Chapter 39 

Curtis  needed no warhorse. A sturdy pack horse would do. He rode alone and had no need for brute strength. A massive beast would demand too much feed and care. What he needed was simple: healthy, even-tempered, of modest build.

They settled on a gentle brown mare for ten gold crowns, including tack and saddle. A small fortune for common folk, but such was the cost of speed and ease.

“This one will serve. You don’t need to carry water, so you can afford to travel light.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“Always be wary. Travel alone, yes, but avoid sleeping in the wild when you can.”

Thus, well-prepared and armed with advice, Curtis  left Nizerte at dawn. His path followed the river upstream, where towns—some mere clusters of huts, others sizable villages—dotted the banks like moss on a stone. There would be shelter, food, and places to rest.

More importantly, the river fed his magic.

His elemental spirit—bound to water—needed to be fed, replenished. Since his earliest awakening as a mage, it could hold more water than a wagon could carry. With each rise in level, its capacity had grown exponentially.

At first, he worried about keeping it full. But soon he realized:

“Once I’ve filled it once, it’s manageable. Water can be reused. I won’t need to waste it. It’s not as much as I feared.”

Though this world had no notion of liters, Curtis  estimated in the way only one reborn from Earth could. A single clay jar might hold dozens of liters. A water cart, loaded with jars, perhaps a thousand. A local swimming pool on Earth? Tens of thousands. An Olympic pool? Hundreds of thousands.

Even if the spirit’s storage expanded a hundredfold, it would barely fill a single modern pool.

“That’s the upper limit of how much it can hold. But how much it can release at once—that’s another story.”

Still, his power was growing. The gap between Aquamancy and Spiritcraft would shrink with time. Already, he commanded more water than most could comprehend.

So long as he didn’t forget to feed the spirit, water would never again be his limit.

Two days passed with the river at his side, the spirit well-fed and content. Then Curtis  turned away from the water, following the path eastward.

In this world, directions were often vague. The northeast portion of the Southern Realms was simply called the East, yet Abaca sat on its western edge, and Nizerte at the southeastern tip.

Thus, to reach Abaca, Curtis  had to ride northwest. The river no longer served his route.

So he charted his course with a crude map—little more than ink on cloth—and rode on. Ten days passed.

“Bloody hell… Where am I?”

With the crimson glow of sunset painting the low ridgeline to his left, Curtis  urged his horse forward, muttering curses under his breath. According to the map, he should have arrived at a village by now. But for two hours, not a soul had passed him by.

Roads in this land were rarely paved, yet well-traveled paths were usually hardened earth, beaten down by generations of footsteps and wheels. But now… even that was fading.

“Did I take a wrong turn? I didn’t misread the map. So when did I stray?”

Then again, maps here were crude things—so unreliable, they made tourist handkerchiefs from Earth look precise. Measured with no tools, drawn with wild guesses, it seemed.

And yet, up to yesterday, the map had served well enough. It hadn’t lied about villages’ existence or hidden any major landmarks. But now? Something had gone awry.

“Just a little farther. Let me get to that rise.”

He spotted a low hill—a natural watchtower. If nothing else, he’d make camp there. He hated the thought of camping alone, without a sentry to keep watch, but what choice did he have?

“…Wait.”

A glimmer.

Far on the horizon, like stars shaken loose from the dusk, there moved the faint silhouettes of people—too many for a traveling family, too organized for pilgrims. Dozens of them, clustered together, slow and deliberate in their work.

Curtis narrowed his gaze.

He spurred his horse forward, the mare snorting softly beneath him as her hooves ate the ground between them. As he approached, the details sharpened into focus: mercenaries, no fewer than twenty. Some stood with spears crossed at their boots; others bent to hammer stakes or tend fires. Beside them, four wagons, loaded to bursting with goods and supply barrels.

No banners. No sigils.

“A merchant caravan,” Curtis murmured. “Well-armed, no doubt. Four carts. They’re peddlers… traveling light, but wary.”

The large merchant guilds—the ones with wealth and clout enough to stir kings—hired their own guards, warriors trained from youth. But these? These were freelance blades, swords-for-hire that traveled with independent caravans. Men and women who knew danger by its scent and survival by the inch.

As Curtis drew near, the change was immediate. Faces turned. Hands drifted toward hilts and crossbows. Eyes narrowed beneath fur-lined hoods.

Let’s hope their hearts are kind… or at the very least, their fear doesn’t outstrip their sense.

Curtis slowed his horse to a gentle trot. Every movement was purposeful, calculated to radiate calm. The last thing he needed was a misunderstanding born of nerves. He dismounted slowly, the leather saddle creaking beneath him as his boots met the grass.

Raising his hands to show they were empty, he projected his voice across the firelit encampment.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he called out. “But I seek only a moment of your time.”

A scar-faced man near the center turned, one hand on the pommel of his short sword.

“Who goes there?” the man barked.

“A traveler,” Curtis said simply. “Nothing more. Might I speak with you?”

“Speak. From there.”

The camp did not raise their weapons—yet. Suspicion lingered in the air, like fog before the storm, but it hadn’t turned to steel.

Curtis nodded.

“I seem to have… misjudged my path. According to my map, I should’ve reached a village by now, but—” he gestured at the empty wilds surrounding them—“clearly, I’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“Where from?” the man asked, unmoving.