Chapter 77: The Man Who Keeps Running

Lucas clenched the cork between his teeth, tossing his head to pull the stopper from the potion bottle. He drank the healing potion York had given him while still running, pale green liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth, mingling with sweat to soak his collar.

The bitter taste spread across his tongue – so familiar, this potion that forced one to grimace before swallowing. Only York’s potions carried this particular bitterness, as the gnome never added mint leaves or other buffers. Every time Lucas drank the gnome’s concoctions, he suffered through the awful taste. But to ease his pain and stop the bleeding from his back, he had to endure the bitterness.

He gulped down two healing potions in quick succession, the empty bottles shattering when they hit the ground. His mouth and teeth held nothing but the bitter medicinal taste and the metallic tang of blood. He wished York’s antidote could numb his taste buds too – then he wouldn’t have to grimace or fight the urge to vomit.

But perhaps it wasn’t the gnome’s potion making him nauseous. Maybe the necromancers’ corpse poison was taking effect.

Night owls had exploded against his back, their toxins likely entering his bloodstream through the wounds, spreading through his body. Without the antidote, the stench and poison from just one exploding night owl would have left him collapsed in the street.

Fortunately, both the healing potion and antidote were working. He could feel the pain receding, the herbal taste gradually fading from his mouth.

Lucas poured the last healing potion directly onto his back wounds, the liquid burning like fire. He knew perfectly well these potions could be applied externally – an adventurer without overwhelming strength had to learn how to use every tool and scrap of knowledge to gain an advantage.

If you couldn’t overpower your opponents, you had to utilize everything at your disposal.

Even the weak could defeat the strong. Even the mighty could fall through carelessness.

There were no absolute power hierarchies in this world. Reality didn’t operate like children’s rock-paper-scissors games. In the adult world, the “paper” that lost to “scissors” might be followed by a dagger thrust at your throat.

After seventeen years of adventuring, Lucas had long understood this truth.

He was no longer young, no longer believed that effort guaranteed reward, or that daily progress necessarily brought one closer to their dreams.

Some things were determined at birth. Some outcomes were visible from the very beginning.

Like now – with several undead hellhounds blocking the alley ahead, barking coming from behind, night owls circling above, and magical signal arrows exploding in the sky along his intended path.

Those were the Icelanders’ signal arrows. The necromancers had alerted their war band. Soon even the fully armored knights and archers would surround him.

In a game of military chess, how would a lone chariot piece escape when surrounded by infantry, queens, other chariots and archers?

Any chess player would recognize that as checkmate. And Lucas wasn’t even an unstoppable chariot – just a lowly foot soldier.

A single, isolated pawn clutching a spear.

At this stage of the game, the outcome was clear to any spectator. There was no point continuing.

He couldn’t escape this encirclement. The moment the necromancers detected him, his flicker of hope had been extinguished.

But would he surrender like a coward?

Like last year, when drunk with his adventuring team, he’d mentioned receiving letters from home saying he wasn’t getting any younger, should think about his future, and with some savings accumulated, maybe return to his hometown to retire.

Should he just accept his fate – be torn apart by hellhounds or captured by Icelanders without resistance?

In that moment, he remembered Wade’s figure in the square, facing enemies far more terrifying and deadly than these hellhounds.

Had that lord ever surrendered in desperate situations? Had he ever retreated?

Perhaps fate was predetermined. Perhaps everyone was a slave to destiny.

But the world didn’t operate like rock-paper-scissors.

As long as his legs could move, he wouldn’t give up!

Lucas clamped the Mist Stone between his teeth and drew his trusty spear – the companion that had seen him through countless life-and-death situations remained as sharp as ever.

Freeing both hands, he gripped the spear firmly, its tip pointing directly at the hellhounds ahead.

Even while drawing his weapon, he never stopped moving. The narrow alley was terrible terrain for spear combat – such confined spaces with obstacles everywhere called for short swords or maces.

An inexperienced spearman might get his weapon stuck between stones while drawing it.

But Lucas wouldn’t make that mistake. He’d trained with his spear in both wide and narrow spaces.

His body remembered the movements. Without conscious thought, he found the perfect angle.

The spear tip traced an arc as he gathered strength. Imbalance Shout would be useless against these mindless beasts – his only option was to charge through!

Battle Skill – Fury Thrust!

He stomped forward, right foot leading, left foot bracing, power exploding from his soles, traveling up through bones and muscles to concentrate in the spear tip and his entire body.

Executing Fury Thrust, he seemed to merge with the steel spear.

Tremendous force erupted instantly, propelling him forward like lightning across ten meters of space.

The pressure wave smashed through obstacles in his path – wooden crates shattered under the professional warrior’s power. The hellhound blocking his way was impaled on his spear tip and flung high into the air.

After the thrust came an extremely compact sweeping motion. The spear, reinforced with dragonblood ore, gleamed faintly red. Lucas’s blood heated up, his heart pounding powerfully. Using the spear’s reach advantage, he swept aside all obstructing hellhounds.

When a gap appeared in the encirclement, he charged through without hesitation.

Hellhounds exploded at his feet – he ignored them, never breaking stride.

Every second counted. If he could reach the forested mountains before the Icelanders completed their encirclement, he might have a slim chance of escape.

Just to flee, he had to gamble with his life.

He ran despite his injured leg. The healing potions couldn’t erase all pain, so he endured through willpower. Each footfall sent agony through his legs as if they might snap, yet he persisted through three encirclements, executing Fury Thrust three times.

Gradually he approached Ackwado’s outskirts – the exit was near. Beyond that path lay open ground.

But as he burst past the stone houses, arrows came flying from the snowy plains ahead.

An entire Icelander war band squad of ten blocked his path. The knights hadn’t had time to don full armor, carrying only shields and swords.

Four archers fired at him. The night was too dark – by the time he noticed the arrows, it was too late.

Three struck snow, but one pierced his greave, running straight through his calf muscle until its bloody tip protruded from the other side.

He couldn’t stop trembling, breathing in short gasps. The pain forced him to kneel on one knee to support himself.

Silently he watched the approaching Icelanders.

“Take this one alive!”

“Lord Raymond wants him interrogated! He might be connected to the missing squad from two days ago!”

The Icelanders’ voices reached his ears. He looked down at his right leg – arrow-pierced, having endured multiple explosions.

It was riddled with holes, toxins turning his skin dark purple, wounds oozing pus and swelling with blisters.

Was this the end?

Lucas clenched his fists. Strangely, he felt no fear.