Chapter 42: Violence is the Answer

You’d think I’d be worried, facing the prospect of actual combat for the first time. I wasn’t necessarily counting the sparring matches back in Allensward, against baby monsters and people who’d never fought a serious battle in their lives, but even whilst killing the latter, I’d had little reaction to it all. To this day, I’m unsure exactly why my reactions were so muted, when popular media loved to portray a first kill as some grand moment of self-reflection and horror, but for me, it was just business as usual. So, in truth, I was looking forward to testing myself against someone who knew how to fight back, especially since I’d already been cooped up in the carriage for many hours already: a bit of violence seemed like just the thing to break up the monotony.

The Blackened Bracelet was actually helpful here, as it’s effect meant I could freely switch to Soldier without fielding questions about my Class: I could probably have explained it as some kind of shapeshift ability, which were uncommon though by no means unheard of, but it was always nice to not have to bother.

[Knife withdrawn.]

The cart came to a shuddering halt as I prepared myself, and Harvey quickly opened the flap in the tarp, letting us out into the crispy evening air. The sun was almost entirely gone, over the horizon, so we would have had to stop soon regardless, but it was still nice to get out early. I was a bit surprised to see the driver clamber into the now empty carriage, pulling the tarp closed behind him, but this seemed to be replicated across all six carriages, while the guards all dismounted, leaving their horses by the carriages as they drew their bows, forming a loose perimeter around the convoy.

“They’re not going to fight mounted?” I questioned, my brow furrowed at the strange display. “Also, why are the drivers hiding, for that matter?”

“It’s not that easy to shoot accurately from horseback,” Harvey laughed, the Thief also defying my expectations by pulling out a massive greatsword from a storage space of his own, one almost as tall as I was from tip to pommel. “Anyone who can do that consistently won’t be wasting their time guarding caravans; we’re talking years of training in a proper military, for that. The drivers aren't combatants at all, they tend to have classes focused on animal care. Great to have, since their presence is what’s keeping loose horses from running off in a panic, but not much use in a fight, so it’s best they get out of the way. In that sense, the carriages are the best place to hide, because if we’re being raided, the enemy won’t want to target the merchandise.”

“Huh.”

It did make sense, hearing it like that: perhaps I’d just gotten so used to depictions of horse archers in films and TV that the logistics of it escaped me until then. The sound of hoofsteps pulled my attention to the road ahead, where one last man was rejoining the crowd, an ivory horn in his hands as he dismounted. The outrider, then. I couldn't yet see any signs of the enemy, but I doubted they were far behind him. Looking around, I saw that we’d stopped at a good place: a small hill that gave us the high ground on anybody trying to approach, perfect for a convoy heavy on archers. That did leave it in question, how much I’d get to do, given my lack of ranged options: something I intended to change at the first opportunity. For the time being, I stood next to Harvey on the rough dirt path, playing the oldest game in the army: the waiting game.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Most of the archers were in a similar boat, standing around and fiddling with arrows or checking their bowstrings. One of them had some ability with earth magic, however, and was walking around the perimeter, summoning rows of earthen spikes to provide additional cover to his fellows, in a curious variation of the traditional archer’s stake.

“Archers can use magic, too?” I muttered. “Is this like the music player trick, or something else?”

“Something else,” Harvey grunted, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “Each individual can have only one Class at a time, this is an ironclad restriction of the System. There are many different specialisations within that, however, to the point where I’d say no two people share the exact same build by Level 5, except for those following a prescribed build path. The most common example are Soldiers enlisting in the army, who are required by contract to follow a certain progression.

At Level 2 they take Enhanced Senses: Hearing, to better receive orders in the heat of battle. At Level 3, they follow up with Resilience, which passively reduces the chances of illness, which would otherwise be the biggest killer in military life, even more so than their foes. At Level 4, they will take Weapon Specialisation in whichever is their main armament, granting enhanced proficiency in its use, and finally at Level 5 they select Phalanx, which very slightly bolsters all aspects of Soldiers within a small distance. Not too useful as an individual, but very powerful in the massed ranks that Soldiers tend to operate in. A formation of Level 5 soldiers following this methodology, working together in unison, can easily strike down opponents who are far superior on an individual basis, and it is through this teamwork that the rank and file of humanity hold the line against the eternal enemy.”

“Fascinating,” I admitted. “Not the career choice I’d make, but it’s still interesting to learn how the other side thinks.”

A small nudge at my ankle interrupted our spirited discussion on builds; looking down, I found that Pumpkin had decided to join me outside, clearly tiring of the driver he’d been sharing the carriage with.

“Impressive,” Harvey praised, reaching down to pet the cat. “I didn’t hear him coming at all, and I have enhanced senses. You’ve got the makings of a good Scout or Assassin, here.”

I was about to ask whether a Cat could reclass in such a manner, or if Harvey was merely pulling my leg, when a faint sheen of silver caught my eye. Growing up in England, I was no stranger to fog, but something about the approaching haze struck me as off. It was coming on too thick and too sudden, moreso that I’d seen even on the worst nights in London, and the faint tingling on my skin as the first wisps reached me didn’t help matters.

“There’s magic in this fog,” I reported immediately, drawing a sharp breath from Harvey.

Then, the howling began.