Chapter 18: Bonds

  "Haven't seen a soul from Dragonwood Village?" Wolf repeated, his brow furrowing. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

  "Exactly what I said," Fraser replied, his expression tightening. "Dragonwood is remote, sure, but as long as people live there, they have to come out eventually to trade goods or sell their haul. But when I think back—it really has been a long time since any of them showed their faces here."

  Wolf’s face darkened instantly. "Are you suggesting... something happened to the village too? Or could it just be that you missed them?"

  "It’s possible," Fraser didn't rule it out entirely. "But you know, the Frostwood produced in Dragonwood is a rare commodity—beautiful grain, tough as nails, and incredibly attuned to ice mana. Even in a town this small, news of someone landing a good deal or a high-priced shipment of timber travels fast."

  He paused, lowering his voice. "But as I rack my brain, it feels like it’s been ages since I’ve heard even a whisper of gossip about Frostwood."

  "...Something is definitely wrong," Wolf muttered.

  The two men locked eyes, and for a moment, an invisible layer of frost seemed to settle over the air between them.

  Ronen, who had been listening quietly, suddenly remembered something and asked, "Speaking of which, Uncle Fraser... can the legendary Sword Saint, Lanza Augustus, be seen around town?"

  Cough—

  Fraser and Wolf burst into laughter simultaneously. The tense atmosphere popped like a punctured skin, leaking back into the warm, rowdy clamor of the inn.

  "I knew it! Every kid who comes here for the first time asks that!" Fraser slapped his thigh hard.

  "He is a legend, after all," Wolf added, shaking his head with a grin. "If you're lucky, you might occasionally see him patrolling the town, right?"

  "Yeah, but your luck isn't great this time," Fraser said, regaining his composure after a few more chuckles. "The old man left the town over a month ago."

  "Over a month?" Wolf’s eyes sharpened. "...That’s roughly the same time the mages went missing."

  Fraser stared at him as if he were crazy. "You don't seriously think the mages' disappearance has anything to do with him, do you?"

  "No, not at all," Wolf shook his head immediately. "If even he could vanish without a sound, then this team of ours might as well turn around and go home right now."

  Fraser chuckled, throwing an arm around Ronen’s shoulder, his breath smelling heavily of ale. "Don't worry, kid. You'll have plenty of chances to see him later. Come back when you've actually made a name for yourself; maybe the old man will be in a good mood and show you a move or two—now that would be a real win!"

  Another roar of laughter erupted around the table. Ronen laughed along, too. He liked this atmosphere—gritty, lively, and filled with a raw sense of camaraderie fueled by sweat and ale.

  "Wait..." Ronen’s brow furrowed again. "Has a woman riding a snow wolf been here recently?"

  "A woman riding a snow wolf?!" Myron, who had been "playing dead" on the table, suddenly bolted upright, his eyes showing no trace of drunkenness. "I remember something about that!"

  "The moment a woman is mentioned, you come back to life, don't you?" Wolf shoved him irritably. "Stop stalling and tell us!"

  Myron rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recall. "I only overheard people talking... She was quite good-looking, but she reeked of bloodlust—had that 'stay away or die' vibe."

  "She didn't stay long. Just let the wolf rest for a bit, restocked some rations and water, and left in a hurry. From what I heard, she was heading... well, toward Dragonwood Village."

  Ronen and Wolf exchanged a look, both seeing the shock and suspicion in each other's eyes.

  "Does anyone know her name?" Wolf pressed.

  Myron shook his head. "I wasn't there; just heard it from others. She wasn't around long enough for anyone to get a name. Why... you know her?"

  Wolf was silent for a moment, his voice turning grave. "Maybe. There was a girl in our group named Emma who rides a snow wolf. We got separated in the blizzard today." He paused. "I asked at the outpost earlier; the soldiers said someone like her passed through about ten days ago. It sounds a lot like what you're describing."

  Myron let out a low whistle.

  "Anyway, keep an ear out for us," Wolf patted his shoulder. "If a woman on a snow wolf shows up again, try to get a name. If it's Emma, tell her we've moved on ahead."

  As the night grew late and the drinks took their toll, the crowd began to disperse. Ronen pushed open the heavy wooden door of the inn and stepped alone into the Northlands night.

  The chill immediately gripped every inch of his exposed skin, but it brought a sense of clarity. Having spent the entire day cramped in the wagon, his joints felt stiff, and deep down, there was a nameless void that needed to be swept away by the wind or dissolved into the vast darkness.

  In the night, the noise and heat of the day seemed to be absorbed by the earth, leaving behind a near-primitive silence. Far off, sparse magitech streetlamps flickered, casting hazy yellow halos like the tired, stubborn eyes of a night watchman struggling against the heavy dark.

  Yet, Ronen felt a strange kinship with it. This gloom, this silence, even the lingering scents of metal, charcoal, and frost felt far more grounding than the glitzy streets of Glory City. Every inch of this land seemed soaked in the heavy breathing of those who fought the blizzard, rather than a refined but distant civilization.

  He walked aimlessly, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. The night wind brushed past, not like silk, but like a chill whetted on a blade, peeling away the lingering buzz of ale and the restlessness of the crowd. His soul seemed to become clear and quiet in the cold.

  He looked up. Augustus Burg sat on the hillside ahead—black, silent, and massive, nearly merging with the night sky. In a daze, he imagined a towering figure standing alone with a sword on that hill, surrounded by the carcasses of countless beasts.

  "A legendary hero... truly something to aspire to," Ronen whispered, looking down. A few sparks of light seemed to dance deep in his eyes.

  The castle remained as it was, a beast lurking in the depths of the world, retracting its claws and breath. Glancing back at the inn, he could still hear the faint echoes of laughter. At this moment, he found them a bit too loud.

  "Still not used to our style? That shouldn't be right—isn't our legion just like this at night?"

  Wolf’s voice came from behind, carrying the warm scent of wheat ale. He clapped a rough, wide hand onto Ronen’s shoulder.

  "Those guys... don't mind the shouting, they’re all good people. We might not be in the same legion, but they're honest and straightforward." He paused, his voice softening. "They were so welcoming because I talk about you a lot... everyone wanted to see for themselves what kind of kid I, Wolf, have raised."

  "Uncle, you've got it wrong," Ronen shook his head. "It’s not that I’m not used to the noise. I was just sitting in the wagon all day and felt stiff. I wanted to take a walk."

  A light snow began to fall again, landing softly on his shoulders, his hair, and the sleeping street. After a quiet moment, Ronen asked softly, "Uncle... do you think I can really become a proper mercenary?"

  Wolf didn't answer immediately. He let go, stepping to Ronen’s side to watch the silent snow.

  "The mercenary trade is a life lived on the edge of a blade. You take people's money—"

  "—and you solve their problems," Ronen finished, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You've said that many times."

  "Right. I've said it many times." Wolf laughed, the sound deep in the snowy night. "So, there's no such thing as a 'proper' mercenary. You take a commission, you do it well, and you make the employer feel the money was well spent. Then you’re a good mercenary."

  Ronen frowned. "But what if... the employer isn't a good person?"

  Wolf turned his face to look at him. "Why ask that all of a sudden?"

  Ronen shook his head, looking lost. "I don't know. It’s just... I always feel like the Lapsus Merchant Circle is a bit off. I can't put my finger on it, but I can't fully trust them."

  "Silly kid." Wolf sighed, a mist of breath dispersing in the cold air. "That’s why I always tell you not to dig too deep into an employer’s background. When you start taking missions on your own, you’ll encounter everything—hunting beasts, raiding convoys, stealing treasures, or even... assassinating some high official."

  "Isn't that... illegal?"

  "Heh," Wolf’s laugh was tinged with complexity. "Every profession has its specialties. Assassins are mercenaries; thieves are mercenaries too. We're just the ones officially registered with the Association, following some rules—walking the 'bright path,' so to speak."

  He shook his head as if shaking off distant thoughts. "I’m getting off track. What I want to tell you is that a mercenary usually only needs to focus on the mission itself. For anything else, you just need to think about one thing: will doing this affect your survival or your pay?"

  He reached out and ruffled Ronen’s hair with a rough palm, a rare gesture of tenderness. "I’ve watched you grow up. I understand your inner struggle. You’re still too kind; you’re afraid of doing the wrong thing." His voice lowered, blending with the sound of falling snow. "When the time comes where you must choose... just make sure you can live with your conscience."

  "With my conscience..." Ronen repeated softly, looking up.

  "Alright!" Wolf slapped his back, his tone rising to dispel the somber mood. "Speaking of which, I am technically your mentor. Now that you’ve officially finished your apprenticeship, it’s tradition for me to give you a proper gift."

  As he spoke, he drew a short sword that had been strapped horizontally across his back. The movement was steady, even carrying a sense of solemn ritual.

  "I was going to wait until you finished this mission," Wolf said, holding the short sword flat in both hands. "But it looks like the road ahead might not be peaceful. You need a more reliable weapon."

  In the night, the silhouette of the short sword was simple and deep. Only the edge occasionally caught the dim light of a distant magitech lamp, reflecting a sliver of silver chill.

  "I call it 'Silverglow'. It’s not a legendary artifact, but it’s been with me for many years." Wolf’s fingertips brushed the blade as if touching the spine of an old friend. "It was back when I was still in the Wind-Breakers... I found it in a shipwreck during a mission. I’ve maintained it carefully and had it reforged by smiths a few times."

  His finger suddenly stopped at a certain spot on the edge. "But remember this part."

  Ronen leaned in and noticed a tiny nick. It had been expertly mended, nearly merging with the blade, leaving only a dark line thinner than a strand of hair.

  "This is its only weakness." Wolf’s voice dropped, a fleeting shadow passing through his eyes. "Be careful when you use it; try not to let this spot take a direct hit. But even so—" He flicked his wrist, and the short sword vibrated slightly, letting out a low, clear hum. "—it’s much stronger than most standard-issue gear."

  Ronen took Silverglow. The weight in his palm was solid and balanced, the leather of the hilt worn smooth and warm by time. He studied it closely, his heart beginning to race. The slight regret of missing out on "Snow Poem" earlier was wiped away by the steady feel of this blade, replaced by a more grounded joy.

  He suddenly took two steps back and bowed deeply to Wolf.

  "Hey—who taught you to be so sentimental!" Wolf waved him off, turning his face away, though he couldn't hide the grin. "Alright kid, I won't waste more time with you. The boys are waiting for me to go back and drink. Get some rest; we have another long day tomorrow."

  He turned and walked back, his footsteps crunching on the thin snow. His silhouette looked like a moving mountain.

  Ronen watched him disappear into the light of the inn before looking back at Silverglow with excitement. He searched for the nick again—just as Wolf had said, it was hard to notice unless you looked specifically for it. The repair work was almost seamless.

  He took a deep breath of cold air and flicked his wrist. The short sword sliced through the night air. The wind of the blade stirred the falling snow. Silverglow bloomed into an arc of flowing cold light in the darkness; the blade hummed, a clear, sharp sound as if a long-dormant bloodline had awakened.

  "My, my~ little brother, taking a stroll? I thought you were drinking with those mercenaries."

  A crisp, sharp voice suddenly came from beside him. Ronen, immersed in his new weapon, hadn't even noticed someone approaching. The sudden sound made him jump, nearly dropping his sword. He instinctively clutched his stomach and took a step back.

  "You... surely you aren't that afraid of me?"

  Ronen turned to see the newcomer and immediately gave a forced smile. "Vi... Vivian. No, I was just a bit too focused."

  "No need for such a big reaction. I'm your teammate. Yesterday was... well, a fight on the stage, but that was just for some extra cash. No shame in it. Want me to share some of my winnings with you?"

  "No, no, no... that's not necessary." Ronen waved his hands frantically.

  Seeing his reaction, Vivian couldn't help but smirk. Her gaze then fell on the short sword in Ronen’s hand. "Isn't that our captain's sword?"

  "Yes, it’s Mr. Wolf’s sword." In front of outsiders, Ronen still used formal titles. "He just gave it to me."

  "A nice weapon. You two must be close." Vivian tilted her head, snowflakes landing on her hair. "I heard you call him 'Uncle'? Are you blood related?"

  "Why do you ask?" Ronen immediately became wary. He looked into Vivian’s eyes but saw no malice. Still, his grip on the hilt tightened.

  "Brother, isn't your hostility a bit much?" Vivian spread her hands helplessly in an open gesture. "I’m just curious. We’re a team now; there's no harm in knowing your companions—don't want to end up like Miss Emma today, vanishing without a reason we can grasp."

  Ronen stared at her. Under the snow-light, her eyes were bright, her expression devoid of deceit, even holding a touch of soft sincerity. Remembering Wolf’s earlier advice, the tension in his heart eased slightly.

  "He's not my biological uncle," Ronen finally spoke, slowly sheathing Silverglow. "In the legion, we call each other by family titles to feel closer. Peers are brothers and sisters; elders are uncles and aunts."

  "That sounds quite nice..." Vivian said softly, a trace of hazy envy passing through her eyes, like snow falling onto a lake and creating ripples.

  Ronen couldn't help but look at her. "Vivian..."

  "No need to be so formal." She smiled, her features softening in the night. "I’m older than you, but not by much. You can just call me Vivian—though by your legion's rules, calling me 'Sister' is actually friendlier. Hmm, I like that. Keep calling me Big Sister Vivian."

  "Uh..." Ronen was a bit dazed by her rapid-fire speech. He froze for a moment then couldn't help but laugh. "When I first heard you were a warrior from Dragonshield and saw how powerful you were on stage, I thought you were a very stern person."

  "This isn't a military camp; why keep a stiff face?" Vivian laughed, her white breath merging with the falling snow. "I actually envy the mercenary lifestyle—casual and free. Not like the army, where every move follows a regulation."

  The two of them walked side-by-side along the snow-covered road without realizing it. The snow fell gently, kissing their shoulders. Ronen looked back at the distant inn. Inside, the noise was at its peak, the lights baking the thick air. The shouts of mercenaries and the clinking of mugs blended into a hot, deafening wave of sound.

  Out here, the street was silent and the lights sparse. Only the sound of their footsteps and shallow breathing intertwined, creating a rare moment of peace.