Chapter 140: Watched by Something Foul
Yarpin was about to slip into the embrace of the night when he was called back.
"Hold on, I've got some things for you as well."
Percival lugged over a coarse burlap sack. Inside were two large loaves of bread, several links of smoked sausage, and a handful of broad beans so salty they'd parch a man's throat just by looking at them.
"If you plan on leaving tonight, it's best to keep your head down. This walking stick is something I made for fun back when I was younger take it for protection."
Yarpin slung the bag over his shoulder and ran his fingers along the cane. With a practiced press and a sharp scrape against a hidden catch, the staff suddenly split down the middle, revealing a cold, glinting blade.
"So that's how it is. My deepest thanks!"
A sharp glint sparked in Yarpin's eyes. With such a concealed weapon in hand, the trek ahead would undoubtedly be far smoother. He gave the two of them one last, lingering look before turning and vanishing into the deepening ink of the night.
"Will he be alright?" Arthur asked, a note of concern in his voice.
"Hmph, don't go underestimating the lad. He might not be able to pull off your 'six-against-thirty' theatrics, but in years past, the name 'Yarpin the Dragon-slayer' carried quite a bit of weight!"
"Dragon-slayer? There are dragons in this world?!"
Arthur bolted upright, his mind a whirlwind of surprise and skepticism. Koldgrim's little lectures on bestiaries had covered wyverns, forktails, and dracolizards, but the witcher had never once breathed a word about true dragons.
"Of course there are. A dragon isn't some mythical rarity. Thousands of years ago, there were at least a thousand of the beasts roaming this continent!"
"Thousands of years ago... what about now?" Arthur asked urgently. What he truly wanted to know was whether this world had Dragon Priests or Word Walls. The thing about Dragon Shouts was that you didn't miss them until you had one and once you had the first, you craved more. Relying solely on Unrelenting Force felt far too limited for his arsenal.
Percival tilted his head. "Dead or dying, mostly. Dragons love hoarding treasure, every inch of them is top-grade alchemical components, and the meat on their tails is supposedly quite succulent... Whether human or dwarf, they see them as little more than mobile treasuries."
"...Hearing you put it like that, I almost feel sorry for the dragons." Arthur scratched his head, deciding to dig a bit deeper. "Tell me, how did humans and dwarves handle them? I can't imagine how one even begins to hunt something that flies like that."
"Magic, arrows, spears, or a lamb stuffed with enough poison to kill a mountain there are plenty of ways to end a creature like that."
Percival spoke for a moment longer before suddenly waving him off. "Hey, you've got a bard in your traveling party, yet you're pestering me with all these questions? Go ask Dandelion his head is stuffed with more ballads about great dragons than I have hairs on my chin!"
Escorted out of the smithy, Arthur cradled Glacier in his arms and began the trek back to the inn, his mood somewhat dampened. He didn't need to ask Dandelion to confirm what the gnome had already made clear: the dragons of this world possessed no divinity. They were merely creatures of flesh and blood that had mastered powerful magic.
This meant that hunting a dragon in this world would, at best, grant him some progress points, but would do absolutely nothing to help unlock new Dragon Shouts.
With such meager benefits, who would actually want to go out and kill a dragon? Arthur shook his head as he walked.
Suddenly, his feet felt as though they were frozen to the cobblestones. His gaze snapped like an arrow toward a tavern on the roadside.
He had felt it distinctly a gaze laden with raw hostility watching him through the window.
It wasn't the cold, serpentine malice of someone like Corve; it was a searing, incandescent hatred that made no attempt at concealment. This enmity felt so tangible that Arthur wouldn't have been surprised if someone came crashing through the glass to kill him the very next second.
He slung Glacier across his back and strode into the tavern, intent on seeing exactly who was projecting such raw venom.
But the moment he pushed the door open, the hatred vanished into thin air. The room was a cacophony of hushed whispers and rubbing shoulders, but the patrons were all heavily made-up... men!
A man as burly as a polar bear stood up, a rose clamped between his teeth, and began sauntering toward Arthur. His eyes, glowing like hot coals, were filled with a terrifying tenderness.
Arthur's face went pale. Abandoning his investigation into the source of the malice, he bolted from the tavern like a man fleeing for his life.
"I've only been in this city for a few days. How could I possibly have enemies?" Arthur comforted himself as he hurried away. "I've just been through too much lately. I'm getting twitchy."
With the wind at his heels, he vanished down the long street in the blink of an eye.
Meanwhile, back in that bizarre, rowdy tavern, it was as if someone had pressed a stop button. All movement froze. The expressions of the patrons turned stiff and unnatural; a goblet teetered on the edge of a tray, and a stray droplet of wine hung suspended, reflecting the candlelight.
Suddenly, like glass struck by a bullet, dense cracks spider-webbed outward from the center. With a sharp snap, the scene shattered into countless fragments, revealing a quiet, unassuming cafe.
There were only two people inside, a man and a girl. The atmosphere was lonely and cold.
"Are you feeling better?"
The man looked to be about thirty, dressed in a meticulously tailored, slim-fitting robe embroidered with three black birds. As he spoke, he rested a hand gently on the girl's head, his voice calm and composed.
In contrast, the girl opposite him looked like a wreck. Her arms were trembling as if she had the ague, and her delicate, petal-like face flickered between terror and a strange, manic ecstasy.
"That dark-haired one... it's him, isn't it!"
The man's sword-straight brows knitted slightly in warning. "No. You must not go near him. Under any circumstances."
The girl nodded fervently, her shell-like teeth biting her lip until beads of blood appeared. "I know. If I face him, I'll die... but still, I want to fight that bastard so badly! Father, why don't you watch from the shadows while I "
"Enough!"
The man's low-voiced rebuke sent an invisible wave of pressure rippling through the room.
In the surrounding area, every patron mercenary, knight, or commoner shivered in unison. They abruptly cut off their boasting, which had been loud enough to lift the roof, and began silently working on their food.
The girl, facing the brunt of the pressure at close range, turned deathly pale. She gasped for air for a long moment, looking like someone who had nearly drowned.
"Well? Has your reason returned?" the man asked, patting her back. His tone was soft again, as if the sudden unrest had nothing to do with him.
"I'm better. Thank you, Father."
The girl straightened up, the color returning to her cheeks. She paced to the doorway and looked in the direction Arthur had disappeared, curiosity shining in her eyes.
"Is that the 'Dragon Hunter' you and Mother told me about? One man alone carries that much pressure... how did you and Mother ever escape so many teams of them?"
The man smiled. "You must learn to have a little more faith in your father. I am, after all, the only Golden Dragon in this world."
"Are not! I'm golden too!" The girl wrinkled her nose, acting out a "fierce" but adorable pout. Then, her eyes darted mischievously. "Father... could you beat that guy in a fight?"
.............
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