Anser opened his eyes and met the old cleric’s clouded gaze. He nodded to him, then pointed at Zahir. “Do you have any spell slots left?”

“I do.” The old cleric recovered his senses and immediately cast Cure Wounds on Zahir.

Anser took the opportunity to rise and leave. The surrounding people quickly opened a path for him.

“That was incredible! You can do anything. I hereby name you the Child of Miracles!” Bratt chased after him, jumped onto Anser’s back, and began showering him with flattery.

He was so excited that none of his usual steadiness remained.

“Get off, get off! Do you have any idea how heavy you are?” Anser shoved him away irritably.

He had not expected to serve as a Weave stabilizer. If the wizards discovered this, they might seize him, drag him back, and strap him to themselves.

Then again, those mighty mages did not seem capable of capturing him now.

Finn ran over, expectation visible in his usually wooden eyes. “He came back?”

“He came back.”

“Mm.”

“Can... this be eaten?” Finn asked, lifting the enormous crab leg in his hand.

“Uh...” Anser could not understand how his mind had reached that subject.

Bratt looked at him as if bitterly disappointed. “Why are you carrying that? Cut off ears and search for loot! Come on.”

He grabbed Finn and ran. Finn casually tossed the crab leg to Anser.

Anser surveyed the battlefield. The fighting had mostly ended, and everyone was clearing the field and treating the wounded.

The human battle group probably numbered several hundred, perhaps more than a thousand. It contained all kinds of people: Flaming Fist soldiers, clerics, adventurers, municipal workers, civilians...

He spotted many familiar faces among them.

Many people were now cutting off monster heads and ears. Some had even begun arguing and shoving one another over them, turning the scene absurd.

The battle had been too chaotic. A single goblin might have a dozen arrows and several sword wounds in its body. Which wound had killed it, and who deserved credit?

Whoever seized it first owned it!

A life-or-death racial war had united everyone, while profit made them selfish again.

Seeing this, Anser hurriedly recovered their three backpacks. Carrying Finn’s crab leg, he climbed onto a towering slab of broken stone. Afraid the other two might not see him, he cast Light on his staff again.

The horizon was turning pale. A foul, bloody stench continually assaulted his nose. The ground was sticky and filthy, with bodies everywhere, resembling a slaughterhouse in the Hells.

Looking at the scene, he still... could not get used to it.

It was not fear, but a collision with his ideas and values.

Here, adventurers seemed accustomed to life being as fragile and brief as a candle flame. Even Bratt, who was Good-aligned, had nothing but loot on his mind and showed no shock at how many people had died.

Everyone was desperately trying to live. For some, the “desperation” was simply more literal.

Heavy footsteps approached. A short, stocky dwarf with a red beard stopped beneath the broken slab and looked up with a smile. “Hey, rookie.”

“Who are you calling a rookie?”

“I’m calling you a rookie.”

“Ha ha...” Anser laughed twice, rose, and jumped down. “What does this rookie want with me?”

Only then did Soladin realize he had fallen for it. His expression darkened. “I came over out of kindness to give you some advice, and you mock me instead. You have no respect for your elders.”

“Respect is carried in the heart.” Seeing the wounds covering Soladin, Anser stopped smiling. “You’re injured?”

“How could anyone come through a battle like this uninjured? As long as I’m alive, it’s fine.” Soladin looked Anser over. Seeing his spotless cloak and bloodless face, he realized that statement might not be entirely accurate.

“An injury can still kill you.” Anser took a sheathed, strangely shaped dagger from the bundle. When he drew it, a short ghostly-blue blade appeared, curved at a strange angle and exceptionally sharp. “Look at this.”

“Good item.” Soladin praised it at a glance. He carefully pinched the grip, sniffed lightly, and his face tightened.

After inspecting it for a moment, Soladin returned the dagger. “Don’t touch the blade. It’s extremely poisonous, and the poison wasn’t applied—it’s part of the weapon. A decent Uncommon item. The hardness is lacking, but the poison alone is worth a thousand gold pieces...”

Anser understood. The weapon excelled at assassination but could not withstand a direct fight. It might not even penetrate a chuul’s defenses, making its uses rather narrow.

No one in the party favored daggers, so he could not decide whether to keep or sell it.

“Keep it for now. Letting this thing circulate would be bad for you,” Soladin said meaningfully.

“Something happened?” Anser heard the implication. Had his recent performance drawn too much attention?

“Do you know about the Order of Blue Fire?” Soladin grew grave.

“The evil organization from the Spellplague?” Anser asked in confusion.

“Its origins are unclear, but such an organization truly exists in the city. Many wizards and apprentices have joined. They claim you stole the power of some sacred lord and have branded you a heretic,” Soladin warned.

Anser was speechless. An evil cult had actually accused him of heresy. It was fucking absurd.

“Don’t dismiss this. Those people are insane.” Soladin glanced around and stepped closer. “There’s more. The Council of Three has issued a forced conscription order to form a battle group led by the surviving Flaming Fist. Their objective is to retake Baldur’s Gate, and they will most likely reinforce the Upper City as well...”

“Forced conscription with a magical contract?” Anser frowned. If Soladin had come specifically to warn him, then he had already been targeted.

“Yes. The compensation is generous, but refusal isn’t allowed,” Soladin emphasized. “The Lords’ Alliance still hasn’t sent troops. The Dukes have to save themselves and can no longer afford to care about niceties.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Leave immediately. You have no roots here, and you’re a spellcaster. They’ll use you without hesitation. It wouldn’t be surprising if they put you in a situation even more dangerous than Zahir’s...”

“What about you?”

“The Iron Mountain Clan stands behind me. They won’t dare force me.” Soladin sounded completely confident. He did not earn money solely for himself.

“Thank you.” Anser spoke with complete sincerity. They were not particularly close, yet Soladin had gone this far for him. Anser could ask for nothing more.

He looked across the chaotic battlefield, reluctant to abandon all that loot.

“What an idiot. Entrust the rest to Rand.” Soladin saw through him immediately. “Tyr’s faithful won’t let you suffer the slightest loss. Other people don’t have that relationship.

“Don’t delay. Go to the western coast. There are many fishing villages and towns there. The kuo-toa might blockade the River Chionthar, but they won’t dare enter the Sea of Swords.”

With that, Soladin waved and turned away.

Dawn was brightening, and people had already begun noticing them.

Conflicting emotions churned within Anser, but he dared not hesitate. He tapped his staff and dismissed Light to avoid standing out.

Then he jumped down from the broken slab and found Bratt and Finn arguing with others over loot.

“We’re leaving!”

“What happened?”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

Bratt and Finn did not understand, but they could tell something was wrong with Anser’s mood. They shouldered their backpacks, gathered the crab meat, and followed him.

Anser found Rand and handed over the large bundle of battered equipment and monster ears, asking him to gather whatever other spoils might rightfully belong to Anser’s group and sell everything.

Rand agreed readily. He was busy, but he would never refuse a reasonable request from Anser.

Without Anser, no one knew how many more people would have died that day. Besides, he had saved Zahir’s life.

Rand did not ask where Anser was going. He merely gave him an enormous hug and pressed a platinum badge into his hand. The palm-sized, shield-shaped badge had a blue background and bore the holy symbol of Tyr, God of Justice: balanced scales resting atop a warhammer.

Anser did not refuse. After a brief farewell, the three left the chaotic battlefield.

Rather than follow the coast, they first returned to the district and wove through its streets and alleys, traveling west until they entered the open wilderness.

Full daylight had arrived. Tents covered the wilderness in every shape and color, like mushrooms that had sprouted after the rain.

Many people also slept outdoors in groups of three or five. They were refugees who had fled the district during the stormy night.

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

(End of Chapter)