The Enemy of the World Chapter 3 The Bridge

There was a beautiful plain surrounded by a forest, with a river crossed by a modest bridge. The sun was preparing to set, painting the sky a vibrant orange. The grass was a rich green, darkening as the evening deepened, and for now, it was a lovely place—beautiful, tranquil. But perhaps soon, it would no longer exist. Many things in that world would soon cease to exist.

Collen was an island—a beautiful, peaceful, and strangely quiet place. Everyone born in Collen had exotic eyes of different colors: often yellow, red, lilac, entirely black, or with vertical, cat-like pupils. This unique feature set them apart, and that was all. There were no wars in Collen, no near-heroes, no battles or tragic stories to tell. Isolated by sea and serenity from the whirlwind of events on the mainland, Collen was a haven amidst chaos.

It was clear that the seven people crossing the plain were all foreigners. They carried weapons, armor, and all manner of equipment—winter blankets, knives, arrows, flints, traveling boots, amulets, and scabbards embroidered with gold thread. None of them possessed exotic eyes, though they stood out as a notable group wherever they went.

Among them was a large creature with horns and rotund muscles. To those who saw him from afar, he might have appeared monstrous, but to his companions, he was a man—a valuable man, almost a sage. A woman walked beside him, so small and unassuming that one might mistake her for a child. Her companions occasionally referred to her as a girl, and she never seemed to mind. Although she had pointed ears like tree leaves, she was not an elf; human blood coursed through her veins.

There were two men; one was little more than a teenager, while the other was by far the oldest of the group. The boy looked like a peasant, dressed in simple clothes concealed beneath a heavy, brown leather cloak. In contrast, the older man had a more flamboyant style, wearing dark blue, almost black robes adorned with cascades of crimson fabric.

Yet, for the sake of practicality, his boots were rough and sturdy—perfect for extensive walking—and the hem of his robes was tied around his legs to keep out the mud. He was slightly bald, his forehead stretching to accommodate the thinning black hair. Due to his stocky build and somewhat full stomach, he was panting as he and the boy carried a burden wrapped in white cloth.

A woman walked ahead of the group, occasionally stopping or darting off in different directions, straining her eyes to detect dangers that no one else seemed to see. Her blond hair was tied in two thick braids, and her white skin glowed with heat, revealing that she hailed from a colder land. She wore just enough clothing to meet the modesty requirements; even in the cool evening, the climate felt stifling.

Right behind her, a man and a woman—both young—strolled without concern. They carried more weapons than anyone else in the group: swords, bows, quivers full of arrows hung from their clothes, waists, and backpacks. They held hands like a peasant couple, unencumbered by the shame, discretion, or refinement expected in courtly settings.

Though they were strangers to this land, they were not lost. After a quick exchange of words, the couple came to a halt.

"Where are we?" the young man, Vallen, asked. "How far?"

Andilla Irontooth, who was in the lead, glanced around once more, squinting against the encroaching darkness, and took a few steps back toward her companions. The entire group stood still now.

"That's Coraan," she said, pointing to the river ahead. "After we cross it, just one more day."

"Any danger? Something we should fear?" asked the young woman, Ellisa, as she held on to her companion's hand. She was beautiful, like a wolf.

Andilla chuckled. "You're getting cautious with your age, Ellisa." The group shared a laugh, except for the half-elf girl. "We're in Collen; what's the worst that could happen? Did the villagers look crossly at us?"

Another wave of laughter rolled through the group. The two carrying the burden seized the opportunity to set it down and rest their arms. Whatever they bore beneath the now quite dirty white cloth was long, resembling a rolled-up rug—heavy and uncomfortable. The boy sat on the ground, opened his canteen, and took a drink, while the older man brushed dust off his robes. As if in agreement, the entire group turned their attention to the half-elf at once.

"How are you, Nichaela?" the horned creature asked, his voice booming like a war horn. One could almost imagine hearing him in the halls of the gods. "Do you need anything, little sister?"

The half-elf smiled up at her friend's bestial face. It was difficult to decipher the expressions on a minotaur's face, but years of companionship had taught Nichaela that this was genuine concern. She hurried to assure him she was fine and suggested they continue their journey soon.

"Thank you, Artorius," she said, her smile brightening the surroundings. "Very good!" shouted Vallen, grabbing Ellisa's hand once more. "Enough of softening our asses! Let's move on!"

Without delay, everyone set off quickly, Andilla leading the way, ever vigilant for trouble. The boy, brushing his long, unruly hair out of his eyes, picked up one end of the bundle, waiting for his companion to take the other.

"It's not fair, don't you think, Rufus?" Ashlen said, laughing. "No one ever asks me, 'Ashlen, is everything okay? Do you want something? A foot massage or tea with honey?'" He laughed again, but Rufus didn't join in; he seemed too busy catching his breath.

"She is a cleric; she deserves respect, devotion, care," Rufus said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Even when you're a minotaur cleric, you're apparently too good to carry weight. Even as a servant of the God of Strength, look!"

Ashlen brushed aside the hair that obstructed his vision, giving Rufus a strange look. "And don't give me any 'foot massage or tea with honey,'" he replied.

"It would be better to offer him a tavern girl or a skin of wine," Rufus tried to joke, but his attempt fell flat. Perhaps he was getting too old for this.

Ashlen remained silent, and Rufus, preferring to keep quiet, focused his eyes on the road ahead. However, his gaze kept drifting toward his companions, who were gaining distance as his fatigue caught up with him.

Vallen and Ellisa stood out even among the presence of the minotaur, the half-elf, and the others. Vallen, with his wild straw-blond hair, exuded a confidence that made him the natural leader of the group. Ellisa was his perfect match—beautiful and fierce. They always seemed to know what to do, Rufus thought. Always strong, capable, precise. Though they were much younger, he followed them without question.

The worst part was that Rufus knew this was right. He had learned time and again that Vallen's decisions were sound; under his leadership, the band had flourished and triumphed. Everyone harbored hopes of leaving their names etched in Arton's history, trusting Vallen to guide them toward the bards' tales. This mission was just another example of that.

Did Rufus consider abandoning that leadership, that group—settling in a sleepy Collen village? He remembered his previous life, before Vallen Allond, and knew it would continue.

They soon arrived at the bridge over the Coraan, which was narrow and unassuming, just like everything in Collen. It was almost completely dark now.

"Let's stop and fill our canteens," Vallen commanded, and everyone obeyed without hesitation, as if he were a general. "Just a few moments, and we'll continue." Artorius filled Nichaela's canteen despite her protests that she could do it herself. Andilla strained to listen over the murmuring waters. Ashlen spoke with Vallen, while Ellisa approached Rufus.

He had a full canteen but pretended to busy himself filling it again. "It's getting dark; it's the time for wild beasts," Ellisa warned, her voice ringing like a war cry. For Rufus, it was music to his ears. "Despite what Andilla said, you can never be too careful. Conjure up some protection for her in case something attacks us."

Rufus fumbled a little with the canteen, spilling some water. He sighed and began filling it again. "I no longer have any protection," he admitted. "I used the one I had on me this morning."

"Let her use some augury then," said Ellisa, "to predict whether we'll face problems."

"I have no more auguries," Rufus replied, curling up like a sheep. "All I have are attack spells."

"What the hell, Rufus Domat!" Ellisa exclaimed, kicking a rock. "What kind of wizard are you?"

He stuttered, his throat dry. "Magic is not a tool. It's not that simple. You need to respect it, understand that it is subtle, mysterious."

"Wrong," Ellisa shot back, straight as an arrow. "Your magic is a tool; it's what makes you useful in this group. If it's so mysterious and subtle that it's useless, then abandon it and learn to swing a sword."

Rufus grimaced. He had learned long ago to respect magic, to avoid using it frivolously, and to revere Wynna, his goddess. "You don't see any of us carrying only weapons without any other equipment. So why should I carry only combat spells?"

Although nowadays, Rufus revered Ellisa Thorn even more.

"Sorry. But if we run into problems, I thought they'd be helpful."

"Think better next time. We can all bleed enemies. Study magic that can do what none of us can."

She turned and walked toward Nichaela and Artorius. Perhaps one of them could pray to their gods for the protection that Rufus had failed to provide.

Maybe he'd find a girl here in Collen, Rufus thought—a girl or a woman his age, perhaps not as beautiful, but he wouldn't be picky. Even as he thought this, he knew it was foolish.

At Vallen's command, everyone straightened up and crossed the bridge. They halted as a warrior approached from the opposite direction.

Vallen took the lead, walking slowly as he tried to analyze the man. His hands were poised to grasp the two swords at his waist. The warrior also advanced cautiously, assessing the group in the dark.

As they drew closer, Vallen stopped, unsure of what to do. The warrior before him was indeed a warrior, but unlike any man he had ever seen. His armor was intricately designed, covering his torso and shoulders, featuring the figure of a tiger between his chest and belly. The rest of his clothing was equally elaborate, adorned with strong colors of green and red.

The warrior had his black hair tied in a bun on top of his head, and his skin was yellowish. His eyes were small and slanted, radiating a feral intensity, and he wielded two swords: one short and one long, both with slender, curved blades. He held the scabbard of the long sword with one hand, while the other rested on the hilt, showing no intent to touch the short blade.

Noticing this gesture, Vallen crossed his arms and gripped the hilts of his swords. His blades were of different lengths, but both were straight and thick; unlike the other man, he had no qualms about using both. "Who are you?" Vallen demanded.

"Only a barbarian asks such a question without introducing himself first," came the reply. The tension in the group thickened. Ellisa readied her bow, while Andilla gripped her axe tightly.

"Who are you?" Vallen repeated, more forcefully this time.

The warrior opened his mouth to respond, but Ashlen interrupted. "He is a Tamuranian."

All eyes turned to Ashlen, but soon some returned to the newcomer.

"He's from Tamura," Ashlen continued, his tone calm and instructive. "It's an island, you know. Everyone there has these features. For a Tamuranian, he speaks our language quite well," he added.

The explanation did little to ease the group's tension. Vallen still held his swords, and Ellisa maintained her arrow's aim.

"By the looks of it, he's a samurai," Ashlen continued. "A caste of warriors. They serve the Emperor and the god Lin-Wu."

Some in the group looked at Ashlen with surprise, including the Tamuranian. "I'm Ashlen Ironsmith," he said, addressing the man.

The foreigner seemed somewhat satisfied by those words. "Sou Masato Kodai, Executor Imperial."

But he quickly added, "Now go back the way you came, so I can pass."

Everyone anticipated what would come next, and Nichaela tried to intervene, but Vallen's voice thundered louder. "I think you'd better back off, Masato Kodai. We will not retreat for you."

A thick silence enveloped them.

"Understand that my position in my land is privileged and superior," Masato Kodai replied, his expression impassive, his small eyes unreadable. "As are my weapons. It is your duty to retreat."

"You're not on your land," Vallen growled. "I will not back down from anyone." Everyone in the group understood Vallen Allond's pride. It was part of the reason Artorius, a minotaur and cleric of Tauron, the God of Strength, followed him. It was part of the reason Ellisa Thorn loved him. It was part of the reason Nichaela, cleric of Lena, the Goddess of Life, felt duty-bound to accompany him. And it was part of the reason Rufus Domat feared him.

"Then let our weapons decide for us, barbarian."

Masato Kodai drew his sword—polished and gleaming like none they had ever seen—while Vallen Allond also unsheathed his weapons, which were even more impressive. The longsword, once drawn, was engulfed in small flames that traced a line along the blade. The short sword chilled the air, coating itself in a thin layer of frost, releasing flakes that fell like tiny snow as it gleamed. Winter and Hell, Vallen called them, and all his enemies had learned to respect them—most too late.

The samurai suppressed his admiration as he beheld the weapons. He took up a fighting stance, motionless, a statue of steel.

"They won't stop me from reaching Horeen."

Vallen, still brandishing his swords, smiled. But it was Ashlen who let out a laugh. "Horeen is the other way," he said. The samurai looked disconcerted.

The bundle that Ashlen and Rufus had placed on the ground began to move. Masato regarded it curiously until a figure emerged, revealing a body wrapped in white cloth. The body peeled back the cloth from his face and struggled to rise, aided by Nichaela. It was a man with long, straight brown hair and a mustache that seamlessly connected to a small beard barely covering his chin—perhaps in his early twenties, pale as a corpse.

"It seems I was about to be left out of the fun again," the man said, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. Masato noticed the countless scars that marred the man's naked torso, a testament to his past.

"They carry their injured companion like that?" Masato shouted, preparing his sword once more. "Or is this a prisoner, barbarians?"

"Oh, I wasn't hurt," the man replied as he stood upright. "I was dead. My name is Gregor Vahn. I'm a paladin of Thyatis. This is the best way to carry a corpse, don't you think?"

They decided to walk together to the city of Horeen. Masato and Vallen weren't entirely pleased with each other's presence, but adventurers quickly learn to tolerate strange company.

"So there are nine of us," Ashlen remarked. "Somehow, it seems like a good number."