Chapter 8
Albion's crisis was weathered without serious harm. With the help of the priests, most of the monster horde was wiped out by the mercenaries, while some escaped to other places.
The leading pastor said he had to go back and inform other places, and left before dawn without resting.
Although many of the mercenaries were injured, the priests stationed in Albion quickly began treating them, and the slain monster corpses were distributed among the teams as payment.
The townspeople also brought many gifts to thank the mercenaries for protecting Albion.
They also wanted to give gifts to the pastors, but the pastors resolutely refused to accept the residents' gifts and soon left with the pastor who led them.
“The church has a clear rule that no church member is allowed to accept gifts from others during missions issued by the church.” Allen stood on the balcony of the second floor of the Mercenary Association, looking at Arnold beside him.
His head throbbed with a dull pain. His memory of last night ended when he brought Arnold back to Albion; he only remembered losing consciousness as soon as he entered the town.
After they regained consciousness, their companions who brought them back to the mercenary guild said that he had been poisoned by a fourth-tier magical beast. Fortunately, they arranged for him to take Arnold back, otherwise the consequences would have been unimaginable.
Falling suddenly in battle not only puts you in danger, but could also endanger your comrades.
The blond boy looked somewhat dejected. He and Allen had slept for a whole day. When they woke up, the matter was already over. When the guild leader was tallying the monsters, he said that he had killed the most monsters and gave him a large sum of money.
They said if it sold for a higher price later, they would make up the difference.
Arnold refused repeatedly, and even offered half of the money, saying it was for the cost of staying at the Mercenary Guild during this period.
Yes, he intends to stay in Albion.
Even the voice in his head urging him to leave couldn't sway his decision.
"Why do you want to stay in Albion? I thought you would leave immediately?" Allen looked Arnold up and down.
Arnold frowned slightly, which was extremely rare for the usually cheerful boy. He whispered, "I want to learn more before I start... I feel like I don't know anything."
Allen was taken aback, then burst into laughter, growing louder and louder amidst Arnold's embarrassed expression. He clutched his stomach, slightly out of breath, and said, "You're really something. What are you studying in Albion? You might as well keep heading north to Lortheran. With your record of killing several magical beasts by yourself, the Royal Academy would definitely be happy to accept you."
What is the Royal Capital Academy?
Alan's laughter stopped abruptly when he heard Arnold's question. He turned to look at Arnold and saw that the curiosity on the other's face seemed genuine. He opened his mouth and suddenly understood why Arnold had said he wanted to study in Albion.
—This kid doesn't seem to know even some basic common sense!
A strange expression appeared on his face. He patted Arnold on the shoulder and realized that although this man looked formidable and his mind was not as simple as it seemed, he was indeed from the countryside. Perhaps it was worth noting that he came from a secluded village at the foot of the Amberley Mountains.
"Want a drink?" he invited Arnold.
Martin's Tavern opens at noon, but usually the staff sells drinks at the counter. If you want other food, you have to wait until evening when Martin himself comes over.
However, having a few drinks is still fine.
Arnold wasn't a good drinker, but he still wanted to check out Martin's Tavern.
The two young men soon arrived at the tavern in the center of town. The sun was blazing outside, and the air was rather hot. The windows inside the tavern were all drawn with curtains, making it somewhat dim but relatively cool. A rich aroma of alcohol wafted out, which could be smelled from a distance.
They entered the tavern one after the other and immediately spotted the young man sitting in the center of the tavern.
The other person was wearing a gray robe, with the collar buttoned up meticulously. His medium-length, slightly curly hair was tied up. As he entered through the door, his profile, with its exceptionally handsome features, was visible.
Veris sat in a chair, the bowl in front of him empty. He stared at the patterns of grime that had accumulated over the years on the table, when he was suddenly caught off guard by the boy's joyful shout.
"Poet, sir!"
"You're here so early?" Arnold darted to Veris in one step, with Allen following behind, secretly amazed. This speed, no wonder he can take on a monster one-on-one?
Veris looked up at Arnold, who was beaming with joy, and said lazily, "Ah, I'm leaving soon."
"Hey? Where are you going? It's so sunny outside." Arnold blinked, his smile fading and replaced by curiosity.
The young man in front of him stroked his chin and said, "Let's go for a stroll."
After saying that, he stood up, looked up at Allen behind Arnold, and smiled: "You two seem to have a good relationship."
Allen met Veris's gaze and felt inexplicably nervous. His brown curly hair seemed to have lost its former luster, and the freckles on his face twitched with his somewhat stiff smile. He replied, "I'm fine."
A young man in a gray robe walked past, stood in front of the counter, and exchanged a few words with the shop assistant, presumably saying he would come early tonight.
After paying, Veris left the tavern.
He pulled a yellowed piece of paper from his waist pocket, glanced at the notes on it, and muttered, "I need to buy new ink. We're running out of paper too. Damn it, I remember buying new paper just yesterday?"
The young man looked troubled.
He even started recalling when he last bought paper and pens, and how much he had used up in the meantime—maybe he still had some left, but he didn't know where it had ended up in his pile of books.
After racking his brains, Veris sighed in frustration. He should have known better than to think about it. Every time he tried to recall, he found that there were more rejected drafts than finished ones, which was enough to give him a heart attack.
Those incompetent fools at the High Papacy want him to write magic scrolls? Where is he supposed to find the materials to write them?
Let's refuse.
—It's definitely not because he's lazy!
The market in the afternoon is not as lively as in the morning. Unsold products can be seen everywhere. If there is still food that cannot be sold by evening, it will be discounted.
Veris liked to stroll around the market. He didn't care about the strange smells inside; he just wanted to hear what was new and interesting from the residents of Albion and the people who came from the nearby farms.
A bard needs to gather material; he can't rely on his old, trivial matters.
However, the strange movements of monsters in the Amber Mountains have caused many tragedies, and the familiar faces that Veris used to see will no longer appear.
The market was a bit quieter than usual.
Most of the conversation revolved around the major events in Albion these past few days, from the apothecary killing people to the monster invasion, which would take at least half a month to tell.
Vendors from other places also shared their observations and experiences from their homes.
For example, if you are asleep in the middle of the night, you might suddenly hear a rumbling sound, which turns out to be the sound of a horde of monsters advancing towards Albion.
For example, when someone gets up at night, they find a large, dark shadow slithering past the door, like a snake.
Veris stood in the grocery store haggling with the owner, while several people sat together under the shade of the awning by the door, talking loudly.
He listened while arguing with the boss.
The boss was used to Veris's behavior; in all those decades, he had only managed to get Veris to negotiate a price successfully once when he was younger, after which the boss became wary.
Having failed to negotiate the price, Veris looked disappointed. The shopkeeper placed the packaged paper and ink on the counter. Veris fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a handful of silver coins, counted them twice, and then pushed them to the shopkeeper.
The conversation among the people under the shed was coming to an end. Someone came to buy meat, and one of them stood up and went to his own stall.
Their conversation shifted from Warcraft to something else entirely. Compared to the Warcraft that had already been defeated, the days to come were crucial to the future of their entire family.
"It's next month, that's right. I asked the pastor, and my son is almost old enough. I'll have to call him here to register on that day."
"Is it being held in Albion this year? Then we don't need to go to any other towns."
"Hey, if my son really had some magical talent, I wouldn't need to sell herbs."
“My child was tested two years ago, but there was nothing wrong.”
"What's so special about this? In all these years, only a handful of mages have emerged from this area of Albion."
"That's true, magicians aren't like cabbages..."
Veris walked forward, the conversation between the two men under the shed gradually fading as he went. He thought about going to the Mercenary Guild and asking Quake to help him sell some things.
The afternoon sun grew increasingly scorching, and Veris felt a burning heat on his head, but he was completely oblivious. His face was pale, and not a single bead of sweat could be seen.
His shadow was right at his feet. He passed the mayor's house and saw the pastor watering flowers under a tree. The pastor saw him too and smiled at him.
By the way, the annual magician selection is about to begin.
Veris greeted the priest with a "Good afternoon," and then headed toward the Mercenary Guild.
This year is a year of heroes emerging, and perhaps a great magician will be born as well.
He was somewhat absent-minded, and by the time the familiar boy called out to him, it was too late to turn around.
"Poet, sir!"
Veris: ...
Perhaps he shouldn't have let Quake take in the hero.
A note from the author:
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I uploaded the wrong chapter. [Sad face]
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