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Chapter 239: Draconic Exhalation
🕑 Added 2025-08-20 01:43:13 +0000 UTCA wanted poster had just been raised. The “photo” was nothing more than a hand-drawn sketch, but this one hit closer to the mark. Sharper de
A wanted poster had just been raised. The “photo” was nothing more than a hand-drawn sketch, but this one hit closer to the mark. Sharper details, a clearer resemblance, even his kukris had been sketched in.
They had artists this good all along and only decided to use them now?
His mind spiraled through possibilities. It was deliberate. While he had been gone, they had circulated a crude drawing, vague enough to make him harder to track. But now that he had resurfaced, they had waited, patient and calculated, for him to edge close to the Safe Zone again before unveiling a more accurate portrait.
“This criminal is the one who murdered Angelica,” the man addressing the crowd declared. “He’s extremely dangerous and works with the renegades, or what’s left of them. If you spot him, don’t try to capture him. Just notify our soldiers and you’ll earn the bounty all the same.”
Another stepped forward. “Burn that face into your memory. The new posters will be up across the city square soon.”
Luke lingered in the shadow of a tree, careful not to let the light betray him. If this updated identity spread, he would lose access to the Safe Zone. And with it, his entire plan to keep mapping the fortress and eventually return to the second mechanism would collapse.
“You can go back to work,” Cardon dismissed the gathering.
One by one, people shuffled back to their routines: carpenters hammering away, laborers hauling timber, gatherers plucking fruit, apprentices being drilled in their trades.
A low whistle sounded at Luke’s side.
“One year of easy living in Bastion, no work, no worries. Would you take it, James?” Rhett asked.
“And miss out on your charming commentary? Not a chance,” James muttered, quickening his pace toward another tree.
Luke pressed his palm against the rough bark of one he had bonded with, sending a thought into it. If anything suspicious happens nearby, let me know. Pass the word to your sisters too.
Ever since learning to handle his mana with more precision, he had deepened his grasp of [Botanical Bond of Mother Freya], enough to communicate through thought as long as he maintained contact. His hand became the root, a living bridge. Of course, the only way to hear the tree’s response was by touching it, so he resolved to circle back every twenty minutes.
He returned to chopping wood. The more intelligent trees were the ones that bore fruit, and those were spared. Even when one fell beneath his axe, it wasn’t death. A tree’s life was in its roots, deep beneath the soil, always ready to sprout again. Still, for every trunk he felled, he let a drop of his blood seep into the earth beside it.
[You have befriended a Douglas Fir Tree (Common)]
Your profession [Guardian Botanist of Mother Freya] has reached Level 55! (+5 Strength, +3 Agility, +4 Vitality, +4 Intelligence, +12 Free Points)
The tree responded in kind, weaving a bond of friendship through the offering of blood. Luke thanked it quietly, then heaved the log onto his shoulder, feigning struggle as he dragged it across the ground.
“Hey Jack, how do you chop down so many trees so fast?”
Jack looked up with a grin. “Because I’m a lumberjack. My profession helps.”
By lunchtime, Eddie was handing out food to his crew. Luke sat with his back against a tree, letting its presence settle him. If anything hostile stirred nearby, the tree would warn him with a pulse of thought.
Jack sat close by, spooning food into his mouth when a soldier passing through shouted, “Hey, Jack Bean!”
“I’m eating,” Jack muttered without even looking up.
“But are you eating beans?” The soldier nearly cracked, his face straining to contain the laugh.
Jack sighed heavily. “Yes. I’m eating beans.”
The soldier exploded, wheezing laughter, slapping his own legs as he staggered off.
Luke waited until the idiot vanished into the market crowd before asking, “What the hell was that?”
Jack murmured, barely moving his lips, “I’m Jack Bean.”
Luke blinked. “Okay, but… what does that even mean?”
Jack set his spoon down and stared into the void. “When I was a kid, I was the co-host of a children’s show. There were jingles. About beans.”
Luke frowned. “And they recognized you? Just like that? Grown up?”
Jack shrugged. “When I was sixteen, I got arrested for drunk driving. During the interview, some reporter asked if I was ‘Jack Bean.’ I snapped. Told him to shove beans where beans don’t belong.”
Luke blinked slowly. “…You became a meme.”
“Yeah.” Jack’s voice was equal parts sad and resigned. “My parents were splitting up, I was in a spiral… but I took responsibility. Did community service. Volunteered. I changed. I converted.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “Converted… like, religiously?”
Jack nodded. “I’m a follower of the Goddess of Kindness.”
“So that’s why you ended up stuck in this tutorial?”
“I wanted to formalize my devotion. So I turned myself in to the system to enter her church properly.” He lifted the necklace around his neck, showing the pendant. “I carved the symbol of the Church of Kindness. It’s our Goddess.”
Luke studied the wooden carving: a woman with pointed ears.
“Dude, that’s Princess Zelda.”
“No, it’s not Princess Zelda. It’s Caelina, Goddess of Kindness.”
Luke squinted again. “Still looks like Princess Zelda to me.”
“You’re wrong,” Jack insisted, staring at the pendant. He hesitated, then exhaled. “Okay, maybe a little. But it’s the Goddess of Kindness.”
“Pretty sure whoever carved that was a Zelda fan,” Luke muttered.
“I carved it myself. And no, I wasn’t inspired by Zelda.”
Luke paused, deadpan. “So you’re telling me there’s actually a goddess out there who looks like Princess Zelda? Makes sense she’s got so many followers.”
Jack ignored the jab, his expression softening. “Coincidences aside, Caelina is pure and radiant. Her followers’ words were enough to change me.”
“You’re not about to preach that salvation stuff to me, right? Good deeds, eternal light, all that crap?”
Jack smiled. “I believe everyone can be saved, James. Even killers.”
Luke nearly choked on his food, staring at him. He couldn’t tell if Jack had just stumbled onto the truth or if it was simply the blind faith of a zealot who thought salvation was universal.
Rhett dropped down between them, pointing his spoon toward a cluster of workers. “Those damn haulers. They make more coin than us, and all they do is walk crap back and forth to the Safe Zone. Half the time they drag their feet just to stretch it out.”
Jack shook his head. “A transporter has a storage item bound only to them. That makes their service incredibly valuable.”
He watched the group at work. They pressed their rings against the logs, and one by one the heavy trunks vanished into the pocket dimension of their storage items. Without horses, this was how everything moved, timber, water barrels, even supplies. Paying a transporter with a bound item was far easier than wasting an entire day dragging loads across the zone. James, the identity he wore, had no storage item. Which meant he was stuck carrying a plain backpack everywhere, pretending it was the only way he could haul things.
Before sunset he was already back in the city square of the Safe Zone, sitting alone at a tavern table with his journal open. The pages were filled with rough sketches and notes, a record of everything he had done these past days. Each page mapped a different route through Bastion’s fortress, hallways, branching passages, floors carefully separated.
He could have drawn maps inside the second fortress itself, but that would have been reckless. Too much risk of tipping off the Warden Captain about what he was really planning.
“I need a damn shovel,” he muttered, eyes still on the journal.
The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was still a plan. Assassins couldn’t afford impulse; they had to stalk their prey with patience, like a predator in tall grass. That was what he was doing now: waiting, plotting, sharpening the edges of an idea that might just work. His reckless schemes had saved him before. He could only hope this one would too.
***
He stopped at a stall, the one that sold arrows. He had timed it carefully so Oswald would not be around.
“Hello,” he said as he stepped closer.
“Hello. Looking for something?” The man behind the counter did not bother to stand, busy carving a strip of wood with steady hands. A different attendant than last time.
Luke laid a stack of Bastion bills on the counter. The currency worked like dollars. Ten days of labor had earned him five hundred of them.
“How much for uncommon arrows?” he asked, keeping it direct.
“That depends. Are we talking piercing, tearing, barbed? Or maybe something special? I have one with fletching designed for speed, another with a weighted tip to stagger targets.” The man launched into his sales pitch.
Luke exhaled. “I want a good, durable arrow. Simple. Something that can punch through thick leather.”
The vendor pulled a few from his storage item. “Fifteen each.”
“Fifteen?” His chest tightened.
I thought I’d be able to buy a hundred…
“What did you expect?” the man asked flatly. “Every piece here costs labor. A blacksmith forged the tips, someone cut the shafts, and some lunatic risked his life killing a Wild Zone beast just to bring back feathers.”
Luke slid bills across the counter. “I’m not complaining about the price. Just give me everything this covers.”
The vendor counted and placed five arrows on the counter.
“That’s it?”
“Anything above rare is restricted. Only Bastion’s army can purchase it, and even then under supervision. As for arrows, bolts, and throwables, uncommon is the limit, and you are capped at five per week.”
Per week? Bartholomew, you bastard…
“If you want, I can sell you twenty commons.” The man chuckled.
“Who even buys common arrows?”
“Plenty. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have an enchanted quiver. Some poor fool gets robbed out there, or panics and drops theirs running from monsters. And then there are idiots who rolled melee classes and suddenly decide they want to try archery. They do not get starter gear from the system. So yes, commons sell.”
Luke understood now. Losing his quiver would be a nightmare.
“Got your work slip? You do have one, right?” the vendor asked. “We only sell to registered workers.”
“Yeah.” He pulled it from his pack.
It was a stamped sheet from Eddie’s company, listing Luke’s appearance. Older employees even had little hand-drawn portraits added.
“Looks fine.” The man nodded.
Bartholomew’s brand of control. Frightening, but efficient. The Safe Zone’s economy ran on rails because of it. The vendor wrote down the details from Luke’s slip, what he bought, how many, the date, and scrawled his signature on a clipboard.
“Use them well, and hopefully you make it back from the Wild Zone to buy more.”
If you’d just sell me more, I could guarantee I’d come back alive.
Five arrows a week. That limit alone threatened to wreck his plans. He had aimed to stockpile a hundred, not crawl toward the goal over twenty weeks. He would have to make do with less.
Maybe I could get someone else to buy arrows for me… or would that raise suspicion?
As he walked away, the sheer precision of Bartholomew’s system sank in. Limiting powerful weapons kept people too weak to stage a rebellion. And the enchanted quiver? Even spitting out nothing but common arrows, it was priceless.
How the hell did Legolas always have so many?
***
“Is that all?” the vendor asked.
Luke stood at another street stall in the city square. He had expected to blow through his small fortune on arrows, but that plan had already gone down in flames. At least he could work through the rest of his list.
“That’s all.”
“You want the gardening shovel for heavier jobs, or what?”
“The iron one will do,” he said, pointing at it.
“What else you got in that pack?”
He reached toward his bag, then stopped, pulling something from his pocket instead: folded bills marked with the crown sigil.
“Do you take Bastion notes?”
“Of course!” the vendor’s face brightened. “That’ll be twenty-five. I’ll take those over junk any day.”
Which left him with four hundred still tucked away. As he walked down the street, someone called out.
“Hey, James! You sticking around for dinner tonight, or chasing after another woman?” Jack grinned.
“You make me sound like some kind of scoundrel.”
'Wait, you’re not a scoundrel? Wow, plot twist.' Artemis muttered dryly in his head.
Jack smirked. “One or two drinks, and all you’ve got to endure is an hour-long sermon about the Goddess of Kindness.”
He was ready to brush it off, until he glanced to the side and froze. Thiara. The healer from Haven, walking with a large group. His blood went cold. He had always kept his distance from anyone tied to Haven.
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” he said quickly, stepping closer to Jack.
The two of them moved through the bustling street until they stopped at the entrance of a tavern.
“Wait, this is where you’re actually taking me?”
“What, don’t like it? Great service here. Heard some fool even bought the whole place a round the other night.” Jack chuckled.
“I know,” Luke muttered. “I was that fool.”
***
Allison stood inside the command tent with the core members of the Haven, the map spread across the table between them. They were discussing how to deal with the Orc Lord, the creature enthroned at the heart of the village, surrounded by his army.
“There must be at least five hundred of them,” Miriam said grimly.
The rough sketch of the orc settlement lay covered in notes and markings.
“He’s in there, ringed by troops,” Mason pointed out, “but you all know that’s not the real problem, don’t you?”
“The ballistae,” Quinn answered.
Four troublesome structures had been circled on the map, each topped with a massive siege weapon. Medieval military crossbows, fixed in place and deadly accurate.
“Even if we break through the outer guard, we’ll still have to deal with those,” Mason said.
For now they were safe in the forest. The thick line of trees shielded them from the machines’ line of fire. The orc village itself was surrounded by a reinforced palisade. Last time they had scaled it with ropes and ladders, only to abandon most of their equipment when the orc army countered.
“There’s a ballista tower here,” Mason said, tapping the map. “Built directly into the wall. It’s the farthest from the village center, and it faces us head-on.”
“Then we should attack another section,” Quinn suggested.
Allison studied the map carefully. “Archers are the bigger issue. They’re fast, persistent, and once the alarms go off, reinforcements will flood whatever side we hit.”
They had set out seventy strong. Three were already dead from their first strike against the orc village. In all their time surviving together in the dungeon, no one had fallen. And now, in their very first fight outside, three lives were gone.
“Five hundred orcs on average…” Eugene muttered.
“Count higher. Always expect worse,” Gilbert warned.
“A thousand,” Mason said flatly. “Plan for a thousand.”
“They’re weak, though. Most are only level twenty to twenty-five,” Miriam countered. “A few months ago, one of us facing three level twenty-fives would’ve been suicide. But things are different now.”
Different indeed. Most of them were sitting at class level twenty-five to thirty, and profession level twenty to thirty-five. Allison herself was level forty. And she had undergone a class mutation: Draconic Swordsman. That made her far stronger than any average forty, her lineage powers amplifying her ice abilities into something lethal.
“That still averages out to about fifteen orcs each,” Quinn calculated. “Plus the Lord himself.”
“For the plan to work, the core group can’t waste time cutting through grunts,” Mason said. “We’ll need to reach the Orc Lord directly, or at least pull him away before he slaughters more of our people.”
Of everyone in camp, Mason was the strongest. His profession had already broken past level fifty, granting him immense attributes, and his epic skill only widened the gap. As a blacksmith, he had forged his own gear to near perfection. In a clash with the Orc Lord, he was the only one who could withstand several blows without dying outright.
After him came Allison. She had fought beside the Haven’s elites to bring down the three Midnight Wardens inside the Wall dungeon. Her balance of profession level thirty-six, ice dragon lineage, and advanced skills gave her just enough resilience to endure a few strikes from the Orc Lord. But she knew the truth: depending on the hit, it could still mean instant death.
“If only we had someone with a thief or assassin class, they could handle the ballista crews,” Quinn muttered.
He wasn’t wrong. Stealth classes were tailor-made for this sort of job, their infiltration skills perfect for slipping past lines and silencing threats before they could turn a battle. The four ballistae looming over the village were more than a nuisance, they were a death sentence if left unchecked.
“Should we call for Evangeline’s help?” Gilbert asked. “She’s stronger than any of us.”
“If we leave this spot, there’s a good chance the Orc Lord will send his troops into the forest,” Mason warned.
That was the risk. A massive, game-changing risk.
“The only reason we even made it here is because the path was clear after the Orc General’s death,” Allison said. “If we pull back now, the Orc Lord might relocate or scatter his forces through the woods. Then we’ll never get this close again.”
And sending someone after Evangeline was no better. They were deep inside the forest, far from the Safe Zone. It would take days, and whoever went risked being tracked and cut down before even reaching her. Worse, splitting the group could cripple their defense if the orcs attacked. They were caught in a brutal stalemate: withdraw and lose their shot at the Orc Lord, or face him now, exposed and underprepared.
“We haven’t lost anyone on the way here,” Quinn argued. “The few orcs we did run into, we handled. Pulling back might be the smarter call.”
“That’s only because of what Luke did,” Allison replied. “There’s no guarantee it’ll be easy next time.”
“Still talking about him?” Eugene scoffed.
“The bastard’s a traitor. He killed Angelica just to level up. Not even worth mentioning his name,” Malik snapped.
“And I’d bet he just got lucky taking down the Orc General,” Eugene added. “Then bragged about it to you.”
Allison clicked her tongue. The air around her dropped a few degrees. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Part of it wasn’t even her fault. It was the class skill she had unlocked at level 40, a power that stirred too easily, feeding on her emotions whether she willed it or not.
[Draconic Exhalation (Ultra-Rare)]: The Draconic Swordsman does not need to strike. The very breath of a dragon is enough to declare sovereignty. Empowered by the [Heart of the Ice Dragon], you can exhale a frost-laden mist that rolls outward like a silent curse. The air chills, creeping and merciless. Frost crawls across stone, armor groans as it cracks, lungs seize in the bitter cold. No rage, only inevitability, patient, constant, absolute. Beware: this power is bound to your emotions, for a dragon’s fury is its greatest weapon.
Like a dragon’s snort of vapor, sometimes the frost escaped her without intent, a thin mist curling from her lips when her temper slipped. It wasn’t the full skill, not unless she fed mana into it, but the passive pulse of the [Heart of the Ice Dragon] had left its mark. Her very breath was touched with winter now.
She calmed herself. Luke had his share of guilt, he had fled after confessing to Angelica’s death. But still, hearing them spit venom about him twisted something inside her. He was her friend. One day, she hoped she’d see him again, drag him back by the ear if she had to. But right now, the Orc Lord was the only thing that mattered. His death meant power, gear, and the path to conquering the second fortress.
“I have a plan,” Allison said at last. “Actually… I have a few ideas. But to explain them, I need to go over some of my skills first.”
Strategy wasn’t her strong suit. She wasn’t the kind of leader who lived for war tables and flawless tactics. But with the group’s input, and Mason’s mind for both battle and strategy, they could shape something workable.
“I’ll start with the simplest one: ice.”
And so she began, laying out the combinations and synergies that turned her powers into something far more dangerous than anyone outside their circle would ever expect.
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