Chương 3: -3- I Did What I Had To

Calder-Rime Rest Township Calder stumbled forward. Toward the spear wielder advancing on Ricktus. His leg was a mess; he could feel the blood pouring down it from the stab wounds, and the pain when he put his weight on it was that deep kind of pain you felt when something was seriously wrong. Calder trudged forward, repeating to himself one of his dad's favorite sayings. If you can move…you can fight. If you can move, you can fight.

"If you CAN MOVE, YOU CAN FIGHT," Calder shouted in a primal surge of anger as he lunged forward off his mangled leg. The spearman turned from his intended prey with an alarmed look, eyes crossing over Calder's blood-soaked face and the dead scout slowly dying the snow red. The spearman lunged straight at Calder from ten strides away; mana flared as his body blurred with speed. Calder reacted on instinct, a defense that Dectus had drilled into him over and over for fighting against stabbing weapons.

He slapped the sword down and out past his body. And stepped in sharply. There was a resounding clang he didn't even see. It happened as his blade just pushed the spear far enough to only graze his side, and suddenly, he was chest to chest with the spearman. Calder's world focused down; if the man got out of his range, he was dead. The spearman knew it too; his eyes darted as he tried to duck back. Calder's maimed free hand caught him just behind the head and grabbed the tangle of hair and cloak.

The spearman struggled, pulling away violently. Calder braced himself and jammed the sword brutally into the man's chest. It slid across the man's breastplate with a painful screech. The spearman's eyes grew wide as Calder lifted the sword higher and aimed for his throat. Calder's next stab was stopped as both of the man's hands clasped onto his sword arm and pushed away frantically. Calder focused on his dark task pull with the left arm push with the right.

He heaved every bit of his strength into those simple actions, focusing as the tip of the short sword grew closer and closer to the mans adam's apple. Then with a final vicious jerking motion of his arm, the blade tip cleaved through flesh and then bone. Calder's breath heaved, his muscles screaming in protest as he came back to his senses. He was holding the man's body off the ground by the back of his head and the hilt of the sword. His feet dangled nearly half a stride from the ground.

In startled realization he dropped the body and nearly fell himself. Everything hurt, and the blood loss was starting to win against the adrenaline. He painfully turned towards the last opponent. The final scout was looking at Calder like he had seen a demon as Calder shakily raised the short sword his way. The scout looked one more time from Calder's gore-coated visage back to where his leader seemed to be losing against Phil and, with a curse, rushed to aid the scout commander.

He made it three steps before a crossbow bolt whizzed from the open doorway of the mill, catching him in the neck. Even with his enhanced resistances, he was nowhere near tough enough to weather the blow unharmed. The scout stumbled, holding his throat for a moment, and tried to rush back towards the pine trees past the mill. The miller stepped out and sent another bolt after him.

Calder's vision was too blurry for him to see where it hit, but he did see the scout skid to a stop face first in a crimson patch of snow. Calder turned towards Ricktus. The last thing he saw before the world turned dark was Ricktus looking at him with a confusing mix of thankfulness and fear. I did what I had to. Calder woke with a start in a familiar single-room home. A warm hearth was a stride from his bed, and he could see Gobbles, the world's most annoying seagull, peeking in the window, as was normal.

Just waiting for the big kindhearted lug to give him table scraps. Calder's easel and paint sat right in front of the window where he had left them. He wasn't any damn good at painting, but he enjoyed it. Next to the easel was his grandfather's bed, a simple wooden frame and a mattress that desperately needed restuffing. Ahh hells, where is everyone, fuck... Ricktus, Phil… Calder threw his feet over the edge of his bed. The entire frame screamed in protest like it always did.

He staggered up, surprised at how whole he felt. There was a bandage over his hand and his leg, but the pain was dull, muted, like he had been healing for weeks, not hours. In realization, Calder rushed to the trunk near his grandfather's bed. The faded silver and blue painted heraldry had nearly chipped to the point of being unrecognizable. Calder threw open his father's chest, a tightness gripping his heart equal parts panic and guilt as he started rifling through its contents.

He threw out the thick dark plates that composed his father's heavy armor. It was a brutish, practical suit of layered plate mail meant for someone with enhanced strength. Calder would have loved to use it, but it was far too small for him. With that out there were only three things that should be left. The sword, the shroud, and the potion. Dammit, Grandpa. You didn't… Calder sighed deeply as he picked up the empty second-tier healing potion bottle.

It was probably the most valuable thing they owned, and Calder had been saving it, hoping that between his guard shifts and selling it, he could hire another groundskeeper so his stubborn-ass grandfather could finally retire.

"Ahh, well … Shit, I'll figure something else out; there's always prostitution... I'm a strapping lad," Calder joked to himself, mostly to distract from the images of blood and pain that kept flashing into his mind. I…did that. I killed two men... unarmed... well, armed with... a weapon I pulled from my own flesh. Calder felt his heart start racing and his breaths become shallow as he sat heavily on the bed. He placed his hands over his face.

"I guess I do have what it takes to fight…" Calder sat there for a while. He was scared. Scared for Ricktus and Phil for his friends. But most of all, he was scared of himself. It hadn't been hard. Once he was mad enough that he wanted to hurt them instead of just knowing he needed to, it had been too easy. Too… mechanical to him. Simple applications of superior strength and techniques shown to him by a ghost, and in a handful of heartbeats, two trained warriors stained the snow with their blood.

I did that without a class. The thought struck him like a thunderbolt, and he finally willed his system to show him notifications. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. [Imir Flender Tier-1](lvl11) [Stalwart Shield] Slain Essence Gained [Burt Humoric Tier-1](lvl13) [Gutterborn Spearwielder] Slain Essence Gained [New Class Granted] Calder stood up suddenly, walking right out the door of his small cottage into the swirling snow.

It bit against his skin, pulling him back to the present and stopping his thoughts from spiraling. His grandfather was kneeling a few feet from the front door, carefully weeding a small planter box and shivering something fierce.

"Dammit, Grandpa, Grandpa!" Calder said loudly in frustration. The wrinkled face turned towards him and waved a paper-thin hand at him dismissively. He had to stop his gesture to cover his mouth as a rattling cough scraped out of him.

"Go back inside, you big softy; you got stabbed. I'm just old. One of us needs bedrest, and it's not me." He turned back to the planter box and looked at the plant in his hand before shaking his head and tossing it over his shoulder. Calder's face turned red, and he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or not.

"Joel!" Calder always used his grandpa's real name if he was being serious. Joel let out a rattling sigh and slowly made his way to his feet.

"I'm fine! You have had a traumatic day! Ricktus and Phil are fine. Phil managed to fight off the bandits after you passed out." Calder felt some of the vice grip on his heart lessen at news of his friends, but he still needed to get his grandpa inside before he froze trying to pick damned tea leaves in a snowstorm. Calder gestured inside.

"Inside I'm fine." Joel grumbled but ambled on in to placate Calder.

"You aren't fine; you nearly died. If Phil and Ricktus weren't there... They brought you in covered in so much blood." His voice finished with a tremble of emotion. Calder was confused for a moment, then he understood. Phil brought him here because he knew he had the potion; he must not have told him what Calder had done. Calder's mind flashed to the feeling of the struggling man's hair clasped in his bloody grip. Calder shook his head.

"Grandpa, I'm alright; I'm a bit shaken, but I think I might have what it takes to follow in Father's footsteps." Joel looked at him blankly, then understanding dawned on him.

"It wasn't your blood…" he said breathlessly, still struggling to warm himself next to the fire.

"Some certainly was, but no, Grandpa. I killed two men today…" Calder looked him in the eye, waiting for fear or revulsion. Instead, he saw an understanding and sadness but no disappointment. Another crackling sigh escaped his grandfather.

"Phil told me to let you know that there are supposed to be more of them around, and they haven't found them yet, so bring a damn sword this time on your chores, please." Calder didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. He went to the chest and pulled out the longsword that barely fit even angled so it had the most room possible. It was a simple, unadorned piece of metal. The only embellishment was a simple piece of blue cloth tied around the grip.

It was filthy and slightly bloodstained, but Calder touched it respectfully. It was a piece of his mom's wedding dress that Dad had carried with him for luck. Calder made sure his grandfather was settling in for the evening with a cup of tea and a blanket before throwing on a long cloak and stepping back out into the snow. He still had chores to finish… and he needed to train more with Dectus. He needed to be ready now, and he needed a class that was suitable for war.

The rare class he had been offered was not a bad option, but after today Calder knew he could do better. Nothing unlocked better combat classes than surviving life-or-death struggles. Calder picked up a shovel and a dustpan, then found where his grandpa had left the broom near the woodshed before heading towards the cemetery proper. The mausoleums needed to be cleaned. The small stipend each family paid for their maintenance added up to be the same as what the Crown paid for maintaining the Tomb.

Although the Crown did also give them the land and the house. Calder stepped into the first bleak mausoleum and started sweeping snow from the floor. The motion was soothing, repetitive, and totally normal. He sighed and quit stalling quickly, willing the new class to appear before him. Normally he would go to his sanctuary, but that wasn't a luxury he had time for right now. [Bloodsoaked Defender](Rare) You will rip your foes limb from limb. Any weapon that you get your hands on can be used with equal savagery.

When someone you love is threatened, no force on this earth short of death can stop you. The very blood of your foes will sustain your onslaught. Calder's breath trembled as he kept sweeping. Another rare class, one that seemed very powerful but grim. It likely came with blood magic or life-siphoning abilities unquestionably powerful. But Calder wanted to be more than just a killer. He wanted to do more than just fight for the rest of his life. It was a big part of why his father's class appealed to him so much.

It was a mix between a skilled swordsman class with a touch of holy magic and a big splash of magical utility that aided in making or maintaining holy and consecrated ground. If his grandfather was right, his father could even restore stone and marble with a touch. The perfect mix for someone who wants to stay close to home but also protect it. But if it comes down to it, I'm not stupid; I'll take the Bloodsoaked Defender. Calder made his way towards the tomb.

He rubbed his frigid hands under his arms as he trudged upwards. The sun was setting, and the temperature had dropped even more. The maiden glided across the ground and looked at him in concern, circling around him looking for wounds.

"Ah yeah, you must have seen them cart my big arse up here covered in blood. Don't worry, I'm fine!" Calder responded with as much cheer as he could and made a quick detour towards her mausoleum. He pulled open the door and relished the brief respite from the cutting wind as he stepped in.

"Yes, yes, don't worry, I'll switch out your books." Calder went up to the imposing singular sarcophagus in the room; it had three books laid open upon it. Each with a rather odd magical device attached to the side. A spiderlike contraption that was apparently used for crafters to dry curing paper. At least that was its intended use. Calder had seen them and immediately thought of the maiden. For years now he had laid out new books from the small-town library for her and changed the pages as he went about his day.

She could read them and did so with a sparkle in her eye, but of course she couldn't turn the pages. The odd spiderlike contraption shifted every few minutes in such a way that if he put it on its side, it would turn a page, saving him from innumerable trips per day and making it so she could actually enjoy the books. The maiden looked at him thankfully as he pulled up a few new books and set them atop her sarcophagus.

"There you are… this one is… uhh, well, apparently about blacksmithing. Sorry running out of new books at the library for you. The other one is at least the history of the kingdom of Strands. You know those guys with the massive empire to the far west led by a terrifying time wizard." Calder finished with a grandiose spell-casting gesture, and the maiden silently laughed at his antics. He set up the two new books and gave a polite bow before stepping back into the storm and thudding towards the tomb quickly.

The cold was becoming an unsafe cutting thing that even he shouldn't be out in for long. Calder's hurried steps faltered as he rounded the last twist of the road towards the tomb and his home. Lord Dectus was standing in front of his cottage, sword in hand, looking around wrathfully. He never leaves the Tomb... Never something is very wrong. Calder rushed forward to the spirit. Dectus nodded urgently towards him and then leveled his spectral sword towards the tomb entrance.

Calder nodded and slowly drew his own sword; he had to put some effort into it—the blade had frosted into the sheath slightly. Dectus led the way, silently stalking forward in a ready stance. Calder did his best to creep down the steps behind the legend of old. If Dectus had left his tomb, there had to be Kalderans inside or something equally dire. I don't have time to get help, and if I drag Grandpa through the storm to get him away from here, I'm afraid it might kill him. Forward it is.

Calder squeezed the hilt of his sword; the weight was reassuring. If he had survived with a wooden sword, he could thrive with a real one. The glimmer of torchlight cut through the darkness of the tomb, highlighting the hazy floating dust. Calder slowed even further; he hadn't lit any wall sconces today in this hallway. Dectus looked back to him and then gestured to a side hallway that they both knew wrapped around the side of the main hallway.

Calder took a deep breath of the familiar stale air and crept into the lightless stone hallway, one hand tracing along the frigid wall as his massive frame disappeared into the darkness.