Chapter 124

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  But there was no time to savor the win.

  The ants' bodies began exuding that sticky, pungent odor—the alarm signal to the colony: "Our kin have fallen."

  I turned to my companion. She nodded silently, as if reading my mind.

  "Run," I exhaled.

  We exploded into motion. The forest blurred into streaks, branches whipping our faces, breaths tearing into wheezes. Each drop of sweat burned my skin.

  Behind us, it started faintly, then grew unmistakable: a low, rhythmic hum swelling like an approaching train. The ground vibrated with fine, rapid tremors. The horde was rising. It knew. It was coming.

  We didn't look back. No need. We just ran, pounding every step into the earth, driven by primal instinct: pause for even a breath, and it would be our last.

  When we finally burst onto a rocky trail, the horde's deafening roar fading into the dense woods behind, I skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over a root. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to burst free, ears ringing like bells. I braced hands on knees, gulping air in whistling bursts.

  I glanced at her—she'd already turned, poised to charge back toward the black silhouette of the anthill on the horizon, expecting me to follow.

  "No," I gasped, the word hoarse but resolute. I straightened, wiping sweat from my brow. "We're heading back to the city."

  In her usually inscrutable eyes, a flicker of surprise flashed—swift and elusive. She didn't ask why. She waited.

  "I saw that... warrior," I went on, the image replaying: not blind fury, but a calculated stare. "If there are warriors, there's a hierarchy. That means mages too. An ant mage..." I shuddered involuntarily, chills racing over my skin. "I don't want to find out what its spells look like. We're not ready."

  We turned and retraced our path. The forest thinned gradually, sunlight piercing the branches more freely, the sounds growing quieter. But inner silence eluded me. Thoughts chased each other like frightened beasts.

  Then, amid the fern fronds, a gray, velvety ear twitched. Then another. A plump, carefree rabbit nibbled a stem, oblivious to our existential turmoil.

  I froze, hand instinctively reaching for my belt knife.

  If one scout gives 150 experience, and a rabbit just one unit...

  My calculating mind spat out the cold, merciless numbers. To hit level three: three thousand points. Three thousand rabbits. Three thousand quiet crunches and bloodied carcasses.

  A spark ignited inside—why not? One week. A month. Become a shadow, an executioner, the scourge of every living thing in this thicket. Just to see that coveted digit in my status.

  But I shoved the thought away, a bitter, helpless smirk twisting my lips.

  "You're losing it," I muttered, lowering my hand. "Turn into a butcher for every rabbit in the forest, all for a handful of power? That's not hunting... that's pathology. Madness."

  The rabbit, as if sensing my murmur, perked up and vanished into the green undergrowth in a blink, leaving only a quivering leaf. And I stood there, thoughts lingering on the edge of temptation and reason.

  We reached the city gates at last. It seemed like any ordinary morning: merchants arranging their wares on weathered stalls, women lugging heavy baskets brimming with fresh produce, and children darting through the crowds with shrieks of laughter that echoed off the stone walls.

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  But the moment I stepped across the threshold into the city proper, the clamor died away like a flame snuffed out by an unseen hand.

  It started subtly—one merchant faltered mid-sentence, his voice trailing off into awkward silence. Then his neighbor stopped bellowing out prices, his words hanging unfinished in the crisp air. The children's giggles faded as if carried off by a sudden gust of wind, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves from nearby trees.

  I moved on, boots tapping softly on the cobblestones as wary eyes flicked toward me—quick glances, cautious, like prey sensing a predator. Some turned into side alleys; others clutched their bags tighter, knuckles white.

  The tension hung over me like a damp cloak. When I adjusted the frying pan on my back, its muted clink made nearby people flinch and look away, as if even the sound were dangerous.

  A strange pang twisted in my gut, sharp and unfamiliar. Before, they'd laughed at me, the kid with the ridiculous weapon. Now, they feared me. What would come next? Hatred? Exile?

  My companion walked beside me, her doll-like eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking and serene. Somehow, that impassive gaze only amplified the eerie atmosphere, turning the bustling streets into a stage where we were the unwelcome performers.

  No one dared speak to us. No one even risked meeting our eyes head-on, as if acknowledging our presence might invite some curse upon them.

  We made our way to the guild hall in that oppressive quiet, the only sounds our own footsteps and the distant cry of a lone bird overhead. When I pushed open the heavy oak door, the lively buzz inside the hall cut off abruptly, sliced clean through like a knife through taut string.

  A tomb-like silence descended over the guild's main room, broken only by the sporadic crackle of enchanted torches flickering in their iron sconces along the walls. Every head swiveled toward me as I crossed the threshold. Dozens of eyes—curious, frightened, appraising—swept over me like probing fingers, every bruise on my skin.

  The receptionist, who usually greeted me with a sleepy, obligatory smile that barely reached her eyes, rose slowly from her seat behind the polished counter. Her expression was grave, etched with lines of tension that made her look years older. No smile this time; just a silent, almost gentle wave of her hand, beckoning me closer.

  I approached, the prickling sensation of those stares crawling across my back like invisible insects. She regarded me not as the oddball kid with a frying pan slung over his shoulder, but as a battle-hardened warrior fresh from the front lines, still coated in the grime and ghosts of combat.

  "Balthazar," she began in a hushed tone, ensuring her words were for my ears alone. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of a stack of parchments, betraying a rare nervousness. "Come closer."

  I leaned against the counter, exhaling wearily. The wood felt cool and unyielding beneath my elbows, a stark contrast to the heat building in my chest.

  "Tell me straight," I rasped, my voice rough from exhaustion and unspoken frustration. "Am I the only fool in this whole damn place fighting that cursed ant colony? Out in the woods, I don't see a soul. Not a single adventurer. Not one group. Where the hell is everyone? Why am I out there alone, like I've got a death wish signed in blood?"

  She hesitated, her eyes darting sideways for a fleeting moment, as if seeking reassurance from the empty shadows on the walls. Then, gathering her composure, she spoke, her typically steady voice laced with a deep-seated weariness that spoke of years spent witnessing the same grim realities.

  "Because no one in their right mind would go there. No one."

  "What?" I narrowed my eyes, confusion sharpening into disbelief.

  "To wipe out an ant colony like that," she explained, her words measured and precise, like reciting an ancient doctrine etched into stone, "it would take the full might of the city. A coordinated assault—armies marching in formation, mages unleashing torrents of arcane fire, alchemists deploying their noxious potions and choking smokes. It's too costly. Too perilous. Too many lives lost in the process. Adventurers going in solo, or even in small parties?" She let out a bitter chuckle, devoid of humor. "They don't tangle with ants. They run from them."

  My fists clenched involuntarily, the already battered knuckles paling under the strain. The revelation hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

  "So all this time, I've been out there alone? Tearing myself apart, risking my hide every second, while everyone else... just turns a blind eye and pretends it's not happening?"

  "Balthazar," she said, tilting her head slightly, her tone softening to something almost paternal, laced with genuine empathy. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to keep the truth from you. But understand: ants aren't the kind of foes people play hero against. It's not like bargaining a dragon away from its hoard with clever words or shiny trinkets. This is a force of nature—a wildfire raging unchecked, a flood swallowing everything in its path. You don't get glory or gold from it. You survive it. Or you flee. It's not profitable. Not even for the guild. We can't afford to send waves of people into that meat grinder, only to foot the bill for their funerals."

  I wanted to shout something fierce, something laced with venom to pierce through her calm facade, but a thick, burning lump lodged in my throat, choking the words back. The worst part was, her explanation rang true—harsh, cynical, and irrefutable. That's why the stares around me had shifted from ridicule to wariness. They saw me not as a joke, but as a madman hauling kindling toward an inferno, oblivious to the flames.

  The receptionist leaned forward slightly over the counter…