Chapter 122 — The Boy Who Chased the Flash of Gold
This time, the world shifted.
Not through silver eyes sharpened by instinct.
Not through the gaze of a veteran or an orc who weighed strength like iron on a scale.
This time—
It was through Rivel.
Rivel was born into something ordinary.
And that was the problem.
His father was steady. His mother kind. His elder sister sharp-tongued but protective. His younger sister soft and bright as spring.
Their family ran an eatery near the southern market district—famous enough that travelers would ask directions for it, regular enough that guards stopped by even off duty. They served stewed meats rich with herbs, roasted river fish, and flatbread crisp at the edges.
It was a good life.
Stable.
Warm.
Predictable.
Rivel hated it.
Not the warmth. Not the laughter at night. Not the smell of simmering broth.
He hated that it would never change.
He wanted dust in his lungs. Steel in his hands. A mantle thrown over battle-worn shoulders. He wanted scars that told stories. He wanted someone to say his name the way bards sang heroes.
But he never argued.
Never shouted.
Never ran away.
He helped knead dough. Hauled barrels. Wiped tables. Delivered orders with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He waited.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Until it came.
Three years ago.
The trip had been routine—so his father said.
A new supplier for rare mountain herbs. A chance at securing delicacies that would elevate their menu. It required negotiation in a neighboring town.
His mother and little sister stayed behind to keep the shop running lightly.
Rivel went with his father and elder sister.
He remembered the road home. The sky was open. The carts were heavier than when they left.
He remembered thinking: This is boring.
Then the road narrowed.
And the trees closed in.
Bandits.
They came like wolves—fast, practiced, without wasted movement.
The caravan guards formed up immediately.
Outnumbered.
Rivel heard words he didn’t understand at the time.
“Negotiate.”
“Terms.”
“Loss acceptable.”
The deal was simple.
Abandon the goods.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Everyone lives.
The bandits agreed.
Rivel watched his father’s hard-earned trade unloaded crate by crate. Watched the guards stand between them and the men who now handled their merchandise like owners.
It was logical.
Reasonable.
Strategic.
Rivel saw only betrayal.
They were supposed to protect us.
In his young mind, surrender was cowardice.
The goods were gone. The deal complete.
They were released.
For three steps.
Then the bandits flanked.
Steel flashed.
The guards died first.
It was quick.
Efficient.
Like they had planned it from the beginning.
Rivel remembered his sister’s scream.
Remembered his father pushing him back.
Remembered men looking at the women in the caravan and grinning.
Ransom.
Slavery.
Spoils.
And then—
A flash of steel.
A mantle like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Golden hair.
Golden eyes.
He stood before them like he had stepped out of legend.
“Who are you!?” one bandit barked.
The man did not shout.
He did not roar.
He simply answered.
“The Brave. Ray E. Shine.”
And that was enough.
Templar knights swept in from behind like a closing gate.
Steel met steel.
Ray moved like the air had chosen him.
Clean.
Decisive.
Every motion ended something.
When it was over, the road was silent.
Rivel never forgot the way the mantle fluttered.
Never forgot how the man declared his name.
Never forgot how safe the world felt for those few moments.
Ray remained in the Barony briefly—awaiting permission to cross into another domain.
Rivel could not stop thinking about him.
So one afternoon, he stole a wooden stick from behind the shop.
He went to the alley.
He swung it wildly.
Imagining golden light.
Imagining bandits falling.
Imagining himself shouting—
“The Brave! Rivel—!”
The stick slipped.
“Ah!”
Before it struck a passing vendor—
A hand caught it.
Firm.
Effortless.
Ray stood there.
Looking down at him.
Recognition flickered in his golden eyes.
“Young boy,” Ray said gently, “I don’t think the sword is suitable for you.”
Rivel froze.
“… But I want to be like you! The Brave!”
Ray studied him.
Not his face.
His stance.
His footwork.
The way he stepped forward instead of anchoring.
The way his shoulders leaned in.
He saw it.
Approach-oriented.
Decisive.
A style meant to end quickly.
A sword was too short for that instinct.
“You hesitate before you commit,” Ray said quietly. “But once you do, you intend to finish it. A spear would suit you better.”
Rivel blinked.
“A spear?”
Ray borrowed a long wooden pole from a clothes rack nearby.
Tested the balance.
Then he moved.
Rivel had seen him fight before.
This was different.
Slower.
Clearer.
Ray stabbed.
Jabbed.
Twisted the shaft and obscured the tip behind his shoulder before snapping it forward again.
He spun—not for flourish—but to hide the angle.
He stepped through attacks that did not exist.
He ended every motion with precision.
Ray’s first weapon had been a spear.
He had shifted to the sword later for practicality.
But he had never truly abandoned the spear.
“Watch,” Ray said.
Rivel watched.
He did not blink.
When Ray finished, he handed the pole back.
“Seamanship first. Discipline. Then come find your own blade.”
Three days later, Ray left the city.
Rivel cried openly.
Waved until the carriage disappeared.
At fourteen, he begged his parents.
Argued.
Knelt.
Swore he would return stronger.
They relented.
He joined the Adventurer’s Guild.
He rose quickly.
He was strong.
Driven.
A little arrogant.
He declared his name loudly when entering battle.
Not for theatrics.
Because that was how heroes arrived.
He became the fastest in guild history to reach Iron Rank at sixteen.
He sparred with Silver-rank adventurers and held his own.
He challenged Gruthak once.
Not in full combat.
The orc didn’t even swing.
He merely roared.
The sound shattered Rivel’s courage.
His legs gave out.
The duel ended before it began.
Humiliation burned.
But it did not extinguish him.
It sharpened him.
So when he heard rumors—
An Iron-rank adventurer.
Solo defeated a wild orcish.
Received recognition from Gruthak.
He felt it immediately.
A rival.
Finally.
Someone worth climbing toward.
Then he saw her.
A tiny girl.
Five years younger.
Silver hair.
Small frame.
Heterochromatic eyes.
He almost laughed.
Almost.
But pride would not allow retreat.
He challenged her anyway.
The duel lasted less than a minute.
It wasn’t even combat.
She dismantled him.
Positioning.
Timing.
Exploiting blind angles.
He realized halfway through that she was teaching him.
And then—
He was on the ground.
Disarmed.
Breathing hard.
She stood untouched.
In those final seconds—
He saw it.
A silhouette overlapping her stance.
A memory of golden light.
The same structure.
The same control.
Ray.
Before he could speak—
Gruthak stepped forward.
And challenged her.
Rivel watched.
And understood something crushing.
The gap between him and her wasn’t steps.
It was a chasm.
In one minute, she showed him how far behind he truly was.
But instead of despair—
He felt something else.
The same thing he felt on that road three years ago.
A flash.
A direction.
He clenched his fists.
I will catch up.
Not to surpass her.
Not yet.
But to stand where he does not collapse from a roar.
To stand where he does not get taught mid-fight.
To stand where he earns his name.
He rose slowly from the ground.
Watched the silver-haired girl face Gruthak without fear.
And for the first time—
Rivel did not shout his name.
He simply whispered it.
“I’ll get stronger.”
And this time—
It wasn’t about being The Brave.
It was about becoming worthy of standing beside those who were.
