Chapter 146 | The Strange Girl

Chapter 146: 146 | The Strange Girl

"Now let me go take care of my son," he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more urgent. "I’m sorry to cut this short. Please. Let me go take care of my son."

Andrew nodded in understanding. "I understand," he said.

The blacksmith gave him one last grateful look, then turned and disappeared back into the house, closing the door behind him.

Andrew stood there for a moment, the mysterious letter sitting in his inventory, the black sword hanging at his side, the nine brands pulsing faintly against his flesh.

Then he turned and headed toward the village head’s house.

He walked through the village streets, passing players and NPCs alike, until he reached the large, well-maintained building at the center of the village. The village head’s house. The building where the village’s leadership resided—the place where class advancement quests were issued, where important matters were discussed, and where the next step of Andrew’s journey would begin.

He walked up to the front door.

He entered.

The village head looked up the moment Andrew stepped through the door. A warm smile spread across his weathered face, cutting deep lines into his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Andrew," he said, rising from his chair. "You’re finally here."

He walked forward, his movements slow but steady—the careful, deliberate pace of a man who had lived long enough to know that rushing got you nowhere.

"I heard," the village head continued, clasping Andrew’s hand between both of his own. "I heard you succeeded in helping the blacksmith save his son. Finally. Finally, he’s been saved."

He shook his head slowly, his smile softening into something quieter—something tinged with the relief of a man who had watched his village suffer one loss after another and had been bracing for another.

"We can’t do much to reward you," the village head said. "I know that. And I’m sorry for it. But I can say this—thank you. Thank you for helping our village through these trying times."

He looked at Andrew the way a grandfather looks at a grandchild who has just done something extraordinary—with pride, with gratitude, and with the quiet, aching knowledge that the world would demand even more from this young man in the days to come.

"You are our hero," the village head said simply.

Andrew smiled. "It’s my pleasure," he replied.

The village head held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once—firmly, definitively—and released his hand.

"Come, come," he said, waving Andrew toward the back of the house. "Have dinner with us. We’re about to eat. You must be hungry after everything you’ve been through."

Andrew was about to refuse. The words were already forming in his mouth—a polite decline, a brief explanation that he had matters to attend to, a smooth exit that would let him get back to his own affairs. He had things to do. Class advancement. System checks. The mysterious letter sitting in his inventory, waiting to be opened. The Nine Ancient Lamps burning against his flesh, demanding study and understanding.

But then he remembered.

He remembered the last time he had stayed with the villagers—eating with them, talking with them, being part of their world for a few brief hours. He remembered the rewards that had come from it. The eating quest. The bonuses. The unexpected benefits that came from simply sitting down and sharing a meal with ordinary people.

He couldn’t afford to turn down opportunities. Not now. Not with the 200% EXP curse hanging over his head like a guillotine. Every advantage mattered. Every reward mattered. Every hidden quest, every bonus, every sliver of EXP he could scrape together would help offset the crushing weight of the Nine Lamps curse.

So instead of refusing, Andrew smiled and nodded.

"I’d be happy to," he said.

The village head beamed and led him through the house.

---

The dining room was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering orange light across the wooden walls and the long table that dominated the center of the room. The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and steamed vegetables filled the air—rich, savory, comforting in a way that made Andrew’s stomach clench with the sudden, sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten in hours.

The table was already set. Bowls and plates were arranged along its length, steam rising from dishes of stewed meat, boiled potatoes, and greens. The village head’s granddaughter was already seated, along with his daughter—two women Andrew recognized from his previous visits to the house. They nodded politely as he entered, and he returned the gesture.

But there was one other person at the table.

Andrew saw her and stopped.

His gaze hardened.

She was sitting at the far end of the table, her posture relaxed, her expression bored. She was young—or at least, she appeared young. Her features were sharp and striking, framed by dark hair that fell past her shoulders. She wore simple clothes, nothing that would draw attention, nothing that suggested anything out of the ordinary.

But her eyes gave her away.

Those eyes. Red. Not the warm red of fire or the deep red of wine. A vivid, unnatural crimson that seemed to glow faintly in the firelight—the eyes of a predator. The eyes of a vampire.

Andrew recognized her instantly.

This was the girl who had come into his room while he was sleeping. The first time he had stayed in the village. She had entered his room in the middle of the night—silent, watchful, her crimson eyes studying him in the darkness with an intensity that had startled him awake. He had never forgotten those eyes. He had never forgotten the way she had looked at him—not with hostility, exactly, but with the cold, calculating assessment of someone measuring a potential threat.

The vampire.

The girl looked up as Andrew entered. Her crimson eyes met his, and for a single, charged moment, neither of them moved.

Then she snorted.

"Grandpa Aldric," she said, her voice flat and unimpressed. "Why did you bring him in here again? I thought he left already."

The village head sighed. It was the sigh of a man who had mediated this particular conflict before and was tired of repeating himself.

He shook his head and smiled—the patient, enduring smile of someone who had spent a lifetime dealing with stubborn young people.

"You have to get along with each other," he said gently but firmly. "You were the village hero. Now he is the village hero. Moreover, he just saved the blacksmith’s son from certain death."

He looked between the two of them—Andrew standing near the doorway, the girl seated at the far end of the table—and his expression carried the quiet authority of a man who would not tolerate rudeness under his roof.

"So you have to be thankful now," he continued. "Although you two are outsiders, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get along. This village has enough troubles without its heroes fighting each other."

Andrew said nothing. He was too busy studying the girl.

He activated his system, trying to read her information the way he would read any other player’s. The familiar blue window appeared in his vision.

[ Player ]

[ ??? ]

[ ??? ]

[ ??? ]

Question marks.

Not just her level. Not just her stats. Everything. Her name. Her class. Her level. Her affiliation. All of it—hidden behind the same impenetrable wall of question marks that the system used when it encountered something beyond its ability to process.

Just like the Nine Ancient Lamps. Just like the black sword. Just like the cave itself.

Andrew’s stomach tightened.

He couldn’t see her level. He couldn’t see her name. He couldn’t see anything about her. The system—his system, the one tool he relied on to understand the world around him—had absolutely nothing to offer.

Which meant one thing.

She was strong.

Stronger than him. At the very least, strong enough that the system couldn’t display her information to him—a threshold that, in Andrew’s experience, meant the gap between them was significant. Not just a few levels. Not just a class tier. A genuine, substantial difference in power.

He could not afford to anger her.

Andrew accepted this reality the way he accepted all unpleasant truths—quietly, internally, without letting it show on his face. He filed the information away and adjusted his behavior accordingly. No provocation. No posturing. No ego.

But that didn’t mean he would let her look down on him either.

He held her gaze—steady, calm, unbothered—and waited.

The girl stared at him for a long moment. Her crimson eyes searched his face, looking for something—weakness, perhaps, or the flinch of someone who knew they were outmatched. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t seem to find it.

She snorted coldly, turned away, and resumed eating.

The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it settled—shifting from active hostility to something more tolerable. A grudging, temporary, unspoken agreement to coexist for the duration of the meal.

The village head, sensing the de-escalation, let out a quiet breath and gestured for Andrew to take a seat.

Andrew sat down.

The village head’s daughter began serving food—ladling stew into bowls, passing plates of bread, pouring water into cups. The granddaughter chattered about village happenings, her voice bright and cheerful, filling the silence that the two heroes at opposite ends of the table refused to fill themselves.