Chapter 126

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  I approached the central desk, where the librarian sat hunched over his ledger: a gaunt, stooped man with a neatly trimmed wedge of gray beard and round spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His eyes flickered with a spark of curiosity behind the lenses as they landed on my enchanted gear, but his voice remained deliberately dry and detached, like a well-rehearsed script.

  "How may I assist you, young man?"

  "I need books on ants," I said bluntly. "Everything you've got—anatomy, behaviors, hierarchy, weaknesses. Especially the weaknesses."

  The librarian raised one silvery eyebrow slowly, adjusting his glasses with a precise flick of his finger.

  "Books on ants...?" He drew out the words, repeating them as if I'd requested a treatise on fairy dances or the inner workings of dragon physiology. "I'm afraid we have no such materials. Not a single volume, not even a scrap of parchment."

  "What do you mean, none?" I frowned, irritation bubbling up like bile in my throat. "They're the biggest threat to this entire region! To the city! To people everywhere! You don't collect anything on them? No studies at all?"

  He shook his head calmly, almost mechanically, his glasses catching the dim glow of the floating magical orbs overhead.

  "Not one reputable scholar or mage has dared to conduct a thorough investigation up close. The few who tried..." He cleared his throat meaningfully into his fist, "...didn't return with their field notes. Knowledge doesn't materialize out of thin air, you see."

  I stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, then burst out laughing. It was a short, sharp bark—dry and edged with hysteria, but utterly genuine. The sound echoed through the cavernous reading hall, bouncing off the high ceilings like a defiant challenge.

  "Ha! Of course!" I exclaimed, leaning back and rubbing a hand over my face in exasperation. "It's always like this, everywhere I go. When you need real help, the shelves are empty, and the wise ones just shrug. And where there's actual danger? 'No one dared.' Reality just loves pulling these tricks on us."

  A few students and a couple of mages in the far corners turned to glare, shushing me for disturbing the sacred quiet, but I couldn't care less.

  "Well, thanks for the honesty," I tossed at the librarian as I turned away. "Even if all you gave me was confirmation of the most obvious and depressing truth out there."

  I glanced at Albina, who had been standing a short distance away, watching the exchange with her usual quiet intensity.

  "Looks like the only worthwhile knowledge about these creatures," I said, "we'll have to gather ourselves. The old-fashioned way. Out in the field."

  She met my gaze and gave a brief nod. And this time, the corners of her lips twitched in a faint but unmistakable smile—as if even she, accustomed to the absurdities of our world, found the situation amusing.

  We stepped out of the library, and a wave of exhaustion crashed over me—not just the physical ache from the day's battles, but a deeper mental fatigue. Too many fights, too many dead ends and disappointments crammed into one endless stretch.

  "That's enough heroics and wisdom-hunting for today," I grumbled, stretching my arms with a groan. "Sometimes you just need to... live. And take care of your gear."

  "Let's head to the forge," I added, adjusting the handle of my frying pan slung across my back with a familiar gesture. "My knives haven't seen a smith in ages, and after that educational kick of yours, I'm not even sure my beauty here's intact."

  Albina said nothing, as was her way, but her expressive eyes seemed to say: "You brought that on yourself, idiot."

  The forge assaulted our senses with a deafening symphony: the hissing breath of the bellows pumping life into the flames, the dancing roar of the furnace's heat, and the rhythmic, resonant clang of hammer on anvil that vibrated through the air like thunder. The blacksmith, a massive figure with arms like ham hocks, glistened with soot and sweat under the forge's fiery glow. He eyed me with a mocking grin, flashing white teeth against his grimy face, as he spotted the frying pan on my back.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "You a kid lost from the kitchen, or an adventurer who misjudged his load?" he bellowed over the din.

  "I'm a fighter who doesn't just slice—he sears his enemies to a crispy finish," I replied with deadpan seriousness.

  The blacksmith snorted, nearly extinguishing the sparks from the forge with the gust.

  "Right, right. Hand over your tactical kitchenware, oh great battlefield chef."

  I unstrapped my knives and laid them on the workbench. Even in the dim light, their blades gleamed with a cold, unyielding steel sheen.

  "These knives never dull," I declared with rightful pride. "But I want them polished to a mirror shine. For psychological warfare—let the enemy see their pathetic reflection before the end."

  The blacksmith arched his single visible eyebrow—the other hidden under a sweat-soaked bandana.

  "Never dull, eh?" He ran a calloused finger along the edge and yanked it back just in time, narrowly avoiding a cut. "Damn! And here I've been bending iron my whole life... Maybe I should find one like that and become a lazy smith."

  "No way," I shot back, quickly tucking the knives behind me as if he might snatch them. "These are mine. Personal. With soul."

  Then, with almost reverent care, I removed my frying pan and presented it with both hands. The blacksmith took it with surprising gentleness, handling it like an ancient warrior's shield rather than mere cookware.

  "Hmm... Enchanted with 'Non-Stick Shield' and, if I'm not mistaken, a touch of 'Reflection.' Rare piece." He tapped the bottom lightly with a small hammer, listening to the resonant hum, then frowned. "What's this? Who bashed it like that? Hit dead center."

  I shot a guilty glance at Albina, who stood silently in the shadows.

  "Ah, got it," the blacksmith muttered, nodding knowingly. "A woman's boot's worse than any battering ram. Dent's there, but not fatal. I'll straighten her out—good as new."

  I let out a dramatic sigh, clutching my chest theatrically.

  "Whew! I thought she'd fallen in battle, dying a hero's death under enemy assault..."

  The blacksmith's laughter boomed like a bellows, shaking the rafters.

  Half an hour later, I retrieved my knives—now impeccably polished, dazzling like mirrors—and my frying pan, gleaming as brightly as the day I'd first claimed it.

  "Well," I said, slinging it back into place with relish, "now I can terrify foes not just with my skills, but with the blinding shine of my culinary arsenal."

  Leaving the forge, with the acrid scent of hot metal still clinging to my nostrils, I realized my pockets still jingled pleasantly with coins, and my stomach growled loud enough to rival the furnace's roar.

  "Enough iron for one day," I muttered. "Let's hit the market. For once, spend some gold on something... normal, instead of blood and armor repairs."

  Albina nodded silently in agreement.

  The market exploded around us in a chaotic burst of life: merchants hawking their wares in overlapping shouts, women haggling fiercely over sacks of salt, and children squealing as they reached for trays of sweets redolent with cinnamon and roasted almonds. The air was thick and vibrant, saturated with the aromas of fresh-baked bread, cured meats, exotic spices, and the earthy press of unwashed crowds.

  I halted at the first fruit stall, piled high with bounty. Ruby-red apples gleamed in the sunlight, polished to perfection as if enchanted with abundance itself.

  "Two," I told the vendor, pointing to the ripest ones, and handed one to Albina.

  She accepted it with delicate hands, turning it over curiously but not bringing it to her lips. Instead, she gazed at me over the fruit, as if awaiting some hidden trick or command.

  "Well?" I prompted impatiently, already sinking my teeth into mine. Juice sprayed in a sweet burst. "Eat it. It's an apple, not a cursed artifact. It won't bite first."

  Slowly, almost ritually—as if performing an ancient sacrament—she lifted it to her mouth and took a small, precise bite. I found myself holding my breath, sensing I was witnessing something profoundly intimate and significant.

  We wandered on, and my eyes caught on a nearby stall laden with clay jugs sealed with wax, emanating a rich, floral honey scent. A thought sparked: "Rabbit's fine, but roasted meat under a honey glaze? That's culinary victory."

  "One," I said, nodding at the largest jug.

  The merchant, a burly man with a bushy mustache, winked conspiratorially. "Young yet wise—you know how to win a girl's heart! Sweetness beats any sword."

  Heat flooded my face in a rush.

  "It's... not what you think!" I stammered, glancing awkwardly at the impassive Albina. "It's for... culinary experiments!"

  And then I saw it: the corner of her mouth quirked upward in a subtle but undeniable smile. Just like back at the forge.

  I snatched the jug, muttering about "stupid jokes" and "outrageous nerve," and we pressed on, leaving the chuckling merchant behind.

  In my head, it echoed: "She smiled. Because of me. Damn, that's worth everything."

  I trudged through the bustling market, half-ready to snap at the next teasing vendor, when suddenly...

  ...Balthazar…