Chapter Eleven: Master?

Along with the approaching footsteps came the clear clangor of metal; it was obvious that those drawing near were clad in metallic armor and armed. The sound was unmistakably the jostling of weapons and armor as they moved through the forest. On the Wildfire Plains, those who traveled bearing arms were most often adventurers.

Encountering other adventurers on the Wildfire Plains was rarely a cause for celebration. Shaya knew this well—he himself only dabbled in banditry on occasion, and far from professionally. But most adventurers on the plains lived their lives practicing the profession of preying on one another. Here, survival meant carrying your life in your hands, and notions of morality or justice were as fleeting as the wind; only the steel in one's grasp held true value.

When adventurers met in the wild, they would, as a rule, immediately assess one another. If both parties were evenly matched, they would part ways swiftly and warily, keeping a safe distance and leaving each other untroubled. But if one party was clearly the weaker—especially if that weaker group carried valuables—well… it was all but an invitation for trouble.

Now, Shaya’s group was reduced to just two, both wounded. Or, to be precise, the pitiful fellow with him hardly counted as a combatant at all—no more than a burden in Shaya’s estimation. Should their strength be discovered, it was all too likely the newcomers would see them as easy prey and set upon them.

Ordinarily, Shaya had nothing to his name, and chance encounters were less likely to tempt greed. But now, strapped to his back was a prime wolf pelt, and nestled in his breast a fortune in coin.

He tensed every muscle, but made his movements lighter for it. Cradling the hapless fellow in one arm, he quickly spotted a large tree in the distance. With the lithe agility of a wildcat, he scaled it, hiding himself amidst the dense foliage. Holding his breath, he shot several menacing glares at his companion, clamping a hand tightly over his mouth. At last, after a short wait, Shaya Thunderbolt saw the group approach.

There were four in all.

The leader was a man of at most thirty, with a head of golden hair and a tall, upright bearing. He wore a finely crafted suit of chainmail—entirely metallic—its silvery surface polished to a mirror shine. On his back hung a longsword with a cross-shaped hilt, inlaid with a red gemstone.

Few adventurers on the Wildfire Plains wore metal armor. Not for lack of desire, but because such armor was heavy and unwieldy, ill-suited for swift movement. Only those with significant means could afford such quality—like chainmail, forged of fine steel, its intricate interlocking links minimizing the bulk of traditional plate and providing excellent defense, particularly against arrows, while remaining relatively light.

Naturally, it did not come cheap; Shaya had once seen such armor offered on the black market for five gold coins a set. He had long dreamed of one day striding across the Wildfire Plains in such high-grade protection.

The second was clad in a long black leather robe, short and thin, with a hooded cloak that concealed his face from Shaya’s vantage above.

The third was a burly giant of a man, as broad as a bear, with wild, flaming red hair. He was the largest and most physically imposing of the group, though to Shaya Thunderbolt his exaggerated muscles seemed almost grotesquely overdeveloped. Slung across his back was an enormous shield, reminiscent of a turtle’s shell—an iron shield adorned with ornate symbols Shaya could not decipher. What drew Shaya’s attention most was that this behemoth, like himself, wielded an axe.

He could not help but feel a pang of embarrassment, for the stranger’s axe was clearly of far superior make—a battleaxe of fine steel, with rings of engraving along the haft for grip, its blade a keen, moonlit silver, the curved edge elegant as a crescent moon, the thick back exuding weight and power, and the tip fitted with a sharp spearhead.

Such a weapon was precisely what Shaya Thunderbolt had always longed for. He recalled seeing something similar in a weapons shop in Wildfire Town—of slightly lesser quality than this—but even then, its price was astronomical: three gold coins, less than chainmail, but still far beyond Shaya’s reach.

Staring at the axe, longing flickered in his eyes. He unconsciously touched the pouch of coins in his breast, the hard, comforting weight calming him. He could not help but think: when I return, I must buy myself such a fine axe—and perhaps a set of that light yet sturdy chainmail as well.

Now, Shaya’s gaze settled on the fourth member.

She was a woman.

There was no mistaking it—she was a beauty who could take the breath from nearly any man alive. Her cheeks were as creamy as congealed fat, her eyes as alluring as blossoming peach petals, her brows arched like a frosty crescent moon, her skin fair as frost and snow. Those enchanting eyes alone could set most men’s hearts aflutter. She was young as well, and as she walked forward, she wore an exquisite suit of leather armor. But why say exquisite?

Because the armor was made from rare white rhinoceros hide, one of the most prized materials for leather armor. White rhino hide was renowned for its toughness and resilience, almost impervious to ordinary blades, and was the pinnacle of leather armors. More than that, white rhinos were exceedingly rare; a single piece of their hide could fetch a fortune.

The armor, now worn by this beauty, was coated in a lustrous silver lacquer, etched with patterns as resplendent as blooming flowers. The natural breathability and elasticity of the rhino hide made for a superb fit, molding to her figure and accentuating her striking curves. Beneath the armor, she wore a battle skirt, each segment of the armor shaped like a lotus petal.

The woman’s figure was tall and slender, and on her back she carried a longbow. The bow itself was a masterwork of black iron, the string gleaming with silvery luster—Shaya could not help but marvel: heavens, does this woman have so much money that she can use silver thread for her bowstring?

More astonishing still, at her waist hung a quiver with only ten arrows. Peering closer, Shaya sighed again. Each arrow, by itself, was worth enough to feed him for more than ten days (in truth, he underestimated the cost). Even high-quality arrows typically used goose feathers for fletching, but this woman’s arrows—Shaya recognized instantly with his experienced hunter’s eye—were all fletched with eagle feathers!

And only ten arrows in the quiver—such a choice baffled Shaya. On the Wildfire Plains, where beasts and monsters abounded and danger lurked everywhere, most archers would carry at least two full quivers, just to scrape by.

This woman...

In this party, there was a warrior, a swordsman, an archer, and the one in the leather robe—likely a healer, or perhaps even the fabled mage. It was an ideal composition for an adventuring party. Judging by the quality of their gear, all must be formidable.

Of course, there was another thing that drew a sigh from Shaya’s heart.

The appearance of this lady archer...

Alas, so ugly a woman still exists in this world!

It seems that even among the mighty, some are cursed with dreadful looks.