Chương 32: The Hero's Party

What does the Hero do at dusk, when demons all are slain? Does he drink from silver cups and laugh at mortal pain? Does he dance with lordly maidens, does he wrestle bears for sport? Does he polish his gauntlet in some marble winter court? Old men said he sleeps on stone, young girls said he bathes in light, while Priests claim he never tires, and miners claim he feasts all night. But through the town hall window, little Misha peeked instead, and saw the mighty demon-slayer, face-down upon his bed.

So hush thy song and dim thy flame, to let no loud fool draw near, for a Hero's rest, we learned that night, is mostly disappearing from cheer. —Verse from 'The Hero Drinks Alone', Written by Anatoly Lermontov After he did his share of socializing with the townsfolk after dinner, Orland kicked open the town hall door with both arms full with gifts.

A folded wool cloak slid off the top of the pile and nearly took a basket of honey cakes with it, so he hurried inside the dimly-lit hall, shuffled across the floor, and dumped everything at the bottom of the stage before he threw himself onto his mattress atop the stage. The mattress accepted him, and he closed his eyes, groaning into the soft fabric. Ohhhh. I don't wanna get up ever again.

The 'Hero' would probably appreciate the townsfolk filling Zimnerudik's streets with lanterns, music, cheap beer, river fish, and whatever else they could drag from their cellars to contribute to the feast. Even now, the celebrations were still going on outside the town hall.

Miners banged their cups against tables, children ran in circles with painted wooden masks resembling his mask, and women still danced in circles with their arms locked, too drunk on alcohol and ecstasy to notice their Hero in question had snuck off to take a break from all the festivities—because he wasn't the Hero, and he hated all that noise. He'd never grown up with it, and he didn't think he'd ever grow to like it. He could pretend to like it well enough, but…

Between partying and burying his face in something soft and fluffy, he'd choose the latter eleven out of ten times. Huh Are there any relics that are basically portable beds for travelers? If so, I want them. He groaned into his mattress again, making himself even more comfortable. After all, his past three weeks spent in Mine Zimnerudik were nothing but dark, cramped, and cold, drinking hard water and eating tasteless food the townsfolk of Sibinski had tossed at them before they jumped into the rift.

Thankfully, the cave-in hadn't been as bad deeper into the mine as he'd expected, so it only took them three weeks to clear the rubble out from the inside, but even still… he'd had enough of mines and underground tunnels for a while. If he could help it, he'd go the entire rest of his life without ever having to set foot in a mine again.

On the bright side, he'd found plenty of demon corpses on the way back up to the surface, and the three of them had feasted on all the demon hearts they could harvest without too much trouble. Miriyela and Sharsana ate their fair share, naturally, but he was pretty sure he ate the most. How much mana do I have again? He turned only his head to the side and stared at his wrist. The black numbers washed onto his skin mere moments later.

Mana: 327/352 (+16. 2/hr) Huh. That's like… at least triple the mana capacity from when I first came here. And sixteen-point-two mana regeneration per hour was with all of his passive-type relics equipped as well, not with them taken off. If he really had to regenerate his mana quickly, he could take off his evercoat coat, his songiron bands, his regenerating clothes, and his mask to get his mana regeneration up to at least twenty per hour.

At this rate, he'd be able to use his gauntlet near endlessly in the not-so-distant future, which was something to be excited about. But he wasn't satisfied yet. Not even close. He sat upright and looked across the hall. The round table in the middle of the hall had already been cleared of all those maps and reports the last time he saw Nikolai and Kazimir standing around it, and in their place, Kazimir had arranged all seven of his Altars—retrieved from Mine Zimnerudik—in a pretty semi-circle.

If Orland recalled correctly, amongst the many gifts the townsfolk showered him with today, there was one miner who dumped into his arms many dull silver lumps of metal. Songiron lumps. So he slid off his mattress, off his stage, and rummaged through his pile of gifts until he found the giant lump of uncut metal about the size of his head. Given his songiron bands immediately started vibrating in sync with the lump, it really was songiron itself.

Grinning, he crossed the hall and dropped the giant lump between the seven Altars, planting both hands on the round table. If songiron bands are relics that are obtained with songiron as main offerings, what'd happen if I upgrade them with more songiron? He could ask someone.

There were probably answers to almost all of his uneducated questions related to relics, but he wanted to find the answer himself, so curiosity drove him to take off his songiron bands and place them on the Altar with the crest of the spider—the Altar to Enmar, the Smith of the Artifice Wing. After a bit more thinking, he lifted the giant lump of songiron and shattered it into tiny pieces across Enmar's Altar with his gauntlet. This is probably… the right way to do it. I think?

With nobody here to stop him, he clapped his hands together.

"Hey, Great Enmar," he said, closing his eyes.

"It's me again. I don't really know how this works, but I want an upgrade to my relics." He gestured at the two songiron bands first.

"These are Implement-Class relics that vibrate weirdly when they're close to metal, so I guess they'll be my…. uh, my 'base offerings', I think they're called? For the main offerings, I'll be giving you more songiron. It's a lot of songiron. If I offer more songiron to something already made from songiron, that should upgrade the ability or at least give me more attribute levels, right? I dunno. You're the god. You decide how you want to upgrade these bands for me." For a while, nothing happened.

Orland stood there, hands still together, feeling increasingly stupid. Maybe he really needed better words. Ninazu gave him his upgraded Star-Element Gauntlet without much of a fuss, but what if Enmar was tired of him speaking so casually in the face of a god? Just as he was about to start worrying all over again, the songiron and the bands suddenly sank through the wooden board, and only a few more seconds passed before two new bands floated up. Orland blinked.

At first glance, the bands were still dull silver, wrist-sized, and etched with grooves, spirals, and branching channels, but on a closer look, the patterns had grown far more intricate. There were more swirly rings now, thinner and tighter, spreading around the bands like the lines inside an ancient tree. The scent of mana wafting from them was also… thicker now. They were definitely upgraded relics.

Name: Deep Songiron Band Type: Passive Implement-Class, Uncommon-3 Attribute Addition: +4 Clarity Ability Description: When the band is equipped, it will resonate with all nearby metals and vibrate in different patterns, allowing the holder to identify and locate all nearby metals. Furthermore, the holder may attune the band to a specific metallic resonance and generate a passive anti-resonance field. The passive cost is 0. 8 mana regeneration per hour.

Orland stared at the words on the tag. … The numbers changed, didn't they? Apart from the mana regeneration cost going up by a little, he'd also be getting two more levels in clarity for each band he equipped. That meant his eyes, ears, and senses would improve. But the ability description part definitely got longer as well. He couldn't read, but…

"Hey," he said out loud.

"Did my bands get a new ability or something?" Silence in his head. He waited another few seconds. Still nothing. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. So he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Fine," he muttered.

"In that case, I'm gonna start banging my head on this table until I crack my own skull. Then it'll all be your fault." And just as he pulled his head back to headbutt the table, a young girl panicked in his ear.

"Don't!" she said quickly.

"Please… don't do that. Don't hurt yourself."

"Just let him crack his head if he wants to," the furious lady grumbled right after.

"He's got his bloodreturn flask after all. As long as he doesn't die, he can hurt himself all he wants."

"But—""There you are," he muttered, picking up his new songiron bands and slipping them back onto his wrists.

"Mind telling me what these new bands of mine do?"

"... They've been upgraded," the young girl said reluctantly.

"Now, at your will, they can also generate an anti-resonance field attuned to a specific type of metal."

"Uhhhh—""It basically means you can attune them to the frequency of astral lead, and they'll create a barrier around you that'll passively deflect astral lead attacks and projectiles," she explained.

"The barrier won't work on everything, but it'll at least protect you from getting pelted by astral lead projectiles around Uncommon-Grade in strength. It's a good defensive relic against demons. In fact, most higher-grade soldiers in the Ostraviskaya Armiya have these equipped so they don't get killed instantly when they charge out against a demonic army." Orland's grin widened.

"Gotcha. So can you help me tune these bands to the frequency of astral lead or whatever?"

"I can. Later. It'll take a bit of time."

"Cool. And you're being super talkative today, huh? Even though all of you ignored me for three whole weeks while I was digging back up to the surface?" The young girl went quiet, so Orland sighed again.

"Look. I'm also tired of this," he said, shrugging and stretching his arms.

"I know you guys exist, and you guys know I exist. No more silent treatment. Just tell me what the hell is going on and—" The town hall door creaked open behind him, and Orland stopped talking as he whirled around. Miriyela poked her head in, and so did Sharsana.

"Great Hero," she said.

"Were you… speaking to someone?" Orland gulped. Then he scratched the back of his head and gave her a light grin.

"Nope," he lied.

"What's up? Please don't tell me to go outside again. I'm tired."

"So am I." While Orland adjusted the songiron bands on his wrists, he glanced at the remaining lumps of songiron among the pile of gifts beneath the stage. Given Zimnerudik was a mining town that primarily harvested songiron as an export, there was so, so much more songiron to go around that he could probably equip Kazimir, Miriyela, and Sharsana with songiron defenses as well.

He made a mental note to tell them to do so later, because before he could even turn back around to look at Miriyela, she and Sharsana had already stepped into the town hall, heading straight towards him. He lowered his hands and took one cautious step back from the table, giving them both a nervous smile.

"Uh…" he said.

"What's up? Did I do something?" In response, Miriyela stopped before him—and then she knelt. He stiffened immediately.

"... Great Hero," Miriyela whispered, lowering her head.

"Now that the troubles of Zimnerudik have been dealt with, I feel… I must offer my apologies." Orland blinked. Then he glanced at Sharsana—as if the moledrake might explain—but Sharsana only stared back with her dark little eyes and made no attempt to uncurl from Miriyela's legs.

"You endured danger after danger while I was still measuring the shape of my own pride," Miriyela continued, sounding almost ashamed.

"You were ambushed, wounded, forced into desperate plans, and made to fight battles I should have helped you win sooner. Yes, you overcame them, and yes, each adversity hardened your resolve—and for that I give honor to the stubborn fire inside your spirit—but the truth remains: I should have cleared the way and made sure you did not have to resort to jumping into a rift to begin with." Orland frowned.

"That's not—""I have had three weeks underground to think on this," Miriyela interrupted, and her voice suddenly became heavier.

"In the darkness of Mine Zimnerudik, while stone pressed around us and our manalight lantern burned thin, I saw my failings with clearer eyes. If I had known my vezhramir crown could have allowed your gauntlet to control metal, I would have offered it to you the second we met, and we would not have been in so much trouble to begin with. I… am inadequate as your vanguard. I am not yet worthy of the Great Hero's party as I wish to be." Orland blanked. He didn't like where this was going. Not at all. She was strong.

She was reliable. Hells, she'd carried him through an astral lead storm and held off that four-horned demon long enough for him to get his gauntlet's upgrade. As far as he was concerned, she was one of them now.

"Listen, Miriyela," he said quickly, "if you're saying you're gonna stop traveling with us, then no. I want you to—""It is for this reason," she said solemnly, dipping her head even lower, "that I must rescind my marriage proposal for the time being." Orland blanked again, though his mouth stayed open.

"... Huh?" Miriyela looked up at him, her veil hiding most of her expression, though her sincerity was clear in every heavy word.

"Until I believe I am strong enough to match you in mind, body, and spirit—and until I obtain yet another vezhramir crown worthy of being offered to you—I cannot wed you. I apologize, Great Hero, but please wait a little longer. I am sure to become worthy of you one day." Outside, the townsfolk roared through another drinking song. Someone dropped a cup. Someone laughed so hard they choked.

Inside the town hall, though, Orland stared at the kneeling princess and felt something twist in his chest so awkwardly he almost wanted to scratch it out. It was funny. It was funny, actually. So he laughed—just a short breath at first that turned into a real laugh before he could stop it. Miriyela immediately tilted her head, obviously confused, while Sharsana made a low questioning noise.

"Worthy of me?" Orland murmured.

"The 'Hero' that I am?" Miriyela straightened slightly.

"Have I spoken poorly?"

"No. No!" He laughed again, wiping at his mouth even though he wasn't sure why.

"No, I… heh. Worthy of me, huh?"

"I am not… so sure what there is to laugh about."

"Nah. It's nothing." He wished he could wipe the corner of his eyes, but he was already wearing his mask, so instead he stepped closer and offered his hand with a cheery grin.

"But don't kneel before me again. You're a 'companion', not a soldier. You don't kneel to me, and I don't kneel to you. Who gives a fuck what Hero parties are supposed to be in the old stories or the dwarven songs or whatever?" The Princess of Kamengrad stared at his hand for a moment before taking it, lifting her head proudly.

"So the Hero wishes to forge a party that breaks old patterns," she said, her smile definitely widening beneath her veil.

"Spoken like a true Hero." And as he helped her stand—though honestly, there wasn't much to do given how she was still eye-level with him while kneeling—Sharsana also made a small noise by her feet, making Orland look down at the moledrake with suspicion.

"What? You want me to give you a hand too?" Sharsana bumped her snout into Miriyela, making the princess tilt her head back.

"Ah. Right. Sharsana wanted me to give you… these." Without another word, Mirieyla reached behind her armor and pulled out two thin black sleeves. At first, Orland thought they were made of cloth, but when she held them out, the bright lanternlight from the braziers outside reflected off the surfaces and revealed overlapping little plates. He recognized them almost immediately: molescales. Tiny dark scales, arranged so finely that the sleeves could flex like fabric.

Orland took them carefully from her carefully, studying their tag.

Name: Molescale Sleeves Type: Passive Armament-Class Relic, Uncommon-5 Attribute Addition: +8 Resilience Ability Description: When struck, the sleeves will absorb and store a portion of the impact. Striking the sleeves together will release all of the stored force in a shockwave around the holder. The passive drain is 3 mana regeneration per hour.

"As an apology for being unable to wed up this very instant, I would like to offer you these relics that I obtained just earlier in this town's Curator Church instead," Miriyela said, gesturing to the sleeves in his hand.

"They are Armament-Class relics that work similarly to my armor. When you block blows with these sleeves, they will absorb some of the impact and allow you to release it in a small shockwave when you slam them together. Though the Hero is traditionally expected to fight as a mage, I noticed you prefer to fight with your fists—like a boy who learned war in the alleys—so I thought… these sleeves might prove useful to you in close-quarters combat."

Orland's eyes widened, turning the sleeves over in his hands and feeling the flexible scales shift under his fingers. It felt like soft fabric to the touch, but it was anything but.

"Where'd you get the molescales from, though? Did you rip off chunks of your own armor just for this?" Miriyela laughed.

"That would be counterintuitive to my growing stronger to better match your fighting spirit! No, I did nothing of the sort—Sharsana offered them of her own volition." He immediately looked down at Sharsana, who lifted her snout at him and made a satisfied, slightly happy rumble.

"... You did?" he whispered. Sharsana dipped her head in what seemed like a nod.

"So it would seem," Miriyela said cheerily, "that Sharsana has acknowledged you as someone worthy of her respect as well." For a few seconds, Orland had no idea what to say to that. He did, however, know what he wanted to ask.

"Hey, Sharsana." He grinned slowly.

"Can I scratch under your chin? I've… uh, wanted to try it out for a while now." Sharsana stared at him for a long, judging moment. Then—with great reluctance and the dignity of a beast granting mercy to a lesser creature—she lifted her snout, averting her eyes. Orland crouched immediately.

"Oh, you do like this," he said, scratching carefully under her chin. Sharsana made a low rumbling noise that was definitely not a purr, and Miriyela crouched beside him, laughing softly as she joined him in scratching the side of Sharsana's neck. For a moment, everything was simple. There were no demons. No voices. No prophecies.

It was just him and Miriyela spoiling a stubborn moledrake who pretended she wasn't enjoying being spoiled—but someone had to spoil the mood eventually, and in Orland's case, it was almost always Kazimir. Kazimir pushed in the door to the town hall, and he stared blankly at the three of them having their own fun by the table.

"... The hell are you guys doing?" he said. Orland turned and jerked his head at Sharsana.

"Come scratch the moledrake too!" Sharsana's eyes widened immediately as she snarled at Kazimir. The old wolf sighed in return, unimpressed and tired.

"I'd rather drink lamp oil."

"She's super soft under the chin!"

"I don't care."

"She might like you more if you do it, though!"

"I don't want her to like me more. I don't ever want to ride a moledrake again, and I don't want to be involved in…" Kazimir waved at them vaguely.

"Watever beastly courtship ritual this is."

"You're no fun." Kazimir thumbed over his shoulder as he leaned against the doorway.

"They're calling for the Hero to join them again, and they won't quit until you give them at least one more round of toasts, so get out there. Before Nikolai starts giving a speech in your absence and exaggerates even more about how you jumped into a rift and slaughtered ten thousand demons in the rift dimension."

"Ugh," Orland grumbled, turning back around to scratch Sharsana's chin.

"Don't wanna. It's too… bright out there."

"You're the Hero, brat." Then Kazimir pointed at Miriyela as well, scowling.

"And you're the prophesied companion who jumped into the rift with him. You have to get out there, too." Orland would pick up a boulder and toss it at the old wolf, but it was true that outside the hall, the townsfolk were cheering his and Miriyela's name louder and louder—so with a groan, he straightened and tucked his new molescale sleeves under an arm.

"Fine," he muttered.

"One more round. But if someone gives me another bowl of sour cabbage stew, I'm throwing it at Nikolai." Kazimir shrugged, stepping aside to let him pass. Miriyela and Sharsana followed quickly as well, because the sooner they got this over with, the more time they'd have to scratch Sharsana's chin tonight. And the sooner they got this over with…

"... Tomorrow," the young man whispered in his ear—the man Orland had heard most consistently.

"Tonight's a bit too soon, so just… give me a bit more time to convince the rest of them. We'll tell you everything tomorrow night."