Ch. 10
Chapter 10: [The Mathematics of Sharks and Adventurers]
The ten o’clock sunlight danced between the zigzagging, sloped redwood rooftops of Thornfall Outpost, reflecting off the coarse and durable white-stone walls.
Both the walls and rooftops bore the same uneven traces of corrosion and erosion.
It was the masterpiece of the Karna Plains’ decayed-dust climate—wind erosion like a swarm of magical imps wielding chisels, omnipresent, leaving etching-like roughness upon every face and every building.
Although the Alliance barrier in Thornfall Outpost provided decent protection against the dust corrosion, that was only under normal conditions.
During extreme weather in the Demon Domain, even twelve Alliance mages cooperating at full strength to maintain the barrier could not completely defend against it.
When the decayed-dust storms roared, the dust still invaded the barrier like screaming ghosts, hammering upon the tightly shut doors and windows of every household, carving marks upon the walls and roofs.
These storms were frequent across the Karna Plains, and every single one was deadly enough to suffocate any adventurer outside the city without proper protection or shelter.
That was why—helmets with full coverage, masks, thick scarves, or demonic-fabric veils were indispensable gear for any adventurer surviving in the Karna Wasteland.
Randall Ryska still remembered his first encounter with a decayed-dust storm. Thank the heavens there was no mission that day—everyone had hidden inside the adventurers’ barracks of Thornfall Outpost.
The locked doors and windows rattled violently under the storm’s lash. Outside, the world turned into a raging sea of reddish-brown madness—like the end of days itself.
The apprentice mage in the team, Selina, had said that in the Wasteland, even the dust contained demonic essence.
It wasn’t ordinary erosion—it was demonic erosion.
Even cities built with arcane formations and demonic materials struggled to resist the decay—unless, like the demons, they lived underground.
After all, this was not a habitable zone. Those willing to live here were people who believed that “the rougher the seas, the pricier the fish”—brave souls daring to wrestle against the world’s malice.
Randall Ryska withdrew his gaze from the etched marks on the roof and the white wall.
It was his habit—to constantly observe his surroundings, seeking every piece of useful information and pondering over every anomaly.
As he walked through the streets of Thornfall Outpost toward the Alliance Hall, he absentmindedly chewed on his pen while flipping through his small notebook.
Uncle Robin and Uncle Carlisle had said that against bandits—fierce human enemies—they needed close-combat units, preferably heavy-armored ones... He organized his thoughts.
If they added another melee warrior to the party, the loot and bounty would have to be divided further. Would his teammates agree? He rubbed his temple in frustration.
Then... I’ll just deduct it from my own share.
He made up his mind and wrote down in his notebook: “Voluntarily giving up part of my bounty and loot share to recruit a melee fighter.”
Better to earn less than die in a bandit-hunting mission.
What else would they need?
Travel rations and dry food—13 gold coins and 5 silver coins for five people? No, they’d need extra portions for the new warrior...
Oil bombs—30 gold each. Buy five. Fire attacks worked best on fixed encampments; they’d need them to raid a bandit camp.
That’s 150 gold coins.
Torches infused with demon-repelling essence—15 gold apiece. Would twenty be enough?—No, of course not.
The journey to the Beastbone Hills was too long; camping in the wilderness was unavoidable, and night beasts were especially vicious.
Maybe twenty-five torches... 375 gold coins. Such items were better bought and unused than desperately needed and unavailable.
Healing potions—market price, 13 gold per vial... though their apprentice alchemist Ruby could brew them herself, which reduced the cost to 4 gold for the materials alone. What a lucrative business.
Of course, Ruby’s potions were far inferior in quality and caused excruciating pain during the healing process. Since Randall’s team lacked a temple priest, a healer, or an elven blessing mage, they had to rely solely on Ruby’s potions and Selina’s few healing spells to maintain operational endurance.
Injuries were routine.
From experience, a mid-level mission required at least 22 vials per person—so, for one, that’s... 88 gold.
Strong painkillers—5 gold per vial.
They were used alongside Ruby’s agonizing healing potions to prevent the pain from affecting combat or recovery. Each person would need 22 vials.
When calculated, it wasn’t much cheaper than market potions.
Antidotes—13 gold per bottle.
The Karna Wasteland was overrun with poisonous flora and fauna, and Ruby still couldn’t brew potions of this grade.
Three bottles for safety...
Sharpening oil for swords and fermented brownwood oil for bow maintenance—5 gold coins total.
Stone-skin potion—82 gold a bottle. For close combat against bandits, this was essential for survival.
At least three bottles.
They’d nearly run out of arrows after the last hunt—so they’d need another batch.
The quest listed about fifty bandits—so, fifty enchanted arrowheads and fifty armor-piercing ones...
…
After some quick mental calculations, Randall sighed.
Perhaps snatching this quest so hastily had been a mistake, he thought.
Adventuring was a precarious and costly profession—one earned money through quests, gathering, and loot sales.
No missions, no income.
The bounty for exterminating the bandits—5,332 Edric Gold Coins—was indeed a large sum.
A five-man team would each get over a thousand coins, but after deducting expenses, not much remained.
Outsiders always ogled the big numbers on the Alliance’s task board, half envious, half bitter, calling adventuring a “get-rich-quick” trade—as if a day’s work could pay for three days of leisure.
Randall was, at heart, a simple man.
The idea of “work one day, rest three” sounded delightful to him.
He’d loved roaming since childhood—poking around everywhere, tugging at horse tails until nearly kicked to death.
A scar still marked his left temple from a horse’s hoof scraping past.
Everyone in the village had found him annoying.
When he heard that adventurers could poke around for money, he’d been fooled into the profession by that promise.
But reality... was nothing like that. If you believed in that “one day work, three days rest” nonsense, you’d only last four days in the Wasteland.
Equipment maintenance, healing potions, all manner of consumables—if you didn’t want to die, you had to prepare thoroughly every time you went out.
If you wanted to grow stronger, you needed to save for strengthening potions, body-tempering materials, and better gear.
Everything was expensive.
After all costs, the loot money barely covered it.
Without meticulous planning and clear resource management, an adventurer couldn’t progress—or even survive. Randall pondered this deeply.
Those wealthy, powerful adventurers in rumors truly existed—but they were all high-level veterans.
Most low and mid-level adventurers couldn’t even afford potions to improve themselves, let alone savings.
One day without work meant one day of hunger.
According to the city guards and the Alliance receptionist, forty percent of new adventurers who came chasing dreams left within a year, defeated by reality.
Another forty percent never left—their bones devoured by beasts, absorbed by demonic plants, or, if fortunate, warped into Undead Constructs, their remains forever wandering the hazy dust of the plains.
The last twenty percent became adventurers for real.
Some stagnated, some advanced to mid-level.
Only the rarest few—about two percent—advanced beyond Level 5 through skill, experience, and alchemical enhancement.
During the year he followed the Level 6 adventurer, “Wind Sword” Norman, Randall hadn’t learned powerful storm sword techniques, magic, or alchemy formulas—nor had he received much loot.
But he’d followed Norman eagerly—pouring tea, moving ledgers, flattering him, even giving up parts of his loot share—just to peek at Norman’s notebook during planning sessions.
His persistence and eagerness finally earned the attention of the famous “Wind Sword” Norman, who, out of professional duty and mild fondness, began to teach him.
In that year, Randall had learned from fourteen years of Norman’s experience: budgeting, mission logistics, expense calculation, daily necessities, and equipment care.
At the desk, Norman wasn’t the cold, fierce swordsman from the tales. He was more like an accountant, a thrifty housekeeper, or a stern older brother.
> “I hail from the western coastal Floren Kingdom, Randall Ryska,” Norman had said one afternoon, sipping tea, “a nation of oceans and maritime trade. My hometown lies by the sea—the damp winds always made my books soft and wrinkled, and beyond the window stood forests of white sails and masts.”
> “When I was thirteen, I went fishing with my father. The sea was full of massive pale sharks hunting seals. They had rows of steel-like teeth—one bite could tear a seal in half, dyeing the water red. I was terrified of sharks eating people back then.”
He’d chuckled.
> “But my father told me that most sharks hate eating humans,” Norman had said.
> “Because humans are too lean—too much bone, not enough fat or meat. The energy gained from eating a human is less than what’s spent chasing and devouring one. If sharks only ate humans, they’d starve.”
> “Sharks are clever. They know that the seemingly abundant ocean is in truth a harsh, blue wasteland—every movement costs energy. So they hunt fat-rich creatures like seals first. As for humans... the cost-to-gain ratio isn’t worth it. Sharks don’t do losing business.”
> “Adventurers are the same. The Wasteland is like the sea—seemingly rich, yet cruel beneath the surface.”
> “People say the Wasteland teems with magical materials—pluck a blade of grass, and you can sell it for gold.” He smiled faintly. “Yes, it’s true. But Randall, have you ever seen an adventurer survive half a year doing only gathering quests?”
Randall shook his head.
> “A simple calculation tells you why. Even the easiest gathering quest takes three days, yet the pay won’t cover two days’ food and lodging. Magical flora can’t feed humans. This place is far from fertile lands—everything must be transported here at great cost. Here, everything is expensive.” Norman laughed softly.
> “Many big missions are the same—huge rewards on paper, but the necessary investments often exceed the profits.”
> “Life isn’t easy. We’re no different from sharks. We must think, calculate, and weigh every decision just to stay alive in this land-bound wasteland. Think more. Calculate more.”
> “If you take every mission without thought, even if you complete them all, you’ll still starve. It’s only a matter of time. That’s the mathematics of adventurers.”
…
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that bandit-hunting quest.
Randall recalled those words of Norman, tasting their weight again in memory.
He had indeed been blinded by the allure of the large bounty.
This quest wasn’t wise.
It looked profitable, but the investment required exceeded the rewards.
No wonder two Level 5 adventurers had looked at the quest board and walked away—leaving him to snatch it amid the scramble of low-level adventurers.
But it was too late to back out.
According to the Alliance’s rules, quitting mid-mission or breaking contract meant paying heavy fines.
A true adventurer had to uphold the spirit of contract. He sighed.
A hard lesson learned.
But the money still had to be spent.
On the bright side, bandits capable of surviving the Wasteland were often skilled.
Their camp might hold valuable loot. If they succeeded in extermination, selling the spoils could at least cover costs—
Randall sighed again, ready to step into the Adventurers’ Guild Hall to try his luck—see if any idle warriors were looking for a team.
Just then, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Hey, Randall! Boy! Come back!”
He turned to see Guard One—Uncle Robin—striding toward him across the street.
“Move it, come with me to the gate,” Robin said, grabbing his arm without explanation. “We found you two perfect new members—excellent warriors! Way better than that blockhead swordsman of yours! With them in your team, I won’t say it’ll be easy, but you’ll all make it back alive!”
“...What?” Randall barely had time to react before being half-dragged down the road.
From a distance, he saw two towering figures at the city gate.
Both were fully armored knights—one in black armor, carrying a hammer-spear and dragging a dark red cloak; the other in bronze armor, bearing a sword and shield, cloaked in a worn gray hooded cape.
“Look, Randall, see their armor?” Robin murmured.
“Their armor’s intact in shape but old, dirty, and scarred. That means they maintain their equipment well.”
“Not new or flashy—so not showy novices, but veterans of real combat.”
“Especially the one in black armor—see those sword marks and beast claw scratches? And that heavy hammer-spear? Full armor, traveled long distance, and not even out of breath. That kind of strength, endurance, and stamina—likely forged by high-grade potions. Probably a high-level War Knight, an armor-breaker specialist.”
“Look closely—the black knight’s gauntlets are claw-shaped.” Robin leaned close. “Notice her left arm? The armor’s stained dark with old blood—that’s dried residue from years past. It means she’s driven those claws into enemies and ripped out their entrails. That’s an aggressive fighter. Last I saw that style—smashing through armor with bare hands—was in the Edric Empire’s army. That’s near Stone Warrior level strength!”
Randall stared at the black knight, feeling a chill of awe—the same as when he’d first seen Norman fight.
Powerful. Cold. Ruthless yet restrained.
“What about the bronze one? Notice anything about his sword and shield?” Robin asked.
Randall shook his head and pulled out his notebook.
“Ha! His longsword’s not standard issue—shorter than regulation,” Robin grinned. “Standard blades are for mounted combat—longer reach. His sword’s shorter, for fighting on foot or in confined spaces like caves or fortresses. Probably modified it himself after hitting a wall mid-swing.”
Randall blinked, recalling his own mistake when his sword had bounced off a rock pile once. He quickly jotted the note down.
“Now the shield,” Robin continued. “Few rookies use shields anymore—they think blocking is for cowards. But in real combat, a shield’s invaluable. Even a small one deflects stray arrows—and can protect allies.”
“He’s already in full armor, yet still carries a shield. That means it’s not for himself—it’s to protect others. The weapons reflect the man. This one’s cautious, steady, and likely a kind-hearted knight who watches over his comrades.”
“Uncle Robin, you’ve had too much to drink! Warriors like them must be Level 5 or 6 at least! They’d never join a rookie team like ours!” Randall gulped. “I’m barely Level 3 myself!”
“Don’t chicken out! They’re penitent knights from afar—wanting to register as adventurers but haven’t yet. Once registered, they’ll start from Level 1. Just help them through the process, befriend them—and who knows?” Robin smirked, then shoved him hard on the back.
Randall stumbled forward and nearly collided with the bronze knight’s chestplate.
The bronze knight reached out, catching Randall’s arm to steady him.
Randall shivered—it felt like an iron clamp chilled in icy water had grabbed him.
The knight’s armor radiated an unnatural cold.
Though cloth strips were bound around his gauntlets to insulate the metal, they did little to hide that freezing aura.
The bronze knight lowered his head slightly, his visor’s narrow slit shadowing his eyes—like some armored beast lurking in darkness, curiously watching its prey.
Randall’s imagination ran wild—visions of armored scorpions beneath Karna’s white stones, Norman’s tales of sea crabs from the Black Sea, even the Earth-Devouring Worms that pulled the Demon King’s Chariot—he could barely breathe.
The next second, the bronze knight’s icy gauntlet clasped his hand warmly, shaking it vigorously.
> “You must be Randall Ryska, the one the old man mentioned! Pleased to meet you, Randall—friend!”
> The rust-stained bronze helm emitted a youthful voice—around Randall’s own age. “I’m Samo, a War Knight from a distant monastery.”
“Ah... yes, pleased to meet you, Brother Samo...”
Randall felt as if his hands were soaking in ice water.
That freezing armor, paired with such warm enthusiasm—it felt unreal.
Unreal, as if from another world, he thought.