bookworm

During his very first battle, the spell that the mage had instinctively cast instantaneously and explosively expanded a volume of air around a single point. It had a special place in his heart. The incantation could be shortened or skipped altogether without dampening its impact, which was comparable to a hearty swing from a mallet. Furthermore, a light hit could incapacitate enemies without killing them, and stacking multiple instances on top of one another could fell even the greatest beasts.

All in all, it was a convenient bit of magecraft. His aimless journey hadn’t quite been an adventure, but the familiar spell had seen use many times along the way. In fact, one could even say that the blast of air that he’d used to fend off the beast that had assaulted him and his childhood friends as they played in the woods all those years ago was the very source of his confidence; it was a reminder that he could fight to protect something that he cared about.

Seeing his signature move dodged and predicted at every turn chipped at his psyche. His splintering spirit fractured ever more, and anger swelled in his heart. Of course, he wasn’t serious—or so he insisted in the lonely depths of his mind as he fired another blast. The need to preserve the boy to sell later alongside his sister served as an excuse to abstain from using more lethal magic.

I missed again. The mage had timed his attack as the boy tumbled to the ground, and he’d had a good feeling that it would land. Yet the child dexterously twisted his body clear of the spot he’d marked. Despite mixing in illusions and sleep spells in every spare moment, the child had shrugged off everything the mage had thrown at him. Children were weak of will and their egos were undeveloped, so they were supposed to be especially susceptible to enchantment. The man couldn’t understand how the child was resisting.

To top it all off, the boy used the force of the blasts to regain his footing, only fanning the flames of the mage’s ire. Why? Why does every! Little! Thing! Have to go so wrong?! He continued to fire off spells as he tried to calm himself down. Whether he was aware of it or not, the accuracy of his attacks had dropped despite his facade of cool disinterest.

Suspicion wormed its way into the roiling cloud of rage in his head. The boy looked like an average mensch hardly older than ten. In a world where kids worked long days and fifteen-year-olds were considered adults, children were prone to accelerated development, but this one was far too strong.

A normal child should have been rendered unconscious by the first attack. The man had seen children in his hometown and on his journey who’d trained with their local watchmen, and none of them would have been able to parry his blows.

Suspicion demanded thought; excess thought derailed his focus; successive blunders twisted his mind with envy. And that envy brought the man to a single conclusion: He’s the same as me.

The boy had skill beyond what a child his age could attain. That ability of his had caught the mage’s eye as a selling point to a future buyer, but on second thought, such finesse was only possible with some form of divine favoritism.

Seeing a young, tattered boy single-mindedly trying to save his sister clashed with the degenerate setting around them. The mage seethed with hatred: he too had traveled that path, but had long since diverged from it.

No man can crave pleasures unknown. Just as one cannot hunger for a flavor that they have never tasted, one will not long for a life they have never lived. But what about those who lose something only to see another with what they once had?

I have to erase him, the man resolved. There was no logic to his decision—how could there be? They would likely never meet again, and the boy was one black market dealing away from vanishing forever. Childish envy that boiled the blood was all it took for one person to kill another.

However, despite the fact that the only witnesses present were him and the boy (who would be gone if he managed to accomplish his task), the mage kept setting off airbursts. He could have lit the entire region ablaze or slipped outside the bounds of space-time, but some subconscious part of his brain simply found it too embarrassing to make a serious effort to kill the child. No one can escape from themselves no matter how far they run, and try as the mage might, there was no denying this truth—it reared its head in the little decisions he made.

[Tips] Gods bring mortals to their worlds with reason, just as humans care for aquariums and plant seagrass to breed fish. The hidden intent cannot be gleaned from within the water, but in the open air...

Long after I’d lost track of how many explosions I’d dodged, the grimace on the mage’s face began to warp into a full-blown scowl. The flat line of his mouth bent out of shape, and he could no longer hide the angled wrinkles of his brow. Although his rate of fire had increased, I felt as though his fury had greatly diminished his accuracy.

Oh, that’s a perfect spot. I took advantage of an explosion at my rear to quickly accelerate and clear a few dozen paces in a single beat. The excruciating pain in my ankle and bruises that littered my body were a trivial price to pay for survival. Trivial, I say.

Suddenly, a lovely voice fell upon my numbed ears. I turned to see Elisa’s head poking out from the canopy of the mage’s carriage. Despite not being able to hear myself call to her, the mage’s voice was loud and clear.

“I’m done. If the more troublesome method is stronger...” The space in front of him began to glow. White lines of light bent into complex shapes, creating a supporting incantation for spellcasting known as a magic circle. I’d seen them in books, but none of the mages accompanying caravans here had used them before, so this was a new experience.

The brilliant lights roared as the air around it superheated to glow even whiter than the circle itself. Vivid radiance bathed the dusky wood, drowning out the evening light. A far cry from the shining sun, this ball of energy released rays of destruction that threatened to burn me and the air it occupied.

I...can’t dodge that. Faced with certain death, my spirit nearly wavered, but my body naturally rushed forward. With a single pathetic dagger in hand, I bet it all on the dubious odds of survival I had left.

If the dice can be rolled, they ought to be. A sweet, sweet array of twelve little dots might stare back at you. The enemy’s dice could always land on the two red dots of doom.

As the light swelled and threatened to swallow me whole, I heard Elisa’s voice.

“Mr. Brother!”

[Tips] Magic generally can be split into two categories: spells that mark a targeted location and spells that call forth natural phenomena. The former is impossible to resist but can be dodged, while the latter can be resisted but is unavoidable once the spell takes effect.

Dragged out of a muddy and unpleasant slumber, Elisa felt so sick she wanted to cry. The last thing she remembered was that she’d gone outside and met a scary man. She couldn’t recall anything past that point, and was hopelessly confused as to why she was rolling around in a sack in a place like this.

Today was supposed to be a wonderful day. She was going to go to the festival with her beloved brother, eat the ice candy that he’d promised to buy her, and maybe—just maybe—she’d even get to dance with him again.

How did that wonderful day turn out like this? Elisa felt nauseatingly sleepy even though she’d just woken up, and the constant bang-banging outside didn’t help her groggy head. Sad and alone, she called for her brother, and tears accompanied her words.

After crying inside of the burlap bag for a while, the top spontaneously slipped open. One of Elisa’s friends must have opened it for her. She crawled out in search of home, but found herself in a place she’d never seen before.

Elisa was inside of a dark, moldy, gloomy carriage. It was completely different from the one her Papa rode when he went into town. I don’t want to be here, she thought instinctively. She could tell from the lingering something that hung in the dark air that nothing good would come from this place.

There were a lot of loud sounds outside that scared her, but she readied herself and exited the carriage. She timidly poked her head out of the canopy only to see her beloved elder brother being beaten to a pulp. His enchanting golden hair had been scuffed in all directions, and his skin was speckled with painful blue bruises. What was more, one of his eyes had swollen so badly that Elisa couldn’t make out the pretty blue she held so dear, and the fancy clothes he’d worn for their day at the festival were covered in mud.

The arduous sight of her battered brother filled Elisa with a despair that tore her heart in two. She’d never known that seeing the kindhearted Mr. Brother hurt would cause more pain than being hurt herself.

Mr. Brother’s getting bullied. Mr. Brother’s getting hurt. Mr. Brother...is going to die!

The girl expressed her heartrending anguish with her voice. A formless wail escaped her lips and morphed as she called out to her kin... And the white light of sorrow melted away.

[Tips] The most important element in magic is the heartfelt desire to bend the world to one’s will.

“What?!”

The weave of the mage’s spell had come undone, and the impending doom it symbolized had given way to hope. I couldn’t begin to guess as to why, but the projectile on the cusp of being launched had dissipated like a summer mirage without a trace of the heat that had broiled the air.

I really don’t understand...but I’ll take it! I abandoned all thought and bolted across the cleared path, plunging my dagger into his stomach with all my might.

“Blagh! Huh?! Wha...”

Wrecking his limbs wouldn’t be enough to disarm a mage, so I stabbed his gut in hopes of inhibiting his speech, thinking that I could rob him of his incantations.

After all I’d done, I still had my reservations about killing. The man before me had caused me so much pain, nearly killed me, and abducted my precious baby sister; ten deaths and one hundred hangings would hardly be enough to pay for his sins. Yet the thought of ending his life still scared me.

Slitting his throat would assuredly kill him. The lungs were also a great target to prevent him from casting magic, but the thought that he might drown in his own blood stayed my hand. I was a coward: I’d come so far yet balked at the thought of becoming a murderer. But I was equally as afraid that he might regain his vigor and begin chanting...so I beat the daylights out of him instead.

“You, you little—oof?!” There’s a trick to punching people: it’s way easier if you hold onto a rock or something while you do it! “Augh! Blegh?! Hrngh!”

Naturally, the wisdom that a tight fist was key to delivering the most painful punches came from none other than my master in all things brutal, Sir Lambert. Furthermore, he’d taught me that the easiest way to do so wasn’t to grip with your thumb, but rather to find something to squeeze. Apparently, with a solid fist and proper form to make full use of gravity, even a child’s punches can turn into crushing blows!

I glanced around to look for a suitable mass and found a nicely shaped coin laying on the ground, so I elected to borrow it. Money is power! Man, what a golden saying. With the chunk of metal in hand, I whaled on the wizard’s face; his broken teeth cut up my fingers, but I much preferred this to when he was blasting me with magic. I think I should be fine as long as I smash in all his front teeth.

After pummeling him more than enough times to feel safe, I threw another two or three punches on the house and things went silent. He wouldn’t die anytime soon, seeing as I’d avoided his vitals, and I felt quite satisfied. As soft as I was being, this was enough for me.

A cursory look around revealed that all his companions had vanished. Fair enough. Sticking around would have been dangerous with how many explosions he was causing.

“Elisa, are you okay?” I asked as I picked her up by the armpits to pull her out of the carriage.

“Mm,” she feebly affirmed.

I set her down and gave her a giant hug. She had a warm, gentle smell to her; the little girl I now held tight was just the way I’d left her at noon.

“I’m so, so glad...” Elisa’s presence was such a given—or rather, it had been until she’d been plucked out of my grasp like a stray feather. Her tender warmth was priceless, and the weight in my arms was the most precious of all treasures.

“Mr. Brother?”

“I’m right here, Elisa.”

“Mr. Brother...” She sniffled and began to loudly cry as the pent up fear finally settled in. “I was so scared! Mr. Brotherrr! I thought you...you!”

“It’s okay,” I cooed. “Mr. Brother is right here. I’m sorry for leaving you all alone, Elisa. I’ll be right here, so it’s okay now. Don’t cry.”

Elisa cried like she wanted to tear her vocal cords apart, and I hugged her from the bottom of my heart. I rubbed her back and buried my face in her hair to be as close to her as possible. This always got her to calm down and doze off. Every nerve in my body was screaming with pain, but by no means did my injuries take priority over soothing my terrified little sister.

Now then, it’s about time we left the scene. I’d strayed from the original plan, but I’d done enough damage to down all the enemies, so I started toward the town square. I’m sure Margit did her part and we’ll be able to meet in the middle...

After a few paces, I sensed something move behind me. Whirling around, I saw the mage rising to his feet while clutching his bloodied face. When did he—

His gaze of pure animosity met mine and my body suddenly froze under a hex. I didn’t know when he managed to do it or where he brought it from, but he’d produced a large staff with which he’d drawn a magic circle—no incantation required.

The circle was far larger than the one that had scorched me moments ago, and its color was far more sinister. All of the air around us came to a perfect halt, and the atmosphere flooded with deathly silence.

Only the sputtering sound of a curse spoken through broken teeth and a crushed tongue echoed in the nothingness. He spat words and blood alike, causing the circle to glow brightly and signal my imminent demise for the umpteenth time today.

Darkness spilled from the center of the circle like a blob of ink, growing and growing into the shape of a sphere. My meager vocabulary was ill fit to describe that thing.

Blacker than the darkest night, graver than the bottom of a dried well, quieter than a funeral, and emptier than a dreamless sleep—these were the ways I could attempt to give form to the unknowable orb. It grew from the center of the magic circle to a size that could easily swallow a person whole.

He had bored a hole into the fabric of reality. A distorted horror lurked within, biding its time as it waited for a chance to free itself. Every fiber of my being told me that I could not escape it, that there was nothing the hands of man could do once the spell was let go.

“All of you. Die. All who refuse to acknowledge me, all of you, sink to the depths of hell.” Amidst his long mumbling, these words alone reached my ear.

I couldn’t tell if the curiously gentle appearance of the black hole was caused by my Lightning Reflexes attempting to somehow evade it or if its strange image was built into the spell itself.

“My, it appears I’ve stumbled upon something peculiar once again.” A silhouette appeared between us and the oncoming mass of pure despair with all the grandeur of someone walking to the local market. Her nonchalant steps brought her from the corner of my vision that I had thought empty to center view. “Still, what a boorish and wasteful conjuration.”

The black body evaporated as a refreshing snap! soaked into the universe. Like a candle whose wick had been snuffed, this spell vanished even more naturally than the burning light from before.

Dyed vermilion by the setting sun, not a single hair on the woman’s perfectly set chignon had so much as swayed when she erased the ball of death, and she listlessly puffed out a cloud of smoke. The arms that slipped through her deep crimson robe were slender like her lengthy pipe, but the contour of her body had ample intrigue to maintain a stunning balance.

What was more, the sharp point of the ears extending from between her locks drew my eye. She wasn’t a mensch; she was a methuselah, the peak of all humanfolk. Impervious to age, illness, and weakness, these everlasting beings remained at top physical form for all of time unless someone managed to kill them.

“I followed an interesting frequency of mana here, but I’m utterly lost as to what occurred.”

With her silver hair proudly shimmering in the evening glow, the woman turned her back to the aghast mage and peered into my eyes.

“You there. Would you mind explaining what happened?”

She was exceedingly beautiful. The loveliness of her visage made her look artificial—I would have believed her if she told me that a master sculptor had dedicated their entire life to carving her to perfection. Supple lips, a gallant and high nose, and heterochromatic eyes of deep blue and light jade embellished the sharp outline of her face, sticking fast to the depths of my consciousness. No work of art could hope to match her natural allure.

“You...” the mage groaned. “You! It’s you!!!”

“My word, how obnoxious,” she remarked. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m not interested in talent of your level.”

She pulled away from me and pushed up the monocle that rested on her green left eye, sighing over the rowdy wizard behind her. He hollered curses at her and prepared to recast the black ball of doom.

The woman snapped her fingers, and just like that, it all came to a close. The man winked out of existence as if he had never been there at all.

“Now, would you mind telling me your story?” she asked again. “Where in the world did you get your hands on that changeling?”

[Tips] Neither verbal nor written incantations are absolutely required for magic, but this is a fact unknown to the average person.

One Full Henderson

1.0 Hendersons

A derailment significant enough to prevent the party from reaching the intended ending.

* * *

Every place has its own class of untouchables. Although some are a result of social class, others attain this status with power.

A single man groaned on the outskirts of the canton. He held his stomach tight, hysterically fighting his abdominal muscles to prevent his internal organs from spilling out, all because he knew that once his intestines hit the soil, there would be no saving him.

The man had seen this time and time again: on battlefields, in the mountains, on highways, and in countless villages. Yet it was not a sight he’d ever clenched his own stomach for. It was a view reserved for enemies, women, children, merchants—the prey that he’d cut down. As the leader of a crew of thirty bandits, the man was supposed to be the predator...and a predator was never meant to find himself in such a position.

The bandit chief had delved into his memories to try and recall where he had gone wrong and come up dry. Nothing had been any different from usual.

Their preparations had been perfect. The scouts had studied the patrol routes of the local lord and magister’s watchmen, and they’d deftly avoided them. He’d sent in a few men disguised as travelers to confirm that no soldiers were quartered in the village. They’d even stayed for a few nights to determine when the watchtowers were first manned and when each shift ended. On the night before Sabbath day—the one day of the week when all the peasantry could enjoy a deep slumber—the raiders had been blessed with a cloudy night that hid the moon. Could he ever have asked for more?

There were ten watchmen, give or take. Even if they rallied all of the men in town who could wield a weapon, they’d number thirty strong at the most. Naturally, the side with the element of surprise would be at a massive advantage. All the raiders had to do was break into the watchmen’s houses first, or light the whole village all ablaze to enjoy a nice duck hunt. Then, they’d bask in the soft, delicious spoils of victory for a few days before cleanly razing everything to the ground.

The bandit chief had spent seven years repeating this routine in the towns and cantons of Rhine’s satellite states. His villainy remained unchecked in the year he’d spent roaming the well-patrolled streets of the Empire that left other criminals quaking in their boots.

The professional thug had never let his guard down, and this time had been no different—or at least, he felt it hadn’t, but now he found himself in a sorry state of affairs.

When his scout had waved two torches back and forth to signal that they were in the clear, the entire gang had made their move. It’d been going fine until they vaulted the stone fence around the canton’s living quarters and steeled themselves for the attack.

A rain of arrows was waiting for them on the other side, mowing the crew down. Preoccupied with the thrill of plunder, half of the man’s unwitting underlings were killed or maimed by the initial volley. Though they were all equipped with at least light chainmail that they’d looted during previous raids, the heavy projectiles had pierced their defenses without any issue. Their equipment was sturdy enough to block arrows from afar, but not strong enough to handle longbows and crossbows at close range.

What came next was a hurricane of steel conjured up by a single dancing blade. All the bandit chief could see from his subordinates’ torchlight was a deadly silver afterglow that left screams in its wake with every step.

His goons’ fingers, thighs, and tendons—supposedly safe beneath their armor—were torn to shreds in the blink of an eye. The boss had no idea how much time had passed. Despite his skill with the sword, it only took a single strike to cleave through his breastplate and torso piece, leaving him crumpled on the ground.

The man crawled away, clutching at his wound. He could hardly move with his open injury, couldn’t fight, and had lost all of his men, but he still tried to run all the same.

He simply did not want to die. Throughout his long history of bloodshed, never once had he held the slightest intention of dying himself. To kill and to be killed were not so inseparable in his mind, and the thought that the latter might ever come to pass never occurred to him.

How very wrong he’d been. Something bumped into his nose, and it took some time for him to link the faint smell of oil to the long boot it emanated from. The wind parted the heavy clouds covering the moon, and in the new light the man recognized the shoe in front of his face...and the man wearing it.

“Oh... Ohhh...” The thug groaned and looked up into the face of a lone swordsman. Clad in light leather armor with an open helm, he cut a prosaic figure as he rested his sword upon his shoulder. Only the ice-cold stare in his blue eyes stood out, gleaming in the moonlight.

“Are you the leader? Never mind, don’t bother answering. I can tell from your armor.”

A voice as frigid as the cool of night cut deep into the bandit chief’s—no, into the lone bully who had lost all of his subordinates’—brain, as if to prove a single fact: Oh, I’m done for.

His head hung in despair until the tip of the victor’s sword scooped his jaw into place and forced his gaze up from the boot before him. Skewered by that hateful gaze, the man delivered a line he’d heard many times before. Without any conscious thought, he begged for his life.

“H-Help! D-Don’t kill me... Please!”

His pathetic pleas for mercy and whimpering cries made the swordsman frown as if he’d bitten into something bitter and had trouble swallowing.

“What an indulgent request,” the swordsman spat. “Have words like that ever stopped you?”

The man thought back on his travels. Not once had anyone’s desperate words stayed him. However, the swordsman’s blade did not cruelly slice into his vitals. It slowly retreated from his chin and slipped back into its sheath with a delicate hand.

“Still, I have no intention of sinking to the level of a common thug. Don’t worry, none of your men are dead.”

Hearing such soft words from such a harsh voice made corners of the thug’s lips pull upward. We’ll have plenty of chances to get away with an idiot this tender, he thought.

“If anything,” the swordsman continued, “don’t think that you can get away with dying here, scum.”

A deft, ruthless kick to the side of his head neatly snuffed out the thug’s consciousness before he could even begin plotting his escape.

[Tips] The Trialist Empire’s ruthless war on crime means that there is always a reward for dealing with bandits, even if they don’t have bounties. Petty footmen are still worth a full libra, and bandit chiefs net a minimum of one drachma, with the most notorious criminals having bounties worth thirty gold pieces. On top of that, a bonus reward is available under certain conditions...

After kicking the bandit unconscious, I lifted him up and wrapped him in gauze before his insides decided to take their shot at life in the great outdoors. I wasn’t charitably tending to his wounds in the vain hope that he might turn over a new leaf, of course.

It was a verifiable fact that this sort of vermin was rotten to the bone. I could dunk him into a river of holy water, but his blood-soaked heart would never lose its stain. Parting his head from his shoulders was far better than waiting for reform that would never come—for him and society both.

The only reason I’d yet to follow through was to suit my longer-term interests.

“Well done.” I turned to see Sir Lambert calling over to me. Now that I was twenty, my master was getting along in years, but terrifyingly had no issues keeping up as an active watchman. “Twenty men reduced to chopped liver in an instant.”

“That makes me sound like some kind of monster,” I protested. “I didn’t kill a single one, you know.” The captain grimaced as he raised his torch above the fallen thugs, prompting an involuntary frown of my own.

A few of the raiders had died to our surprise volley of arrows, but I’d made sure not to add to the body count when I stepped forward alone. I’d either maimed limbs or cut along an opening in their armor to injure them grievously enough that there’d be no fighting back.

“That makes you even more of a freak,” Lambert said with a tired sigh. He made a wide gesture with both hands at the crowd of groveling men and said, “No matter how chaotic the fight, most people wouldn’t be able to aim for a single thumb or specific tendon against battle-hardened bandits. Even I wouldn’t want to do that.”

You “wouldn’t want to,” but that means that you theoretically could. I get it. At any rate, I hadn’t been given a choice: the bounty on these criminals was higher if they were alive.

After telling my mentor as much with a smile, he merely scratched the back of his head, at a loss for words. I didn’t see what the problem was. These sadists marched in and plotted to run amok in our canton; any punishment they received was fair game.

Sending in a scouting party was all well and fine, but these morons had been far too careless. Their equipment had been too oriented for combat to suit a normal traveler (since heavy weapons and armor were ill fit for long journeys), and their awkward grasp of the imperial language had made their cover story obviously unnatural.

On top of that, I could turn a blind eye to how they’d scouted out the locations of our warehouses and watchtowers, but the way they’d stared at the local women ventured into the territory of stupidity. To skip catcalls and go straight to stalking them to their homes was the height of idiocy. They may as well have been hoisting a flag that read, “We are scheming something evil.”

My best guess was that a streak of good fortune had gotten to their heads. Their assault tactics were carefully conceived and hard to counter, but that also meant any failure was doomed to be a critical failure.

Above all else, I had no idea what they thought would happen if they made passes at someone’s missus before they got to work. I’d lost my temper immediately and invited one of them for a friendly little...conversation where I confirmed their plans and began preparing to offer them our best hospitality. After all, there’s nothing softer to sink your fist into than the distracted mug of a man who thinks he has the upper hand.

The result was as you see here. Everything went our way, and not a single citizen of the canton was hurt. Plus, we’d pull in a fat purse, so the whole situation turned out swimmingly.

“Honestly,” Lambert said, “the fact that you stuck around as a reserve watchman was these fools’ downfall.”

“I can’t bring myself to appreciate this twist of fate, considering you were the one who said, ‘Why don’t you try taking them on by yourself?’” I responded to my master’s barb with a cynical jab of my own.

That’s right: after all those twists and turns, I ended up staying in the canton...

“Yes, yes,” a new voice called, “I see you two are as cordial as ever.”

“Margit,” I said, “you could have waited for me at home.”

...For the sake of my new family. Nowadays, I was a member of the Konigstuhl Watch’s reserves and spent my days working as a huntsman, since I’d married into Margit’s family. I didn’t have a particularly complex reason for abandoning the path of adventure, despite my big talk and long years of preparation. A little bit of this and a little bit of that had led to some friendly tumbles in the hay, and...

“How is our little princess going to fall asleep when her father is out and about like this?” Margit said, rolling her eyes. At twenty-two, her cuteness hadn’t waned at all from the time we first met, and the young girl in her arms almost looked like her sister. Margit tightly held her by the thorax, and the adorable angel looked at me with lustrous blonde hair and baby blue eyes.

“Papa...”

“Iseult, sweetie,” I cooed, “you know you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“No! I wanna sleep with Papa!”

The angel’s name was Iseult, and my lovely only daughter had blessed our lives six years ago. Look, these things happen—I’m only human. It’s not my fault; I wasn’t the one who started it, okay?! Don’t you think it’s unfair that I’m the one taking responsibility just because I’m a man?! Not that I didn’t want to, but still!

And, well, I ended up staying in the canton to live out my blissful days; my parents had been elated but shocked, and the look on my eldest brother’s face had been brilliantly meh. Issues like this cropped up now and again, and it’d taken ages for Elisa to accept our marriage, but all in all, I had a good life.

Though a far cry from adventure, every day was full of surprises. Unlike me, my six-year-old daughter was cute and childish, and watching her grow up was incredibly fulfilling. I had nothing but gratitude to her for teaching me what it felt like to be a parent. As unexpected as she was, in my mind, she was the embodiment of my happiness.

“Hrm,” Lambert grunted, “We’ll clean things up here, so you head on home.”

“Huh? But—”

“You can’t let your kiddo stick around a bloody place like this.” He glared at me as I rocked my little girl and shooed me off like a stray dog. “And Margit, be more careful about the places you bring her out to.”

“Oh dear, my apologies, Captain,” she responded. “But the little one’s eyes are glued onto her father, so there isn’t any need to worry.”

We still had a lot to do: there was no end to the preparations needed before we turned the criminals in to the magistrate, and we needed to make sure they didn’t die of blood loss or infection before we got there. And even outside of that, the mere act of tidying the scene was its own task, but Sir Lambert had made up his mind and driven me away once more.

“Yeah, yeah, get going, Erich!”

“C’mon, poor li’l Iseult looks all sleepy!”

“You did the heavy lifting, so leave the rest to us.”

The rest of the watchmen chimed in, and I began thinking it’d be less tasteful of me to stay and help than to leave at this point.

“Papa...”

“Okay, you’re right, Iseult. Let’s head home and get to bed.” I graciously accepted everyone’s kindness and decided to retire one step earlier than my fellow city guardians. For some reason, our daughter had a hard time falling asleep without me around. Unsullied by even a speck of blood, I readied myself to hurry into the covers and rock her to sleep.

[Tips] Live bandits are worth half again to twice the reward for their dead counterparts; bandit chiefs triple, quadruple, or even quintuple in value.

The man who had once again taken up the title of bandit chief—or more precisely, who had once again been turned into a bandit chief—trembled at the realization that a quick execution was not so merciless as he thought.

His ears ached from the chorus of voices. Each of them shouted the same words, but the dissonant rhythm and harmony gave birth only to a cacophony of sound. Still, he knew all too well what they were screaming. Their will had taken form and ruthlessly assaulted him from the moment he came into view.

“Kill them!”

The men, women, and everyone in between; the young, the old, and even the gods themselves; everyone in the city was calling for death. The man and his subordinates had been given the bare minimum medical care to survive being shipped to some metropole they couldn’t name. They’d been locked up like packages of mail on their trip here, leaving them disoriented in this foreign land.

Furthermore, the people of the canton had neatly prepared each and every one of them: the tendons in all four of their limbs had been snipped to prevent them from ever causing trouble—or escaping—again.

First, they had been chained together in an open cell for all to see. Though onlookers pelted them with everything from pebbles to rotten fish and fruit, the captives still had enough will to shout back at those who threw filth their way. After all, they’d preyed on common citizens just like the ones beyond the iron bars.

However, the theatrics of the third day were enough to snap their pride. A few of the man’s lackeys had been taken out and reduced to laughingstocks for the locals to kill.

Three of his youngest men, of which one had only participated in their latest raid, were dragged to their feet and chained to a post in the city center. The boys hardly looked to be of age, but that drew no mercy from the feral crowd.

Each of the spectators held stones the size of fists and eagerly began hurling once the guard permitted it. However, they refused to put their strength behind solid overhand throws, electing instead for softer underhands or side-tosses.

The cruelty of the act could not be understated. A clean throw from a full-grown adult could knock a man’s head clean off. This relatively quick death would free the boys’ souls of their earthly suffering. Yet the citizenry held back to prolong their ordeal. Weighty rocks brought pain and pain alone—their gentle trajectory would never come with sweet release.

The agony continued as the damage slowly piled up, and after an unbearable eternity, the boys finally died. They themselves could not know how many days had passed, but the torture had stretched beyond the scope of time.

The bandits quaked at the sight of their newest recruits being reduced from humans to man-shaped meat over the span of days...as it grew clear what came next. Their fear manifested when the last of the newbies (who’d failed to kill even a single person on his first and only raid) drew his last breath, and the next handful of men were taken away.

This lot was cooked alive in a massive contraption. The towering mechanism resembled a grill for smoking meats, and the people of the city were free to add firewood at their leisure. While the men were fine for a short period, the extended heat slowly turned them into no more than cured cuts of venison. Onlookers pointed and laughed at how their seared, bloated bodies looked just like the lambs that were served during festivals.

Time passed, and the grueling torture continued for the bandit chief to witness. They forced food and drink into his mouth to rob him of a chance at starvation. After enduring an everlasting stream of verbal abuse from the audience and his once-loyal grunts, the man’s psyche had shattered. In truth, he could no longer distinguish the hateful clamor from the voices of the past that bounced in his mind.

At long last, when the last of his party had been nibbled to death by rats, it was finally his turn. Once again reduced from a bandit chief to a mere man, he breathed a sigh of relief when they slipped a thick straw rope around his neck. No matter how long it took, a death by hanging was more humane than the fate of any of his men.

“You a fan of this knot, deadbeat?” the executioner said, seeing his happiness. “But let me warn you. I’m not as nice as the people around town.”

The masked executioner kicked the man like a roadside pebble and marched him to a river that ran through the heart of the city. A large bridge overlooked the ferry-worthy water, beautifully adorned, with enough embellishment to tell its tourist landmark status at first glance.

Yanked to the center of this architectural marvel, the man was lowered into the water with the rope tied to the bridge’s handrail, as if he were fishing bait or a bobbing river marker.

A single wooden platform had been constructed underneath the gentle current, its height tweaked so the water would come up to the convict’s navel when he stood. At first, the former bandit chief didn’t understand the intent behind this punishment. Why are they making me stand here? he thought, only to be met with a swift answer.

Despite his fatigue, he could no longer sit or sleep; any accidental attempt at the latter was interrupted by the stinging rush of water in his lungs, while the platform kept him in place so he wouldn’t wash away.

At wit’s end, he tried to drown himself...but failed. To drown was so horrific that, no matter how many times he tried, his body would instinctively claw for the rope to extend his life. Each time, he despaired at his continued breathing while the townsfolk mocked him for his folly.

The Trialist Empire of Rhine had elected to keep its penal code confidential. Judges, lawyers, and the lords of every region strictly hid the secrets of their punishments all for a single reason: they did not want their citizenry to evaluate established consequences and come to the conclusion that a crime was ever “worth it.”

The opening preamble to the Empire’s penal code is lined with this message: Let every penalty atone for one hundred sins. Today, the austere people of Rhine upheld their policy. This was as common a sight as a father fighting to protect his family.

The shore’s sand is yet more finite than the seeds of human malevolence; still, how easy it is to nip the bud once it forms.

[Tips] Public punishments are deemed a necessary evil in all corners of the world.

“Blanket of night—pillowy moon—cradle this little spider to bed. Stars watch over—her gentle dream. Tucked and covered—her eyes unseen.”

As I sang my original lullaby and softly patted Iseult’s back, she quickly dozed off into the kingdom of slumber. Seeing her conk out so easily nearly convinced me that I was a genius singer-songwriter.

Long ago, my daughter had been a terrible sleeper. When she’d been a baby, her tears were so stubborn that, even after taking traits to reduce the rest I needed, my short-slept arachne wife and I could hardly keep up with her.

I’d written this lullaby in a desperate attempt to rock her to bed, and I can’t begin to express how grateful I’d been when she’d taken a liking to it. Leveling a singing skill was ludicrously expensive, so I’d chosen cheap traits like Lingering Timbre and Gentle Voice to try and come up with something myself. When she had first fallen asleep to it, I had cried tears of joy.

Though, admittedly, Margit then immediately forbade me from singing—not just lullabies, but in general—in front of other people, so my excitement was short-lived. I supposed my daughter was just as biased toward me as I was toward her. I wonder—how much longer will this song put her to sleep?

“Asleep already? My, it’s as if I’m not even needed.”

I’d been lovingly watching over my adorable girl when my wife whispered into my ear without the faintest forewarning. The bedframe failed to creak, and I was puzzled at how I hadn’t even felt the mattress shift. She’d been putting up my armor while I was busy putting Iseult to bed, but she’d finished up her end in the blink of an eye.

As a delightful tingle ran up my spine, I mentally noted another defeat. I tried to turn toward her from the side I was laying on but was preempted as Margit blocked my arm with her chest. Her perfect positioning had totally locked me in place; she had the fulcrum of my body tightly bound. Clearly, she had no need for webs to seize her prey.

“What are you going to do with your poor, captive husband?” I asked.

“Who’s to say? What shall I do? Perhaps I’ll keep you in a little cage. Or would you prefer a collar?” Margit peered over, placing the better part of her weight on me. Although her lips twisted into an arched smile, I could tell from the golden reflection of the moon in her eyes that she wasn’t playing around. She was so intensely bewitching that her charm overwrote the childish exterior that I’d seen for all my life, stealing my breath away.

“You know, I’ve been thinking... Why is our little princess such a crybaby?”

Uh-oh. This is bad. I immediately tried to break free, but the eight legs digging into the mattress deftly wriggled into place to kill any momentum I had. She had me on my back before I knew it, and by the time she mounted me with her arms through my armpits, I was at her mercy.

For a moment, I worried that the movement might have woken our daughter, but she’d been moved to the corner of the bed (but not close enough to the edge to fall, naturally) before I knew it. Not only that, but the extra blanket wrapped around her was proof of her mother’s love. Wait, this is no time to be impressed!

“Iseult’s all alone, isn’t she?” Margit cooed. “She gets to keep her mother and father all to herself, and her loving grandparents dote on her at every turn.”

“Um, that’s true...”

My wife then laid on me, resting her chin on my chest with a playful grin. Still, the look in her eyes was anything but jolly.

Hauntingly beautiful as always. I’d used this phrase before, but allow me to reiterate that I wasn’t saying her elegance lingered with me; she was simply terrifying and captivating in equal parts. And much to my horror, it seemed both qualities only deepened with each passing year.

“So, perhaps,” she continued, “she could do with a little brother or sister.”

Don’t you think my idea is perfect? was written all over her face, and no objection came to mind. I myself didn’t find the idea absurd: I’d been the youngest in my past life, and the brotherly responsibility I felt from Elisa’s birth had certainly changed me a lot. Her reasoning was solid, but...

“You’re not thinking that things are fine the way they are because you love pampering your daughter...are you?”

“Aha ha ha ha. No way.” How’d she know?!

Margit sighed at my monotone response and propped up her chin, still on my chest. Her free left hand came closer and gently rubbed my cheek.

“My, what a sweet father. But...you know, Erich,” she whispered as she pulled my face close. “You may be a father, but it won’t do to forget that you’re also my husband, will it?”

Margit’s smile disappeared from view as her lips fell onto mine. The gentle kiss left behind a tender, mushy sensation as the hunter finally bared her fangs. To be fair, I’d had no intention of refusing from the start. Love made me weak—or rather, perhaps I was simply fated to be her prey.

Our marriage may have arisen from an overly affectionate camping trip, but I wasn’t rash enough to risk making a child due to lust alone, no matter how excitable my pubescent body could be. I’d been close to full-grown back then, so I always had the option of pushing her off of me...but I didn’t.

I see no reason for me to go out of my way to explain why. Don’t ask, it’s embarrassing!

“So, what do you say?” Margit asked mischievously.

I answered only by closing my eyes. You win—tonight, I’ll obediently play the role of the hunted.

[Tips] When mensch males reproduce with other species, the offspring almost always takes after the mother.

Afterword

Let me first thank the laudable readers who were kind enough to pick up this book. Following you, allow me to offer my deepest gratitudes to my patient editor who never once lost their temper at my slow progress, and the splendid Lansane, who embellished this story with gorgeous illustrations from cover to cover. And of course, thanks to all of you who watered me with your thoughts as I wrote the web novel on Narou—I’m quite prone to withering, after all.

Above all else, I’m thankful for the companies that develop the TRPGs that have acted as the foundation for countless stories and adventures. I can only hope I’ve been able to honor the tabletop games that I’ve enjoyed for years in some small way.

I remember drowning in the mountain of rulebooks we’d stuffed into the cupboard of a messy four-tatami-mat (or was it six?) room; before I knew it, we were rolling dice in a slightly larger apartment as the neighbors yelled at us to be quiet; and one day I found myself playing with enough space to line three tables up next to one another. Looking back, it’s been a long journey since I graduated from our decrepit little cave.

“Man, I want to draft up a character sheet and roll some comically oversized dice,” I’d groan at work. Being the strange creature that I am, I simply wrote as it took my fancy until I found myself in an astonishing place: with a paperback book full of drawings, I too can now claim to be a fully-fledged author.

If nothing else, let me address my old school friends who egged me on by saying, “You’re going to turn your pompous ramblings into a light novel? Don’t make me laugh. Hurry up and write the next part of our campaign.” I’ll return the favor by reaching through time to ask, Do you see me now???

With that out of the way, I’d like to touch on the subject of TRPGs like a good afterword should. Every now and again, I received comments on the web novel from people who were not at all acquainted with the concept. This should go without saying; it isn’t exactly a ubiquitous hobby (though it is unbelievably popular compared to the days of its inception) and requires several people to truly enjoy. Still, I can’t think of any other activity that’s as much fun to enjoy with a big group.

It’s akin to acting out a play that has story beats but no script, where the GM and players are trying to kill one another but still working in tandem to weave a story together. Both you and others will vicariously enjoy the tale through characters near and dear to your heart: you’ll laugh, cry, bask in glory, and sometimes trash talk each other all night. Honestly, it’s hard to sum up in a single sentence.

There are perfectionist weirdos like me who use pen and paper to jot down everything from numbers to the setting in order to cause all sorts of mayhem. There are also hobbyists who don’t care for data and are only there to dive into their role. I find this troubling, but there exist warmongers who see the GM and other players as “opponents” to beat down for the thrill of triumph. And there are even some who simply use the medium as a tool to spend time having fun with the people they love. Tabletop games are a very, very tolerant pastime that will accept anyone and everyone.

Beyond that, there are enough genres to drown in. You have classic fantasies, settings where you might expect a dark something or other to reside in someone’s eye or left hand, worlds that threaten to chip at your sanity just by reading of their existence, and more.

I tried to list as many things as possible, but the depths of the hobby can’t be enumerated in the short space of an afterword alone, so I urge you to try your hand at it yourself. Relax, it’ll be fine: just as the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the path leading to the bottomless pit of tabletop games is easygoingness. A few minutes with the glowing slab of metal next to you is more than enough to find a place where you can enjoy a campaign.

Who knows? That might be the beginning of a lasting friendship—the kind where you listen to their drunken babbling even approaching your thirties. The fun of playing a role, writing a campaign, and letting dice decide your destiny may lead to something new.

With only a smidgen of space remaining, I finally realized that I completely forgot to talk about the story itself, but I hope you at least got a laugh out of my scatterbrained nature. I plan to continue Erich’s adventures online, and would be overjoyed if you kept up with the latest releases with the same nonchalance as reading somebody’s replays. If we get a chance to meet again, I’m sure those terrifying fairies will get their turn in the spotlight.

Now that that’s all said and done, thank you for accompanying the long-winded text of both the novel and afterword. I pray that I might be able to bring you more of Erich’s journey in the future.

[Tips] The author’s expected value when rolling 2D6 is 5 as a player and 9 as a GM.