Percevale was very certain that the man had not run up from the back of the line. He'd seen it done other times. He'd personally stood in that same spot and witnessed every conceivable method of attempting it. That was not what had happened.

There was no portal, either.

Percevale knew about portals.

This man had not come out of one.

The last, most unbelievably rare possibility, was that he was a new Hero. But they would only arrive in a beam of light from the goddess who had summoned them. Everyone knew that. It lingered, too. He distinctly recalled the day that the latest hero, Normannus, had arrived a year prior, and the pillar of light that had disrupted the city for the better part of a week afterwards in the place that he'd been summoned.

No, this man was something else entirely, something unknown to the grizzled veteran, and that made Percevale uneasy.

"Um," the gatekeeper said, trying to catch the newly-arrived man's attention as he glanced around at his surroundings, seeming to be unsure of his precise location.

The man's confusion deepened Percevale's unease, causing his voice to crack slightly. He took note of the man's courtly attire: impeccable craftsmanship on the dark trousers and white dress shirt, beautiful embroidery on his dark gray vest, the entire outfit fitted perfectly to his frame, and all of it completely impractical for doing any sort of work. Only a noble would own such an outfit, let alone wear one outside the city by himself. And the stitching—the small, unmistakable dragon on his chest. That was a symbol only the most powerful would dare to wear, and its color…

That shade of bright green was the same one that this generation of the royal family wore their garb and accouterments in! No other noble—certainly no commoner—would dare to wear it unless they were confident in the strength of their alliance to the kingdom's ruling household.

Just the fact that he was unaccompanied and alone in such a place wearing an outfit such as this would give most men pause. The nobles mostly kept to themselves in their small, fenced-in part of the city. They did not walk around—barefoot—outside the safe walls of the city.

They also did not appear.

Percevale cleared his throat. "Ho there, Good Sir," he called out, gratified that his long service in the army had hardened him, allowing his voice to only belie a small portion of his anxiety whereas a lesser man might have fallen to his knees or otherwise lost his posture.

The man faced his head forward, seeming to catch sight of Percevale blocking his path for the first time. His expression hardened, and he swept a large, glowing spear up over his shoulder with the ease and familiarity of one who knew his weapon well.

"What, um, brings you to our fair city?" Percevale stammered, not liking the way this encounter was going so far. The man's eyes flicked down, judging the distance between them, and Percevale stepped back in an attempt to placate him.

The man took a breath, and suddenly he seemed taller, menacing, even. "What brings me here, you ask?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble that nearly set Percevale's knees knocking as he eyed the glowing spear.

Percevale knew a bit about magical weapons. He'd seen a lot of them. He'd used a couple, too.

He'd never seen one that glowed this color or with such radiance, nor one so large.

Especially not on a man who had simply appeared out of nowhere.

The man tapped his spear against his shoulder in agitation as he waited.

Percevale gulped as he realized the implication. "Y-yes?" he said with a slight stutter as he struggled to retain his composure.

He'd fought a lot of things in the army. He'd fought men. He'd fought sea creatures. He'd fought rebel bands of dwarves on a couple occasions. He'd fought monsters, too, big and small.

None of those things felt nearly as ominous as the man with the glowing spear that so casually rested upon his shoulder while he stood barefoot in front of a city that he'd just appeared in front of.

The man stepped forward, once again invading Percevale's personal space with an ease that suggested that even if the retired army captain were to reach for his sword, it would have no effect. He leaned forward, putting his brown-bearded face much too close.

"Do you really want to know?" the man asked in a half-whisper, his eyes drilling into Percevale's without blinking as though looking into his very soul.

Percevale was too surprised that the man's mouth wasn't filled with sharp, pointy fangs to respond immediately. He pressed his lips together to avoid blurting out the first two letter word that came to mind.

He was a gatekeeper, sworn to do his best to let only those who would do no harm into the city.

This man…

Percevale recognized the casual way that the man held himself, as though nothing could possibly bother him, that nothing could harm him. He'd seen it often enough on some of his soldiers, usually the new recruits just before they were slaughtered by a monster they'd never encountered before.

They hadn't been half again Percevale's size—in both height and breadth—and carrying a large, green-glowing spear, however.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Nor had they appeared out of fucking nowhere to stand practically on top of him.

Percevale shook his head. "Um, actually," he said, hoping he was being polite enough, "now that you mention it, Sir, I d-don't think I do?" He half expected the man to fly into a rage, swinging the spear and somehow shearing a wide rift in the wall above—where his still-innocent daughter looked on—then affixing the trembling guard's head to the top of the spear as a warning to others who—

The man harrumphed, and Percevale cowered, expecting to—

"Good man," the newcomer said, showing a slight smile.

Percevale rushed aside, thanking whatever fates had caused the man to take a liking to him. "W-welcome to Charus City, Sir…"

He knew he shouldn't chance it. He was already fortunate to be alive, much less asking for the man's name. But he had to know. Surely this man would become a legend someday, assuming he wasn't already one. A thought struck him that cause his eyes to widen even further.

The man—if that's what he truly was—harrumphed once more. "Carl," he said as he passed, not giving the gatekeeper another look—as if to say that his time had been wasted enough already.

Carl.

Percevale sagged, feeling the crushing weight lift a little with each step that the man took towards the gate. He turned back to the queue of people, preparing to manage the—

"One thing," a deep voice called from behind him.

Percevale froze. Was there some unknown custom that he'd failed to observe in this visitor's eyes? Was he from a distant land where visitors to cities were greeted in a specific manner?

Or was he a He who should have been greeted with prostration and worship?

He turned slowly, feeling his stomach clench. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he knew that his death was near. His only thought now was in drawing attention to himself, that his daughter might still live. The retired army captain's sins had—

"I'm interested in acquiring some new footwear," the man said, drawing Percevale's attention once more to His bared—but clean—feet. "Do you have any shops you'd recommend?"

Percevale's mind blanked. He couldn't handle the stress, the strain. He was torn between his joy at his and his daughter's continued survival, anxiousness that he might yet say something to change that, and, a small part of him added, despair that his time had not yet passed and he would continue to relive that day.

At last, he marshaled his thoughts sufficiently to form a response. "I think that," he paused. If he sent this man to the wrong place, would it seal his doom? The thought was perversely tempting, but he banished it when he considered how many innocent lives would likely be lost in the ensuing rampage. "For someone of your, uh, stature," he started again, hoping to convey his respect for whoever or whatever this Carl was, "you'll want to give Old Ingrid's a look." There was no better shoemaker in the kingdom than Old Ingrid.

"She's, um, a bit pricey?" Cost was surely no matter for this man who wore such flawlessly-woven clothes, carried a weapon of such immense power, and appeared with no sign of magic nor divine power, but Percevale feared what might happen were the stranger to be caught by surprise when He saw high cost of the quality footwear, as He'd termed it. An appropriate combination of words, to be sure, but not one that he'd ever heard before.

"But she's the best in the city," he continued. "Even the King gets his footwear crafted by her." He'd used the His Majesty's name, even though he could have said that all the richest nobles had their shoes and boots crafted by the old woman. It wouldn't do for the man to think that Percevale was recommending a place that any but the absolute best might go.

A shop that would still be unworthy of Him, as the experienced gatekeeper now suspected.

Percevale held his breath and waited.

The man nodded after a moment's consideration. "My thanks," He said, sounding vaguely pleased.

Or at least, that's the tone that Percevale hoped he was hearing. But the man turned and strolled into the city as though He didn't have a care in the world. It seemed likely that He didn't. "You've done well," He called out, His voice booming out and echoing behind Him without the need for Him to look back.

Percevale let out a breath that seemed to contain all the stress he'd accumulated over more than just the past few minutes—the entire decade of his life that he'd spent in self-recrimination feeling like it was washed away in one glorious moment. He felt younger than his fifty six years already. His brow was wet, and he felt sweat running down his back in what was practically a torrent, just like the one he'd heard had recently erupted from the other side of the city near the small gate by the nobles' district.

Or like the wave.

Today was truly a day of dichotomous events.

Percevale felt refreshed, baptized, by the sweat that was cooling now in the gentle afternoon breeze. The castle, on the other hand… Well, something like that seemed to concern him much less all of the sudden. The day even seemed a little brighter to him. Perhaps he'd beg off of work a little early and take his wife around on a stroll that afternoon to share in his spontaneous good cheer.

Yes, that's exactly what he'd do, just as soon as he'd welcomed a few more people into the city—a city that could be the greatest someday, he now felt. And later, he decided, after he'd gone for a walk with his wife, perhaps taken her out to one of the food stalls in the market for a dinner of luxury, he'd sit down with her in the relative privacy of their small, cramped home and speak with her. Finally, after eleven years of biting his tongue and spouting the same lies that had soured his stomach and caused him to have constant, frightful dreams, he would speak his true thoughts to the girl he'd fallen in love with while out on his first campaign.

He felt like a new man, and it was all thanks to Carl.

He'd never forget that name.

No, he'd speak of it to all who would listen: the story of a fateful judgment upon a poor, weak-willed, shell of a man who hadn't deserved the boon he'd been granted—who'd known he should have been found wanting and smote there before the gate—but had instead been granted a reprieve, a chance to redeem himself by doing the right thing at long last.

Percevale turned back to the queue. The two men who had been next were still goggling at Carl's distant form as it gradually disappeared around—

Percevale tore his gaze away with reluctance and faced forward.

There was work to be done.

He would not waste this second chance.

"Who in the hell was that?" whispered one of the wide-eyed men as he leaned in close.

The reborn gatekeeper grinned. "I'm not entirely sure," he said in reply, stroking his mustache, "but I feel as though we've all been blessed to have been here when He arrived."