Solo Strategy

Waking up an hour before dawn, I had breakfast on boiled eggs and thought about the need to replenish my supplies. Of course, I could eat in the city, as there were plenty of taverns, little restaurants, and other eateries in Deytran, but cooking for myself was cheaper. Besides, at this hour, all those establishments were still closed, and judging by the schedule, my training at sunrise would continue for the whole two weeks.

After getting dressed, I went down to the inner courtyard, where I did a brief fifteen-minute warm-up. Then, I locked Striking Whisper in the weapon cabinet and, armed only with my dagger and the First Feather hanging from my belt, headed out.

The weather was pleasing today—not a cloud in the sky. The only downside was that it was quite chilly, but as soon as the sun appeared, it would warm up. Still, it wouldn't hurt to consider buying some kind of jacket.

At the former Trade League captain's house I arrived just in time, a couple of minutes before the rays of the morning sun illuminated the domes of the Main Temple of Dyled. I tapped lightly, so to say symbolically, on the door with a small hammer, and it was opened almost immediately. Today, Eddart looked much better than yesterday. He had shaved, tidied himself up, and clearly hadn't been drinking, which made him appear quite presentable, as befits a respected member of society. Unlike me, he was dressed more warmly—thick trousers, a jacket made from sailcloth, apparently waterproof.

"Good morning, Master," I greeted the Air mage with a short bow.

"Morning," the former captain waved off my words and, instead of letting me into the house, stepped outside and locked the door. "Follow me," he said curtly and, turning sharply, strode towards the fishing harbor.

Aware of his difficult nature, I wasn't surprised by such a cold reception and obediently followed my temporary trainer. Eddart walked through the city confidently, with long strides. Sometimes people greeted him, to which he responded with a simple nod, never stopping even for a brief chat.

At this early hour, the fishing harbor was probably the liveliest part of the city. It reminded me of Feyst—only it was much cleaner here and somehow quieter, despite there being even more people. Dozens, if not hundreds, of small fishing boats hurried to leave the harbor, aiming to reach the fishing spots before their competitors. Shouts, splashes, oars striking the water, whistles, the creaking of gear, the slapping of sandals on wet wood—all blended into a rhythmic morning hum, like the breath of a coastal giant.

Eddart, skillfully weaving between nets hung on poles and barrels, made his way to the southernmost pier, set a bit apart from the others. At this pier, several large boats rocked gently. They were clearly not for fishing but rather designed for coastal transport. The former captain of the Trade League stopped at one of them.

This large boat reminded me of the yacht tenders of 19th-century sailing ships, except it was slightly shorter and a bit wider. The hull was elongated, keeled, with a slightly raised bow. The sides were lined with well-fitted planks, and beneath the deck was a cargo space covered with canvas tarps. A solitary mast rose in the center, straight and smooth, about twice the height of a man, with a reinforced yard and raised rigging.

After carefully inspecting the boat, Eddart used a couple of spells unfamiliar to me, then nodded in satisfaction and jumped aboard.

Within a couple of minutes, the Air mage had thoroughly examined the entire boat and seemed completely pleased with the inspection. With a sharp gesture, he invited me to join him. Wasting no time, I easily jumped aboard and settled on one of the rowing benches.

Looking at me as if I were an idiot, Eddart immediately ordered me to move to the stern. Still not understanding what had irritated him, I silently obeyed and took the indicated seat.

Barely a minute had passed when the former captain of the Trade League untied the ropes holding the boat at the pier and used a stream of air from his palms to push it away from the dock. Then, he quickly set about hoisting the sail, a task he managed swiftly—it was clear that my temporary trainer was long accustomed to such work.

Obeying Eddart's commanding gesture, the sail filled with fresh wind, and our little vessel confidently started to gain speed. The waves began whispering beneath the hull, merging into a melodious, rhythmic splash, while the wind, circling over the deck, seemed to search for something to snatch away with it.

Sitting at the stern, I tried to use my Perception aura to understand what the air mage was doing, but I didn't yet have enough knowledge to figure out the spell he used. It was as if he was conducting an invisible orchestra.

We had reached about the middle of the harbor when one of the fishermen, avoiding a collision with a vessel that had suddenly changed course ahead of him, cut across our path. Eddart immediately burst into such a profane tirade that I couldn't help but listen in fascination. And a wind spell immediately hit the unlucky fisherman's boat, steering it off our course.

"Back-ridger..." Eddart spat disdainfully towards the fishing boat.

Indeed, the one who had cut us off was a member of one of Ain's eastern ethnic groups.

Within half an hour, without any further incidents, our yacht-tender left the harbor and reached open water.

The former captain didn't need rudders or oars to steer the boat. He managed solely with magic, notably using not just Air but also Water. It seemed to me that the time we were spending now could have been used more wisely. But after observing Eddart's expression, I realized he deliberately chose this manner for today.

On Earth, I'd known trainers who acted the same way with new students on the first day. Few words, with a harshness that bordered on open rudeness. As they explained, it helped build the mentor's authority and made the newcomers pay closer attention to every word the teacher let drop.

After another fifteen minutes, our boat veered away from the main cluster of fishing vessels, and Eddart gestured to stop the wind blowing into the sail. Then the former captain stood up at full height by the mast, gave me a demanding look, and curtly said:

"Start talking."

During our leisurely sail, I had already considered all possible scenarios for our conversation, so his question didn't surprise me.

"My first Self-Knowledge ritual was conducted far to the east, in Tries." Eddart gestured that he knew the city, and I continued. "The ritual itself, apparently, had some malfunction. Due to that, I discovered that I have four Stars in the Air Element only recently, when I'd crossed the First Wall and performed the Self-Knowledge ritual again. So, I never studied Air magic, except for household spells."

"Back-ridger bunglers..." The former captain of the Trade League rolled his eyes. "Even in such simple matters, they mess up." He didn't even doubt my fabricated story.

This man clearly didn't like people from the eastern lands and regarded them with disdain. Which, in Ain, was quite normal. In the east, they didn't like the "broad-faced," and in the west, they reciprocated the sentiment towards the "narrow-eyed."

"Recently, I learned Wind Sense, but only the basics, and hardly practiced," I added.

"That's good," my temporary trainer nodded. "That you haven't practiced on your own. Wind Sense is complex magic, more an art than a regular spell or aura. Learning it on your own can lead to numerous mistakes, which are very difficult to correct later. Show me."

Obediently following the trainer's command, I stirred up the magical flows, swirling mana and prana in the right proportion, as Scully had taught...

"Stop!" The sharp shout broke my concentration. "Did you take lessons from an archer?"

"Yes." How did he guess?

"I see," Eddart grimaced. "Archers use Wind Sense very narrowly. Judging by how you're pouring in more prana than mana, you were taught a cut-down version. Bowmen don't really need more than that. But if you truly want to fly," his lips twisted into an involuntary smirk, "you'll have to forget everything you were taught and listen only to me."

"I'll do my best," I nodded and pulled out three vials bought back in Sun City from my belt. "Maybe this will help?"

The former captain took the vials, examined them closely, and then handed them back.

"Expensive and high-quality alchemy." This time, his nod was more approving. "It will speed up your training, but not today. Today, I need to understand what you can do on your own."

Once, long ago, back in school, my parents sent me to learn drawing. I didn't achieve much in that field, as I lacked talent and wasn't particularly interested. But being taught by an elderly, slightly eccentric lady who was obsessed with visual art reminded me a lot of how Eddart began to train me.

The Air Mage set aside all technical details and focused on my feelings and sensations. Magic, as he practiced it, sounded like music—changeable, capricious, yet obedient to the rhythm set by the spellcaster. I would either push energies to the limit, feeling my hands hum and warm up, the vibration of magic resonating in my teeth and temples, or, on the contrary, shut down, freezing, suppressing even the subconscious movement of power within me. All the while, the wind summoned by my mentor howled around me. Sometimes, I thought I heard a whisper from beyond, as if the wind itself was trying to tell me something, teasing, pulling me along. At one point, I even felt I could sense the direction of the air currents—not with my eyes or skin, but with my whole body, as if I had become part of this shifting element. But this sensation, after flickering a couple of times, vanished like morning mist.

That's pretty much all we did for the whole day. We never even got to the actual study of Wind Sense—didn't do a single technical exercise. I wasn't sure how effective this approach to learning would be, but it was encouraging that Eddart seemed pleased as he steered our boat back to the southern pier. I hoped his mood was due to my progress—I wasn't too confident about it myself.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

As soon as our yacht-skiff docked, the former captain of the Trade League announced that training for the day was over and warned me to refrain from using magic until the next session. He also asked me to bring the alchemy I had shown him today. After I nodded, the Air mage bid farewell, scheduling the next lesson for tomorrow morning.

Judging by Dairin's position in the sky, I stepped ashore around four in the afternoon. My stomach was growling, demanding a proper lunch. Nevertheless, leaving the fishing harbor behind, I quickly headed toward the Deytran branch of the Tunnellers' Guild. Food could wait, but I needed to write at least a minimal guide for the earthlings and place an order to have it posted on the Boards in the cities nearest to Pentapolis as soon as possible. I had realized this possibility far too late already.

The branch building, quite large, three stories tall, with carved columns and statues along its entire façade, was located in a square whose name always made me smile. It was called "Honest Profit Square." My smirk was, of course, caused by the word "Honest," as it was no secret to me that most merchants, for the sake of good profit, would very easily and quickly slide into the most blatant lies. Although I had always been skeptical of Karl Marx's works, partly because they barely addressed state regulation of the market, I had to admit that his statement about what people would do for three hundred percent profit seemed accurate[1].

The main hall of the branch was not as crowded as I had expected. Only two small groups of Opal tunnellers were engaged in lively conversation. After a closer look, I realized none of them were earthlings. They all behaved exactly as the locals would.

The hall itself—spacious and tall, with wide arches and warm sandy hues of stone—exuded a restrained yet tangible sense of dignity. The walls were adorned with bas-reliefs depicting maps and routes, some of which I recognized: expeditions to the Northern Frontiers, the crossing of the Gray Isthmus, familiar signs of the Roads of Hammer and Wind. The ceiling was crossed by carved beams of redwood, darkened with age but still smelling of wax and old varnish. The floor, made of smooth, solid slabs of light limestone, featured inlays of ritual patterns and guiding lines that were barely visible but could be felt underfoot.

At first glance, everything seemed modest, almost utilitarian, but if you lingered your gaze, traces of thoughtful wealth began to emerge. Chandeliers made of cast bronze, each with several spherical crystals instead of flames, provided a soft, diffused light that didn't hurt the eyes. The notice boards were made from expensive types of wood, polished to a mirror finish, and equipped with enchanted frames protecting the paper from aging. Even the chairs, seemingly simple at first, were upholstered in high-quality fabric with the embossed symbol of the Guild and stood on thick, hand-carved legs. Even the silence in this hall felt not like emptiness but rather a precisely measured pause between two points of a journey. Everything here breathed experience, discipline, and a special pride inherent in those who know the value of hard work.

Three more people were sitting by the walls, busy with their own tasks, and two others were studying the notices on the Board. The counter, manned by two retired tunnellers, was free.

As soon as I entered the hall, a rather pretty trainee girl approached me and offered her assistance. I sent her ahead to the counter, enjoying the view of her long legs.

"How can I help you," the older of the two duty officers, raising his slightly sleepy eyes, asked, "sheriff... Sheriff of the Book?!"

As soon as the man noticed my guild Sign, all drowsiness instantly vanished, and he even jumped to his feet.

"Om Raven Alexandrite," I introduced myself.

"How can I help you... sheriff?" Despite his mature age, the duty officer was clearly flustered upon seeing my Sign.

"First, the Book," I said with a soft smile.

"Of course," he immediately nodded, putting a massive artifact tome on the counter.

Actually, I didn't need to place my palm on the Book. For some reason, my guild Sign, after I became a sheriff, started changing its color on its own according to my rank. Nevertheless, I still touched the Book—purely out of curiosity.

Alas, besides a pleasant warmth and a sense of "recognition," the Book did not react to my touch any further. So, after removing my hand from the tome's surface and placing some silver coins on the counter, I requested:

"Seven large sheets of paper and writing supplies, please."

"Of course, of course," the duty officer immediately bustled about. Despite his jerky and slightly nervous movements, he fulfilled my order quickly and accurately.

"Escort me to a free table, away from prying eyes," I asked the trainee girl.

Settling into a comfortable chair clearly meant for VIP guests, I placed the paper on the table and immediately set down an inkwell and a cup with three goose quills. Carefully examining the tools I had to use for writing the "instructions," I paused to think. True, the sheets of paper provided by the duty officer were of decent size—slightly larger than the A4 format I was used to, but I'd have to write with a quill! And in English at that, which I did know thanks to frequent trips abroad, but not exactly perfectly.

About twenty minutes I spent revising my pre-written drafts, making them more concise. After that, I wasted an entire clean sheet just getting used to writing with a quill.

I've never been able to boast good handwriting, so I had to write in block letters. If it weren't for my enhanced coordination, far surpassing that of an ordinary person, it would have taken me at least an hour to fill even one page. Besides, I'd only ever written with a quill maybe twice in my life and kept worrying about blotting the page. But soon, I realized I could surprisingly precisely control the pressure and literally sense the viscosity and flow of the ink, making writing not as difficult as I had imagined.

However, I had to discard the second sheet too—I misjudged the amount of text and couldn't format it properly. The third one, though, was filled out correctly.

Yes, I had to "sacrifice" a lot, but I conveyed the main ideas. First, I noted the "commonly accepted" terms with explanations: "questers," "sortudo." Second, I recounted the story of the sunken island, making sure to mention that it had been "verified" by testing on the locals. There was still enough space left to share my thoughts on respecting local laws and customs, and I included brief descriptions of all the cities of Pentapolis and the Inverted Towers. Of course, the latter had to be very superficial, but I thought it would still be useful to someone. After some reflection, I decided against promoting the Ainuminati so I wouldn't overwhelm Arien with a sudden influx of eager new guild members. I also did not write my contact details, though I did sign it.

After rewriting all five sheets with the same text, I went to the desk, took five more, and filled them out.

"I would like to pay for these sheets to be posted on the Boards in Pentapolis and five nearby cities located on trade routes. I'll leave the final choice of cities to you," I said, approaching the branch duty officer again.

The fact that the sheets I laid out on the counter were not written in the common language didn't surprise him. Alchemists and Artifactors, for instance, often used cryptic writing in their messages. However, if I weren't the Guild's sheriff, I would have had to explain what my "notice" was about, and not just explain but do so with my hand on the Book, making it impossible to lie. But thanks to my position, I didn't even need to answer such questions.

"The duration for which you want to post the notices?" the duty officer asked, noting my requirements.

"Three months," I replied after a bit of thought.

"Six gold per posting on the Pentapolis Boards and three in the nearby cities," he finally announced after lengthy calculations.

"That's already with the Guild sheriff's discount?" I asked, as the prices were frankly steep.

"Of course!" the duty officer hastily nodded. "But you can choose smaller sheets—then the price will also decrease."

"No, everything's fine," I said, counting out the necessary amount and stacking it on the counter. "Thank you for your help. And, yes, if any issues come up with people calling themselves sortudo, write down the address I give you, and call me right away. If I'm around, I'll be sure to help."

"Sortudo?" He clearly heard the word for the first time, but obediently wrote it down along with the address I dictated.

With that, I said goodbye to the duty officer and allowed the pretty, long-legged trainee girl to escort me to the exit.

The visit to the Guild branch left me in a somewhat melancholic mood—I was practically gnawing at myself for not thinking of submitting such an announcement as soon as I became sheriff. Now, the impact of such information would be significantly less than even a month ago. But missed opportunities could not be regained, which only made me angrier with myself.

There was still plenty of time before sunset, but instead of strolling around the city, I decided to head home and train to the point of drenching in sweat—to chase away the gloomy thoughts. However, I needed to buy some food first. So, I stopped by one of the small markets.

I immediately picked up a good, spacious basket and then walked through the stalls. The enticing smells made me think of making a goulash[1]. After browsing the shops for a bit, I bought everything I needed, plus some long-lasting supplies: eggs, cheese, and dried meat. With the basket almost full to the brim, I headed home.

About halfway there, I remembered that the Fire Forge was nearby. Since I hadn't seen this marvel with my own eyes yet, I decided to extend my route a bit and take a look.

The forge, built by the outcasts of the undermountain people many hundreds of years ago, was situated in the Iron Quarter, on the bank of one of the city's widest canals. When I arrived at Wootz Square, I involuntarily froze. Memory was memory, but seeing it with my own eyes was another matter entirely.

The Fire Forge, constructed by dwarves in the heart of a human city, made a strange impression at first glance—it seemed more like a piece of another world forcibly embedded into the fabric of the familiar urban landscape. It didn't just stand out; it repelled with its uncompromising solidity, leaving no doubt about who built it and for what purpose. No human architect, no matter how skilled, could have created anything like it: it carried a different logic, a different scale of aesthetic, based on durability, permanence, and functionality.

Constructed from massive, almost unhewn, deliberately rough yet precisely fitted granite blocks, the Fire Forge knew neither symmetry nor elegance. Its rectangular forms rose from the ground with a heavy dignity. Devoid of ornament, devoid of glass—only mute, long, slit-like embrasures in the walls broke the monolithic austerity, looking more like ventilation shafts of a dungeon than windows. Light didn't hide in these narrow slits; it burst out in a dim glow, a reflection of the heat within. The roof was flat, as if chopped off by a giant axe, and topped with an unusually wide but squat chimney. From this chimney rose a dense, remarkably pure white smoke, as if steam were gushing from a subterranean source. It didn't tease the senses with the smell of coal, nor did it hang like a poisonous cap, but vanished into the air, disappearing just a few meters above the roof. This smoke added an extra layer of strangeness to the building, as I had only seen something similar above the cooling towers of nuclear power plants.

The main entrance of the Forge was worthy of a fortress: double doors made of black wood, reinforced with iron, stood taller than a man and were so massive they seemed more a part of the wall than a door. Within one of the panels, maintaining careful proportion, was a smaller door for everyday use. But even that looked disproportionately heavy, sturdy, and—most striking to the human eye—was square.

The entire architecture of the building seemed built in contrast to the surrounding world, though this was merely an illusion. Where human houses reached upward, striving for light, the dwarven structure pressed into the earth, as if remembering its roots deep within the mountains. Where people would add beauty or convenience, here reigned wild indifference to such trifles. This building did not invite—it simply existed. Motionless. Unchanging. Alien. And in this alienation, there was power. Not hostile, no. Rather, indifferent. Like that of a stone slab that would lie in the same place even a thousand years from now. Like that of the masters who did not build but carved the structure into the world, leaving a mark akin to a scar on the earth's face.

For about three minutes I stood like a statue, so overwhelmed by a feeling of alienness as I looked at that building that I couldn't help myself. Only when this spell broke did I notice the figure of a person sitting on a stone bench by the wall of the Forge.

A familiar figure.

[1] Yeah, not exactly Marx's words; he just quoted another person. And the judgment itself is arguable, but it's perfectly normal for a regular person like Raven.
[2] Think of goulash as a sort of meat stew. Using the exact term makes sense later on.