“Why, you ask? That’s a strange question, Alkith,” Ques Van Lendi replied as he rearranged the contents of his bag. “I became a cleric simply because I could. I had the power to do so, so I did.”

“Then allow me to rephrase my question,” said Alkith Jarvarax. “Why did you choose to become an adventurer? And of all the heroes to choose from, why follow the Dragonslayer? Surely, there are countless other professions where your clerical abilities are needed. Why tread the path most dangerous?”

“Hm, right. Phrased like that, it becomes a better question, yes.” Ques turned his gaze to the skies and thought of an answer. “If I had to say, I guess it’s because it’s more dangerous. Adventurers constantly risk their lives, often for meager rewards. There are plenty of other occupations that give more for less. So why do you think they do it?”

Jarvarax thought back to his own reasons for taking up this life. “Is it experience? The desire to see the world and understand it.”

“It’s desire. The desire for treasure, for glory, for knowledge. But at its core, it’s the desire to feel alive. Battle, danger, conflict ... these things make our heart pump and our blood flow. The threat of death forces us to do everything to preserve our own lives. And through these ordeals, we grow as people. That is adventure. And what is the one experience that is universally present in all adventures?”

Jarvarax stayed quiet for a while, not knowing the answer. Ques simply pointed a finger towards him and answered:

“It’s pain. Pain, in all shapes and forms, is present in all lives no matter where you look, but it flocks to adventurers like flies. And where there’s pain, there’s healers like me. Clerics in my profession are drawn to pain.”

“So, you became a cleric because you like pain?”

Ques laughed. “Don’t take my words out of context, man. Though, in a strange way, you’re not entirely wrong. Pain is undesirable and ugly. If left rampant, it brings death, but if you overcome it, it creates room for growth. It is a power we must both fear and respect. That’s why I follow Kalaman. Pain hangs abundantly over him. If I can be there to help him stand against it, then he may become whole.”

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“Become whole? What does that mean?”

“Pain perfects people, Alkith.”

For years, those words have sunken their roots within Jarvarax’s mind for years now. He kept thinking about it, even long after Ques’ death. If pain perfects someone, is Jarvarax perfected? Why did he not think that Kalaman was whole yet? What does it even mean to become “perfect”?

All of this was simply his regret talking. Jarvarax will never know what it would be like to become perfect.

The drops of rain were beginning to feel numb on his skin. He knew the ship was dancing with the waves, but he could not feel the shaking. The thunder was loud, but even its roar sounded distant.

He was growing cold. The only warmth came from the blood that pooled beneath him, mixing with the uncaring rain.

It all happened so fast. He had gone to the upper deck to confront the rest of the crew, and before he knew it, a sword had gone through his chest. It was only a matter of seconds before his consciousness went cold.

His vision was blurring. He didn’t know what was happening. But he could hear the screams. Loud, painful screams by the dozen.

How did he fail? Things should never have gone like this. Jarvarax cursed his own stupidity. He wasn’t Ques. He would never be Ques. What was he lacking? Was he lax in his observations? Was he lacking in his deductions? Was he mistaken with his decisions?

What did Ques have that he didn’t?

If only Ques was here, things would never have turned out this way.

...Maybe that was the problem.

Jarvarax was always thinking about what Ques would do if he was here. But Ques was gone. He’ll never return. So instead of actually finding for ways to resolve this problem, all he was doing was mimicking a dead man, and dead men can’t solve problems.

He wasn’t trying to prove that they didn’t need a replacement for Ques. He just didn’t want him to be replaced.

What a fool he’s been.

Jarvarax sees a figure. His blurring eyes become clear for just a brief moment. Standing there, amidst the rain and the blood, was a lady in a white dress, her raven black hair flowing with the raging storm. Her sickly yellow eyes stared at the carnage with nothing but indifference.

Right.

She was a cleric, too.

And before Jarvarax could arrange his thoughts further, everything went dark.