Chapter 18 – Five Bags of Hope

Hushwind was a remote town at the southern edge of the Kingdom of Concord. Its proximity to the Amethyst Deep drew adventurers and traveling merchants in such numbers that its prosperity rivaled some midsized cities.

The Adventurers’ Guild had even established a regional branch there.

The dungeon supplied the town with many distinctive products. Yet Hushwind’s most recognizable attraction was neither its valuable high-purity Mana Crystals nor its endless varieties of monster materials.

It was the signature brew of the Bent Willow Tavern, a cloudy liquid notorious throughout the adventuring world.

Even adventurers who had never visited Hushwind had heard of the rancid, mold-scented liquor. According to rumor, splashing it on a walking mushroom was enough to kill the creature.

Despite that quality, the owner diluted it with more water than wine.

At one copper coin a cup, however, it remained irreplaceable to adventurers at the bottom of the trade.

The Bent Willow naturally became their gathering place.

A person selected at random in Hushwind might not know where to find the Adventurers’ Guild office, but everyone knew the Bent Willow.

Today, as always, the tavern was packed with patrons of every description. They swallowed terrible liquor in great gulps and traded the latest gossip at great volume.

They talked about the Veiled Empire’s increasingly frequent maneuvers along the border.

They talked about Silverthorn Company, which had entered the Deep Strata three months earlier, rescued the duke’s daughter, and earned an unimaginably rare reward: an entire city.

The name Silverthorn Company had become a legend among adventurers. Every drinker who raised a cup to them had ambition burning beneath the admiration, a hunger for fame and fortune of their own.

No one gave the exhausted, stubble-faced man a second look when he opened the wooden door. Figures like his filled the tavern.

He scanned the room and walked straight toward Big Al, who sat alone in one corner. Al sipped from a wooden cup, savoring the cloudy swill as if it were fine wine.

He recognized the man who sat across from him.

“Dylan. It’s been years. I thought you retired. What do you want?

“Don’t tell me you missed your old friend. I’ll be sick.”

“Big Al, are you still in that business?”

Big Al’s nickname was simply Big Al. Dylan saw no need for pretense and stated his purpose directly.

The other man’s eyelid jumped. He hurriedly surveyed the room, then lowered his voice when he saw no one paying attention to their corner.

“What are you doing? You may as well have said the word aloud. Are you trying to get me killed?”

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Big Al’s anger encouraged Dylan.

“So you are still doing it. Quickly, give me three portions.”

He took a purse from inside his coat and pushed it across the table. It held 27 silver coins.

Big Al narrowed his eyes. He did not touch the money. Instead, he studied the man before him.

Dylan had aged greatly in seven years. He was no longer as strong, and the calluses on his hands had almost vanished.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I can’t sell it to you.

“Judging by your condition, you abandoned the skills that once kept you alive. We have too much history for me to watch you walk to your death.”

Dylan seized Big Al by the collar. Bloodshot eyes held the frenzy of a man driven to the end of every road.

Big Al only stared back.

After a long silence, Dylan released him and sagged in his seat.

“Big Al, please. My daughter contracted Bloodblight on a border mission.

“I need money. A great deal of it.

“I don’t know any other way. Please.”

Big Al fell silent.

Bloodblight was one of the Vampires’ cruelest weapons.

Its victims did not die immediately. They transformed slowly and painfully into Bloodghouls.

Those monsters retained all the memories of their former lives but could not suppress their craving for blood. Even when facing their closest family, they would devour them through tears.

Only before a Vampire did they become perfectly obedient slaves.

There were known cures. The two most familiar were a blessing from the Church and a Reversion Elixir.

Either could save an infected person before the transformation became complete.

Neither was available to the poor.

The blessing required a bishop to conduct a personal rite lasting several days. The elixir cost the staggering sum of 50 gold coins.

Money alone could not always purchase a bishop’s attention. Dylan was clearly pursuing the second option.

Even at his peak, he had been only a Silver-rank adventurer. Now his abilities had deteriorated. How could he earn 50 gold coins quickly?

Fast money came from danger or crime.

The fastest money combined both.

A notorious magical plant grew in the marshes of the Amethyst Deep’s Fifth Stratum: the Parasitic Tree.

True to its name, it captured living people and forced seeds into their bodies, transforming them into new stumps. The host became the tree’s legs.

The process irreversibly destroyed the victim’s brain. Even a rescued host remained no more than a living shell. That fate had earned the species its infamy.

Few people knew that Parasitic Tree seeds were exceptional ingredients for Mind Elixirs.

Because of the inhuman method by which they were produced, the Kingdom of Concord classified them as contraband. The restrictions suppressed both trade and knowledge of their value.

Prohibition only increased profit, and profit always inspired someone to act in secret.

Big Al possessed a substance called Deep-Slumber Powder. It was essential for harvesting Parasitic Tree fruit, and it was what Dylan wanted to buy.

Harvesting the fruit was not a simple matter of collecting it and walking away.

Individual Parasitic Trees were not high-level, but they grew in vast numbers across the Fifth Stratum’s marshes.

Worse, they could use the skills and magic of their hosts.

An adventurer could find himself surrounded by dozens of Parasitic Trees, each armed with different abilities. Even a high-level veteran could die from one careless mistake and become a new, stronger Parasitic Tree.

The species was far more dangerous than its level suggested.

Big Al knew Dylan would go alone to maximize his earnings.

In truth, no party would accept him in his current condition even if he wanted companions.

Big Al was almost certain he would die below.

But Big Al had become a father himself a few years earlier. His daughter meant everything to him.

He understood that watching an only daughter transform slowly into a Bloodghoul would be more painful and desperate than death.

Big Al released a long sigh. He accepted the purse and secretly passed Dylan five small packets.

“Five?”

“They’re much cheaper than they were years ago, and I won’t profit from an old friend. If fortune favors you, one trip will be enough.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Dylan closed his fist around the packets as though grasping hope itself, then hurried from the tavern.

Big Al lifted his cup and returned to sipping the miserable liquor.

“A loss of 73 silver.

“I’ve grown soft in my old age. I’m not suited to this business anymore.

“Perhaps I’ll retire and go home.”