"I'm sorry." Rand sighed. "Everything was too chaotic. We couldn't manage it all. Their bodies are buried in the backyard. When things settle down, you can go back and see them."

With so many dead, burying the bodies where they fell was not an act of humanitarian concern. They merely feared that the hot weather would cause an epidemic.

Anser shook his head slightly and murmured, "It wasn't your fault. They were stubborn and never listened to advice..."

As he spoke, hazy memories surfaced one after another.

The original Anser's parents had poor tempers, but they valued him more than their own lives. It was hardly surprising that they refused to leave after the disaster.

"Do you know who did it?" Anser asked gravely.

"No. The villains moved from place to place. Maybe I killed them, or maybe they escaped..." Rand did not hide anything. "Sow's Foot is almost empty now. Anyone who hasn't fled will probably become a duergar slave."

Duergar wielded psionics and excelled at enslaving other races.

Bratt asked, "Where is the Flaming Fist? Are they simply allowing the subterranean creatures to run wild?"

"That's right. How did we travel this far without seeing anyone from the Flaming Fist?" Anser frowned. Resentment and hostility toward the organization rose within him for no clear reason.

Wyrm's Rock Fortress stood on the bridge only one or two kilometers away, yet it had done nothing.

Rand sighed. "Yesterday, the Flaming Fist was ordered to reinforce the collapsed districts. Nearly their entire force deployed. In the end... they suffered a crushing defeat. We can't estimate the losses, and the survivors have retreated into the Upper City.

"Wyrm's Rock Fortress no longer has the strength to fight. Its new orders are to request outside aid and hold Wyrm's Crossing..."

"I see." Anser was secretly alarmed. The Flaming Fist numbered more than three thousand, yet it had been defeated so quickly.

After a moment's thought, he asked, "Was it because of the Weave? The duergar use psionics, so that's why they were so powerful?"

"Exactly. Something terrible has happened to the Weave. That's the true source of the chaos!" Rand nodded, curiosity in the gaze he turned on Anser. "You don't seem greatly affected."

"I use mana casting," Anser replied.

"No wonder." Understanding dawned on Rand. "Sorcerers possess raw magic by nature, giving them an innate advantage here. Still, mastering mana casting this quickly requires exceptional talent."

"I saw you use Divine Smite. How badly does the unstable Weave affect paladins?" Anser asked.

"At present, I can cast only divine spells of 2nd level or lower. Casting them is difficult, and they fail easily..." Rand's face was filled with bitterness.

Besides enabling spellcasting, the Weave served as an important channel connecting clerics and believers to their gods. Its instability had nearly severed that connection, which was potentially catastrophic.

He did not dare tell ordinary people, however, because it would create even greater panic.

At that moment, Zahir hurried over. "We should leave. First we need to bring the wounded back, then consider how to construct a defensive line."

"You go. I'll guard this place." Rand waved for him to take the wounded away first.

He patted Anser's arm and comforted him. "Anser, you two should return to the church with the group. It's safe there."

"All right." Anser did not refuse.

With both parents dead, he no longer had any burdens. He badly needed a sense of security and wanted only to level up quickly. Following Rand would give him opportunities to share in more experience.

The two retrieved their bundle and backpack and silently followed at the rear of the group. Bratt grimaced from the pain but could not bear to drink even a sip of the Potion of Healing.

Anser was speechless. He had not expected his companion to be such a miser.

"Wait a moment."

He stopped Bratt, planted the staff on the ground, linked his mind to it, and activated Goodberry.

The gray-green staff abruptly turned green. Patterns curled and spread across it as ten small branches rapidly sprouted—and then... withered one after another!

"What happened?" Bratt did not understand.

"Uh, there may have been a small accident." Anser laughed awkwardly.

He examined the staff. It had indeed lost one charge. He guessed that both casting and charging Goodberry relied on the Weave, causing the spell to fail.

He tried again and succeeded only on the third casting.

Ten plump, glowing berries appeared on the Staff of Goodberries. They were red, the size of his thumb, and resembled some kind of raspberry.

Anser plucked them one by one. Then the branches withered and vanished, restoring the staff to its original appearance.

"Here, try these." He held three berries out to Bratt in his palm.

Bratt accepted them with amazement. "Sweet berries? The druid spell Goodberry?"

"You know quite a lot." Anser smiled. This was his first time seeing the spell as well, and he found it fascinating.

One magical berry restored 1 hit point and provided all the nourishment a creature needed for an entire day, making it highly valuable.

Bratt placed one in his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. He smacked his lips appreciatively. "Refreshing. Sweet and tart, with a rich fruity aroma. Delicious."

He swallowed the other two together. His minor wounds began visibly healing. Within minutes, every small cut had scabbed over, and the wound on his neck closed completely, leaving only a faint red line.

Seeing that Bratt was fine, Anser ate one as well. It truly tasted excellent.

He stored the remaining six in his backpack for later. These berries could not be preserved, however; if they were not eaten within a day, they would disappear.

"Being a spellcaster is wonderful. Whatever you need, magic provides," Bratt marveled.

"Heh. Wizards probably don't feel that way right now," Anser teased.

The two talked as they walked.

As they neared the church, a tall figure with a bow on his back stood beside the road, his gaze fixed on Anser.

Anser recognized him as the archer who had supported him from the hillside earlier.

"Hello. Your help saved me back there. Are you waiting for me?" Anser greeted him first.

Without this archer, he might have been forced to waste a Shield. The Hobgoblin Captain's javelin had not been easy to avoid.

"Yes. My name is Finn. I'm a Beast Master, and I wanted to ask you something." Finn grinned, though the expression looked somewhat stiff.

"I'm Anser, and this is Bratt. What did you want to ask?" Anser quietly examined him.

[Finn, Half-Elf, Level 3 Ranger (Beast Master)]

Finn stood even taller than Anser, around six feet three. He was tall and thin, with a long face. His eyebrows and beard looked as though they had just survived a hurricane. He was ugly in a highly distinctive way—almost an insult to his elven bloodline.

"Um... are you a wizard? Why wasn't your spellcasting affected?" Finn's voice was dry, as though he had not spoken in a long time.

"I'm a sorcerer." Anser touched his face. Weren't the signs obvious? "I abandoned the Weave and spell slots to cast with innate mana. There is still some effect, but it's manageable."

"Oh." Finn sighed, disappointment in his voice.

Sorcerers cast through talent and instinct. Even if they wanted to teach someone, it could not be learned.

"You might as well specialize in archery and set magic aside for now," Anser advised.

Most Ranger subclasses did not rely on spells, and Hunter's Mark did not require a spell slot. Rangers were far more fortunate than dedicated spellcasters.

"Mm." Finn nodded and fell silent.

Anser had no response. This ranger was so introverted that he killed the conversation after only a few sentences.

With nothing else to discuss, the three simply entered the church together.

Zahir was extremely busy. An elderly priest with graying hair and beard received them instead. His name was Berg, and he explained the current situation to Anser.

The Church of Last Hope worshiped Tyr, the God of Justice. It had many believers and occupied extensive grounds. Now, however, it had become a refugee camp. Residents seeking shelter packed the courtyard, the area outside, and the main hall—at least several hundred people.

Most were elderly, weak, or otherwise unable to travel. The priests had persuaded almost all the young people to leave and fend for themselves.

More than half of Twin Songs had emptied, but because no duergar had entered the district, at least a thousand people had yet to relocate. That had forced Rand to hold the intersection where they had just fought.

Placing the defensive line at Wyrm's Crossing would actually have been more suitable. It was easy to defend and difficult to attack, with support from both the Flaming Fist and Rivington.

Unfortunately, many people refused to acknowledge danger until death stood before them. They simply would not follow orders.

Most of the church's priests were ordinary people as well; classed individuals were rare everywhere. Yet they had undertaken this work without hesitation. Their faith and moral character were beyond reproach.

Anser was secretly grateful that he had not chosen the Paladin class. If he had, then in a disaster like this, his class oath would not permit him to flee no matter how badly he wanted to.

Breaking an oath was a serious problem.

Writing is difficult work. I hope you'll support the story!

(End of Chapter)