At some point, sound returns.

  My eyes crack open to a dull gray sky drifting overhead.

  I blink—slow, sluggish—fighting through the pain. I try to send mana through my body.

  Nothing.

  My mana refuses to obey. It’s like screaming into a void.

  I glance down. My chest and right thigh are bandaged, soaked with the sharp scent of herbs. It takes a moment—maybe a minute—before I realize I’m lying on a cart. Around me, others groan softly, wrapped in bloodstained cloth, some unmoving.

  I lie there, dazed, as the memories return.

  Step by step, they unfold—detached, clinical. Like I’m reading about someone else’s life in a history book.

  Not mine.

  Time stretches. I try again and again to connect to my mana, while piecing together the shattered moments of the last few days. My mind moves in fog, heavy and slow.

  Then—two familiar faces fill my vision.

  Olev and Joe. Jogging up to the cart, grinning like idiots. Pure relief in their eyes.

  Before I can react, I’m buried under a barrage of questions about my health. I try to answer, but even moving my jaw takes monumental effort. My voice comes out cracked and faint, but they don’t seem to mind.

  They don’t look much better—Olev’s chest heaves with every breath, and Joe limps visibly. But they’re smiling. Laughing. Somehow.

  They sit beside me and share their food, talking over each other, telling me what happened from their side.

  The mood shifts when Olev quiets.

  "The healers did their best," he says, voice low, "but we still lost more people..."

  His head turns.

  I follow his gaze.

  Several carts trail behind ours, each draped in white tarps.

  From beneath the closest one, a single arm dangles. Lifeless. Swinging slightly every time the cart hits a bump.

  Olev’s voice barely carries over the rumble of wheels. "No more critical cases. The Healers can finally rest. None of them have slept since the battle."

  I nod, once.

  Silence stretches, heavy, until Olev speaks again—voice firm, serious.

  "We won’t forget what you did, Harv."

  I blink at him, trying to read his face, understand the meaning of his words.

  "Not many would’ve even thought about it," Joe adds, quieter now. "And you... you acted."

  I look between them, confused.

  They laugh—gentle, warm—and shake their heads.

  "Rest, Harv," Joe says, rising. "You deserve it."

  They leave me with my thoughts.

  A minute passes.

  My eyes drift back to the tarp-covered carts.

  Some part of me screams to look away. But I can’t.

  I stare.

  And then—I see it.

  My body.

  My hand, lifeless, beside the other. My face pale, eyes wide and glassy, staring blankly at the sky. Rain-soaked clouds reflected in the dull sheen of death.

  A quiet voice in my mind begins to whisper.

  What will happen to the dead? They’ll be buried.

  And after that? Their loved ones will mourn.

  And after that?

  Nothing.

  Just that word.

  Nothing.

  I picture a grave.

  A cold hole in the ground. A meter of dirt pressed over me. A stone marker etched with a name and a date. Maybe someone scrawls "Killed by an orc" on it as a mocking joke.

  I imagine a letter arriving at my parents’ doorstep.

  My mother sobbing. My father, silent. My sisters—shattered.

  A future without me. A world that spins on.

  One less life. Nothing more.

  And for what?

  The answer comes before I ask it.

  Nothing.

  Cold creeps through me, not from injury—but from truth.

  This wasn’t about revenge.

  It never was.

  I never had the right to take revenge. It was about me—about feeling better, about directing the storm inside me at something, anything, and pretending it was noble.

  For months, I let the darkness fester.

  Bottled it. Fed it. Until I finally found something to pour it onto.

  Orcs. Easy targets. Pests.

  I told myself I was right. That I was helping.

  But I was just a child.

  Throwing a tantrum.

  Pathetic.

  I stare at the gray sky as a whisper slips from my lips.

  "I’m sorry."

  To no one.

  And to everyone.

  ...

  By the time we reached the city the next morning, the wounds had healed enough that I could walk on my own again.

  What followed was a long, soul-draining debrief of the entire expedition.

  Olev and Joe were taken into separate rooms. I was brought into mine and handed a paper and pen.

  The officer demanded I write everything—every word I heard, every moment I saw.

  I gave them a clean outline. Straight to the point.

  The paper was shoved back at me.

  "More detail," he said.

  I rewrote it with extra lines, added some descriptions. Handed it over again.

  Same thing. Back in my hands. "More".

  This repeated. Over and over. Every time I thought I was done, he found something I hadn’t fully described.

  Who’s even going to read this crap?

  It’ll get filed. Stamped. Stuffed into a cabinet somewhere and rot in peace like the rest of us.

  When I was finally released, night had already settled over the city. I hadn’t seen Olev or Joe since the split, and for all I knew, they were long gone. So I didn’t wait. I just walked.

  But something was off.

  Because now, somehow, I’m standing in front of the dungeon.

  Not my house.

  The entrance looms ahead, lamplight spilling across the guards who stare at me for a moment, then return to their own business. Just another weirdo.

  Maybe I’m still disoriented. Wounds healing, head fogged—maybe that’s the excuse.

  But no.

  The truth is uglier.

  The voice that had followed me throughout the expedition—the one that whispered, pleaded, begged—I’d thought it was just some fever-dream echo in my head.

  But it always came from one direction. No matter how I turned, no matter where I moved—it pointed one way. Like a compass.

  And now?

  Now I stand at its end.

  The dungeon.

  It’s quiet now. No buzzing. No whispers. But something inside me knows. It's here.

  Not like it matters anymore.

  Tomorrow morning I’ll go to a healer. I need help.

  Hooray for Harv the mellow hardcock, you won.

  Decision made, I turn away.

  Time to stop screwing around. Time to act like the adult I pretend to be.

  I walk through the quiet streets, empty but for the buzz of thoughts in my head. Step after step, a plan starts to form. A future starts to form.

  And there it is.

  The bakery.

  A sigh escapes me.

  Home. Bed. Clean sheets. Maybe a shower first. Can’t let the reek stick. Worst case, I throw out the mattress. Not like it’s worth much anyway—

  Darkness.

  All the street lights cut out at once.

  I stop.

  Impact.

  The world slams sideways.

  Stones press into my cheek. I’m on the ground. Cold cobblestone beneath me.

  I try to breathe—and choke.

  My hand brushes something hard sticking from my chest.

  An arrow.

  Blood drips down the shaft.

  Footsteps.

  Behind me. Getting closer.

  My brain clicks off. Instinct takes the reins.

  I roll—just as another arrow strikes where my head was.

  [Force Aegis]

  Stumble to my feet using Light like a crutch.

  Another arrow bounces off the mana around me.

  Shapes.

  Big. Fast. Closing in.

  Orcs.

  They followed me.

  They’re not dead.

  I move. Mana flows into Light.

  A [Fireball] explodes against [Force Aegis]. Blinding light burns across my eyes.

  I shut them. Blind.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Shapes. Five. No—six.

  I charge.

  Light moves. Something screams. I don’t stop to check. Keep moving.

  Buzzing resounded.

  Another cut. Flesh splits. Warmth sprays across my arms.

  I move faster.

  Screams echo. Then silence.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Nothing standing.

  Just moans. Cries of pain.

  My vision starts to return, dim and patchy. Flash-blindness still blots out the edges.

  I try to breathe—but pain spikes.

  The arrow’s still embedded in my chest.

  With a grunt, I guide air into my lungs using mana. It’s rough. Weak. But it keeps me conscious.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A brilliant beam of light exploded to my left.

  Bright yellow spills out onto the scene.

  I spin toward it, body tensed for another attack.

  Wait, that's a door.

  An old woman in a cardigan stands there.

  She gasps.

  Then screams.

  I shield my eyes from the light. When they adjust, I follow her gaze.

  She’s not looking past me.

  She’s looking at me.

  I look down.

  Blood. Everywhere.

  My clothes soaked. My hands dripping.

  I stand in a pool of red.

  Bodies lie around me.

  Too small. Too thin.

  Human.

  Not orcs.

  Human.

  I stare. Frozen.

  The old woman runs back inside, her screams fading into walls.

  Whistles.

  From all sides.

  Within a minute, I’m surrounded.

  Dozens of guards. Weapons drawn. Spells hovering.

  "Drop your weapon!" one shouts.

  I look at him. Then the others. Then down at Light.

  "Drop your—!"

  Clang.

  Light hits the stones.

  I raise my hands, eyes still locked on the bodies.

  Hope they patch me up before they start swinging.

  ...

  "I said leave!" barks the healer on night duty, turning on the trio of guards behind him. "Let me heal him. Then you can bury him in your damn questions."

  Silence settles over the room. I lie still as the healer’s mana flows through me, stitching flesh together before my very eyes. It’s always fascinating watching them work. I can see the threads of mana weaving through tissue, see how the strands of flesh realign, reattach, and seal the wound. But understanding it doesn’t mean I can replicate it.

  If I had even half that skill... so many things would be so much easier...

  "Thank you," I cough, blood flecking my lips, nodding weakly toward the healer.

  I push myself upright, metal cuffs rattling as I shift. The trio of guards step closer, questions ready on their tongues—only to freeze when the door slams open.

  Two more guards enter, stern-faced, flanking a middle-aged officer with a heavy mustache and tired eyes. The first trio straighten up like bolts and salute. The healer follows suit.

  My eyes meet the newcomer’s—and recognition clicks into place.

  He shared a bottle with me once.

  I try to stand, an awkward salute with cuffed hands, but he raises a hand.

  "At ease," he says, calm and clipped. He gestures for me to sit.

  I nod and settle back as a chair is brought forward. He sits across from me, lighting a cigarette. That same old scent of booze trails off his coat. His eyes are sharp. Exhausted. Watching.

  The healer quietly steps out, and the room closes in.

  The questioning begins. I answer everything I can. When they ask about what I was doing before the... "incident," I notice a shift. The guards’ faces change. I can’t read them. Not quite. But it doesn’t seem hostile.

  The questions slow down. Then stop. Silence stretches.

  The officer sighs heavily and leans back, taking a long drag before speaking.

  "I already heard what happened with the expedition," he says.

  I say nothing. Just watch him.

  "James wouldn’t want you ending up like him. Neither would Olden. Or Numerus." His voice is even. "Whatever it was you were chasing... it wouldn’t be worth it if you died too."

  He pauses. Like he’s searching for the right words. Tries to speak again. Stops. Opens his mouth—then closes it.

  Eventually, he just nods. Stands.

  "They were after your sword," he says simply, and unlocks my cuffs.

  "...What?" I blink, confused.

  "The thieves," he explains. "One survived. Talked. They were waiting for you. They knew you’d be there tonight. Your sword—is what they wanted."

  He hands it back to me, grip firm, eyes lingering.

  "I wouldn’t recommend walking around late with something that valuable," he adds.

  He turns toward the door, then stops.

  "Submit a report on the incident before the end of the week. And..." He hesitates, then softens. "Don’t be a stranger. We take care of our own. And I’ve still got liquor left."

  A half-smile. A nod. Then he’s gone.

  Silence again.

  The original three guards remain, watching me with unreadable looks.

  "You were with the expedition?" one of them asks.

  I nod slowly.

  "You killed orcs?" another adds.

  Another nod.

  "Were there many?"

  I blink. Confused. Their faces are serious. Genuinely waiting.

  "...Yes."

  They glance at each other. And then, quietly, one after another:

  "Thanks."

  "Yeah... thanks."

  "Appreciate it."

  They turn and leave. The door clicks shut behind them.

  Alone again.

  Why were they thanking me?

  Maybe I should’ve—

  No.

  Doesn’t matter.

  I’m too tired to dig deeper. Too drained to chase the thought.

  This day’s been heavy enough.

  But... wait.

  If they were thieves, how did they know what Light was?

  The expensive mithril part is hidden. Just a plain old iron blade, at a glance.

  I never told anyone about it—except once. That one time... during the Evaluation.

  What?

  Shit.

  ...

  The older healer is glaring at me with all the fury of a disappointed father and a man who definitely had other plans for his day.

  The army healer on night duty had done a decent enough job, but I still came back to the most respected practitioner in the city to double-check everything—and maybe help with my other problem.

  After examining my freshly healed wounds, he demanded an explanation for what had happened these last two weeks.

  He did not like the answer.

  "You were told to rest," he snaps, voice rising.

  "I did rest. But the—"

  "Young man, I may not be up to date with the latest changes in the common vernacular, but an expedition into the forest to kill orcs, followed by midnight fights with street thugs, is not rest!" His voice ricochets off the walls.

  "But that was after a full week of resting. I did exactly as you said—"

  He gives me a glare that could curdle milk.

  "And now you come back with barely healed injuries, more symptoms than before, and you still think none of it is connected?"

  "Yes, but—no. The physical stuff is just a coincidence, I told you—"

  "No." The word drops like a guillotine. He cuts me off, grabs a quill, and starts writing something furiously.

  Not sure what I expected, but this definitely isn’t it. He was friendlier last time.

  The room goes quiet save for the scratching of ink on paper.

  Eventually, he speaks again, tone more measured.

  "Concerning the... auditory hallucinations—" (he doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it) "—I performed a general scan of your brain for any signs of early schizophrenia or other mental conditions. Thankfully, nothing concerning turned up. The specialists in the capital would have a deeper insight, but given the sudden onset of the symptoms, I’m still leaning toward stress and fatigue."

  He pauses to give me a look. I didn't return it.

  "The mana activity in your cerebral and spinal channels is heightened, but that could just be from the lack of sleep... and, well, everything that happened last night."

  He holds out a slip of paper. I instinctively lean back. He rolls his eyes.

  "The dosage is lower than last time. It shouldn’t cause the same side effects. Normally, someone with your build wouldn’t have been hit so hard by it. We’ll be more careful moving forward."

  I take the slip with the enthusiasm of a man handed a death certificate.

  "And next time," he adds, "if you do experience any adverse effects, report back immediately."

  I grunt something halfway between a thank-you and a complaint and start heading for the door.

  "Return in two days," he says sharply. I stop mid-step.

  "This isn’t a routine check-up anymore. It’s a health concern now."

  Somehow, he reads my thoughts before I say anything.

  "Don’t worry. I’ll send the receipt to the army and classify it as a direct result of the expedition." He waves me off. "Now go. And don’t forget. Two days."

  I nod, slowly, and exit.

  ...

  I scan the massive menu in front of me, filled with endless choices—yet my eyes keep drifting back to the same line.

  The tavern’s special. Fried meat with vegetables.

  No.

  Not today.

  Not again.

  I’ve ordered that too many times. In pure defiance, I force myself to choose something different.

  I don’t even know what moqueca is, but the waitress highly recommends it. Olev and Edd stick to their usuals. Joe joins me in what he calls "the noble research of new and tasty business opportunities."

  "It’s okay, Olev. We get it. You can’t really blame your uncle, you know," I say as the waitress walks off.

  Olev sighs and launches back into his rant.

  "I get it, okay? I’ve had more than my share of close calls lately, but still—no quests at all? Not even the safe ones inside the city? Seriously? And now Brian has me doing some insane new full-day training routine! I’m working out more than I ever did at the academy, and somehow that’s still not enough?"

  "He’s just worried about you."

  "I know, Harv. I know." He groans and lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. "My uncle... he knows what really happened. That they used us as bait. And now he’s ready to rip and tear... But it’s complicated... politics and all that."

  I nod. I don’t fully understand, but I can tell it weighs on him.

  "We’ll come visit," Joe cuts in with a grin, steering the conversation away from heavier things. "Moral support and entertainment. Not every day you get to see the mighty Olev Murdoch getting tossed around. I’m thinking of front row tickets, betting pools... Edd will help manage the funds, right?"

  Edd, silent up until now, gives a vaguely concerning smile.

  Olev shoots him a glare, and the deep chuckle that escapes me feels well earned.

  But then Joe’s grin falters. His expression settles into something quieter. More final.

  "Actually, this is a good segue..." he says. "I think I’m done, guys."

  We all pause.

  "It was fun while it lasted, but... the last quest was a wake-up call. Time to take a hard look at reality."

  "Joe, this is temporary," Olev says quickly. "Give it a week. Things will settle down. We’ll take smaller jobs—easy ones—"

  "Relax." Joe waves him off with a half-chuckle. "I’m not leaving you idiots. You’ll never get rid of me that easily."

  His grin fades again. "What I mean is... I’ve been a burden. And—don’t interrupt me," he adds, pointing a finger at Olev, who was just about to cut in.

  "I was a burden. I put your lives at risk. I’m only alive because you were there, and I’ll never forget that. But I can’t keep doing this. Leaning on you. Making you pay the price for my choices. That’s not what friends do."

  He pauses, smirks darkly, then continues.

  "While limping home on one leg, I kept asking myself: ‘What the hell is a merchant doing out there?’ And I couldn’t come up with a good answer. Just a bunch of excuses."

  I freeze.

  Because that sounds... way too familiar.

  Maybe we’re more alike than I thought, this odd, gluttonous, pocket-obsessed lunatic and I.

  "At some point," Joe says, "you have to face reality. I’ve decided to shift gears. I’ll still support you guys—but as a merchant. Adventuring pays more, sure, but it was never going to last forever. I’d have made the switch eventually. Better now than too late."

  He exhales, like he’s finally put something heavy down. We all sit in the lull that follows.

  The waitress arrives with our food, breaking the tension.

  She places a mug of beer beside my plate.

  "I didn’t order that," I say, frowning up at her.

  "It was paid for by another customer," she says with a smile, gesturing toward a nearby table.

  I follow her finger and spot three adventurers raising their mugs toward us.

  What...? I don’t know them. Why would they—?

  After a pause, I nod back, lift the mug in return, and take a sip. I’m thirsty anyway. Not worth the mental gymnastics.

  I turn back to my food and find everyone else already deep in the sacred ritual of eating. I joined them.

  Turns out moqueca is a fish stew with vegetables, soaked in some thick, rich sauce. The flavors hit like fireworks—impossible to describe, yet undeniably addictive. Each bite is soft, warm, and heavy with spice.

  By the time half my plate is gone, the logical part of my brain finally resumes functioning again.

  The same thing happened to the other three pigs at the table with me.

  "Oh, right—Olev, I got your book." Joe digs through one of his bags and pulls out a thick tome, handing it over. "You know, volume three of that... ‘Skill Book’..."

  A smile lights up Olev’s face like a kid handed candy. He accepts the book reverently, nodding with the kind of gratitude usually reserved for life-saving interventions.

  "‘Skill Book’? That’s actually its name?" I ask, eyebrows raised. "That’s... incredibly generic."

  A book literally called Skill Book. That’s almost impressive.

  Joe and Olev both freeze.

  Edd suddenly finds his food very interesting and starts shoveling it down like it holds the meaning of life.

  "Uh... yeah, not a widely known one," Joe mutters.

  I blink.

  "What’s it about?"

  The two exchange a glance. A loaded, almost guilty glance.

  "It’s a... skill improvement book," Joe says after a pause. Then looks at Olev for backup.

  What the hell?

  "What kind of skill? Like mana manipulation or—?"

  Joe's face turns red instantly, and he begins aggressively stuffing the rest of his food into his mouth like he’s trying to physically drown the conversation. His cheeks puff like a chipmunk while he avoids eye contact, chewing slowly. Painfully slowly.

  Olev chuckles awkwardly.

  "Oh, sorry," I say, hands raised. "Didn’t mean to pry. If it’s some secret technique or a unique skill, I’ll—"

  Joe chokes. Not metaphorically. He literally chokes.

  His wheezing coughs echo across the table as I stare in confused silence.

  "No, uh... it’s..." Olev clears his throat, leans closer, and whispers, "It’s a bedroom skill."

  I blink.

  "...Like how to sleep deeper and better?"

  Now that would be useful. Especially with the sleep problems lately. Maybe it’s a meditation technique or something. I lift a spoonful of stew thoughtfully.

  Joe starts coughing again, violently this time, his whole body shaking.

  "No, no," Olev says quickly, his face now beet red.

  I pause.

  The puzzle pieces slam together in my brain.

  Eyes wide.

  Oh.

  OH.

  A heavy silence falls on the table.

  A whirlwind of thoughts surges in my head.

  Eventually, one bursts out before I can stop it.

  "...Are there many books... like that?"

  "Dozens," Edd whispers, deadpan.

  Joe and Olev spin toward him with betrayed glares. Edd, completely unfazed, resumes eating in silence like a monk.

  Dozens?!

  Wait—how does Edd know that?

  Did he read them? Are they sharing?!

  "Uh... well... that’s a useful skill," I say awkwardly.

  "Exactly!" Olev says proudly, volume cranked up. "A man must continue on the path of self-improvement! There’s always something to learn! Techniques, secrets, form! We must strive for mastery!"

  Joe mumbles into his plate, "Vana never complained, as far as I know..."

  Olev glares at him like he’s been stabbed.

  Another round of silence.

  We all quietly return to eating. At some point, I find my courage and speak up again—this time, about something else that’s been gnawing at me.

  "Me too," I say.

  Three sets of eyes snap to me.

  Joe leans back like I just confessed something wild.

  His eyes jump between me and Olev a few times.

  "I’ve been thinking," I continue. "And I’ve decided to re-balance a bit. I’ll still go on quests with you guys when things calm down, but for now... I’ve got a mountain of smithing work. Orders to finish, the shop to set up, a name to come up with. A lot of catching up to do on the business end."

  Their confusion softens into understanding.

  "I’m not vanishing, I’ll still hang out with you guys and go on quests. But I need to focus. Money’s not tight, but getting the smithing stone rolling’s gonna take time."

  Joe lights up, a wide smile blooming on his face. Olev just sighs with weariness.

  We raise our cups and toast to change, growth, and our various questionable life decisions.

  As I set my empty mug down, I feel a few stares. I glance around, and several gazes quickly snap away.

  Huh?

  What the hell?

  Is this about yesterday? The fight with the thieves? Did I draw too much attention?

  Are these people friends of those thugs?

  Shit.

  Should I-

  A waitress appears, placing four more mugs beside me.

  "These ALL came from different customers," she says with a wink before strutting off.

  I look around.

  Several tables lift their mugs in my direction.

  What...?

  What the actual hell?

  I raise one hesitantly in return, nodding, but don’t drink. Not yet.

  Is this good or bad? Let's consider... Worst case: they are friends of the thieves. Best case: they’re grateful I took the bastards down.

  I glance at Olev and Joe for help—only to find them smirking.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck.

  Wait.

  They’re not alarmed. That rules out danger.

  Which leaves the worst option of all.

  An inside joke.

  Is this about the damn nickname?

  The Splatter thing?

  I can’t let it slide. Who knows what it’ll grow into?

  Before I can open my mouth, a trio of well-equipped warriors approaches our table. The same ones who sent the first drink.

  Shit.

  What do they want?

  Whatever it is, my hand’s already on the pommel of Light.

  "Hey, Harv," says the one in the middle with a bright smile. "We’re a B-Rank Adventurer party—Dungeon Blade. We’re looking to expand, and we'd love for you to join. Good pay, solid teamwork."

  My mouth opens slightly, but no words come out.

  They just stand there. Calm. Smiling. Waiting patiently for an answer like this is all completely normal.

  Did... did they hear I can’t team up with Olev and Joe anymore? Is this connected? Why would a B-Rank team want me? Is this some kind of trap?

  "Uh, sorry. I’m a smith," I say with an awkward smile. "Got a backlog to work through. So, no adventuring for me. At least not for a while."

  They nod, completely unbothered, and continue like I hadn’t just shut them down.

  "No problem at all. We get it—the industry’s tough. Where’s your shop? We’ll swing by, check it out, maybe buy a few things."

  I give them the address, still not sure if this is real.

  They nod again.

  "Well, good luck, Harv! And if you're ever looking for a team, Dungeon Blade always has a spot for you." The one in the middle gives me a wink and a warm smile.

  And then they leave. Just like that.

  I sit frozen, brain whirring like a broken fan, trying to process what the hell just happened.

  They knew I was an adventurer. They even knew my name, not the stupid nickname. Where did they hear about me? Did they see me during the orc expedition? Is that what this is?

  Why am I always the last to know something about myself?

  I turn back to Olev and Joe—and of course, those two are grinning like idiots. Their smirks have grown into full-blown shit-eating grins.

  "What the hell?" I snap. "What did I miss this time? Another one of those fucking inside jokes?"

  They burst into howling laughter while the usually quiet Edd cracks a smile.

  I wait for them to stop.

  Finally, Olev wipes a tear from his eye and wheezes out, "Oh, Harv... I keep forgetting how dense you are sometimes."

  Joe shakes his head, that grin still plastered on his face.

  "Explain," I demand.

  "You’re a good guy, that’s all," Olev replies with mock innocence and a smirk.

  The smirk dies fast when I rise from my chair ready for violence.

  Joe lifts his hands in surrender. "Hey, sit down. You seriously don’t know what you did, huh?"

  I slowly lower myself back into the chair, scowling.

  Joe takes a long sip from one of the untouched mugs—my mugs, actually—and sets it down with a refreshed sigh.

  "Okay. First, understand this: adventurers are, by and large, selfish pricks. Cowards, even. Most teams are held together by coin and convenience. Loyalty’s a luxury no one can ever afford. Everyone’s always watching their own back first."

  He leans in slightly, more serious now.

  "It’s normal. Expected. Most’ll run at the first real sign of danger. The only ones who don’t are those tight-knit veteran teams—basically mythical. Think museum relics. Pretty to look at, impossible to touch."

  Olev cuts in.

  "What Joe’s saying is: people want teammates they can rely on. But most who seem reliable are either hiding something or they’re glory-chasing morons with hero complexes. And those guys? They die. Fast. Often drag their teams with them."

  I blink, my confusion only deepening.

  Joe snorts.

  "Okay, look at it this way, If someone seems perfect, too perfect: noble, strong, handsome, social, friendly, and ready to put their life on the line for you, doesn’t that raise red flags? Like ‘what’s the deal with this guy?’ or ‘why’s he doing that?’. Wouldn’t that feel somehow fake and unnatural, like an actor playing a role in some famous theater play? Like a character from a children's book who just can’t exist in reality."

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  Olev grins. "Because you don’t look like someone playing a part. You just do it. You’re weird, Harv. Weird as hell. So when you stood your ground for the team on your first quest, people noticed. You barely knew us. You had no reason to risk yourself. But you did."

  "And then," Joe adds, "you did it again. In public. In front of everyone. Risked your life to protect two injured teammates when everyone else would've run. That kind of thing? That's unheard off."

  I glance between them.

  "In public?"

  Joe nods. "You didn’t notice? People were hiding behind the trees. Watching. Shaking in fear while you fought those orc chieftains."

  I slowly shake my head.

  "Well, they saw it," Joe continues. "And now? Everyone wants a piece of you. A teammate who actually has your back. A rare, living artifact, Harv. And the fact that you’re a weirdo makes it more believable. You’re not playing a role. You’re just... you. With quirks. And authenticity."

  I sit there, processing.

  In the clan, we were always taught to be anchors—foundations for others to build on. Not bosses. Not commanders. Just solid ground. A place to lean on when things got rough.

  If the strong don’t hold that weight, then the only way they lead is through fear and force.

  That always felt... normal to me.

  But there’s still one thing that doesn’t sit right.

  "...What exactly is weird about me?"

  "EVERYTHING!" Joe and Olev shout in perfect unison—and promptly collapse into laughter again.

  Even Edd chuckles this time.