He sprinted deeper into their hideout, boots slamming into the cave's stone. Some of the lookouts called out to him, but it was half-hearted — more curiosity than a genuine attempt to stop him, considering their group was small enough that everyone knew each other.
He slammed his shoulder into the old door, forcing it open with a groan. Damn thing was heavy. "Commander, great news!" he called out into the makeshift office. "I've got their supply lines all drawn out right... here..." The man standing across from him was the second in command.
"Sorry, Farron. The Commander's dead," Duarte said. He had his elbow resting on the chaotic, document-strewn desk. Beady, calculating eyes peaked out from where his hand rested on his face. They seemed tired.
"Shit, what? When?" Farron asked.
"Must have a few hours after you set out. An ambush. He bought us time to retreat back to the rat tunnels and blow the entrance shut. Mean old bastard took down four of em', if it makes you feel any better."
Fuck, Farron thought. Without their Commander, they'd have little way to communicate with the other resistance cells. They'd have to make use of the data he'd just acquired without any extra support.
"Then now's the time to strike! I've got their supply lines drawn out here, stretching all the way back to the capital! While they occupy themselves trying to hunt us in the forest, we cut them off from the back. And you know we need the supplies for ourselves."
Duarte leaned back in his chair, the thing creaking ominously as he did so. Heavy dark circles were visible under his eyes. "What's the point?" he asked, the words coming out as a sigh.
"You know damn well why we do this!" Farron shouted back.
Instead of getting angry, their acting Commander just seemed to shrink in on himself. "Things were looking grim even before the Commander died. We've been out here for months, Farron, months! And what do we have to show for it?"
"We've made them bleed! For every spec of Usas land they've claimed, we've made them pay us with their lives."
"Exactly, Farron. Can't you see the writing on the wall? They'll throw their numbers at us, and they'll grind us down until nothing is left. The surrounding villages are already too afraid to give us any supplies after what happened to the last one that showed us any sympathy."
"They died as martyrs!" Farron roared. "Look at us. Civilians give their life to the cause, while the last remnants of the Usas army cower behind women and children!"
"We've already lost!" he shouted back, the first ember of anger entering his tone. Forcibly, he calmed himself down before continuing. "No matter what we do, we're only delaying the inevitable. Either we accede and integrate peacefully, or they stamp us all out." Before Farron could reply, he raised a hand placatingly. "I don't like it either, but it's the only way for Usas to survive."
"Pathetic." Farron practically spat the words. "It's not the land that makes the country, it's the people. And anyone here won't be Usasi. The Empire would replace our laws, our gods, our culture with theirs. We'd be corrupted, completely and absolutely. Subsumed into their blight, used as fuel to continue their expansion."
"I'm sorry Farron. Really, I am. But most of us have had enough of scurrying in the dirt like goblins or cave elves just to delay the inevitable. We're tired, and we're going home. You'll have a dozen men left with you, so just... oh who am I kidding, just do whatever. I'm leaving." Duarte stood to leave, and Farron drummed his fingers against the pommel of his blade. The coward paused in front of him.
For a long moment, the two stared at one another. The tension was so thick Farron wasn't sure if he could have cut it with his sword. Eventually, he stepped aside and the rat scurried away.
Farron approached the desk, brushing aside documents as he looked for what he needed. As is, the supply line plans would be helpful, but less than they could have been. They were covered in annotations, all of them written in the invader's foul language. As a youth, it had been a point of pride never to learn the tongue of their largest neighbour, but now, as a grown man, he regretted it. His misplaced honour was useless for winning. Discarding it would be a small price to pay for victory — or if victory was unattainable, at least making more of the bastards bleed before they finally took him out.
He couldn't find the key to the desk, but that was fine. It was made of regular, unenchanted wood, so he simply slammed a fist into the middle and split it in half. The contents spilled out onto the floor, but he immediately spotted his target and stopped it before it could roll away. Picking up the small, turquoise ring between two fingers, he held it up to his eye. It was the old Commander's translation ring. The original purpose was obvious, but they'd been using it to help them send and receive coded messages by linking the rings together, creating a coded language that only they could decipher.
The rings were a delicate piece of enchantment work in the best of times, and it was long since overdue for maintenance. But that was exactly why they were slowly losing; they didn't have the massive, specialised industries available in the way the Empire did. No enchanters, no smiths, minimal leader-type classes, nothing but militiamen, a few soldiers, and patriotic farmer boys.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He tightened his fist in anger, almost crushing the translation ring before he stopped himself. He slipped it on his finger, before laying out his stolen plans in a way that enabled him to read them all at once without needing to flip through any pages. The enchantments were on the verge of fizzling out, so he needed to be quick.
With a quick breath to prepare himself, he steadily pushed his mana into the ring. Instantly, his mind began to feel hot and itchy, but he powered through. Looking over the gathered plans, the meaning of the annotations became clear; exact times for travel, specific quantities and qualities of various items as well as danger in the area. Quickly, he got to work on coming up with a plan of his own.
----------------------------------------
Like most mornings, Symon shot upwards immediately upon waking, heaving for breath. He'd been expecting another memory-dream, but it had just felt so odd yet vivid and realistic that it had been impossible to prepare for them. He could still picture the feeling of using that magic ring, the words burning themselves into his mind as he — no, not him, it was Keelgrave — as Keelgrave read over the plans he'd stolen.
"Ugh, that sucked," he mumbled to himself before shimmying out of his tent and drinking some water. His mouth felt dry after that.
"Another one of your memories ending up in my dreams. You didn't see anything yourself?>
"You were trying to translate some documents you'd stolen." Keelgrave just made a hmmm sound in response, so Symon continued on. "It was right after your Commander died, and that Duarte guy ran off."
"I wonder if it made our bond ability level up? Ledger, do your thing. Oh, and show me only the things that changed, please."
Looking down to the grass at his feet, he got his answer and more.
[You have acquired a new passive: Languages]
[Languages (0): Boosts learning and recall of languages.]
[ Status:
Name: Symon
Class: Cursed Healer
Strength: 0.83 {+0.01}
Constitution: 1.13 {+0.02}
Acuity: 0.88 {+0.01}
Intelligence: 0.87 {+0.04}
Will: 1.14 {+0.01}
Abilities:
Essence Bond (7) {+1}: Permanently bind your essence to that of a spirit's.
Passives:
Languages (0) {New} ]
"Well, it's certainly appreciated. Thanks Ledger!"
"Well, I'm still thankful. It's exactly what I wanted, actually." It would be a big help, and the only price he had to pay was a slight headache that was already receding. Considering that learning Common was already giving him headaches, it wasn't much of a drawback at all.
He'd also had some minor gains to his physical stats, but he chalked that up to all the sword training yesterday. It really highlighted how much faster fighting real threats were for raising your stats, but of course that brought with it more risk. Plus, there was more to being good at fighting than just stats.
Wanting to test out the new passive, he approached Aslan. Everyone else had woken up around the same time as him — they might not have had a digital alarm clock, but the three suns made it hard to stay sleeping with how much light they put out.
As he approached, he mentally ran through any new knowledge he had. As it turned out, the only new information was an understanding of the words and numbers he'd seen through Keelgrave's eyes on those logistical documents. That part seemed to have been implanted into his brain, but according to its description, the new passive only aided the learning process and didn't automatically give him anything. Even if it only shaved a single hour off his language lessons, he'd still be eternally grateful. Although, exactly how powerful it was remained to be seen.
"Hi Aslan," he said aloud. He already knew how to say such a simple and often used phrase, even before the dream.
"Greetings, friend Symon. Did you sleep well? I heard you mumbling to yourself," Aslan replied. He knew the first phrase's meaning, but he needed Keelgrave to translate the last ones. So he was right, no knowledge directly implanted into his brain except a few specific logistical terms. It wasn't that he didn't believe the Ledger's description, but he'd still wanted to check.
"Yeah, just a couple dreams," he said, once more having Keelgrave supply the words he needed to say. He'd already learned a few phrases himself, but hopefully that would speed up now. "Can you ask Atabek how he's feeling? I can give him some more healing, then we can get back to our travelling."
With a nod, the other man began discussing things with Atabek, who was currently sipping water as he gazed at the sunrise. As they did so, Symon checked his vitality reserves. He was down to eight units. He'd been at twelve after healing Atabek previously, so that meant he'd used five units of vitality for about as many hours of sword training. He'd drained some of the nearby grass in the process of his training, but it was so little he chose to just ignore it. Overall, not a bad trade off, he thought.
Aslan unknowingly interrupted Symon's musings. "Atabek claims to be back in top shape, but..." he trailed off, a disbelieving expression on his face. "He is just trying not to be a burden, I believe. He will manage travel, but fighting will be unlikely."
"Well, you can tell him I already think he's plenty tough for surviving that attack from the razor stalker in the first place, no need to put on a brave face." He'd meant it half in jest, although it was impressive he'd survived after being stabbed all the way through — twice, no less.
After Aslan passed the words on, the massive man had an equally massive smile on his face. After informing the others, he quickly darted in to give him a few more points worth of healing before he retreated out of range of his own draining ability.
Atabek stood slowly and carefully did a few stretches, the speed and intensity of them slowly growing as he progressed through them. His movements still seemed slightly stiff, so they checked again to ensure he really was good enough to resume their travel across the grass plains to the nearby town.
In response, he simply gave a single thumbs up. Aslan and Safiya seemed confused by this gesture, but of course Symon understood it. After all, he'd been the one to teach it to him.