The caravan was finally ready for departure, a massive, creaking assembly of wood, iron, and horseflesh that signaled the end of my time in Targashar. We had spent the early morning packing our few belongings, a task made infinitely easier by the specific perks of my Dungeon Raider job. The inventory system was a strange, invisible convenience, but it carried its own set of rigid rules. I had discovered that as long as a single item did not exceed ten kilograms, I could slip it into one of my available slots with a mere thought.

  However, the system was literal to a fault; it wouldn't allow me to mix different items in the same slot. To bypass this limitation, I had spent the previous evening perfecting the art of "bundling." By wrapping daily necessities, spare clothes, and loose coins into tightly packed bundles that stayed under the ten-kilogram limit, I could treat the entire package as a single item. This allowed me to clear my physical space without cluttering my mental interface. I was careful, however, to keep my potions and antidotes separate and easily accessible. In the heat of a battle or a sudden ambush, I couldn't afford the few seconds it would take to untie a bundle just to reach a life-saving vial.

  When we made our final exit from the inn, I noticed the innkeeper looked a bit more than just professionally upset. I didn't think he had grown fond of me as a person, but he was undoubtedly mourning the loss of a consistent, high-paying customer. I decided to leave on a high note; I let him keep the change for our final meals and the extra hot water service as a tip, asking only for the single silver coin that remained from my prepaid accommodation fee. It was a small gesture, but seeing his face soften slightly as we walked out the door made the departure feel a bit less clinical.

  We met the caravan near the eastern city gate, in a wide staging area just beyond the outer reaches of the shopping district. The merchant who owned the entire operation greeted us with a nod and immediately handed over two gold coins—our upfront payment. Since Namo was my slave, I took both coins without hesitation. We were promised another two gold upon our successful arrival in Darsalan, and the weight of the new currency in my pouch did wonders for my mood. It was a significant investment on the merchant's part; he had hired over ten guards for this trip, which suggested that the road toward the capital was far from a scenic stroll.

  I sought out one of the other guards, a man who looked like a seasoned close-combat warrior, to ask about the high security. He leaned against a wagon wheel and explained that because Targashar was situated in the rough outskirts of the kingdom, the frequency of bandit attacks was significantly higher than in the more policed central provinces. Furthermore, the road conditions were abysmal. Under perfect circumstances, the trip to Darsalan should have taken eight days, but between the neglected dirt tracks and the threat of ambushes, the merchant was realistically budgeting for ten days or more.

  Once the merchant had performed his final tally of the goods and personnel, he signaled for the departure. I was relieved to see that we wouldn't be marching on foot. The caravan consisted of five large horse-drawn carriages. The merchant sat at the head of the first carriage beside the coachman, leading the way as the master of the convoy. The first and last carriages were reserved for the guards and the merchant’s personal servants, while the middle three were packed to the brim with trade goods.

  After we took our positions in the rear carriage, the caravan finally lurched into motion. The air was filled with the sudden, sharp neighing of horses and the heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves striking the earth. At the city gate, the merchant exchanged a few brief words and handed over official documentation to the guards on duty. After a few minutes of inspection, the heavy iron gates groaned open, and we left Targashar behind, heading east toward a future that felt as vast and uncertain as the horizon.

  Year 1450, month 11, and day 3 of the Eonmark Reckoning.

  Four days had passed since we left the walls of Targashar. The early reports about the roads had been accurate; the first forty-eight hours had been a grueling slog through deep ruts and uneven terrain. However, as we moved further into the heart of the country, the dirt paths began to give way to more structured, well-maintained thoroughfares. The scenery was shifting, and the constant jolting of the carriage had settled into a more predictable, rhythmic swaying.

  “Do you see those walls over there?”

  The man sitting next to me, Kaelen, pointed toward the horizon. Over the last four days, I had found myself engaging with the other guards more frequently. Excluding Namo and myself, there were twelve guards in total. For some reason, the merchant had decided to pack all fourteen of us into the final carriage, while his servants occupied the first. It felt like an inefficient distribution of defensive power—if the front of the caravan was attacked, it would take us precious seconds to dismount and sprint to the lead—but the merchant didn't seem particularly concerned with the arrangement.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The other guards were mostly organized into established parties. Kaelen was part of a balanced group of six who usually made their living in the dungeons, just as I had. He was a swordsman in his late twenties, with a few early streaks of white beginning to show in his hair. Despite his age, his eyes were incredibly sharp, possessing the kind of focused intensity that made you glad he was on your side of the blade.

  The rest of his party was equally distinct. There was Rezak, a tall, grumpy spearman with dark reddish hair who rarely had anything positive to say; Tarwin, an archer with hawk-like eyes who spent almost every waking moment scanning the distant treeline for movement; and Damir, an ordinary-looking dungeon raider who handled the technical navigation. Then there was Yarin, the party’s tank. He was a bit older than the others and possessed a weary, wise look on his face. He had served as an appointed soldier during a minor clash between local lords years ago, and he carried himself with a certain "boomer" energy that both commanded respect and invited light-hearted teasing from his younger comrades.

  Lastly, there was Selvia, the party's priestess. She was a temporary member, a young woman with platinum blonde hair and striking blue eyes who was traveling to gain "field experience" away from the quiet confines of her temple. She was elegant and possessed a soft voice, but she had a firm, uncompromising personality. I often watched her platinum lashes flutter as she frowned, scolding Yarin for some minor breach of etiquette or a crude joke.

  Her job was the one that intrigued me the most. I had learned that becoming a priest was an incredibly grueling academic and spiritual endeavor. Selvia had spent years studying as both a Herbalist and a Scholar before the temple would even consider her for the priesthood. While I didn't know the exact level requirements for those prerequisites, the sheer amount of discipline required to master both disciplines made her a formidable asset to any group.

  The second party of six, led by an archer named Drenil, was far less approachable. It included Omarin, a sword-warrior; Tharek, a burly man who favored a heavy axe; Nivald, another raider; Boskar, a herbalist; and Naima, a female catkin who shared the Beast Warrior job with Namo. They were a cold, unfriendly bunch, and I hadn't yet found a way to bridge the social gap with them. As long as they did their jobs and stayed out of my way, I was content to leave them to their silence.

  As for Namo, he remained as asocial as ever. When the other guards realized he was a slave, their reactions were a mixture of pity and awkwardness. They tried to be helpful, offering him extra water or space in the carriage, with Selvia being the most vocal. She clearly harbored a deep-seated disapproval of slave owners, and her initial looks toward me had been sharp and judgmental. However, as she watched me treat Namo with consistent kindness and ensure he was well-fed, her opinion seemed to normalize. She eventually started to speak with me as she would any other traveler.

  “Hey! Han! Oooiii! Can you hear me?”

  I snapped out of my internal monologue, realizing that Kaelen had been trying to get my attention for several seconds.

  “Huh!?” I blinked, shaking my head to clear the thoughts.

  “Did you hear a word I said?” he asked, looking amused.

  “Oh, sorry, Kaelen. I was lost in thought. What did you say?”

  “Phew! I said, look at the walls over there. Those are the city walls of Velshara,” he explained, pointing toward a distant skyline. We were currently traveling along a high mountainside road, which gave us a spectacular, panoramic view of the surrounding valleys.

  “It's not one of our scheduled stops, right?” I asked. I knew the merchant’s itinerary by heart, but I wanted to keep the conversation going.

  “No,” Kaelen said with a slight smile. “The merchant was very clear—no stops until Darsalan. It’s just a shame to pass it by. The view from up here is one of the best in the kingdom.”

  “Yes, you're rig—”

  “Hey, Kaelen! Guards! Out now!”

  The agreement was cut short by a frantic, high-pitched yell from the merchant at the front of the caravan. The sound carried sharply through the thin mountain air. Everyone in the last carriage shared a brief, tense look of realization. Before the merchant could even finish his shout, the guards were already diving out of the moving carriage, weapons being drawn and shields braced.

  Something was very wrong. The peace of the mountain road had been shattered, and as I gripped the hilt of my sword, I knew our journey was about to get a lot more complicated.

  [Edited]