Chapter 125

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  The receptionist leaned forward slightly over the counter, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper that carried the faint scent of ink and aged paper.

  "I'm truly sorry you've shouldered this burden alone. But for everyone here, that anthill isn't just a spot on a map. It's a harbinger of doom. Something you turn away from, pretend doesn't exist, until it forces your hand."

  I ground my teeth together, the sound echoing in my skull like cracking ice, and looked away from her eyes, which brimmed with sincere regret. Anger, resentment, and a chilling clarity twisted into a poisonous knot deep in my chest.

  "Fine then," I hissed, staring at the worn floorboards scarred by countless boots. "Looks like I'm the only idiot in this city who refuses to run."

  She didn't respond immediately, simply lowering her gaze in a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes more than any defense could.

  The fury still simmered within me, hot and unrelenting, but a colder, more insistent thought pierced through the haze. I planted my hands firmly on the counter, locking eyes with her, searching for any flicker of doubt in her composed features.

  "Tell me this... What if the colony grows so massive it assaults the city itself? Will you all hide behind your ledgers and calculations even then?"

  She arched an eyebrow slightly, as if this query was a rite of passage for every wide-eyed recruit, and her reply came polished and rehearsed, like a mantra recited a thousand times.

  "Then defending would be infinitely easier than storming their nest." Her voice held steady, unyielding. "We have the ancient magical walls on our side—a colossal advantage. Inside these barriers, we've got dozens of mages channeling spells from safe perches, hundreds of trained soldiers manning the ramparts, ballistae loaded and ready to unleash hell. Ants thrive in their forest domain, where they're the undisputed rulers. But here, crashing against our fortifications? They're just a mindless tide breaking on unyielding rock. They won't breach us."

  I frowned, the weight of her unassailable logic pressing down like a vice, squeezing the fight out of my arguments.

  "So the grand strategy is to hunker down behind walls and wait for the threat to knock on your door? Let them devour everything outside until there's nothing left?"

  "The forest..." she intoned the word with a reverent hush, as if invoking some primordial spirit, "...maintains its own equilibrium. If the ants multiply unchecked, other beasts will rise to cull them. Packs of forest wolves with jaws like steel traps, colossal serpents slithering through the undergrowth, even magical creatures infused with raw ether—they all vie for survival and territory. Nature balances its scales without our meddling. We simply... abstain."

  I paused, mulling over her words, the detached wisdom in them sending a shiver down my spine, colder than the draft whispering through the hall.

  "And if I..." I whispered, the words barely audible, "exterminate them all? Down to the last wriggling larva. What then? Would that shatter your precious balance?"

  The receptionist shook her head gently, her expression tinged with a sorrowful understanding.

  "No. The forest is resilient; it heals itself. It's eternal. Where one peril vanishes, another emerges to fill the void. Nature outlasts us all, Balthazar. It always finds a way to restore harmony."

  I stared down at my calloused hands, scarred from endless skirmishes—hands strong enough to wield death, yet apparently powerless to alter the grand tapestry of the world.

  "So even if I slaughter them all... pour months, years into this grind... it changes nothing for this world? All for naught?"

  She sighed softly, her gaze softening further, taking on a maternal warmth that felt out of place in the guild's stern confines.

  "For the world, the forest, the balance—perhaps not." She paused, letting the words sink in like rain into parched soil. "But for you... it will change everything."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Silence enveloped me then. The retorts I longed to hurl—about principles forged in fire, about duty that burned brighter than self-preservation, about sheer, stubborn humanity—stuck in my throat like thorns. Instead, I gripped the strap of my battered satchel tighter, a mix of rage and unyielding resolve surging through me. Her words offered no comfort, but they clarified the battlefield. This was my war. Not the city's. Not the guild's. Mine alone.

  The receptionist lingered in the quiet for a moment, as if mustering her courage. Then, with a subtle bow of her head, she murmured:

  "Balthazar... you know you can walk away, right? This quest isn't etched in stone. You could take on simpler tasks—gathering herbs under the sun, hunting lesser beasts in safer groves, escorting caravans along well-trodden roads. There's plenty of work that won't chew you up and spit you out."

  You're alive, you have your companion, you have power. Don't throw it all away in a place where even veterans fear to tread.

  I met her gaze, seeing no mockery, no cold pragmatism—only heartfelt concern that tugged at something deep within me, making the burden feel even heavier.

  "I can't," I replied after a heavy pause, the words emerging steady despite the storm inside. "I've seen them up close. Felt the ground quake under their relentless march. I know they'll come eventually. If not now, then later. And I refuse to live in dread, waiting for that horde to sweep away everything in its path."

  My fists tightened, nails digging into palms.

  "Besides... if not me, then who? You said it yourself—no one else will go. So it falls to me."

  She closed her eyes briefly, accepting my choice even as disapproval lingered in the air.

  "Stubborn as ever..." she muttered under her breath. "Still... good luck, Balthazar. Truly."

  I nodded curtly and turned toward the exit. The crowd parted silently, eyes averted, granting us passage like reluctant sentinels.

  Now, they didn't see a child with a frying pan as a makeshift weapon. They saw a fool marching into the abyss of his own volition.

  We stepped out of the guild hall, the massive doors thudding shut behind us, sealing away the whispers and stares. Outside, the air felt crisper, laced with the faint aroma of baked bread from a nearby stall, but the surrounding hush still pressed in, heavy and unyielding.

  My companion glided beside me, her footsteps light and ethereal, as if she barely touched the ground.

  "Where to now?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence for the first time in what felt like ages—soft, yet carrying an undercurrent of quiet curiosity.

  I glanced at her and managed a faint, wry smile, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction.

  "The library. If I'm going to wage war on those ants, I need to know everything about them. Every secret buried in dusty tomes. Every vulnerability waiting to be exploited."

  She nodded without a word, and we walked on in companionable quiet, the city's murmurs gradually resuming around us, though still subdued.

  It was only then that a realization struck me like a delayed bolt. I slowed my pace, brow furrowing in mild embarrassment.

  "You know... I never even asked your name."

  She halted, turning to face me with those doll-like eyes, expressionless yet somehow piercing.

  I scratched the back of my head, feeling a flush creep up my neck.

  "All this time, you've just been following along. I've barked orders, rambled on, and you've stayed silent... and I got used to it. But now..." I trailed off, searching for the right words. "Now, we're in this together. Trusting each other with our lives. I want to know who you are."

  For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then, something flickered in her eyes—a subtle spark, like firelight dancing on a blade's edge.

  Her lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

  "My name..." she whispered, the sound as delicate as falling snow. "Albina."

  I echoed it silently to myself: Albina.

  And in that moment, the invisible barrier of silence between us shattered, leaving only the promise of alliance in its wake.

  Asking passersby for directions, we confidently made our way toward the library and quickly spotted it—a massive structure of dark stone that resembled a grand temple dedicated to knowledge rather than a mere repository of dusty tomes. Its imposing facade loomed over the street, with arched windows glowing faintly from within, as if the building itself guarded secrets that could illuminate the darkest corners of the world.

  As we stepped inside, the library enveloped us in a thick, almost intoxicating aroma: the sweet tang of aged dust mingled with the faded scent of ancient parchments and the sharp bite of magical varnish coating the oak shelves to ward off those insidious book-eating beetles that plagued such places. The air hung heavy and still, as though centuries of accumulated wisdom had trapped time itself within these walls. Towering halls stretched upward and outward, lined with shelves that reached toward the vaulted ceilings, groaning under the weight of forgotten volumes. A profound silence reigned supreme, broken only by the muffled footsteps of a few scattered scholars and the soft whisper of pages being turned—like the library's own quiet heartbeat.

  I approached the central desk…