It was a beautiful sunset, with the vast stretches of the sea reflecting the stunning sky of the Central Islands.
In the distance, one could see a gigantic seaport full of ships constantly coming and going. In one of the port towers, enormous birds were also visible, carrying huge loads as they accompanied the ships sailing off in every direction.
Along the long, gravel-paved road, many caravans came and went continuously, like the steady flow of traffic.
Far away, atop a hill, three figures were walking toward the enormous wall that spanned the entire southern coast.
Han-Lee, Huo-Huo, and Fungi were making their slow way toward the seaport.
Their tortuous journey had ended. All three were quite dirty and damp after their long trek through the remaining jungle, yet not a single one of them bore even a single wound.
In fact, their final leg of the journey was not so bad. When they were escorted by the Sword Caravan, they could enjoy what might be called a peaceful trip; they marveled at the enormous security provided by a commercial caravan as grand as that of a kingdom. As guests, they could participate as they wished.
The difference between having only eight mercenaries in five wagons with only unarmed slaves versus a caravan filled with coordinated sorcerers was nothing short of impressive—especially in terms of speed.
Even though the entire caravan was extremely heavy, it moved at a speed worthy of lightning; and having to anchor their decrepit caravan to a massive war machine took only a few minutes.
They traveled surrounded by the luxury of being inside a finely decorated "tank," and even took the opportunity to purchase a few things with the money Fungi had saved from previous days.
Han-Lee ended up with a new sword, trading in the one he had, and paying for a curved sword made of a chromed lilac metal that could change its weight at the owner's will; he had almost run out of money but was satisfied with his purchase.
Huo-Huo ended up buying a very sharp hunting dagger and a rather large leather bag. It had not cost him much.
And Fungi only purchased some herbs to make tea.
Afterwards, once they were escorted away, they faced the horrors of the jungle again—but thanks to Fungi's soul-sense, they encountered no great difficulties, even though the caravan nearly gave its last moments of life and was destroyed.
They then had to continue on foot, cautiously crossing rivers and mud in the jungle; they did not take the main road in order not to be seen, even though it was the most direct path.
But nothing was in vain—they finally arrived. The three began talking as they headed along the path toward the gate.
"Finally, I can get rid of you, you stupid bastard," Han-Lee said.
Fungi merely stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed forward, his voice indifferent as he replied, "What are you complaining about? I could say I'm your benefactor on this occasion—tell me, did you really think you could have gotten here without my help? Besides, remember that we're headed in the same direction."
Han-Lee made a grimace of disgust.
"May the heavens fall before the idea of sharing a boat with you ever occurs—I'd rather board a ship tomorrow. What I said in the caravan when we first met… forget it, you're terrible."
Fungi simply shrugged.
"Suit yourself. I'll still miss a puppet that was useful to me."
Han-Lee was more than furious with the comment, and though Fungi only smirked with amusement, he refrained from testing his new sword on him—it wasn't as if Fungi intended to stop him…
Meanwhile, Huo-Huo broke the tension.
"Look, my journey will finish before both of yours. When I reach the destination, I'll stay behind and wait for the next caravans heading north."
Han-Lee looked at him confused and then with some disappointment said,
"Hey, don't leave so fast—I don't want to spend the entire night waiting for a ship to take me east. And what about you? What are your plans?"
"Don't you have anything pending?" Huo-Huo replied calmly.
"No, not really. But I'm a mercenary, and this is my life. I have no fixed home, nor do I wish to have one. As for friendships—I have none. I live and will die by my work."
Han-Lee glared at him with a tone of repulsion and anger.
"Where the hell did you drag me, bastard? I thought we had some chemistry—didn't even you question why on earth I'd search for the Venerable of Swords?!"
Huo-Huo only chuckled lightly.
"Pfft, we both knew we'd eventually part ways. Don't tell me you've grown fond of me in the end—but I won't say I didn't enjoy our time together. Still, I don't expect anyone will stick around in the end. I've known crazier people with even more absurd goals than chasing venerables; as long as it doesn't affect me, I couldn't care less."
Han-Lee just looked straight ahead with a grimace and replied,
"What a miserable life—I've always heard that you Crimson folk are lovers of strength and fighting. All those magnificent stories and legends don't suit you at all. At least tell me that you'll face a dragon or something."
Huo-Huo sighed.
"Not all of us are alike—that's what earned me my exile from my own home. I'm a wanderer of the islands, but I'm happy with what I have."
Fungi then turned his gaze toward Huo-Huo. He was not given to many expressions, yet he felt that something was truly not right. Although he hid his emotions, Fungi deeply sensed them; he never dared to ask why they didn't feel such closeness, and besides, Fungi had almost never spoken about his past—so it didn't seem fair, nor did he wish to be questioned about it.
Even though it wasn't something he was ashamed of, it would indeed cause him many problems. And if, for some additional reason, he ever mentioned the Soul Path or his identity as the "Saint Without Spells," he did not want to imagine what would happen.
He already had enough trouble trying to catch a ride to the Kingdom of the Sea Ancestor and hadn't found any fast means of transportation after nearly two wasted weeks—though he kept his concerns minimal. He planned to search for the materials he needed at the seaport or in the Kingdom of the Ancestor.
Fungi remained silent in his thoughts as he planned what to do if something went wrong. Meanwhile, Han-Lee and Huo-Huo spent the entire journey sharing travel anecdotes—they were far too loud even for Fungi, whose usual patience had waned in the presence of the two mercenaries. In an instant, the depressing atmosphere lifted for everyone.
Fungi even felt tempted to share an anecdote or two before they parted ways. He had always projected an image of someone cold and solitary, but he wasn't truly antisocial. He found it strange that he had only shared the calamities of his journey with them and knew he could never form a friendship like theirs—but at least seeing two people bonded so closely made him a little envious.
They really had nothing in common, and Fungi doubted even they would want to work with him, but seeing them share stories stirred some envy in him for having that privilege—although he himself had always chosen to remain a hermit.
After their conversation ended, they reached the gate where they split up. Han-Lee and Huo-Huo shook hands and went their separate ways, while Fungi quietly bid farewell with a subtle wave.
Only Huo-Huo acknowledged him, and Han-Lee made an offensive gesture.
Fungi said nothing further and turned away amid the crowd.
He headed for the boarding area, but on the way he stopped at the port's restrooms, retrieved some clothes from his storage cube, and changed into a similar outfit—but with fresh clothes—and donned his bamboo hat. He spent the day walking, inquiring about ships.
The streets of the seaport were enormous, with many roads lined with stalls or caravans that gave the vibe of a rural market. There were plenty of places to ask about ship departure times or destinations.
He went from place to place along the coast without stopping and even used the opportunity to ask about some materials he needed, but he got nothing.
He was a little disappointed—he had not expected the vendors to truly know what they had. In his eyes, he was just an ignoramus; after all, he was only responsible for keeping the sect's people happy. Although he doubted that they really knew how to properly use the material, it didn't matter much.
He would resolve his transportation material needs later. He even devised a plan to make enough money in one night at a casino in the East, on his way to the docks, where he asked if there were any ships available—the surprise being that some were scheduled to depart by the next morning. In the end, his journey had not been too bad.
With the gems he had, he paid a small fee near the coast to inspect the available ships and have dinner for that day. Afterward, he secluded himself in his room to practice with the Marine Serpent. He hadn't practiced much lately due to circumstances, and he was only an hour away from reaching the East by ship; he didn't want to work with the Kingdom of the Sea Ancestor without first mastering the Water Path.
He practiced all night molding the serpent—it wasn't very difficult, since he had experience manipulating souls, a process quite similar. Remembering that, Fungi used his connection with his decoy once again; this time, he took control and roamed through the sect. Everything looked relatively calm.
In the last days, the sect had changed. What had once been a modest structure with hardly any decoration was now filled with ornaments and handicrafts, all accompanied by chants—which were nothing more than a Soul spell disguised as praises.
He knew that ritual well—it was merely a small and innocent offering from the soul, enough so as not to cause any notably negative effects, though it normally caused some fatigue.
The soul can regenerate naturally as long as it isn't damaged by gravity or its recovery capacity is less than the damage. Fungi recalled that when he practiced soul rituals, he had accidentally caused the death of everyone present that day. He was just a child then—even though he had killed before, he felt terrible knowing he could have easily avoided that in a ritual that was designed to be safe, if one so desired.
"Poor bastards."
That was all Fungi could think. Then he shifted his gaze elsewhere; he wanted to search for Secil.
He felt very uncomfortable not knowing anything about her. He knew she spent most of her time outside the sect, searching for ritual materials, but he couldn't tell whether she had already gathered those materials somewhere or even see any signs of her soul. Not that he doubted she had a storage tool—it just seemed odd.
Disconnecting his soul-sense from his puppet, he returned to his practice, following the flow of his path but disturbed by the signs of calmness—he did not believe that she would come looking for him, much less in another continent. He hoped not.
He cleared his thoughts and continued practicing with the Marine Serpent until the next day when new ships would depart…
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
"Hey, you're terrible at cooking!"
"I told you it wouldn't taste good from the start…"
"What? Have you never tried a good spider heart once in a while?"
"I would never try something so precarious. God, Kayn, you really have terrible taste…"
"Ha! And where are you staying? I remember who you're supposed to be accompanying, Rengar…"
It was a very cold night in the mountains. Two people were camping in the midst of the dismal forest of the Central Islands. Around a campfire, two people huddled together under the same wolfskin blanket.
Around them lay dozens of beast carcasses; all were dismembered and mutilated, piled up to form a small wall, not very high, that blocked the light around the campfire.
On the campfire, the organs of a terrible spider were being cooked—each part so large that it had to be held with both hands. Meanwhile, the carcass of the terrible beast was being used by the pair of travelers as a makeshift shelter. The night after they had dissected its innards hours before, its head served as the chair where both were seated, chatting calmly.
One of them was Rengar, a rather tall man with little muscle who had long, unruly white hair with pointed sides and disheveled locks that spread down his long head all the way to his back.
Regarding his attire, he wore a gray leather armor accompanied by a black cloak and hood that nearly reached the ground; under the armor, he had on a long yellow shirt the color of mustard and gray trousers, tied with a hunting leather belt, and sturdy, thick boots. He also wore a bandage scarf and red glasses to conceal his face.
He had a somewhat battered face with small gray spots like freckles and crimson eyes that seemed to glow in the dark—a pallid, damaged complexion. In his hand, he held a rather rudimentary sword that looked more like a carved bone than an iron sword; its hilt was made of mere rags, serving as a grip, while the blade was completely irregular, running in several directions.
The other person was Kayn—a woman of medium height with finely slanted crimson eyes, beautiful, well-cared-for porcelain skin, and a lock of dark chestnut hair falling messily over her face, partially covering one eye while the rest of her hair, equally dark and rebellious, fell in pointed strands down to her nape.
She wore a short, oriental crimson kimono adorned with white and mustard-yellow patterns. Her obi was simple—a white one tied with golden cords—and she wore black, knee-length leggings, barely covered by the boots she wore.
Overall, her ensemble accentuated her figure remarkably; from afar, she looked like a well-decorated doll—in contrast with her dark companion.
Even though both were traveling through forests where many caravans suffered and travelers lost their lives, they were impeccably clean and orderly, and they were chatting calmly after a skirmish against the forest beasts.
"Hey Kayn, how much further until we reach the cult of the Holy Priest who doesn't use magic?"
Kayn looked at him with a slight smile and drew a map carefully on the ground with a branch in just a few moments.
"If my knowledge serves me right, we're only a few hours away if we maintain our usual pace; we could arrive by early tomorrow, though I'd prefer it be around midday. I wouldn't want to disturb the priest during his breakfast—and a stop at a village near the mountains wouldn't be bad. I'd like to buy something to offer him as a token of respect."
Rengar sighed and, with a somewhat doubtful tone, asked, "Are you completely sure that this is the person we've been looking for?"
Kayn, with a tone of restrained joy and excitement, looked him straight in the face and said, "Of course he is, Rengar! The description of a sorcerer who doesn't utter a word, who performs healing miracles with just a touch, who lives a wandering life—it can only be a Sorcerer of the Soul Path. There is no other explanation; my predictions have not been wrong for years."
Rengar looked at him again, filled with doubt.
"But what happens if he isn't the person we were expecting?"
Kayn simply smiled.
"There's no way of knowing until we meet him, but for now, let's remain positive instead of spending years trying to find another Soul Path sorcerer."
Rengar wanted to say something more, but decided to remain silent. After all, they had traveled from very far away for months, and the thought that their efforts might have been in vain did not please him. He chose to keep a positive mindset.
After a while, the pair ended their conversation. With what remained of the night, they were clear that at least tomorrow their arduous journey would be over, and they preferred to rest—even though in that inhospitable jungle, they would have to remain ever vigilant for any surprise.
Even so, at midnight, a sound among the leaves and the soft rustling of footsteps was noticed—the first to see it was Kayn, who lifted his gaze to the darkness, and that same darkness returned his gaze.
Without any fear, he spoke to whatever was hiding in the shadows with a smile:
"By any chance, do you know the Saint Without Magic?"
Then, a woman emerged from the darkness within seconds...