Anser started and looked up, then relaxed when he recognized the newcomer. “Finn.”

“We need to move—” Finn ran over and took Bratt’s other arm.

“Wait...” Bratt raised a hand to stop them, drew a deep breath, and forcibly activated Second Wind.

Several bone-deep cracks set their teeth on edge. Bratt’s chest settled back into its proper shape and his breathing eased, though sweat streamed down his face. Pain made the veins bulge on his forehead and his jaw tremble.

Anser knew Bratt was using Second Wind to set his bones. Healing potions were not the same as surgery. If a bone was not set or a wound stitched first, it might heal crooked.

“Eat one.” He took out three Goodberries and handed one to each of them.

Second Wind drew on a person’s own energy and stamina, while a Goodberry supplied a full day’s nourishment. In some situations, that made it more useful than a healing potion.

“Let’s go—”

They hurried out of the house and onto the bridge. Rand and the others had already retreated to within twenty or thirty meters of them.

The rooftops were no longer an option; they would be easy targets up there. The bridge was relatively safer with Rand’s group covering them.

Seeing that they were all right, Rand’s expression eased slightly. He waved for them to withdraw, then led his men in tearing apart nearby houses without the slightest hesitation to build barricades.

Their retreat quickened at once.

Healing potions truly were indispensable miracle drugs for low-level classed individuals. Their effects were astonishing.

After Finn and Anser supported Bratt for another hundred or two hundred meters, his breathing steadied and strength returned to his limbs. Soon, he could jog on his own.

By then, they had mostly shaken off their pursuers. The duergar’s slaves were packed onto the narrow bridge. Those at the front met resistance and recoiled, while those behind could not advance. The duergar cursed furiously but could do nothing about it.

As they approached Wyrm’s Rock, Anser looked up at the towering Flaming Fist fortress. It was indeed magnificent. Ballistae stood along the walls of every level, while several catapults occupied the top.

Many Flaming Fist soldiers were visible on the walls, yet the battle to hold off the enemy had raged for so long without a single one coming out to help. The portcullis had not risen once, leaving the church caravan and countless refugees stranded outside.

“Bunch of cowards!” Bratt growled, all his usual good humor gone.

After narrowly escaping death, he found the Flaming Fist’s inaction more intolerable than ever.

A few minutes later, the group reached the fortress. Only then did the portcullis slowly rise, and the refugees swarmed inside, with Anser and the others bringing up the rear.

The gate stopped after rising only halfway. The moment everyone was through, it slammed down again—an almost absurd display of caution.

The passage was abnormally dark. None of the wall lamps had been lit, and the only illumination came from the faint light shining in from the far end.

Anser cast Light on his staff. It became a glowing tube, and brilliant white light instantly drove back the darkness, revealing... refugees and wounded people sprawled all over the ground.

The refugees could run no farther, and the wounded were unable to run at all. Even Rand and Zahir were covered in injuries.

Berg had the priests take out their medicine and treat the wounded. They stitched wounds on the spot, their technique rough but practiced. It seemed Tyr’s faithful knew more than how to fight.

Anser and the others sat against the wall, watching the chaos. Each was lost in his own thoughts, and for a time, no one spoke.

“How do you feel?” Anser turned to Bratt, a complicated look in his eyes.

He had saved Bratt before, and Bratt had now saved him in return. That javelin had carried terrifying force; Anser’s Shield might not have stopped it.

“Heh... heh...” Bratt tilted his head and stared at the faint radiance on Anser’s face. He said nothing, merely grinning like an idiot.

Finn sat on Anser’s other side and glanced over. “Was it worth it?”

“Do you think I’m some saint?” Anser turned and met his gaze. “We were saving ourselves.”

“We could have just run.” Finn looked puzzled.

“Run where?” Anser rolled his eyes, gaining a new appreciation for how Finn’s mind worked. “If Rand and his people hadn’t made it back, do you think we could have crossed that portcullis?”

The Flaming Fist might bar ordinary civilians or adventurers, but no matter how foolish they were, they would never leave Rand and Zahir outside.

“Surely they wouldn’t go that far?” Bratt sounded uncertain.

“Who knows?” Anser remained deeply suspicious. If they had failed to shake their pursuers, could the Flaming Fist have trapped them outside and watched every last one of them die?

Finn and Bratt’s expressions shifted uneasily. Deep down, they more than half believed it.

The Flaming Fist had a long history. Despite a few incidents over the years, it had usually answered directly to Grand Duke Ravengard. It was hardly an impartial organization, but it certainly qualified as a competent police force.

Especially after the treacherous Vanthampur family was purged, turning the Council of Four into the Council of Three, the city had become even more stable. The Grand Duke’s successive heirs had also been decent. They might not have been exceptional, but at least none had made a complete mess of things.

That relative stability had kept the Flaming Fist from falling into turmoil. It had not strayed from its purpose, and its reputation had never been particularly bad.

But one could not predict how a person or organization would act during a catastrophe based solely on how they behaved in ordinary times.

From the Flaming Fist’s chaotic conduct over the past two days, Anser had already concluded they could not be relied upon. He had no choice but to account for that in his plans.

After a long silence, Finn spoke with some difficulty. “The situation is complicated. Why don’t we... stay together?”

Anser looked at Bratt. Bratt shrugged. “Your call.”

“All right, but I’m the captain.” Anser claimed the position without hesitation.

“Fine...” The two of them nodded readily.

After everything they had experienced and fought through together, Bratt and Finn’s information had updated.

[Bratt, Neutral Good, Human, Level 2 Fighter, Hit Points: 18, Strength: 15, Dexterity: 13, Wisdom: 14]

[Finn, Lawful Neutral, Half-Elf, Level 3 Ranger (Beast Master), Hit Points: 25, Strength: 12, Dexterity: 16, Charisma: 8]

The information was still incomplete, but it was already quite useful—especially their alignments, which at least allowed Anser to identify those with malicious intentions.

The nine alignments were not labels invented by mortals. They were fundamental laws of the multiverse, embodied in divine domains, magical effects, and the Outer Planes—such as Lawful Good Mount Celestia and the Chaotic Evil Abyss.

This was foundational knowledge for classed individuals, especially paladins, druids, clerics, and similar classes. For them, it concerned both their lives and their futures.

Yet alignment was merely a manifestation. It was determined entirely by an individual’s subjective will and behavior—a dynamic ideology rather than something fixed.

Gods, demon lords, and similar beings could directly perceive a mortal’s essential alignment. Certain spells could also detect good, evil, or moral inclinations. Most people, however, had only a vague understanding of alignment and knew little beyond whether they themselves tended toward good or evil.

Alignment did not prevent people from forming a party, but it did affect how well they worked together and how much they trusted one another.

Bratt was Neutral Good. Creatures of that alignment tried to help others whenever possible and acted within the limits of the rules, but they were not bound by those rules.

Bratt fit the description well. He was carefree most of the time, but serious when it mattered.

Finn was Lawful Neutral. Creatures of that alignment followed a code of conduct, whether it came from law, tradition, or personal belief. Neither pleas from those in danger nor temptations from evil would sway them.

Finn was obviously more withdrawn and self-centered. He spoke more only when facing Anser—probably because he cared about looks.

After all, Anser possessed the kind of Charisma that worked on men and women alike.

As the three talked and joked, their conversation naturally returned to the disaster.

“Why do you think those creatures from underground came up here?” Bratt complained. “They hate sunlight, yet they insist on coming to the surface. It’s almost funny.”

“Maybe the cave-in happened right beneath a duergar settlement,” Anser guessed. “Resources are scarce underground. They may have come to raid us, or they might intend to settle here. With the Weave in chaos, the duergar’s psionics remain unaffected. That gives them a major advantage.”

“But you’re wrong about one thing. Many underground creatures are sensitive to sunlight and dislike it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they fear it.”

“You... know a lot about them?” Finn asked curiously.

“I read it in books. The Underdark, you know. I’ve picked up a thing or two.” Anser casually lied. The original owner of this body had never read such books.

But Anser knew D&D inside and out—enough to count as half an expert. Bratt and the others, by contrast, had spent their lives in a limited area. Their worldly experience was narrow, and they knew very little about anything beyond human civilization.

As they spoke, a jumble of footsteps sounded from the passageway.

More than a dozen warriors in matching studded leather armor marched briskly into the tunnel with swords and shields in hand. The moment they arrived, they began driving the crowd out with brutal impatience.

“Get up! Get moving...”

“The fortress is sealed from this moment onward. No one is permitted to remain here...”

“Move! Don’t make me use force...”

“...”

Thanks to all the honored readers for your support and suggestions!

(End of Chapter)