After the celebrations, the city prepared for a small afternoon feast, with every household contributing a meal for the community. The foreman tried to persuade us to stay at least until then, but I couldn't shake the urgency gnawing at me. I had already spent nearly a month preparing for this. Annie's farm couldn't wait any longer.
"Alright then, at least take something with you," Mayor Durand said, his tone carrying a hint of disappointment. He then called someone over.
"What do you need, Mayor?" the man asked.
Wait—wait, wait, wait.
"You're the mayor!?" I blurted out. The man tilted his head in confusion while Durand—now officially Mayor Durand—turned toward me with his usual serious expression.
"Got a problem with that, kid?"
"No, sir—just wish I'd known earlier."
It all made sense now—how he rallied the people so easily, how he delivered that speech so effortlessly.
Durand ordered the man to fetch my "reward," and he sprinted off to get it. A reward? Maybe some enchanted gear? A rare or even exotic-quality item? Hopefully not a weapon, though—I already had that covered.
"Uh, Mayor Durand, sir… I don't think I ever got your name."
Durand snorted, then burst into a hearty laugh, shaking his head as he wiped his eyes.
"You never asked, ya idiot! It's Durand."
The runner returned, leading my so-called reward—a saddled ox. The same one I had led into the clearing before.
"We don't have much, but you deserve this, at least," Durand said. "Born and raised here—sturdy and loyal. He'll carry whatever junk you pick up on your travels. Treat him well."
I stepped closer, cautiously reaching out to pet the ox's head. It didn't flinch.
Durand sighed, crossing his arms. "So, once again, why the hell are you two leaving? You've done enough to be permanent residents here. We could use the manpower."
Brynjolf stood tall, his voice unwavering. "I seek redemption—to restore my honor as a Nord. I will travel the ends of Coridia to find it."
Durand gave him a nod, as if he understood completely. Then his eyes landed on me. "And you, Marcus?"
I hesitated. "...I just want to get stronger. To help people."
Durand scoffed. "Bah. You young'uns and your dreams."
He offered a handshake to Brynjolf, who took it—gripping firmly, testing each other's strength before giving a nod of mutual respect. I extended my own hand, only for Durand to swat it away and pull me into a crushing embrace.
"Stay safe, son," he muttered.
"...Thanks," I said, patting his back—
And suddenly, he twisted. My feet left the ground. Before I even processed what was happening, I slammed onto my back, the wind knocked out of me.
Did this old man just hip-throw me?!
Durand let out the loudest cackle I'd ever heard from him. Usually so gruff, so serious—yet here he was, laughing like a madman.
"Wow," Brynjolf said flatly.
"Still a thousand years too young to beat me," Durand declared smugly.
Oh, hell no. "Yeah? Want me to prove you wrong?" I shot back, pushing myself up. My competitive spirit flared—I was not walking away with an L.
Durand just grinned and turned away. "Nah. Got shit to do. Come back sometime, will ya?"
...What a weird way to ask if I'd visit.
With that, I grabbed the reins of my ox and set off down the road with Brynjolf.
"Want to come with me?" I asked. "I'm doing the same thing—traveling, helping people."
"Sure. Thanks for helping me reclaim my legend," Brynjolf said.
Once we reached the open road, I climbed into the saddle and grabbed the reins. That's when a message appeared before me.
Would you like to soul-bind this mount?
I selected Yes—and suddenly, green light enveloped both me and the ox. A few seconds later, another message confirmed the bond was complete.
...Wait. Did Brynjolf see that?
"Astonishing," he muttered.
"...Huh?"
"The most skilled beastmasters take months to bind their spirit to an animal… and you did it in mere moments," Brynjolf said, his voice laced with disbelief.
Shit. Did that just expose me as a player?
"...Wow. I don't know what happened. Guess this ox just likes me," I said, feigning innocence.
"Hmph."
I flinched. That wasn't from Brynjolf. I glanced at my ox. It shook its head.
Did it just… talk?
"Perhaps," Brynjolf mused. Then, with a commanding tone, he called out: "Fenrir!"
Green light engulfed him as well, lifting his massive frame—then, in seconds, he was astride a saddled white Great Wolf, easily as large as my ox. Seeing the mount-up animation from the game up close was surreal.
"Let us make haste, brother. Where to next?"
I shook off the shock and focused. "We turn right past the bridge, then follow the road to a farm."
Brynjolf nodded, tugging his reins. His wolf shot forward in a burst of speed, kicking up dust.
"Hey, you gonna let that wolf beat you?" I challenged.
My ox inclined its head. "No. Hold on tight."
Before I could react, it surged forward, accelerating into a full gallop! The wind lashed against my face as we closed in on the wolf's tail. My ox was blindingly fast in a straight line but struggled on sharp turns, forcing it to slow down before bursting forward again. After a few minutes, we spotted Brynjolf slowing down. We followed suit.
"Brother… is this the farm you spoke of?"
I looked ahead—and my stomach dropped.
It was barely recognizable. The cornstalks were shriveled and dead. The garden was overrun with wurm monsters, their segmented bodies writhing through the soil. The cows were scattered, cowering behind whatever cover they could find.
And the barn… two bandits stood outside, flipping a coin and laughing to themselves.
But where was Annie?
Rage bubbled inside me. "...Brynjolf, take care of the wurms. I'll handle the bandits."
"Right."
Brynjolf spurred Fenrir forward, charging into the garden. He leaped from his mount, twin steel axes flashing in the light. His wolf joined the fight—something I'd never seen in the game before.
"You need help?" my ox asked in my mind.
I shook my head, dismounting. Slowly, deliberately, I walked toward the two bandits.
They finally noticed me. Both wore red and white bandanas over their faces, jagged patterns resembling shark teeth.
I checked their levels. Bandit, Level 5.
Three levels below me. Easy work.
"Where's Annie?" I demanded, my glare locked onto them.
They exchanged glances, then snickered. One stepped forward, arms crossed.
"Dead," he said. His voice sent a shiver down my spine—because I recognized it.
The same bastard who had killed me before.
"...And you're next."
A furnace ignited within me—my core burned, my neck seared with heat—yet I felt eerily calm. My body brimmed with fury, but my mind sharpened like a blade. I wouldn't hold back. I wouldn't give them a chance. Before they died, they would know fear and pain.
"I'm going to rip your eyes out and choke you both with your entrails."
I settled into my stance—orthodox, left foot forward, right foot back—but I adjusted, tucking my left arm low across my waist, chin shielded behind my shoulder, right fist tight against my cheek. The Philly Shell—the ultimate defense, made famous by legends.
I advanced in short, measured steps. The bandit brandished his knife, but I saw it—hesitation. His eyes darted, uncertain. I stomped forward in a feint, and he panicked, leaping back, swinging wildly.
He was scared. Good.
I stalked closer, flicking out my left arm—phantom jabs—never touching him, just filling the space, pressuring him.
"Damn it!" he cursed before lunging. His shoulders tensed. His elbow lifted. Slow.
I stepped in, parrying his forearm with mine, halting his strike. My back foot pivoted, my hips twisted, and I drove a straight right into his face. Bone crunched—his nose shattered, lip split. The wet thwack of impact echoed, sickening.
He reeled backward, wobbling. I snatched his face with my left hand, locking my grip, then pivoted into another right straight, smashing into his chin. His body stiffened, then collapsed. Out cold.
"Y-you monster!" The second bandit stammered, unsheathing a longsword.
In response, I pressed my boot down on his fallen comrade's skull, crushing it until his health dropped to zero. My XP bar ticked up. My greaves, now slick with crimson and brain matter, felt heavier.
"Gregory, no!"
I raised my hands, high guard, stepping just outside his reach. His sword—a near four-foot extension of his trembling grip—gave him the advantage. I circled, skipping on my toes, calculating. I had to close the distance without getting skewered.
A shorter fighter in boxing or MMA had to bulldoze their way inside, but a sword was different. A single mistake meant death. I couldn't tank a stab to the face. Could I fight dirty? An eye gouge? A groin shot? Too far.
I dashed forward, inches from the tip of his blade, bobbing my head erratically. He twitched. The moment his elbows retracted for a thrust, I slipped left, bending at the hip—dodge.
Now.
I smacked the blade aside with my gauntlet, creating an opening.
No, not yet. Not deep enough.
Instead, I unsheathed the throwing axe at my belt and hurled it. He barely managed to block, raising his arms, blade catching the axe mid-flight.
His weapon was occupied.
I sprinted in, diving low, my left knee planting as I stepped forward. My head drove into his stomach, my arms snatching his hamstring, catching him in a blast double-leg takedown attempt.
I surged forward. He slammed onto his back, breath blasting from his lungs. His sword clattered free from his hands.
I pressed my shoulder down, keeping him pinned down as I walk my left leg over his legs, scooting my butt to sit on his stomach in a full mount.
Before he could react, I yanked his longsword from his fingers and flung it aside.
Sword versus unarmed was always a losing battle. But grappling? Grappling was different. No luck, no guesswork. If the swordsman could keep a grappler away, they won. If the grappler closed the distance...
The swordsman dies.
I rained down punches. My fists caved in his face, over and over. Bone cracked. Skin split. He tried to shield himself—I ripped his wrist away and drove a downward elbow straight into his forehead.
With each strike, something inside me whispered.
Weak.
His skull gave way, flesh and bone crumbling beneath my gauntlets.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
My fist rose for another blow.
Then—pressure.
A vice closed around my wrist. Not just tight. Crushing.
Pain jolted up my arm. My bones groaned under the force. I snarled, trying to rip free, but the grip did not budge.
A voice spoke up. Low and steady.
"...It is over, brother. Do not let the beast inside you devour your humanity.", Brynjolf said.
The embers of my fury snuffed out. The red haze receded.
I looked down. The body beneath me...
Its face—unrecognizable. Popped eyes. A caved-in skull. Teeth scattered like broken glass.
My gauntlets, dripping with warm crimson, trembled.
"...You're right. I'm sorry."
I pushed off, exhaling, the battle's weight sinking in.
"What about the wurms?" I asked.
"Already dealt with," Brynjolf said, his tone reassuring.
I stepped aside, peering past his broad frame—carnage. Wurm guts were strewn across the garden, steaming pools of acidic bile eating into the earth. A massacre.
...And yet, somehow, what he did looked worse than mine. Are we sure Brynjolf gets to be the voice of reason here?
We moved into the barn. Empty. Almost.
A rustle behind the crates.
We followed the sound—an old woman, bound and gagged. Farmer Annie.
Her clothes were torn, but she looked unharmed. She blinked up at us, her breathing shallow. Relief flooded through me. We made it in time.
I knelt beside her, reaching for the gag. "It's okay, ma'am. We're here to help."
She flinched.
My fingers stopped just shy of the cloth. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body rigid against the wooden floor. My stomach twisted. That wasn't relief in her eyes.
It was fear.
Her gaze darted between me and Brynjolf. Then lower.
I followed her line of sight. My gauntlets, dripping crimson. My boots, caked in flesh and bone.
The bodies outside. The destruction.
She trembled violently, her head shaking, muffled pleas spilling from behind the gag—not for help.
For mercy.
I slowly retracted my hands, heart pounding.
"...Are we really the heroes here?"