Chapter 48
Gankers
The journey had taken a turn into the quieter, less treaded paths, with the surrounding landscape stretching out in a serene yet monotonous sprawl. Adom, seated comfortably yet alertly next to Borgen, observed the world passing by through the window, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and strategies. Enolar, perched like a vigilant sentinel atop the vehicle, scanned the horizon with an intensity that belied the supposed safety of their current route.
It was amidst this lull, an hour into their journey, that Adom's curiosity bubbled over. "Why the heightened alertness?" he inquired, gesturing towards Enolar's keen surveillance. "Aren't we still hours away from Samar Village? I was under the impression this zone was deemed safe up to the village's outskirts."
Lyria, who had been quietly inspecting her gear, looked up, her expression somber. "Things changed," she began, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken concerns. "Recent times have seen a troubling surge in incidents within these so-called safe zones. 'Ganker' attacks have become alarmingly frequent." She added, the word 'ganker' laced with disdain.
Bruni, overhearing the exchange, chimed in unbidden, eager to elucidate despite Adom's familiarity with the term.
"Gankers," Bruni started, his tone laced with disdain, "are a scourge upon the adventurer community. They are not like the bandits or beasts we often prepare for. These are adventurers, or at least they pretend to be, who have strayed from the path of honor. They prey on their own kind, lurking in the shadows of presumed safety, waiting to ambush and slaughter for loot and gear. They're fucking cowards, attacking when least expected, and their treachery has made even the safest routes perilous."
Lyria continued, her voice carrying a note of caution. "Venturing through these so-called safe zones via the main roads has become increasingly unwise," she explained, her gaze shifting towards the horizon, as if expecting trouble to materialize at any moment. "The open routes, once havens of safety, now serve as perfect stages for gankers to lay their ambushes. It's best to avoid them, to weave through less traveled paths where the element of surprise is ours to control."
Adom, absorbing her words, cast a glance around, noting the well-trodden path they currently navigated. "Yet, here we are, on one of these main roads," he observed, a hint of curiosity mingling with concern in his tone. "Aren't we inviting trouble, making ourselves easy targets?"
Before Lyria could respond, Zara, who had been meticulously sharpening her blade in silent contemplation, spoke up. Her voice, usually distant and detached, carried a weight that demanded attention. "Gankers," she began, her focus never wavering from the blade she honed to a deadly edge, "have become more than mere nuisances; they're a burgeoning threat, a malignant growth within the adventurer community. The mortality rate among our ranks was already steep, standing at 53%. But in the past week alone, it has spiked to an alarming 77%, with the majority of the fallen being newcomers, those just starting to find their footing in this perilous world."
She paused, examining the blade's edge with a critical eye before continuing. "In response to this escalating threat, the various guilds have issued a sort of open bounty on these gankers. Some of them are known entities, their crimes documented and shared among the guilds. Others still masquerade as respectable adventurers, their treachery concealed behind a veneer of camaraderie and honor."
Zara's gaze finally lifted from her blade, settling on the horizon with a steely resolve. "This decree from the guilds empowers us, the more seasoned and battle-hardened, to deal with these traitors as we see fit. Gankers, when identified, are to be met with swift retribution. We are sanctioned, even encouraged, to end their deceitful lives on sight."
Zara's stern explanation had set a somber tone, revealing the dangerous undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface of their supposed safety. Her words, coupled with the grim statistics, painted a vivid picture of the perils that lay in wait, transforming the main road into a potential battlefield rather than a path of convenience. It was a calculated risk, a deliberate choice to confront the shadowy threat of gankers head-on rather than skirt around it in fear.
Borgen, ever the heart of the group, sought to pierce the gloom with his light-hearted spirit. "Besides," he chimed in with a grin, "taking this road cuts our travel time considerably. Might as well get to Samar faster and deal with any trouble that finds us along the way."
Adom nodded, appreciating the dual purpose of their chosen path—speed and the potential to confront the ganker menace head-on. The vehicle rumbled on, the tension from earlier discussions slowly dissipating, replaced by a cautious yet determined resolve.
The moment of calm was suddenly punctuated by the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling. All eyes turned towards Jace, who offered a sheepish smile, his cheeks tinting with embarrassment. "Ah, missed breakfast in the rush to set out," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Bruni's laughter boomed through the space, breaking the last remnants of tension. "Hardly surprising," he guffawed, "given how you spent your night, eh?" His insinuation drew a chorus of snickers and an embarrassed nudge from Assia, who playfully scolded, "Bruni, enough with your teasing!"
Seizing the moment, Adom reached for the basket Alea had prepared earlier. He couldn't help but smile, realizing Alea's foresight in packing extra, likely anticipating the group's needs. Unveiling an assortment of sandwiches, water, and a variety of fruits, he distributed them amongst his companions, ensuring everyone had their share.
Borgen, however, politely declined the offer with a chuckle. "Thanks, but a couple of sandwiches and a few fruits won't do much for me. I'll wait for a proper meal in Samar," he said, his gaze lingering on the generous portion Adom had allocated for him. His refusal, coupled with his reasoning, sparked a round of laughter, lightening the mood further.
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As they continued to share the impromptu meal, the conversation took a turn when Borgen, with a hint of teasing in his voice, remarked to Adom, "Seems like Alea's taken quite a shine to you. Haven't seen her smile like that in ages."
Adom, playing along, responded with a chuckle, "Maybe I'm just more charming than I give myself credit for." His comment was met with a brief, uncharacteristic silence from the group, prompting Adom to glance around, puzzled. "What's with the long faces? Was my joke that terrible?"
Lyria, breaking the silence with a soft chuckle, shook her head. "No, it's not the joke, Rey." She hesitated for a moment before sharing, "Alea lost her son a few years back. He was an adventurer like us, lost in a distant dungeon. It's been a cloud over her, so seeing her smile today was... it was a good change."
Adom's expression softened, regret coloring his features as he absorbed the weight of Lyria's words. "Oh... I didn't know," he admitted, his earlier joviality fading into a more somber tone.
Sensing Adom's discomfort, Borgen placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, the force of his grip gentle yet grounding. "Life has its tides, lad," he said. "Moving forward, finding reasons to smile again, it's all part of the journey. Don't dwell on it too much. Alea smiling today, perhaps it's a sign she's finding her way through. Your presence, our little adventure—it's all pieces of that bigger picture."
As the group's conversation flowed in the comfort of their journey, a sudden change pierced the normalcy of their drive. Enolar, perched with vigilant eyes atop the vehicle, signaled a disturbance on the horizon, immediately drawing the group's attention to a figure emerging from the distance. The sight that unfolded before them was one of raw, harrowing distress.
A woman, her form a testament to recent horror, stumbled towards them with desperate haste. Her clothes, once perhaps a modest attire of a traveler or local, were now tattered rags clinging to her bruised body. The fabric was soaked in blood, some fresh and bright against the pale of her skin, others darker, indicating wounds both new and slightly older. Her garments hung in jagged strips, offering glimpses of skin marred by abrasions and deeper lacerations that spoke of a brutal encounter.
Her face, a canvas of terror and exhaustion, was streaked with dirt and blood. Her eyes, wide and frantic, scanned her surroundings with a primal urgency, locking onto the adventurers' vehicle as a beacon of hope. With every labored breath, she seemed to muster the last reserves of her strength, her chest heaving in ragged gasps that made her injuries all the more apparent.
As the vehicle came to a halt, the group inside was met with the full impact of her dire state. Her skin was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, some shallow, others worryingly deep. Mud and leaves clung to her as if she had been dragged through the forest or had made a frantic escape through underbrush. The remnants of what might have been a bag or pouch were clutched in one bloodied hand, the strap torn, suggesting a violent struggle.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was a hoarse whisper, cracked from screaming and dehydration, "Please... help..." Each word was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, her gaze darting back the way she had come, expecting whatever was after her, to materialize at any moment.
As the woman's desperate form collapsed before them, the gravity of the situation cemented Borgen's unspoken role as the leader. With a calm yet decisive nod, he signaled the group to proceed with caution. Their readiness to leap into action, honed through countless adventures and skirmishes, was evident in their swift preparation.
Zara, with a fluid motion that spoke of her expertise, sheathed her blade, her demeanor calm yet alert. Bruni, ever the vocal one, couldn't help but let out a string of curses as he pulled two formidable axes from his dimensional bag, the magical storage allowing for the seamless retrieval of his weapons. Jace, mirroring the readiness of his companions, unsheathed his sword, its blade glinting in the light. Assia and Lyria, their focus honing in on the ambient Essentia, began to gather the mystical energy around them, their gestures and concentration signaling their preparation to weave spells at a moment's notice, much like Zara.
With a collective sense of purpose, they approached the fallen woman. Bruni's gruff voice broke the tense silence, "What are we gonna do now? Is this for real? Is she dead?".
Lyria, stepping forward, knelt beside the woman. Her expression was one of focused concentration as she prepared to cast a diagnostic spell. Closing her eyes, Lyria extended her hands slightly above the woman's battered form, her palms facing down as she tapped into the flow of Essentia around and within her.
Adom knew this, the spell Lyria employed was a sophisticated form of Essentia manipulation, leveraging her innate connection to the energy that permeated all things. By attuning herself to the subtle vibrations of Essentia within the woman's body, Lyria could create a mental map of her physical state. This was akin to a sonar or scanner, where the Essentia, guided by her intent and focus, resonated with the injuries, highlighting areas of trauma or disruption in the body's natural Essentia flow.
As Lyria's concentration deepened, the Essentia under her command gently probed the woman's form. To the skilled Essentia manipulator, each injury, each wound, disrupted the natural flow in its own way, creating distinguishable patterns that Lyria could interpret. Broken bones, internal bleeding, or even subtle signs of poisoning or disease—all left their unique signatures in the way they affected the Essentia's movement and harmony.
To the onlookers, Lyria's spellcasting was a silent, almost serene process, but beneath the calm exterior was a complex interaction of energies. The gathered Essentia acted like a multidimensional radar, mapping out the injuries in layers, from skin to bone, allowing Lyria to ascertain not just the location and severity of each wound but also to prioritize which required immediate attention.
Lyria's focused examination through her spell revealed the woman's injuries: several broken ribs and a deep, concerning wound in her stomach. "She's badly hurt, but she'll live," she announced, her voice steady, betraying neither relief nor despair but a simple statement of fact.
Upon hearing this, Borgen's already grave expression deepened for some reason. His gaze met Lyria's, his expression unreadable, the weight of leadership evident in his eyes. "Does she need potions?" he inquired.
Lyria shook her head slightly, her response firm. "No, potions won't be necessary for now. What she needs is immediate attention to her wounds, to stop the bleeding, and rest. Proper care and time will do more for her than any potion at this moment."
Borgen gave a solemn nod, his decision made. "We'll head to the lake 2 kilometers from here. It's secluded enough to offer safety and peace for her to rest and recover." His voice, authoritative, left no room for debate.
The group's attention then shifted to Enolar, whose heightened senses and strategic vantage point made him their lookout. Borgen's question was direct, "Have we been followed?"
Enolar, after a moment's pause to survey their surroundings once more, made an unfamiliar hand sign to Borgen and responded with a firm "No." His assurance, backed by his keen observation and experience, provided a collective sigh of relief among the group.