Wine bottles, stacked on top of an ancient dresser. This must have been a guest room once, but judging by the thick dust covering every piece of furniture, people did not come around here often. Either that or they did not deserve a clean room.

Gren, the kind peasant, entered the room with another wine. It was only half full, but thank god for that. This was becoming a bit too much for my liking.

Emma lay on top of the old bed, awake, though severely drunk. Gren explained she best be sedated with alcohol so that neither the wound cause her any pain, nor the treatment she is about to undergo.

Still, it was her fifth round of that smelly, strong stuff. Any more and I wager she dies by alcohol poisoning instead of anything else.

After consuming even more via Gren holding the bottle for her, she belched and laughed.

“Axer... your face rooks so... funny... like... a crown!” Then, she returned to cackling to herself.

She was pretty cute when drunk, I had to admit. Only if there was not that huge, bloody wound...

Gren reached inside the old dresser. She searched between the clothes inside, then grabbed something.

I raised an eyebrow when an aged rusty cleaver appeared in her hand.

“So, she’s beyond saving?” I asked jokingly.

Gren chuckled. “Silly! This cleaver is a relic of my great-great-grandfather. Wielding it helps me incite the magic in my blood. Think of it like... oh, like a hole on a barrel, that’s sitting in the rain!”

“Weird example.”

“The barrel is continuously filled with rainwater. I’m the barrel. The water is my magic. To let my magic out of the barrel, and into the world, I need a hole. That instrument is the outlet for my magic. These instruments vary by people. For me, it’s this cleaver.”

“Huh,” I replied nonchalantly. What she told me now was not new info, however, whenever I played Ancient Blades, I downloaded mods that let me cast magic without any weird restraints. Maybe it was a bit busted, but who cares? It’s a single-player game.

Something different bothered me, though.

When I met the tutorial NPC in Nightwood, who gave me the Hero’s Journal and Compass, he had very limited things to say. Even the bandit leader on the Yellow Mountain was unable to react properly to my trickery.

But Gren... She was weird. On one hand, she acted like an average NPC. Her expression was fixed into a smile. She blinked rhythmically. Her movements and gestures followed a set animation.

Yet she was more aware than your average NPC. She was scarcely behind Emma or Nyeander in that regard. Was she an offspring of Weeboy’s Cutey Followers mod? Maybe. After all, she was wife-material. No arguments there.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The cleaver resting in her offhand and her main on Emma’s abdomen, she closed her eyes and focused. The air around them became tense.

“This might sting a little,” she said with a growing frown.

Emma’s expression changed. From someone cackling without a worry, to someone in shock.

I started to hesitate about the procedure. Magic was something I used a lot in the game, but have no idea about regarding its inner workings. This is not a game anymore, and if something goes astray, my companion could die.

Even worse, maybe all of us.

But soon after, Emma smiled again. Gren too, relieved.

“Oh, a half-elf,” Gren announced with a chuckle, “No wonder it’s so easy to treat you. So rare to meet one of your kind!”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

That was when I realized. Behind her fragrant gold hair, Emma’s ears were just so slightly pointy. Such a tiny detail, I would not have noticed, had Emma not laughed so horridly.

And she laughed, loudly, mocking me. She even slapped her hand against her drunkard forehead. “Wha’? Don’t terr me you didn’t rearize? Why do you think I can cast magic so easiry? Gahaha!”

“Hey, quit laughing! You should have started with that when we first met!”

“Why? Do you have somethin’ against harf-erves? You want to fight me? Huh?” She raised her fists. “Come ‘ere!”

“Alright. Gren, I think I’ll go out and grab some air before she climbs off the bed.” Heading out, I stopped in the doorframe and turned around. “That cleaver is for magic casting only, right?”

Gren nodded with a smile.

“Good luck,” I added before leaving.

Gren lived with her family on a small farm on the other side of the forest. Their land was relatively small, only bearing a few plantations.

They lived in a two-story house, its walls made from wood and the roof made from hay. The wide dirt road began was in front of it, a farm wagon parked on the side. On the opposite end of the road was a small barn, made fully out of wood. It must have been used for storing food because, despite the wagon, there were only a few chickens on the farm.

As I walked out of the house and took the few steps connecting it to the dirt road, Nyeander and Heidl came into my sight. They were watching as Gren’s dad and mom walked from one place to another, stacking blocks of hay on each other. In the shadow of a nearby cherry tree sat Gren’s grandad making so little movement that he appeared as if carved from stone.

They were ordinary people, even by NPC standards. They wore brown peasant clothes, much like Gren. Their hair was brown too, and Gren’s mother wore her kerchief identically. The only difference was age, though given Ancient Blades’s art style, even that barely showed.

Besides for the bearded old man. The top of his balding head was covered with spots, and his long wrinkles almost blinded him.

Nyeander noticed me as I walked up to them. As the good company she is, she ignored showing even the most basic care about Emma’s well-being, and quietly insulted Gren’s grandpa with a grin.

“Look at him,” she said while hiding her mouth, “I think the old fart died minutes ago, but they have yet to notice. No, wait! Okay, he just breathed. He does that every so often.”

I just shook my head, but Nyeander was too caught up with the old guy to see my disappointment.

Gren’s parents walked up to us, still holding hays in their hands. As a sign of respect, I offered my help, which they kindly declined.

“I am so thankful for your help! Without you, my friend might not have made it.”

“No worries,” said Gren’s father with a chuckle, “We are just happy to help. Would you like to stay for the night? The village is still a good hour away, and it’s getting dark.”

“Ah, no! I don’t want to bother you guys,” I said awkwardly, but Gren’s father pressed on.

“You don’t! We even prepared dinner for you!”

Nyeander’s eyes suddenly shone up with excitement. “Dinner?”

“That’s right!” Gren’s father laughed.

Before I could have refused any longer, Nyeander took the initiative and agreed to the proposal. “I want caviar!”

Sigh. Maybe it's better for Emma this way too, I thought.