Day 3 (2 proofread Irene)

"Strith, Strith!" Dreshi yelled in her ear as she grunted in bed. Her eardrums threatened to rupture because of the shrill screams.

What a great awakening.

"What do you want?" was the harsh, brief reply.

"Dad has decided I'm old enough to wield a sword! I’ll show you some moves!"

For a moment, before turning on her brain, Strith was frightened. How could Drenger even think of arming his hyperactive son? Then, looking at the wooden sword that Dreshi waved triumphantly, Strith breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it.

"Hey!" the boy protested in vain.

"Maybe we can have a little sparring later," Strith said, rising from the mound of straw and cloth that only a masochist could call a bed. It was still the most comfortable bed she had ever had in her intense fifteen years of life.

As Dreshi followed her like a wagging dog, Strith walked to the first water source near their home. Once, in other cities, their families had possessed runes capable of bringing water and fire directly into the dwelling. Even Drenger, in his forge, now had to do everything by hand; he only had the help of his slender apprentice, meaning her.

She felt a rush of fury build in her chest, thinking back to the few memories she had of her parents. Sometimes it happened. Memories surfaced without warning and forced her to stiffen to avoid destroying everything around her.

It hadn't been a good day, the one she woke up without having her father and mother around.

She punched the house wall, leaving a notch in the rough clay bricks. A second later, she regretted the gesture, which had already made Dreshi run away in fear.

An incandescent surge of anger almost strangled her throat, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought of how stupid she had been for having made the child run away barely minutes from waking up.

“Ahhhh,” she stifled the scream with her throat muscles, turning it into a growl.

Looking at her legs, shorter than her parents would have liked, she realised that she had not been wearing the heavy leather clothes; she needed them in the forge to prevent the incandescent sparks from hurting her. Instead, she was still wearing the tunic she wore for the night, a colour that was a distant reminder of the white it once had been.

After cleaning herself up, she went to change, leaving her arms free. She would put on the armguards and gloves when she got to the forge. She lifted the anvil that Akrith had left near her house, one of the objects smithed by one of the newcomers.

…

After spending the morning helping Drenger, who had done nothing but swear relentlessly for the lack of raw materials, she was now finally free for a few hours.

Instead of training as she would have done any other day, she continued with her mission. She ducked behind a barrel, like a cat, and did not trip only thanks to her low centre of gravity. Sometimes having short legs also came in handy.

Almost caught me, Strith thought, not even daring to glance over the barrel.

Since that Earthling had arrived, things inside the village had changed. Everyone knew that, sooner or later, there would be a showdown; they would have to face the Ahalis. A month before, who would have imagined that they would have been forced into such a deathmatch?

Neither Drenger nor Akrith seemed too worried, though.

The blacksmith and his wife, a warrior around level 20, had never lived in fear of anything or anyone. And they had been kind enough to welcome her into the house when her parents died. Still, Strith wasn't sure if they took her out of pity. She instead believed they did it to put an extra pair of hands or sword to good use. But, perhaps, she was unfair to them. They had never demanded too much, but only the bare minimum.

Maybe that was what bothered her. They would have to fight soon, and she hoped to prove herself worthy of the love she had received from Akrith and Drenger.

None of the Vanedenis had dared to show an ounce of fear. They were angry, as always, but not afraid.

Strith, for her part, could well understand her people. The Ahalis seemed to have just received the gift of the century: the Vanedenis found themselves with a bunch of clueless idiots from another world. They had received a one-month waiver on the start of a battle to the death. This time the Vanedenis risked disappearing for good. There was no avoiding the conflict, this time.

Win or die; these were the choices on the plate.

Mummer had been cynical. He stated that unless a hero fell from the sky, the Ankonians would all die. But, of course, that hadn't deterred him from putting everyone under a harsh training regimen from the moment they received the announcement of “reinforcements”. If fate had deliberated death for them, they would make the journey to hell taking as many of those bastards as possible with them.

The man's footsteps were farther away. The girl's hearing, more developed than that of an ordinary human being, had just given her a clue as to how to act. She crawled slowly to the ground, trying to remain invisible, and, with a piece of glass, she made sure that the silhouette of Maximilian was moving away from her.

“Just be careful.”

It was the only thing Mummer had said to her when she asked for information about Maximilian. The other Earthlings, except Themistocles, who had the makings of a Vanedeni, were a pack of dead weights.

The necromancer, however, was already a legend. For the wrong reasons, but a legend nonetheless. Not only had he plundered more than one pantry, claiming to have a moral duty to create some strange dish typical of the place he came from; he had also made sure not to ask anyone's permission and only give notice of such exploits after the food had been cooked. Ah, and he had also destroyed houses for no apparent reason. And built a tower on which he had drawn a...

Well, the reason why Themistocles went out of his way to protect him so much, despite doing more damage than anything else, was pretty straightforward: that guy was phenomenal.

It didn't matter that Maximilian was unsuitable for a society like theirs - and possibly his own too - because he possessed such great power that it was impossible for him to be denied.

On the first day, when the Earthlings still didn't quite know what they were doing in that village, Themistocles had challenged Tukker for military command.

Maximilian had to play a role in preparing for battle, but the Vanedenis would never have exploited it to its full potential if it had not been for the Greek to lead them. Whisking away the command had earned Themistocles several injuries and a few broken bones. If he had won, it was only thanks to a stroke of luck and the weapons created by the Londoner - in addition to the [Captain] underestimating him. There also had been some magic at play, but more on that later.

Among the Vanedenis, it was customary to reflect well before attacking someone. As a result, the internal feuds among their people were very rare because no one held grudges.

No, the Vanedenis held clubs, stones, blades and, occasionally, whips. Never a grudge. However, if someone was offended, either decided to give up immediately, because it wasn't worth it, or, if the offence touched them personally, a fight would immediately break out. To clarify, not a simple fight, like when two people decide to land a couple of punches.

No.

The fights of the Vanedenis included weapons and no rules, so much so that it was perfectly normal to slaughter one's opponent.

Better to step on the tail of a tiger than to smear the tunic of a Vanedeni. Such a temperament had even been thoroughly analysed by the Hydras, one of the strongest populations of their world. After being beaten by the Vanedenis, they had decided to make the aggressiveness of the people of Kome an object of study in their renowned Academy.

They had studied the Vanedenis because a couple of bar fights had sometimes turned into fights involving lords and, at worst, kings and queens. But, let’s be clear, the latter did not intervene to calm the spirits. Once, in the capital, Echtra, a fight broke out during a card game because one of the two players had cheated. Then the King himself had left his pleasure residence on the lake and had intervened to break the legs - literally, in the main square of the city - of anyone involved in the altercation, to punish them for having ruined his well-deserved sabbatical.

Since then, before starting a fight between the Vanedenis, everybody thoroughly weighed their options.

Now, Strith was following Maximilian, trying to capture another moment of magic. And not wizards' magic, but the magic of her people. In the first hour of his arrival in the new world, Maximilian had already knocked out four soldiers in a couple of seconds.

All four of them had lost consciousness, and Tukker had not gladly accepted this insult. But, before the [Captain] could take action, Themistocles had lined up on the side of the Londoner and had challenged the Vanedeni, not sparing a single blow. Wounded and open-mouthed, Tukker had feared for his life, but Maximilian had not hesitated to heal him and then enter the nearest house in search of a pig. No one had reacted except with a newly discovered form of selective mutism. It wasn't until he started rummaging in a second home that people started chasing him with weapons in their hands.

Strith jumped over a wooden roof and heard the family beneath her curse the rats. Turning through the alleys like a brat wouldn't have been wise. She was not even sure that Maximilian had not already noticed her. She was not sure because, when the soldiers had begun to chase him - always a little over an hour after his arrival - he had begun to teleport from one house to another, kicking off a chase that shook the small town of four hundred for the next two hours.

And the chase had only ended because he hadn't found the infamous "fish" to cook with potatoes. They had potatoes, and, as they had discovered in a not pleasant way, Maximilian loved to fry them together with fish covered with bread and eggs.

By that time, people had resumed the chase, until he was missing for the entire first day after stealing a whole pig. The next day, when the citizens woke up, the black tower that had become Maximilian's house stood out over the modest dwellings of Ankon, right in the centre of the village, where previously there had been horse stables and little else.

Nobody among her people, except perhaps Mummer, seemed to have understood Maximilian's unlimited power.

Teleporting after just arriving in their dimension? According to some village rumours, not even the Hydra Academy teachers had access to such magic. On the other hand, Maximilian had been there for less than three days and, if he hadn't been so terribly stupid, everyone would have thought he was a spy or a foreign agent who had come there to help them. Some would have thought he had come by virtue of some ancient debt of which the Vanedenis had no memory.

However, his behaviour was so extravagant that no one would ever believe such a story. And, if that had been the case, his cover would have already been blown.

"Miss?" said a voice behind Strith. It sounded like Maximilian's voice, but the man was right in front of her, bending over to look at an abandoned stone on the ground with his arms crossed behind his back.

Strith turned slowly. She saw the Londoner behind her.

"An illusion?"

Maximilian nodded and snapped his fingers. Strith expected the clone, standing in the street, to disappear. But, instead, he began to do backflips in mid-air.

The real Maximilian had also begun to applaud in the direction of his copy. And the latter, stopping turning in the air, began to dance to the rhythm.

Strith didn't even know what to say anymore. The situation was so ridiculous that every single bit of mystery and interest just seemed to have vanished into the void.

She brought her eyes to the stump of Maximilian's arm, severed at the shoulder, which was now covered by a long black cloak - this too... where he got it was a mystery to the whole village.

Noticing that his viewer was no longer watching his copy take daring break-dance steps, the man dissolved the illusion.

"Give me five!" he said, lifting the short stump and, noticing Strith's confused expression, he laughed out loud.

"You lost your entire arm."

"Jessica Fletcher here found me! Oh no, how am I going to live now after this mystery has been solved?"

Maximilian did not seem to care in the least that he had lost an arm. Among the Vanedenis, instead, it was a big deal since they no longer had [Healers] of high enough level to be able to regenerate lost limbs. Moreover, losing an arm or leg would have marked the end of an active military career, which among the Vanedenis would have meant the end of any real career. “Are you really not the least bit worried?” Strith clenched her fists and frowned.

How could he be so casual?

He had lost a fundamental piece of himself and did not seem to care in the least. If Strith had suffered such a loss at that time in her life, she would probably have thrown herself heavily on her sword.

"But why?"

"You have only one arm. It will affect your potential in some way, your future. If you never get the chance to grow it back, how are you going to fight? Don't you need both arms to perform some rituals?"

"It depends, Strith. If you're an idiot, you may need three of them. As far as I'm concerned, I could use my pinkie for the rituals we need. Besides, if I truly need an arm, I can always steal it from some corpse. Imagine, half-man and half-zombie. I wonder if the arm would continue to rot and stink. That would be fascinating research ..."

If Maximilian hadn't just said the girl's name, which she was sure she had never told him, perhaps she would also have listened to the mass of nonsense he was babbling about.

"How do you know my name?"

"You have it written right here."

The Londoner pointed to the tunic Strith was wearing, and, as soon as she lowered her head to look, he flicked her nose.

Immediately after, Maximilian disappeared into the void, leaving the blonde-haired, short-legged girl looking to where he had been up to half a second earlier.

After a couple of curses unsuitable for a young girl's mouth, Strith headed for Drenger's forge.

…

Bollocks, Themistocles, remember, people will always be people. Their crystallised essence is the same, whether one lives a million years or fifteen. And stop making that face, idiot. Listen to me for a moment. Every single person has a spark of the divine within them, a spark that others recognise. And the same spark is that which prevents men from indiscriminately slaughtering themselves, which prevents the world from falling into complete anarchy. I know you don't believe me, but let me be the devil's advocate.

There is a more profound respect, a spiritual closeness, the awareness of being just a piece of the great divine picture or of anyone.

Gods? What Gods, Themistocles, come on!

Humans have been able to reach new heights of civilisation only because they collaborated. In our world, there have never been real heroes. Our heroes were made on paper; their exploits were told and became great examples to emulate. But you and I both lived in a world of mortals, in a world of mundane people. Alexander the Great was also a man like any other. And so, like a mere mortal, he conquered half the world but died a dog’s death nonetheless.

Look here, however, where heroes exist. Here too, if you notice it, if you look closely in the eyes of the people you watch your back from so much, you will see that the heroes are more instrumental to the people who worship them than to the feats themselves.

You're not understanding shit, are you?

But then why shouldn't I approach that girl?

The heroes of the Vanedenis led their people towards mythological feats, but they had not done it all by themselves. And they probably never would.

We continually hope that someone will recognise the spark in our hearts. There is never a moment in which one of us does not look at those who live better and does not hope that they will help us. We desperately wish that they will recognise in us a part of themselves, the same condition of universal suffering that characterises everyone.

Now tell me why you should have the opportunity to put yourself at the service of everyone and not her? Explain it to me, come on. Just because you come from a pretty sexist heritage, huh, smartass. If I find you a couple of young boys, maybe you'll change your mind?

Gods, come on, Themistocles, cheer up. It was a joke. I know these are serious topics, and pederasty has nothing to do with it—my God, what a bore.

Anyway. Vanedenis' heroes are just that: people ready to recognise the primordial need to give hope to others, to rekindle their spark, to give them dreams. They've been the only ones able to carry on their shoulders the responsibility for a whole civilisation. Bollocks, governments don't work in our world because as soon as someone seizes power, he becomes corrupted by it.

Back home, you don't have classes and levels to go with power, not even a scrap of paper in some cases. There, you are aware, consciously or not, that you have something ephemeral. The more evanescent the power, the more you want to hold onto it. Here, a king doesn't need to yell at his subjects when he can activate a Skill that can change his entire kingdom.

As long as we are fragile, we will not be able to carry with us the virtue of an entire people, much less a small village. How many people do you think could make a difference here?

The more we share virtue and power, the more we risk that they will be corrupted by some coward, by someone ready to escape the burden at the first step to make.

When I first met her distracted gaze, the first thing I noticed was the flame she emanated, the frustration of her life as a blacksmith's assistant that was consuming her to the core. Still, what would power ever give her? Power gives nothing. Neither success nor fame provides anything.

However, not power but heroism give us a reason to live. Look at Strith, come on! Trying to complete goals that move our deepest chords changes us! You should know it better than everyone else here! You're an outcast of society to your peers, but also one of the most outstanding leaders in history, you cunt.

Some of us only want power because we think it will solve all our problems, while others need it. Capable people don't feel the lack of anything, except in the depths of their hearts, but they need the power and all possible means because they have a goal. On the other hand, Fools always feel the need for power, money, and means, which, however, they do not use; fools think that these three are the goal, the solution capable of giving peace to their soul.

And what do you think she is? Look at the others. They want to get stronger, but they don't need it. She needs power, as you did back on Earth. And I'm consulting with you because I'm not going to make all these decisions on my own. I want you to share them because you should be the most sympathetic to the girl’s situation.

They had both watched Strith stealthily from a distance as she pounded hard the hot steel, bending it several times.

She worked with fury and moved with rage, her voice foaming with suppressed anger, of the need to give the world more than the world had allowed it to give back.

If a god existed in that world, Maximilian thought the guy had given many noble-hearted people too little and enjoyed seeing them suffer. Capable people died while trying to level up because the world wasn’t fair, because gods did not exist and everything was ruled by chance; and even if a divine entity existed...

Maximilian had been alone in his past life, with no one ready to bleed as much as he had. He had experienced the greatest love that anyone could ever grasp - and he had vowed to find it again in any other life he would have lived. Whatever it would take.

Here, however, he had Themistocles. The greatest Athenian genius. Not even Pericles, in his eyes, could have rivalled this man's political talent, his ability to lead a people through countless storms.

And, as they watched Strith, he wondered if he could find in her another person ready to fight against her instincts and reach out towards humanity. Maximilian wasn't even sure of humanity anymore, but he wanted to surround himself with people who had a heart so that he could follow their example. He badly needed that little girl by his side. The more he looked at her, the more he regretted not having been like her in his youth: inflexible, determined, furious, obsessed.

Seeing her hours later in the moonlight, he noticed the girl's graceful forms. The short legs contrasted with the delicate face, creating a perverse beauty with a note of sadness and savage ferocity.

Her muscular thighs flexed with each step, out of her short, faded tunic, charged with aimless energy. She spun with precise, although inelegant movements. She was practising a form of shadow fighting with a sword and shield in her hands.

She trained alone near the village, after a tiring day of work.

He was curious to know her better, to understand how far the self-awareness of that little girl went.

Themistocles had finally given up. He had recognised that they needed valuable people. And rather than bet on the Californian, who was not quite ready yet, he had granted Maximilian permission to test Strith.

The necromancer hadn’t bothered to take out a weapon not even with Matthew. The Californian was undoubtedly an interesting person with a lot of potential. Still, the Londoner did not feel obliged to immediately show him all the harshness of the world for what it was. In fact, he was confident that Matthew was better off training and feeding on optimism.

Here, however, Maximilian would have played the monster: he would test out the girl to see if she would become the new beacon of hope for her people or if she would lose herself.

As a blade of bone took shape in his left hand, the only one left, he purposely broke off a branch with his boot.

Strith whirled around and, as soon as she turned, Maximilian bridged the distance between them in an instant and raised his weapon, dropping it mercilessly on her bare shoulder. Strith tried to raise the shield, which, as expected, immediately shattered.

Maximilian disappeared from her sight, and she immediately rolled forward as a sword passed where the girl's head had been just before.

Strith nearly shrieked when she realised that all the splinters in her arm were already out and the flesh was healing. She had already regained full mobility in her arm.

"You don't have a physique that can block someone stronger than you. So you can't fight like you're an elephant when you're an ant."

Strith lunged forward, a red veil in front of her eyes. The next instant, she found herself gasping on the ground with half of her rib cage folded inward. Maximilian's foot on her chest prevented her from breathing.

"Cunt, you're tough. Keep it up and you'll get a class like [Berserk], though. You may be strong from the legacy left by your family, but you're not strong enough to justify such a direct assault. If you think to go into battle with this ability in a month, you will die immediately. And, if you want to get to anywhere close to where I am, you've got plenty of soup to eat."

Maximilian was about to continue his speech when he realised he had a dagger stuck in his calf.

"Uhm, not bad."

He lifted his foot and, as Strith stood up, healed her wounds without a word.

If it had been another person, he would have gladly spared this Master Miyagi-style stuff for teenagers. Instead, Max would teach her how to behave through esoteric rituals like being beaten until she fainted. Indeed, come to think of it, it didn’t exactly suit him to play Master Miyagi.

However, having seen in her the same potential that had once been his, he couldn't help but put aside the discomfort of the situation and follow his desire to teach this little girl how a hero moved.

Strith's eyes were the sharpest, more so than Themistocles's. But, unlike the Athenian, the girl had a beautiful fury within her, ready to explode. And, once channelled, a diamond would be born.

At the same time, anger risked ruining her life, as had happened to Maximilian. The un-channelled obsessions had done nothing but destroyed his life. He'd had to hit rock bottom and live like a wretch for so many years before he could get back up… and he wanted to avoid the same thing happening to Strith.

Sadly, hers was a curse only few could understand.

But he was one of the few.

"Ready? Here I come."

He feared that she would not understand and be ready to learn the hard lessons.

Strith had followed him to learn where to find the spark that could change her. She wanted to find the source of Maximilian's power and draw from it.

Strith, already standing, looked at him with foaming blood leaking from her mouth - Maximilian had pierced her lung shortly before, after all. Having met so many people in his life, he could imagine what would happen next. Now the girl would feel a surge of pride, a drive to fight to get what she really needed, not to follow the path others wanted to mark for her, and not to think she was alone.

She had been orphaned for several years, and since the blacksmith had taken her with him, no one had done anything to guide her. Or rather, Maximilian strongly doubted that there was anyone able to guide her in Ankon. Even the blacksmith had realised that the reason Strith hadn't taken a level in his class was that not even the forge could have emitted flames hot enough to shape this girl’s path.

Maximilian clenched his fist on the sword and considered killing her. It wouldn't have been the best, and Themistocles certainly wouldn't have approved. He himself was certainly reluctant to put an end to someone's life, but only because he would open a Pandora's box that would be very difficult for him to close. But, in Strith's case, the necromancer knew exactly what she was going through. In a way, he had observed so many patterns that he could almost predict some people’s future by now.

If Strith didn’t learn her lesson now, she would never learn it, except through a sea of suffering. And Maximilian, in a world as cruel as the one in which they found themselves, did not feel like condemning her to such a life.

He prepared to hit her hard enough to pulverise her skull with the hilt of his sword.

She spread her feet and took deep breaths, while the other, for the first time, was waiting for her to attack.

Without knowing it, Strith had just saved herself. The fact that she hadn't attacked like a bull, head down, had just granted her a second chance.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Maximilian was a [Necromancer] and, although no one had yet realised it, his strong point was not hand-to-hand combat. That, however, didn't mean he wasn't strong.

Yes, Maximilian was a magician, mainly, and therefore his magical potential was greater than his physical potential. But his magical potential was so terrifying that even if the physical one had been one step below it, it would still be absurd.

In a nutshell: Strith had no chance against him.

Maximilian appeared behind the girl and stabbed his sword behind her knee, destroying both bone and the joint without batting an eye.

If the girl was to lose her temper, she might as well have done it properly.

Strith shifted her weight to her remaining leg without even letting out a moan. Her eyes had lit up.

She changed her stance and waited, while Maximilian, who had quickly moved away to get her to get close to him, found himself forced to attack again.

Maximilian whispered a couple of words impossible to understand, and Strith's blood coagulated, blocking the bleeding and preventing her from bleeding to death.

And then he did what he had to: first, he punctured her other lung, then, made a deep cut over her eye, causing it to bleed just enough to block half of her vision.

Maximilian was no longer interested in seeing how Strith fought, but only in testing how far she would go. An average person would have lost his mind after receiving injuries like that. Strith, on the other hand, was still and ready to fight back. No anger, no despair.

This time, Maximilian decided to go to the extreme. He aimed for the shoulder, putting more force behind the swing than before. If she hadn't tried to defend herself or dodge, Strith would have lost an arm.

When the young woman's limb fell to the ground, separated from the body at shoulder height, Maximilian worried for a couple of moments. Perhaps he had exaggerated and rendered her helpless instead of making her sharper. Sharpening a blade excessively can cause it to break in the first encounter.

But the girl's sword had hit home. Seeing the blade that had passed him from side to side, piercing his heart, Maximilian nodded, surprised.

"Not bad. Not bad, really, you little cunt."

Strith fainted immediately afterwards, unaware of any word of approval that Maximilian would have addressed to her. The necromancer bent over her body, and a notification appeared in her head.

…

Day 4

Strith trailed behind Drenger as he cursed the damn blacksmith they were supposed to meet. "If the bars he made me are defective like last time, I'll gut his wife."

One would have expected the young woman to be frightened, perhaps nauseated, by the furious anger of the larger and stronger man. However, there was even greater anger in the girl’s eyes, a dormant dragon exhaling burning embers from the nostrils even during hibernation.

The previous night, she had confronted the craziest and most powerful of the Earthlings in her village. It almost felt like a dream.

Hell, it may have been a dream for all she knew.

She remembered with absolute certainty that she had lost her left arm and had promised herself to take that monster with her, waiting for the most opportune moment to kill it. Not for a moment had she thought of sparing the necromancer or not fighting hard.

Maximilian was too strong, more powerful and faster than he should have been, given his class. He had said it himself: "You can't fight like you're an elephant when you're an ant."

Therefore, she had waited for a moment of vulnerability. She knew how powerful Maximilian was and that she would have no chance of victory if he had been serious. It wasn't a question of physical strength but reflexes, magic, technique. While even Mummer and Tukker had always been careful in their spars with the girl, that monster seemed to be playing with her.

The Vanedenis always reprimanded her - beat her for it, really, more than anything else - for having tried to inflict fatal wounds. But here, she could hardly keep up even if she tried to kill the necromancer with her every strike.

Therefore, she knew she had no hope other than waiting for the most opportune moment.

And she had managed to hit Maximilian in the chest.

The terrifying thing was that he hadn't seemed bothered in the least by the meter-long blade that had gone through him.

And she, that morning, had woken up with both arms and only a faded scar on her shoulder to prove she hadn't had a very eventful dream.

Strith was still in a trance from what had happened the night before, but she followed her muscle memory as she helped Drenger. She couldn't explain how that could be possible. Not only was she still alive: her body was whole, her arm was okay.

Maximilian was looking at Strith in secret, covered by [Invisibility].

He saw her holding a series of iron bars that another blacksmith, one not particularly good, he would have ventured to say, had produced for Drenger.

The second man spoke animatedly to Drenger, trying to justify himself, while the other seemed about to get his hands on him.

Without deigning the fight of a glance, Strith had begun to carry the iron towards the shop. Even though there was also the possibility that they would resort to violence, she already knew that by now, the negotiation had been completed and decided. Therefore, there was no turning back, and above all, the two of them would not go back on their word.

It was easy to imagine how Strith, at that moment, wanted to be anywhere but where she was. Yet, Maximilian could see the uncertainty in her eyes. She didn't know where she would rather go either.

There weren't many people who had the right to choose in this world, and Strith hadn’t been one of them. Once someone found a half-decent class, it would be heavier than a sentence, more decisive than a royal edict. No one had yet developed a fundamental philosophy of trying not to give in to immediate pleasures, to save oneself for something greater. Unlike her.

The girl unloaded the bars inside the shop with composed anger, in order but with a little haste, in piles but a bit too tidy, with a natural repressed asymmetry. When on the verge of losing control, many people tried to put as many things as possible into a fictitious order, useless for the unfolding of their lives.

Still, Strith was trying in every way to find a balance, not to surrender to what she felt bubbling up inside her. Maximilian was sure he could catch these nuances in Strith's frantic movements.

The Londoner would have long remembered how the young woman had utterly lost all reason the night before. Her wits gone to the moon, she had abandoned her life during that battle to win at least once. Of all that the girl had done, this was the only thing he would have judged negatively.

Strith had shown a degree of control that Maximilian hadn't expected. Perhaps this had allowed her to change, to receive a new class that perfectly suited her fighter's soul.

Drenger also entered the shop, rubbing his knuckles.

"Put the ingots in the forge. We have to start making the weapons ..."

"Already done."

Only then did Drenger realise that the girl was already on the bellows and, thanks to the blacksmith's skills, which influenced his entire shop, a violent fire was playing around the impure mineral.

"We have to melt the ingots again and make sure all the impurities are eliminated. Damn! That idiot just wants to waste our time ..."

Strith didn't even have a level in the Blacksmith class, not even anything close to it, despite helping Drenger in his forge for several years now. Nevertheless, she had more strength than any ordinary human and the ability to follow orders - at least in the forge - to the letter without complaining.

Maximilian saw her move a blond lock from her forehead, wipe the sweat from her temples and the tears that were overwhelmingly appearing in her eyes. Drenger, of course, would never have noticed anything. Even she thought it was anything other than an eye a little irritated by the smoke not sucked by the hood or by the harshness of her sweat. And even outside the forge, cross-legged and with another spell to observe through the walls, the Londoner couldn't help but shake his head.

"Some people don't realise how much they are suffering, what they need from life. They know they want something, but they never got a chance to find out what."

His problem had been similar. He had discovered he wanted more from his life only after adolescence. Once he became a monster of anger and resentment, but also a hugely successful one, he found that he needed Paola by his side to be happy. He had destroyed his own marriage because he had to know what he needed to be happy.

Looking at the girl, he saw a tiny part of himself again, the part that had been lost when the last straw had broken the camel's back and Paola had left him; and that released a flood that had separated him from his wife and daughter for nearly thirty years. The young Maximilian had had so much energy to spend, so much to give to the world, that in the end, he was exhausted in the desire to be more and more, instead of just being himself.

Even he had never realised how much he had suffered in the period that many would have considered the most glorious of their lives.

The forge was hot enough now that Strith was pulling out the metal and, with firm blows, began to fold it in on itself as if she were preparing a pastry.

Drenger, for his part, had taken five times more iron than the girl's and had already folded the plates at least ten times. But, even as smart and quick as she was, she certainly couldn't compete with the [Mighty Blacksmith]’s Skills.

Maximilian remained for a few moments to observe the process, losing himself in the beauty of the blows of the hammer and their melancholy.

"Will you fight too?" Drenger had just finished preparing another batch of ingots, half an hour of intense work and much faster than a common blacksmith could ever handle. He had to admit that, however small, the girl's help was always a pleasant addition.

"Won't you?"

"I can wield a sword better than you and I hit much harder than those skinny arms."

Strith watched him out of the corner of her eye as she cleared the forge of impurities. She had to wear very thick gloves to avoid getting burned. Her eyes rested on the man's belly, which wasn't exactly flat.

"Maybe you should eat fewer potatoes ahead of battle if you want to fit in your old armour."

The blacksmith did nothing but laugh. He was used to the girl's insolence and knew that reacting caustically would only cause disaster. Strith was very obedient and always well behaved, until it was what she wanted at least. Whenever he or his wife Akala tried to give her unreasonable orders or went against her principles... Oh, if only they had gods to beg.

Drenger remembered a time when he would swear he had almost been forced to kill her to prevent her from killing him. They had both gotten off in a pool of blood.

The only reason he hadn't thrown her out of the house was the very nature of the Vanedeni society. In another civilisation, Strith would have been an outcast on the fringes of society, an automaton capable of adhering only to the most superficial moral and cultural rules.

The truth was that Strith had no one to whom she owed anything.

Not even Drenger and Akala were sure that the girl had any feelings of gratitude towards them. She helped Drenger to repay him for his hospitality, took nothing as a gift, and that was it. For Strith, it was all a transaction. She didn't need to be tied to any situation more than necessary.

She didn't have time to bond with people. She had to figure out who she was, what she wanted from her life and what her true purpose was. She did not care about anything else.

At her age, teenagers became impulsive, had a thousand feelings and had pangs of anger, jealousy, sadness and happiness. They were practically machines that could shift gears at the most unexpected and inopportune moment without batting an eye. She, on the other hand, was strangely silent and direct, despite the fact that there weren't many people more insane than she was, in the whole village.

And Drenger didn't know, just as Maximilian certainly didn't know; but, when she regained consciousness after the battle, for the first time in her life, Strith hadn't turned down a class. She had never accepted levels in any class before, in fear of setting foot on a path that did not belong to her.

She had never felt like a pure warrior. Her parents had been ones. However, she was not as such, but neither a strategist nor a military man. She would have wanted to become everything and nothing; she would have liked to become someone, or even something.

Generally, the first classes were always very general: only later would they evolve into something more precise, a representation of the person, an expression of their fundamental characteristics.

Strith would have expected the arrival of many classes; [Warrior], [Champion], [Soldier], and even something more refined, maybe. But she would never have expected, perhaps unlike Maximilian, what she would become after trying to put down the village’s biggest and baddest monster.

Strith remembered the moment when she had seen the notifications about her Class.

[Class acquired: Hero!]

[Hero Level 1!]

[Skill Earned - Flaming Heart]

[Skill Earned - Critical Moment]

…

Mummer's feelings could generally be summed up as a state of constant irritability at people’s incompetence. In this case, however, he was seized with curiosity and a hint of fear.

After having fought relentlessly for most of your life, you don’t get to sixty without being very cautious. It was true that he had fought less than many of his ancestors, his relatively low level was proof, but he was still a veteran.

Mummer boiled some water and herbs to put the unusual guest who had visited him that morning at ease.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Maximilian?"

The Londoner, who hardly held back for the sake of others, seemed strangely polite.

"I apologise for the intrusion, but I have a couple of questions that may be important for the future of the Vanedenis and, perhaps, also for the impending battle."

Mummer remained silent.

Several minutes passed while he poured hot water into two silver bowls, an inheritance that his family had used for fine wines. Now that all of his relatives had passed away, he could finally decide how and what to use them for.

After putting the herbs on the bottom and mixing everything with a wooden spoon, he turned to Maximilian, seated in front of the only table in the room.

As they looked at each other, Mummer knew that he would have to forcefully resist all the questions that would not only be put to him but also drown him soon. However, his host was still there, motionless and different from the usual.

Mummer nodded his head in agreement.

"You may ask."

Maximilian looked to the right and left in a relaxed way as he inhaled deeply. Then, finally, he exhaled and leaned forward with his neck, "Why doesn't Strith train with you?"

"Strith?"

The question caught him off guard, but he pulled himself together a moment later.

"Strith? Strith is a wild and dangerous animal. The first time she trained, the girl tried to skewer me. It is not so rare to see some hotheads in the army, and we are certainly not Nonacrinis nor Almiris; we don't care if a person gets mad from time to time. We fight in formations decided based on the enemy. There are no fixed tactics among the Vanedenis. There is no specialisation in which we stand out. We are simply strong."

Maximilian noticed once again the great pride in their people, who had now been bent almost to breaking point. But, nevertheless, they still carried their heads high.

"So what?" the necromancer asked.

"So, Maximilian, in the midst of a culture like ours, Strith managed to get kicked out of training. Now, do you have any idea what that means? Not only is she not suited to fighting alongside others, but putting a weapon in her hand is tremendously dangerous."

"Just what we need, Mummer."

"No, perhaps you don't understand, young man. Strith is dangerous. She has no class, and I have more than thirty levels on her, but she still scares me. I have been impaled on a spear, and more than one arrow has tasted my flesh. And Strith scares me. She hasn't taken any class yet because she doesn't want to buy into something she doesn't feel is hers.

“We Vanedenis are going through a challenging time in our history, where any level can make a difference. Our knowledge of classes is becoming fragmented; the same is starting to apply to skills. The royal family is gone. The nobles are trying to organise resistance, but now some are only hoping not to be attacked at night and to see another day.”

Mummer paused for a second.

“Except for that bunch of madmen in Vissart. In the northernmost part of the southern half of the continent, the ahalis still sleep with one eye open because of Lady Goldith. However, Ankon is no Vissart. Strith and her kinds are a calamity."

Maximilian understood where the big man in front of him was saying.

The Vanedenis needed every single ounce of extra strength they could find. There was a sense of urgency between them all. They had suffered a great decline in the past few centuries, and now their only hope was to survive long enough until another hero stood as a bulwark of their revenge.

Strith, in this climate, didn't have the slightest interest in choosing something that didn't fit her perfectly. At this point in history, such a resolution was like signing a death sentence for yourself. And what created an even bigger problem was his acting without thinking about the consequences.

"She doesn't get along with other kids her age. So when some adults tried to scold her, we risked them killing each other. Maximilian, I, a veteran with thirty levels, risked my life against a little girl who barely weighs a third of me. There has never been any real civil war in our entire history on this continent, but I'm sure if we gave Strith room to grow, we would end up risking one."

Maximilian leaned back in his chair, reflecting deeply. It wasn't quite normal to hear an almost two meters tall guy, weighing probably over a hundred and fifty kilograms, express fear of a little girl.

Strith was an outsider, an outcast among them. Of course, the fact that she had managed to stab Maximilian in the heart the night before explained why people made room for her when she walked the streets of the village.

It wasn't her physical strength that frightened people, but the fact that she would gladly have been killed if, in dying, she had a chance to hurt her enemy.

“A hundred years ago, a person very much like Strith walked our streets. He would soon become one of our heroes. None of them ever died before winning everything that had to be won. Instead, he became a monster. If today necromancy is still so hated, it's his fault."

…

The Hogwarts letter is the dream of every child and many adults.

Bollocks, in life, no one ever gives you anything for free. Those few times that heaven drops stuff on your head, there are always conditions to be accepted.

Everyone knows that you cannot hope that someone will come down from heaven to solve your problems. Yet, how many people, in the corner of their hearts, hope for this?

But sitting idle and waiting for someone to help us is useless.

Maximilian looked around, penetrating everything with his eyes. There was not much that could shield the Vanedenis and Earthlings from him. He didn't know whether to be happy with it or not. Themistocles and Matthew, however, managed to surprise him from time to time.

And now a little girl.

Her body was a heap of burning and crackling embers, a beast that roared as the ashes tried to suffocate her.

Even though Strith didn't know what Hogwarts was, the zeal with which she had followed Maximilian through the city and the fury with which she had stabbed her in the heart – unfortunately, not metaphorically - showed that she longed in her heart for one of those letters, a recognition of uniqueness.

How many times in the past have I turned my eyes to the sky, like a seagull glued to the ground by slimy pitch, waiting for someone bigger than me to lift me from my terrible fate?

And then, when it happened, when someone smaller, almost insignificant, showed me a direction...

It was difficult for Maximilian to recapture such distant memories. And not because his memory was unable to, on the contrary, but because of the bitterness he felt in reliving those feelings.

He had never understood that he had that thing inside. The fire that can consume you and, if poorly managed, destroy you. He had discovered it almost by chance, forced by his parents to make choices that he thought would never allow him to be happy.

Perhaps, in a way, he had also been right.

Starting to study medicine had been really, really difficult. Just starting, though. Maybe not even that. The thought of being forced to do something, only to discover that it fit him perfectly, had been the worst.

He had lived a successful life that others had prepared for him, even if it was one that he did not choose. Although he had been lucky in that regard, he still suffered. On the one hand, he had lived to the fullest. But, on the other hand, he had suffered so much from the addictions associated with the profession. It had not been about drugs, just about being the first. He always had to win, no matter the cost or who would have suffered the consequences of his decisions.

Excelling had led him to sacrifice a lot.

For all it was a stereotype, it was true that the top of his field had been a cold and lonely place.

Not that he realised it on the spot, but only after most of the damage had already been done. And not at his expense.

Even Matthew, in his childishness, had known what he wanted from the world. It was clear to Maximilian how the Californian had developed in a few days the necessary resolution to change from head to toe. Sure, as long as the commie didn't die first.

Strith, on the other hand, was different. She had not yet found a direction to go, unlike Matthew. No.

Maximilian reflected on the little girl’s main problem.

Strith was overflowing with a will to do. The problem was: will to do what? She didn't know. She only knew that to explore the world, to find the possibilities of being herself, it would be necessary to lead her people to victory.

But now, the Vanedenis stood with their backs to the wall. What could Strith ever have explored without the strength to win back their story?

Maximilian had already glimpsed into her nature; it was so wild, but also ambitious and competitive. However, he realised how excluded she was from any dynamic of the Vanedenis after speaking with Mummer.

She was one of those people who could hardly settle in, for whom it is impossible to find kindred souls in such a village. When he was studying medicine, Maximilian had tried to find people like him, with that fire inside. And not people who wanted to study hard, or participate in some medical program in Africa. No, he was after people with his same hunger, with the same void to fill with success.

After all, Maximilian had never cared so much for Africa as he would have had for his daughter. Yet, after so long, he still wondered who his daughter inherited that passion from.

Passing a hand over his face, he tried to put aside the memories of Paola, the only woman he had ever loved, and her daughter Penelope.

Max knew that Strith wanted nothing more than a chance.

And now, Strith had a chance.

In the same manner Maximilian's wish to escape from his torment on Earth had been fulfilled when the Harbingers had called him into this world, Strith had needed a chance at redemption.

Maximilian could not be sure of what had happened to him, at least not exactly. Still, he would have continued to kiss the ground on which he walked for more than a few months: the opportunity the necromancer had been blessed with was worth more than anything else he had ever had, Paola excluded.

He looked at the girl with her knees to her chest as he levitated just above her house.

Shouldn’t I take Strith’s life and give her the chance I never had? Themistocles... If we never interfere, if we are not the gods among men, we will provide the true and false gods with a terrifying chance to take this role. For now, I listen to you, at least in part. I will not exaggerate, I promise. First, however, allow me a small gesture.

If only he could have sent a letter from Hogwarts to the lost teenager he had been in his past life... Maximilian stopped thinking about it for a moment and ran a hand through his hair: "Bollocks, but I really could have founded Hogwarts. I'm a bloody idiot."

But it is never too late to remedy. So Maximilian decided that it was finally time to act, to be even more Maximilian than he had already been.

Finding some luxury paper had been difficult; the sealing wax had had to alchemically extract it from other materials. So on the first day of his arrival, he had created a pen that looked like ballpoints and had asked Themistocles for an autograph. Autograph that hadn't arrived yet. Besides, he didn't have the slightest intention of writing with a feather detached from a bird's ass.

"Ahem, let's see. Dear miss, Strith. No, better without the comma. So, without the comma? Dear Miss Strith. Does it need the comma? Shit. Did Themistocles study with Isocrates? Or Socrates? Wait, let me think. But does Themistocles know what a comma is? So, let's start over.

"Dear miss Strith. We are pleased to tell you... We, who? Ok, again. For the School of Witchcraft... Do not copy, cunt! Go on! My heart will go on? Strith, from the village of... What is the name of this village? Look at me, a real dunce."

It was difficult, even for Maximilian, to be able to put such a thing on paper. So few people could understand what he felt as he wrote a letter to a younger - and yes, slightly different - version of himself. A better version of himself, really, one he was even partially jealous of. How much he would pay to have Strith's determination at fifteen.

Strith could have lost his life because of Maximilian. Maximilian, on the other hand, could have wasted time because of Strith. Therefore, it was a matter of priority.

However, he also knew that she didn't care, that she would never care too much about losing her life, or rather, losing it in the way that was right for her.

So the only constant in Strith's mind was who she was to herself and others, and what her actual role was in the warrior society of the Vanedenis.

It was easy to imagine what she wanted in a warrior society based on war, which wages war in its spare time for the sake of war. And did not all Vanedenis people aspire to one thing, as Rowling's readers dreamed of receiving a letter from Hogwarts?

To be heroes.

Everyone, without exception.

Some people don’t function like others. Maximilian reflected again on how some of these are out of place wherever they go. Not necessarily marginalised by society, but they are not exactly within the margins imposed by the world. Maybe they can start a family and try to become someone else, but there is always something that makes them dysfunctional.

Some people accidentally throw punches on the walls when alone, for no apparent reason for others. They don't need to be mad for a reason, they just are. And Maximilian, too, was still like that, even though he wore a mask. So that was the reason he was forced to wear a mask.

If he hadn't, he probably would have razed a city to the ground in a fit of rage, massacred someone. Hanged... Nah, hanging was out of style. The Romans had always been right. Crosses were much more stylish. Or with a stone in his hand, he could have smashed someone's head - very primal, biblical even.

Maximilian had been one of these dysfunctional people, and so had been the person he had loved, perhaps even more than him.

However, both Maximilian and Paola had suffered so much for the short time they had lived together that it was not so hard to believe that their separation had been caused by divine will. As if an invisible hand had wanted to punish them for all the harm they had done.

Maximilian had to lose everything, everything, everything before he could appreciate anything. He had never received any letter from Hogwarts justifying how special he was and purposely putting him among people like him...

Because the letters from Hogwarts were not all the same.

Some wait for them believing they are special, wanting to be special, waiting for the opportunity to be saved from a mediocre life, from the prospect of not being made for anything but normality. On the other hand, some aspire to normality; they would like it with all of themselves, even if they would never show it.

And some people were simply too different, and they could not live happily with those around them, day after day. So there would always be pangs, whether they would be of anger, anxiety, depression, manic joy and panic...

And the people around those last ones would try to cure such ailments by applying palliative ointments. But, after a while, it always returns to normal, if not fester. It was fate. It always had been.

Maximilian was looking at the letter in front of him while thinking, and thinking hard.

He was aware of many secrets - things that would have terrified anyone who heard them. But the thing that weighed heavily on his chest was the girl's future. Strith didn't know, but there was an alternative. There was always an alternative.

She could have lived by being only half of who she was, which many would have found revolting to talk about, but less so in fact.

Even without him and her new class, she could indeed still have lived a life over the top - it would have been impossible for such a girl to do otherwise - and maybe she would have found friends and a man, or a woman, who knows, who would have partially understood her. So instead of setting sail with the gang of madmen, she would have been living with decent, good and kind people.

Incredibly, Matthew was the first to have made such a brave choice intentionally. He chose to dive straight into the core of madness. It was true that Themistocles and Maximilian were old enough to have chosen this path for some time now, but the Californian had dived into it like a fish.

Who knows where they would all end up in a few years.

Instead of indulging in thoughts of conquest and grand banquets based on fish and chips, and bacon - because yes, even the Yankees did something good from time to time - Maximilian returned to the present; they were no longer on Earth, and this made the difference.

They were no longer in a world where being mediocre meant living a normal life. Mediocrity was not rewarded here, either as a people or as the laws of the world. No free guns for everyone, sorry Todd.

Classes and levels would push Strith to what she was. And if she resisted, she would suffer.

In a way, Todd was right. This was a world for fools and monsters, more than for the mediocre. And Maximilian was old enough by now to know how much a quiet stillness in front of the family hearth was to be appreciated, rather than resting hammer and saw on enemies’ bones. However, once again, he had chosen madness, not the quiet.

Therefore, it was time to get back to work.

A letter would have given her a choice. Maximilian could have easily persuaded Strith to come aboard and risk it all despite her happy family conditions. But he wanted to allow her to pick her own fate.

The girl had not yet realised how lucky she was to be in a family with two little ones; she would need in the future to distract her from what she was jumping into. But she was young, and all of this was normal. So it would take some time before she could appreciate what she had.

Unfortunately, they didn't have that much time, and the choice had to be made now.

Maximilian stared at the letter, thinking about what to write.

…

Returning home after a gruelling day of work with Drenger, Strith finally had the chance to throw herself dead weight on the bed of straw and dirty clothes.

Akala had told her to wash her things more often to keep them from rotting, but she was not as careful about personal hygiene as the couple who hosted her.

She found a letter stuck to the wall with a nail.

Even before opening it, she observed the perfection of that nail, black and shiny, as if it were made of glass. Drenger was certainly not capable of such a fine job ...

Therefore, that letter could come from one person, and one only.

To Strith,

We hereby inform you that Maximilian Clarke has accepted you into the new Academy of Heroes (possibly a temporary name). Construction of the building will begin next month, as soon as we win the battle. But, for the moment, you may refer directly to Principal Maximilian and his direct subordinate, Vice Principal Themistocles.

Sincerely, the Academy of Heroes (again, possibly a temporary name). P.S.: your [class] has been kindly offered by our Academy.

;) ;) ;)

After she finished reading, Strith folded the paper. In an instant, the letter turned into a cloud of blue smoke, disappearing along with the nail.

Strith was dumbfounded.

"Academy of Heroes? Possibly a temporary name?" Strith didn't quite understand what was happening.

Maximilian was now renowned for his misdeeds within the village, and those who took him seriously could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Of course, no one dared provoke him too much, but there was someone who gave a certain weight to his words. She also had a gut feeling that Themistocles was not aware that he was the Vice Principal of this phantom Academy. The girl stretched, tired.

She wasn't even sure she had enough strength to process what the madman had written to her.

"Class?!"

How did Maximilian know about her Class?

Kindly offered ...

Did this imply that Maximilian had planned everything from the start? It couldn't be possible, right?

For the second time, someone realised that perhaps Maximilian's words weren't always far-fetched. When he talked quietly and amusedly about conquering the continent, razing some race to the ground, hunting dragons and making magic boots... Maybe he wasn't joking?

Maybe he had always been serious...?

What if he actually was always serious?

Such a person would have kept his secrets, trying not to let others know how strong he really was. But now, doubt began to creep with long icy arachnid-like legs up Strith's back.

"Maximilian hides nothing. Maximilian doesn't lie."

They were his two rules, not two statements.

It was as if that madman had a code to live by. Those were the two rules of how his head worked. But, the more she thought about it, the more Strith put together what she had heard from other people inside the village, the more she realised how even more terrifying she had imagined.

She continued to think and think while the sun outside his room kept fading more and more.

Suddenly, a roar deafened her, and several splinters of stone and clay hurt her face. A fuss immediately arose that made her cough several times.

Were they being attacked?

Strith felt a lump in her throat right away, but her heart had already overheated. It was pumping like crazy, giving supernatural energy to her muscles and dispelling any hint of fear or anger. Instead, a seraphic calm enveloped her, with a certainty she had never had before in the fumes of fury.

As the dust began to clear, she saw the figure standing between the now torn walls of the house. And as their neighbours began to scream that they were under attack and she could already hear Mummer's footsteps heading towards the house with a club in his hand, she saw a smile on the face of that man as terrible as he was magical.

"Ready for your first official training? We have a lot to do today, innit? To make someone like you level up, you need nothing less than a monster."

After giving her a wink, Maximilian began to walk away.

Without asking too many questions, Strith also wore a smile and jumped out of the breach, following Maximilian, not before having recovered a sword from under the rubble.