Fate forced me to be a generous god.

I headed back toward the place of negotiations, a trampled patch of beach where we had first attempted to parley. In the churned sand, among the detritus, I spotted one of the elf women lying twisted and groaning. Her hair gleamed red in the noon sunlight, damp with salt and blood. She was badly broken, yet she tried to crawl away from me. I stepped to her side, and without a second thought, I grabbed a fistful of her hair, hoisting her upward.

The elf emitted a shrill, pitiful wail, cursing me in her melodic tongue. I silenced her by forcing a weak healing potion down her gullet. It would be enough to stem the bleeding as I dragged her across the beach. There was no point wasting good Mana on creatures such as this. Each sputtering breath, each pained sob, was an ugly harmony to the crash of waves. I spared her little sympathy. She would serve nicely as a hostage, or at the very least, perhaps a source of information about these foul elves.

I was not, however, the only one who desired her retrieval. Moments after I had seized the red-haired elf, a new sound split the sky. It was not the sharp whistle of arrows or the beat of war drums, but a keening shriek from above. I peered upward, teeth clenched behind my visor. Dark shapes against the brilliant sun, winged silhouettes coming towards me at speed.

The creatures were massive eagles, impossible beasts out of a fable, each bearing a slender rider astride its back. They swooped overhead, their shadows dancing across the surf and sand. My first expectation was a volley of arrows, but the riders had something deadlier in store. They threw great flechettes, heavy metal spikes that rained down in lethal arcs. Their impact was violent enough to crack the earth and send plumes of sand into the air. In short order, my battered magical shield born from the confluence of elven offensive magic and my aura spells finally gave way under this onslaught.

An explosive clang rang through my armor as one flechette slammed into my cuirass, staggering me back. Though there was no pain, a harsh jolt made my vision flare. My armor did not yield, but the blow did damage nonetheless, and I saw my Health bar dip. It was not a clean, one-shot kill, but enough repeated hits would whittle me down eventually.

Snarling, I pulled the half-conscious elf woman closer to my side. “It seems they do not value you at all,” I hissed, letting cruelty drip from my voice. “Your people leave you to the mercy of a mere Dayspawn. You should have chosen better friends if your kind understands such a concept.”

Ignoring my words, and though her voice quavered, she spat at me. “Let go of me, you primitive ape!” she cursed, her eyes flashing defiance beneath her pain. Yet I saw fear lurking there, a knowledge that there would be no rescue. Her life did not matter one whit to those who had taken up command of her expedition.

Another flechette thundered into my right pauldron, and I grunted, nearly losing my grip on the elf. My Health continued its slow bleed downward. These winged riders circled like vultures, well beyond the range of my crossbow or offensive spells.

I thought to hurl my magical dagger, blessed with the power of the Wind, up at the eagles, picturing it flying into the blue beyond. The voices clamored in dismay at the idea of losing my weapon, and though they shrieked for me to feed them more violence, they also whispered caution.

You are the anchor for this vessel. It is not time yet to release the calamity, they spoke with words filled with a dangerous sanity.

“I am the anchor for Zariyah, it is not quite yet time to free her. Not just yet,” I echoed to myself, my voice hollow. Of course, that was it; it had to be.

So, instead, I summoned my Mimic Shield. A writhing mass of black, worm-like threads extended from my left arm, shaping themselves into a broad barrier, a near-perfect replica of Gersal’s spiked tower shield. The flechettes continued their assault, hammering down in a barrage that felt like an unrelenting thunderstorm. Each impact bit into the Mimic’s Health, a slow but constant wearing away of its essence. Every so often, I would feel a slight drain of vitality as the shield tried to regenerate, feeding upon my own reserves.

Despite the punishing hail, I pressed forward, trudging across the sand. Al-Lazar’s walls rose in the distance—weathered by centuries of conflict and the elements, but still standing tall. If I could reach those walls, their siege engines might provide cover, the ballistae and spring-powered Hwacha analogs forcing the aerial threat to disperse. And, if memory served correctly, there should be Mages too upon the walls capable of making some form of a magical counterattack. The question was whether my Mimic Shield and I could endure all the way there. And that was before counting the dead weight of the woman in my arms.

I needed to move faster. My feet pounded in rhythm with my fast-beating heart. I activated Dash, feeling a sudden surge as I burned Stamina to empower my limbs. My movements became a blur, though carrying an extra load—namely a battered, screaming elf—was not ideal. Sand flew in every direction from the force of my sprint. Flechettes whizzed overhead, shrieking as they tore the air around me. My shield was battered relentlessly, each impact causing me to grit my teeth. Still, I made progress.

But then a particularly vicious salvo descended. I saw only a flicker of shadows in the corner of my vision before I was forced to use Improved Rush Strike as Dash was on “cooldown.” With a grunt, I lunged forward, striking nothing but air, but the movement let me dodge a fresh cascade of deadly spikes. The game’s system recognized my desperate maneuvering.

You have learned Improved Dodge (lvl.4)

I almost laughed aloud, despite my dire straits. Still, should I survive this, I vowed to no longer play the empty role of the hero.

Yet I pressed on, caught in the open with no solid shelter in sight. There would be no refuge among the dunes, and the abandoned farmstead buildings would never withstand the flechettes. Their roofs would be shredded in seconds. So I continued my plodding run toward Al-Lazar, every muscle aching, every breath tasting of salt and blood.

My captive moaned, struggling in my grip. In a desperate act, she twisted her head around and tried to claw at my gauntlet. An ill-timed flechette nearly knocked me off balance, so I retaliated with a slap that broke her feeble defiance, sending her into unconsciousness. Part of me hated having to take my hand to a woman, but survival took precedence.

I was struggling; it would have been much easier without my captive, and for a heartbeat, I considered tossing her aside. But I felt the overwhelming need to complete the bonus objectives for this stage. There would be more rewards for that after all.

Where was the city’s promised rescue? Where were the cavalry sallying forth to escort the First Tamkar of Al-Lazar? The gates remained shut in rebuke at this thought.

Cursing under my breath, I drew the magical dagger from my belt and hurled it skyward in frustration. The blade whirled end over end, trailing a faint, glinting arc. For an instant, I prayed it might lance through one of the eagles. Instead, I felt my connection to the weapon become ever tenuous and the voices within roiled in alarm.

Bring it back, they whispered again. You are the anchor; it is not yet time to release the calamity.

I snarled and called the dagger back, feeling it snap to my open hand, blade quivering with frustration. My lips twisted into a bitter grin. Not yet time to free Zariyah from her confinement, no matter how badly I wanted to unleash the storm on those flying gnats.

A savage barrage of flechettes rained down again, each clang ringing in my ears. My Health dipped steadily. The Mimic Shield’s surface had grown ragged and pitted. At this rate, it would soon run out of Health. Still, I maintained my pace, breath rasping, and my blood still boiling.

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