Lessons in Sand and Stone

After the brutal run and fighting off countless enemies, Charles slept like a corpse—until a rough hand shook his shoulder.

"Wakey, wakey, little ugly princess. We've got at least forty miles ahead."

Charles shot up, fists clenched, ready for a fight—until his fogged brain reminded him that Gerart wasn't an enemy.

"Damn… You ever try shaking a man like a normal person, old man? I feel like I got chewed up and spat out."

"Hah! You talk like a poet now, Charles boy."

For two days, it almost felt like a family trip. Compared to his last journey, this was paradise—no fear of death, full belly, and a good night's sleep.

Gerart talked nonstop. And for once, Charles didn't mind. It felt strange having someone who actually answered back. Strangest of all… it helped.

He realized just how little he knew.

There were three major continents—and countless islands.

One belonged mostly to monsters and dragons.

Another—called the Continent of Death—crawled with creatures of darkness and demons.

And then there was theirs—Vireath. Though few bothered with the name.

Vireath housed four major powers: the Elven Kingdom, eight fierce Orc clans, the Dwarves in their Free City, and scattered beastmen tribes who preferred killing each other over unity.

Then there were the guilds and companies—neither of which Gerart explained in a way that made sense.

But what truly punched Charles in the gut… was the fate of humans.

Once a great power, their last kingdom fell a thousand years ago.

Now, humans were scattered—slaves, property, with no one left to stand for them.

"So… we weren't always livestock," Charles muttered.

Time blurred in their talks, and Charles's wounds knitted together—along with his understanding.

But on the third morning… everything changed.

They'd just choked down the last stringy bits of some unfortunate bird when Gerart stiffened.

"Look sharp, Charles. Sandstorm's coming. We've got two hours to reach a cave nearby—if we're lucky."

Charles blinked. "It's just a little wind and sand, right?"

Gerart stared at him like a father watching his son drink poison.

"You ever heard of flay-winds? This 'little sand' will strip the meat from your bones in seconds."

Charles felt ice crawl down his spine.

"…What are we waiting for, then? Let's run!"

And so began their race against death.

"Move your ass, unless you want it buried with the rest of you! We're close—but that bastard storm's licking my heels!"

They made it—barely.

Charles hit the cave floor, chest heaving. A low sound echoed from deeper within.

"…Gerart. You sure this cave's empty?"

The dwarf actually looked puzzled.

"Was two years ago. Empty as your head."

Two years… Right. To long-lived races, that was a blink.

"Yeah… obviously not anymore. How long do storms like this last?"

"Day. Maybe two. You want to stay awake the whole time?"

Their choice was simple: clear the cave—or play watchman till they dropped dead.

"Let's kill it."

They crept in—silent, cautious. No fire, no noise.

Good thing Charles got his father's night vision.

What he saw wasn't good.

Two sandworms. Two meters tall. Six clawed legs. Chitin-armored heads. Mandibles like swords.

He whispered, "On three. I'll take the left."

"Wait—"

Too late.

Charles dashed in, leapt onto the first worm's back.

His daggers slammed down—

—and bounced off harmlessly.

He barely had time to curse before the beast whipped around and hurled him across the cave.

He hit the wall hard. His head spun. His legs refused to move.

"So… this is it. It was a good run."

The worms crawled closer, mandibles twitching.

A shadow moved.

A figure.

A massive axe.

One brutal swing—and a worm's head hit the floor.

"You're either stupid or suicidal. Charging a sandworm with daggers? And you don't even know how to use enchantments?"

"…Thanks. But… what the hell do you mean 'use enchantments'?"

Apparently, Charles had been doing everything wrong.

He had to blood-bind his weapons to unlock their powers—sharper blades, boosted strength, agility. And bonus—once bound, no one else could use them unless they killed him.

"Well… that's nice. At least no one's stabbing me with my own blades."

The next three days crawled by as they waited out the storm.

One upside—roasted sandworm tasted amazing. Crispy on the outside, soft and buttery inside.

Downside—he'd run out of stolen wine.

Gerart spent the time lecturing him.

He warned about the Free City—and the crime syndicates who owned its underworld.

If they came for you… you were dead, or worse—owned.

Better to join a guild. Guilds had branches across the continent—offering protection, status… maybe even a place to belong.

Gerart also suggested selling or hiding the ring Charles wore. It would attract the wrong kind of attention.

Charles wasn't going to do that.

He'd keep it. As a reminder.

One day, he'd take his revenge—for himself. And for his mother.

When the storm died, the entrance was gone—buried in sand.

Charles glared at it.

"I'm starting to really hate sand."

They resumed their journey—and finally, the endless dunes gave way to trees and grass.

"We're about two hours out," Gerart said.

Charles exhaled. "Finally… safe. And free."

Then he saw the city.

Towering walls, bristling with massive crossbows.

Within—tall towers, grander than anything Charles had ever seen.

His eyes stung—but he wouldn't admit why.

"Hold your tears, lad. We're not inside yet."

At the gates, a crowd waited. Not humans. Not really anyone like him.

"…Why are they all just standing there?"

"Guards check for wanted men and smugglers. Don't pay your taxes here—and you might end up dead. So don't get clever."

"…Got it."

An hour later, they reached the front.

A young dwarf guard greeted them—so young he didn't even have a beard. On second look… she was a dwarf lady. Armor didn't suit her.

The other guard was an elf. Gorgeous—long black hair, pale skin, curves that could stop a war.

He looked himself over. She was far too better for a man like him.

If even a third of the women inside looked like her… Charles could die happy just looking at them.

"Why's an elf here? Thought they never left their forest kingdom."

"Exiles. And shut it. They're proud—pick fights over nothing."

Charles met her eyes.

For a heartbeat, the world froze.

Yeah. Best not pick a fight.

Turned out, Gerart knew the dwarf. Their check was over fast.

"I'll take you to a human inn. Stay there tonight. Tomorrow—we'll tour the city."

The inn was a two-story shack that looked ready to fall over.

"…Great. Bedbugs."

But inside? Spotless. White cloth on every table. Flowers at the bar.

Only rough spot was the barkeep—a one-handed man with a glare that could freeze lava.

Charles walked up.

The barkeep gave a cold, fake laugh.

"What do you want?"

"Plesk."

A dish rag flew from behind the bar—and an older woman bustled out.

"Clovis! That how you treat customers? I leave for five minutes…"

What a pair.

"Welcome to our family inn! I'm Matilda—and this is Clovis. How can we help you?"

"Uh… Hi. How much for a night?"