“This way, Sir Alex,” Ogner walked alongside Alex, leading the way.

Now they walked side by side. The trees spread out to allow them passage. The other men followed at a short distance. The dry snow under their boots made a barely audible crunch. Alex was cold and wet. He went on pure adrenaline — the bare short swords served as excellent motivation to stop him from complaining and asking unnecessary questions.

Well, Alex had something to offer in exchange for warm clothing and food. He remembered that the men had mentioned the Holy Slime. Ogner’s Lord was looking for this monster for some reason, and it happened to be very important. It wouldn’t be too difficult to change Blub’s evolutionary branch and reset his level to zero. All he needed was a few Essences. But of course, he shouldn’t even mention Blub for the time being. There was a reason why the Queen of Frost had been afraid of being seen by humans, even as a familiar. First and foremost, Alex needed to gather more information about the Lord of Golden Hill. Who knew what kind of people existed in this world? After meeting them, Alex might even want to return to the caves with the rats and slimes.

As they walked between the trees over the tufts of grass, Ogner glanced furtively at Alex. He was a strange fellow, to say the least — he had been wandering around the outskirts of the dungeon, alone and without weapons, but with the chevron on his shirt. Though he might have lost his weapons in the fight against the monsters. After all, the scouts had seen injured rats nearby. Perhaps this aristocrat from the Northern Empire had a secret mission here, and a group of powerful mages were guarding him from afar. Strange, unusual, but in a world of techniques and essences, anything could happen. Rumor had it that the northerners had very harsh customs. They allegedly exposed infants to the cold to harden them, and they banished the elderly to the tundra to be eaten by wolves. This young man could easily have been sent here to hone his techniques under the watchful eye of grandmaster-nannies.

“Are you a knight?” Alex asked suddenly, glancing to the side. It was a casual question, meant to gauge how the scouts viewed him. They would either answer him as a guest or treat him like a prisoner.

“Of course, I am,” Ogner nodded. “I’m the head of the Lord’s scouting party. He wouldn’t entrust such a responsible task to a commoner.”

Alex looked at the scout’s light leather armor. It wasn’t what he had imagined medieval knights to wear. Where were the steel plates and plumed helmets? Although, in the woods on a reconnaissance mission, full armor would only hinder them. The knights were surely no fools, even if they were fearless.

“What about your people?” Alex found a reason to look over his shoulder. Two of the scouts were on alert, but their stern looks weren’t directed at Alex, but at the surrounding thicket.

“Krenner is knighted, and Gimbon is a squire,” Ogner replied.

“Thank you for the answers, sir,” Alex nodded, playing the part of a polite aristocrat. He also remembered to straighten up. Even though he was ragged, a dignified posture was crucial. It was better to start from a high position, otherwise he might be appointed a swineherd in the nearest village.

We understand each other quite well, Alex suddenly thought. Due to his fatigue and the stressful situation, he only noticed this now. The necessary words in the local language flowed naturally from his mouth and Alex didn’t even realize it. Another miracle of the System.

They climbed up a high hill. Below them was a small valley. Between the barren bushes, packs of rats climbed up the steep slope. Fifteen of them, no less. Two had eyes, claws, and fangs that glowed with a greenish light. These were poisonous rats. Another bigger rat had what looked like a horn on its forehead.

“Damn creatures!” Ogner growled loudly. “There weren’t so many of them on the surface before. They’ve become bolder! But we’ll show them! Gimbon, give Sir Alex your sword!”

Alex was stunned when the squire obediently approached him and silently handed over his only weapon, then he began to look around, searching for sturdier branches on the ground.

“Are you sure, Sir Ogner?” Alex wasn’t in a hurry to refuse. The heavy hilt felt pleasantly comfortable in his hand, and bearing the blade immediately boosted his confidence. But he felt awkward, like a robber.

Moreover, he didn’t know how to use a sword. Aristocrats were trained in swordsmanship from childhood, but not him. Now he was afraid of making a fool of himself, but his fingers only tightened on the weapon.

“I am, Sir Alex,” Ogner said firmly. “Gimbon is only a squire, and you’re our Lord’s guest. We must deliver you safe and sound.”

Ogner was lying: the experienced warrior wanted to test the young man. Those delicate hands, almost like a girl’s, were undoubtedly a sign of a wealthy aristocrat. It meant he could afford expensive rejuvenating creams. But the northerners were known for their swordsmanship — their lands were harsh, they constantly fought dragons, mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and even each other. So he wanted to see how good the young man was.

Alex decided that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Anything was better than stomping on rats and then collapsing from injuries.

He swung the sword experimentally, trying to get used to its weight. He took a few test swings at the nearest tree, but stopped when Ogner looked at him in surprise. He was afraid he had done something wrong.

Ogner supposed that Alex probably hadn’t been trained in swordsmanship. He wielded it like a club... or a stick. Maybe his family preferred clubs or hammers. Such weapons were highly prized in the north.

The rats finally arrived, and the battle began. The scouts easily dispatched the monsters, clearly using techniques. Ogner, vibrating like a chainsaw, sliced the enemies like straw with a single stroke of his blade. It was impossible to even see his face, because he was shaking so violently. Dust kicked up from the ground swirling around his legs.

Two rats pounced on Alex. He was afraid of making a mistake and swinging ungracefully like a lumberjack chopping wood. However, everything turned out to be much simpler: wielding an axe required the skill to hit a moving target with a short cutting edge. In contrast, wielding a sword was simple — he just swung it, and the broad blade struck anything within range, making it almost impossible to miss.

Alex decided not to show off and simply plunged the tip of his sword into the belly of one of the rats, causing it to drop dead instantly. Then he slashed across the other rat’s muzzle. He had originally aimed for its back, but the rat had presented its head, and Alex pretended that he had intended to strike there all along.

Once free, he looked around, trying to make sense of the chaos. He watched Gimbon smash the rats with powerful blows of the stick. And while Krenner chopped one rat, three more fell apart at once. Alex scratched his forehead with the hilt of his sword in amazement. This was exactly like the ‘Shadow Clone’ technique from a well-known anime, except that Krenner created copies of his blows, not himself. Wow!

The rats quickly ran out. A pile of corpses littered the top of the hill, some rolling down the slope. Glowing spheres rose from all of them, with two flying into Alex, and the rest into the knights. They took out small crystals from their pockets, where the essences floated. Alex looked without understanding why the knights didn’t absorb the essences into themselves. Why this hassle with the crystals?

Ogner stared at Alex closely. Very closely. Had he noticed Alex scratch his forehead with the hilt of the sword? Damn, he behaved anything like an aristocrat.

“You didn’t fight like a knight,” the chief scout said reproachfully.

“Pardon?” Alex instinctively raised the bloody sword in front of him. He had already opened the menu with the list of his familiars and was ready to summon the Queen of Frost. She probably wouldn’t be able to stop these killing machines, but at least she could offer him a chance to escape.

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The scout grinned, “You didn’t fight like an ordinary knight, but like a fearless knight.”

“Fearless?” Alex was taken aback. Right now he felt like a complete idiot, but put the sword aside.

“Yes, exactly. No one in the south would dare to do what you just did. You have to admit that these lunging attacks are primarily intended against single opponents. In a bigger fight, it’s almost suicidal. A lunging fighter is extremely vulnerable to multiple enemies. But you handled it skillfully!” Ogner clucked his tongue in what seemed like admiration. “Is that how they teach you in the north?”

“They teach me...” Alex repeated, still not understanding.

“A thrust with the tip while surrounded... Impressive,” Ogner continued. “Of course, it’s a practical and efficient technique, with quick and sharp strikes. But even after ten years of fighting, I’m still afraid. I’ve only ever pierced a piglet on a spit, and that was with a kitchen knife, not a sword!”

Krenner also looked at Alex with approval, and Gimbon seemed about to ask for an autograph. Alex realized they weren’t making fun of him. The locals were just so used to deadly techniques that his successful use of a dangerous yet simple strike in a risky situation had surprised them. It made sense — they could easily switch to ‘chainsaw mode’ or clone their strikes up to ten times at any distance, so they weren’t used to simple fighting.

Alex made a mental note to stop using lunging attacks in close combat. It was too risky, as it left him exposed. However, he maintained his arrogant demeanor and said:

“Northerners are taught from a young age not to fear death. When I was five years old, they left me alone in a cage with a hungry wolf.”

This statement surprised the mighty knights completely.

“How did you survive?” Krenner asked in amazement.

Alex smiled mysteriously, but then confessed:

“The wolf was only two weeks old. It had just learned to growl. My relatives found a dead female wolf with a barely alive pup while hunting. They raised the pup, and when it grew up, they gave it to the z… they used it as a hunting dog.” Alex didn’t lie, he just changed the end of the story into a more medieval one. In his early childhood, his father did take him to the mountains for outdoor adventures.

“You have interesting customs,” Ogner said respectfully, nodding his head.

Their trip went on. The scouts led Alex through the valley below, past the dilapidated ruins of a castle in the middle of the forest, around a long thicket, and finally to the camp. There were no cars or vans, only horses with carts, tents and pavilions. Well, that was to be expected. Alex had already figured out that he was in the Middle Ages. The sword in his hand had made that abundantly clear.

At the edge of the camp, Alex looked at the System’s messages. An idea occurred to him: could he escape into the cave with the statues or not? As it turned out, he couldn’t. There was a message:

Time to the next Major Arcana Council: 47:53:23…

The last number changed: 23... 22... 21... He had two full days until the council. If things got bad, he would have to look for alternative escape routes, even if it meant flying away on Blub.

“Krenner, report to Enessen about the invasion of monsters,” Ogner ordered the swordsman, then turned to Alex. “Sir Alex, could you please return Gimbon’s sword?”

“Of course,” Alex replied. His fingers were reluctant to let go of the weapon, but he managed to force himself.

“Enessen is the Garrison Commander, but we’ll take you directly to our Lord,” Ogner said, pointing to the main tent in the center of the camp. “Wait for me here. Gimbon will keep you company.”

“Alright,” Alex sighed, glancing at the squire.

Gimbon sheathed his sword after wiping it clean of rat blood. There was nothing to worry about. While Alex was technically under his guard, it was more of a precaution and a formality. If warriors as imposing as Krenner and Ogner expected Alex to cause trouble, they would have tied him up by now, and they wouldn’t be afraid of the ‘intimidating strike with the sword tip.’

Ogner didn’t keep Alex waiting long. Soon he appeared and summoned Alex to meet the Lord. Alex came into the tent. It was warm inside, and flakes of ash rose from the fireplace. Sitting in a chair, a dark-haired man watched them until they reached the smoke hole. On his right arm glittered a strange bracelet of silver and runes.

“Lord Rodrik, this is Sir Alex of the North,” Ogner announced. “Sir Alex, may I present Lord Rodrik Anestar of Golden Hill.”

The knight had already told Lord Rodrik of Golden Hill his thoughts regarding Alex’s origins, and Rodrik had decided it was best to treat the young man courteously, especially after seeing him in person.

For a few seconds, Lord Rodrik studied the bright yellow ‘SECURITY’ label on Alex’s jacket. He struggled to hide his surprise. He had an excellent memory and had been fascinated by heraldry in his youth. He knew the entire pedigree of the royal family and the most important coats of arms of the distant Frost Empire. Looking at Alex, he almost wanted to rub his eyes. No, he couldn’t be wrong. The bright gold coloring matched the imperial emblem! The text itself was different from the Imperial, but the design was identical! This was only possible in one case: Rodrik was sitting before a member of a minor branch of the Imperial family. Perhaps one of the Ice Emperor’s many nephews or grandchildren. The collateral branch had its own coat of arms, but to emphasize its connection to the Imperial family, it was designed in the same style.

For a moment, Rodrik even forgot about his poor daughter. The scent of mystery had intoxicated him. A number of questions raced through his mind. What had brought the relative of the Ice Emperor to this remote place? What was the mystery here? Did it have something to do with the disturbed monsters?

“Please, sit down, Sir Alex,” Rodrik said in a restrained tone, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Would you like some tea? Ogner, please call my squire — he’s rather lazy. Tell him to bring three cups of tea.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the scout went outside.

Meanwhile, Rodrik kept his attentive gray eyes on Alex.

“So, could you tell me something about yourself? What brought you so far from home? What are you doing near Lezard’s Dungeon?”

Alex pressed his lips together. These questions weren’t easy to answer.

***

Interlude

A twelve-year-old boy descended down stone ledges and entered a forest. Thin as a skeleton, he was almost lost between the towering mighty tree trunks. The boy’s limbs were as delicate as branches, his face was pale as if he had never seen sunlight. The gray hair, as white as the surrounding snow, reached down to his shoulders. His gray, sack-like clothing hung in tatters, showing skin without wounds or scratches. His violet eyes gazed apathetically, devoid of emotion.

Wading through the snow, he made his way through the forest thickets, between the rows of colossal spruces, through impenetrable layers of underbrush. All around him was silence. He didn’t care about the surrounding world. With icy calm, the boy freed his pant legs from the juniper thorns. Undaunted by the cold, he crossed icy mountain streams.

There was a panicked flapping of wings overhead, but the boy paid no attention. A predator had surely scared the bird away, he understood that, but he didn’t care. The boy felt no fear; in fact, he had never known that emotion. He didn’t care about the treacherous darkness of the wild forest — branches creaked in the night, water splashed endlessly over the rocks, and thunderclouds roared deafeningly beyond the forest canopy. None of these ominous sounds bothered the boy. Nor did the pack of werewolves that suddenly emerged from the twilight. The beasts, each the size of a cow, moved silently, not a single branch on the ground creaking under the soft pads of their paws. Drool dripped from their alligator-like jaws. Their crimson eyes shone with hunger. When the werewolves spotted the boy, their black canine tails wagged with joy — weak prey, easy and tasty...

Ignoring the werewolves, as if he didn’t see them at all, the boy moved on, straight towards the beasts. One of the wolves jumped at the prey.

Without looking, the boy struck with a swinging fist. His small bones cracked against the monster’s snout. The werewolf was tossed aside like a bunch of cotton. It flew into a row of young pines. The branches snapped and a bird took flight with a screech. The predator, now a heap of fur, flesh, and broken bones, slid down the smooth trunks into the grass and never moved again. The werewolves realized their mistake. But it was too late.

The boy charged his enemies. His fist shattered the hard snout of the nearest wolf. A kick of the small boot broke the neck of another. One wolf lunged, darting under the thin arm. Its huge jaws snapped shut on the boy’s thin shoulder and the teeth ground together. The werewolf lifted its head and jerked it back with the powerful neck, tossing the boy into the air like a rag doll. But his youthful face was unscathed. He raised his free hand to the massive snout, and a slap of his palm against the wolf’s black nose caused the monster’s skull to explode like a watermelon.

The boy fell to the snow. His shirt was torn, but the vicious fangs left no mark on his bare shoulder. He rose and charged the remaining enemies. The werewolves howled. They understood — now they were the prey. But to flee, to abandon their alpha, would mean shame. The proud wolves pounced on their enemy, but their clicking jaws did him no harm. The boy struck again and again, turning the proud pack into a bloody mess. The snow turned red.

Covered in blood from head to toe, the boy continued on his way through the forest. The sun set and rose three times after he had left the dead werewolves behind. The smell of blood clung to the boy, and sometimes the scent attracted new predators. He knocked the head off an awakened bear and crushed a lynx in his arms, breaking every bone in its body. At night, he curled up like a beast, ignoring the darkness and snow.

Another day passed, and suddenly there was a rumble, mixed with the gurgling of rivers and the rustling of leaves. It grew louder and louder. The boy listened to the sounds, which differed from the familiar tones of the forest. Curiosity appeared in his big eyes. He moved in the direction of the sound, southward, across the rising foothills. The child didn’t yet know that beyond the snowy peaks of the mountains was Lezard’s Dungeon.