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As an ex-military, Vincent was an early bird and woke up before anyone else. He skipped breakfast, exited the inn, and asked around for the garrison, which was non-existent. He found the police post instead, in a small house surrounded by a garden. The sergeant was watering the plants with a metal sprinkler but put it down and came to meet him.

"Good morning, Summoned Vincent."

"Beautiful flowers," he complimented Thomas.

"My wife likes gardening a lot," the man explained with a hint of shyness in his attitude, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Send her my compliments. There are few such beautiful gardens where I come from." Vincent had said only half of a lie. Plenty of gardens were nicer on Earth, but none belonged to a police station, so far as he knew. "I'm here to ask for your help. How many people can you spare?"

"If I must, half my forces. Twenty-five," the sergeant said. "I need an hour to spread the word. The men-at-arms live in their own houses."

"Local forces, huh?"

"Of course," Thoms frowned. "There's no better choice for defending a city than people with skin in the game."

Vincent was of another opinion but renounced wording it. "It's perfect. Can they meet me at the bridge?"

"An hour, the bridge," the officer said curtly, entering the building after leaving the sprinkler on a bench.

"Tell them to dress light and bring axes!" Vincent shouted. The sergeant nodded, keeping his back to the younger man. Obviously, he was not keen to lend his help.

But Vincent didn't care about enthusiasm; he only wanted the job done, so he returned to the inn, strolling casually, hands in his pocket and humming a merry melody. Freshly baked bread and butter waited on the table, along with eggs and bacon prepared in various sorts and jams. There was no coffee—apparently, an expensive imported drink served in more luxurious boutiques—but a hot herb concoction smelling like boiled spinach, which Vincent avoided, opting for water.

Irene, Jorge, and the immigrants were there, chatting in Spanish. "So, you know Spanish?" he asked Irene in the same language.

"Not very well," she confessed.

"Still, it's good enough to keep secrets," Vincent lowered his voice, leaning forward to close the distance to her ear, and she enthusiastically nodded back.

"How come you speak Spanish?" Jorge asked. "You're Czech, aren't you?"

"Half Spanish," Vincent confessed. "My grandfather's family name was Velasco. He was left-leaning and quit Spain during Franco's last years, coming to Czechoslovakia just a few weeks before the Soviet Invasion with his family. Then, the new regime threw him in prison for a few years, saying he was a fascist spy. The irony."

"Wow," Irene widened her eyes.

"Yeah," Vincent grimaced. "My grandmother ran to Austria with my father, where grandpop rejoined them after he was freed. Years later, my father fell in love with a Czech, my mother, and moved to Prague. Don't ask me how my name changed to Valaška."

"How did your name change to Valaška?" Irene and Jorge asked in unison, a reaction Vincent expected and willingly provoked.

"The clerk on service at the newborns' declaration center was drunk."

"He got Vincent right and misspelled Velasco?" Jorge gasped.

"Right. Valaška… in fact, pronounced Valashka is more of a Moravian and Slovakian name. It means a sort of a shepherd's axe used by the Vlach minority."

"You could always change it, you know," Irene said.

"Doesn't bother me," Vincent said. "One means axe, the other raven. Say, guys," he waved toward the Filipinos. "Do you by any chance know how to fell a tree? I need some muscles; the others are on the… more brains than brawns side."

"Hey, I'm strong!" Irene protested. "I'm doing ten pushups a day…. OK, five," she caved under his stare.

"We worked in forestry sometimes," one of the elderly Filipinos said.

"Fantastic. Can you join me at the bridge in… fifteen minutes?" Vincent checked his watch. "Only the adults, please. Maybe ask around for some axes?"

"Sure, boss," the man said.

"He's not a boss," Irene hissed. "You're not going to exploit them, are you?"

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"It's not exploiting. This is for the common good, and I'm using the most competent people for the job."

"Don't worry, miss, we're OK," the elderly man said.

"See you at the bridge," Vincent said, leaving abruptly. Irene's face had a strange expression; she looked the type to pester him about how many trees he would cut, and insist to do it painlessly and humanly. In short, what he considered a woke nerd.

After busying around the inn to identify the person with the honking device and procure a couple of spades, a shovel, and a pickaxe from the stable's storage, Vincent aimed for the bridge. Everyone was there, and the soldiers were led by none other but the sergeant. The Filipinos had machetes. Where they got those was a mystery but not one he intended to spend time solving.

Taking the lead, revolver holstered at the belt and horn in hand, Vincent went toward the forest. The previous day, he noticed a dilapidated road going to the clearing. It was possible to bring the bus into town with a bit of effort in felling the few saplings and bushes that had grown on the path.

"This, this, and this, have to go," he kicked three medium-sized oaks he wanted to be cut. There was a pang of guilt in his heart for letting others work while he was not, but he trusted his gun more than the halberds if monsters appeared.

Half an hour later, the precaution paid off as his senses picked up a dangerous vibe from the rear of the group. A bush nearby started to tremble. He activated the horn with the left while snatching the revolver out, ready to fire. A wolf jumped out of the bush in an arched leap, only to fall dead on the road before Vincent could shoot. Many rustling noises told him a larger group of animals were running away.

You have provoked a heart attack on a level twenty Alpha Wolf (Rare tier) and chased his pack away. You have leveled x3. +1 Level in the Animal Empathy skill. You have three free Tokens to invest. Beasts slain: 1/500.

"What is that hellish weapon?" the sergeant yelled, covering his ears. Two of his men were vomiting near the trail, and the rest had pale faces.

"Err… sound magic?" Vincent tried to simplify things because he had no idea.

"Seems that's more to you than it meets the Identify," Thomas bowed. "Well done. That's a pack leader and an old one. Forty years, at least. I bet that pelt will bring at least ten gold."

"Forty years?" Vincent exclaimed, approaching the dead canid. The fur was almost white, with a slight dark blue shade near the skin. The old wolf had widened his eyes in its final moments, a horror-filled expression. "Err… how does loot work here? You say it, or what?"

"Sorry?" Thomas furrowed his thick brow, uniting his forehead in a continued like of hair.

"You know, you say loot, and it transforms into gold, like in the books?"

"No such thing," the sergeant shook his head. "I can take care of the processing, if you want, for fifty silver."

"There's a hundred silver to a gold, right?"

"And a hundred coppers to a silver."

"Fine with me."

With a grunt, Thomas grabbed the carcass and threw it on his shoulders. Vincent wondered what the man's stats were because the wolf was almost as big as a pony. He ordered the soldiers to stop cutting the trees and give some of their axes to the Filipinos; they were much better at the job, and it was not a matter of strength but technique. The men at arms happily obeyed, going to the rear to guard the group from other unexpected attacks.

Two hours later, they arrived at the clearing, a ten-foot-wide road behind them. Maybe 'road' was not the proper word, but the space was as obstacle-free as possible.

The bus was mostly intact, but they met another problem. The white tiger from the day before was hanging around the luggage hatch. It had opened the door somehow and sniffed the suitcases, its head inside the hole. Gingerly touching the luggage, it extracted one suitcase with a claw. Vincent's heart skipped a beat: it was his valise, pink but expensive, a gift from his ex. A choir of gasps resounded among the soldiers.

"Don't you dare, you motherfucker," Vincent screamed. The large cat turned calmly, looking him in the eyes, raised a hind leg, and peed on the suitcase. It knows I won't shoot with the bus on the back… I risk ruining it. "This is how you repay sparing your life?" Vincent pumped his fist.

Roaring, the tiger jumped over the bus in one fluid movement and was gone. Vincent ran forward and opened his suitcase lid, protecting his hands with disinfecting wipes. The content was safe; the foul liquid had not reached inside. With relief, Vincent picked up his clothes and other items in his arms, going inside the bus through the driver's door, still open. He deposited everything on a seat and covered the pile with a blanket.

Looking at the suitcase, he hesitantly stepped toward the doors but didn't exit the bus. I have to let it go… Maybe it's a sign… You know you shouldn't cling to the past, Vincent… He sighed, shaking his head with his eyes shut. "Get inside!" he yelled, beckoning the others with his arm.

The men-at-arms got up first, with Thomas last, after stuffing the wolf's body inside the luggage compartment and closing the hatch. "You know the tiger?" he asked.

Vincent groaned, feeling like after a fist in the stomach. "Almost killed the fuckster yesterday… I should have finished the job."

"See, sarge, they're strong," one of the soldiers said.

"I might have misjudged this group," Thomas conceded. "But he must be the strongest one. Yet with proper training, the others will catch up in no—"

"You are not to train my people without consulting me on a training regimen," Vincent said in a calm but firm voice. "We can speak about it in the afternoon."

"Son, I have over thirty years of—"

"And I served in my country's best units. Look… I don't disparage your knowledge; let’s compare our ideas first. Give me an hour of your time, and I'll show you what I mean."

"I won't refuse a Summoned expertise," the sergeant conceded. "Who knows? Maybe it would benefit those lazy bastards, too."

"Sit down, no matter where except on my clothes," Vincent asked because the soldiers were squeezed together on the corridor like sardines. "Please work," he begged the bus, turning the key. The engine hiccuped a couple of times but finally started. "Thank goodness. Here we go."

Crossing the meadow in the first gear to have traction, Vincent drove the vehicle toward the freshly cleared road, where he dared to switch to the second. It was a bumpy trail, and he bit his tongue a few times, cursing. Behind him, the locals were letting out sighs of awe.

They arrived in the city square at precisely half past twelve. Vincent honked to announce their presence, eliciting yells of protest from the passengers. With the soldiers' help, Vincent carried all the luggage inside the inn. Some of the owners were having lunch and got their luggage on the spot, and the rest was gathered in a pile in the back of the hall to be sorted later. Then came the notification.

You have successfully regained ownership of your group's vehicle and belongings. You gain + 1 in Mind and Spirit and one level in Quiet Leadership.

That's not half bad, Vincent thought with satisfaction.