Nerd In the North

[ZFighter18]

I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 22 chapters into Season 2, working on chapter 23 right now.

That's 21 chapters ahead.

Chapter 9 is my first NSFW chapter of anything ever. Unfortunately, it won't be posted here.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 3 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters. Working on Issue 10

I was supposed to be posting a new thread, A DBZ/The Boys (comic/show) SI called A Boy's Tail, but I've been sick since last week.

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.



II-0: Berrin of Wintermoss

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Sixth Month of 298 AC
The night wind howled through the Lonely Hills, cold as a witch's teat and just as merciless. Berrin shivered, his thin arms wrapped tight 'round his knees as he huddled close to the pitiful fire. The flames danced weakly, castin' more shadows than light, and Berrin fancied he could see monsters lurkin' in the darkness.

Mam always said there was no such fing as monsters, hethought, but that was before. Before the rough men with their cruel laughs and crueler hands had snatched him from the woods.

Before he'd learned what real monsters looked like.

The camp was nestled in a hollow between two great slabs of stone, hidden from prying eyes by scraggly bushes and stunted trees. Not that anyone was lookin' for hem, Berrin reckoned. Not out here in the middle of bloody nowhere.

He glanced at the other prisoners, six of hem all told, both grown and young. They was all huddled together like a litter of pups, shakin' and whimperin' soft-like. Berrin wanted to cry too, but he'd run out of tears days ago. Now his cheeks just felt stiff and sore, like he'd been slapped.

Shouldn't 'ave run off, he thought again and again. Should've stayed in the village like Da always said. But he'd never been one for listenin', always runnin' off to explore the woods and pretend he was a knight or a wildlin' or summat.

And now look where it'd got 'im.

The bandits was gathered 'round the fire, grumblin' and laughin' amongst themselves. Their words drifted over to Berrin, sendin' shivers down his spine that 'ad nuffin' to do with the cold.

"Tyroshi'll pay 'andsomely for this lot," one of hem was sayin', a big brute with a scar across his nose. "Specially the young'uns."

Another man, thin as a rake with yellowed teeth, cackled. "Aye, and we damn near robbed that village blind 'fore we took the brats, too. Good 'aul all 'round, I'd say."

Berrin's stomach twisted. Slavers, they'd called themselves. He didn't rightly know what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Worse than bad. The kind of bad that Nan used to whisper about to scare the little'uns.

They're gonna sell us, he thought, the idea makin' 'im feel sick and scared all at once. Like we was sheep or summat. Da'll never find me now.

The thought of his Da made Berrin's chest ache somethin' fierce. He could almost hear his voice, gruff but kind, tellin' 'im to be brave. But Berrin didn't feel brave. He felt small and scared and more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

One of the bandits, a great big fella with arms like tree trunks, was sharpening his sword. The sound of stone on steel made Berrin flinch, rememberin' how they threatened to use those sorts on anyone who tried to run.

"We'll head south come dawn," the scarred man was sayin'. "Toward the Weepin' Water. Ship'll be waitin' for us there by time we hit the shore."

Berrin's heart sank. He'd heard tell of the Weepin' Water, but it was far away. Farther than he'd ever been from home. If they get us on a ship, that's it, he thought. We'll be gone for good.

He looked 'round desperate-like, his hands tremblin'. But the bandits wasn't even looking at him. To them, he was just another bit of cargo, no different from the sacks of grain they'd stolen.

Suddenly, there was a sound.

Soft-like, barely there over the cracklin' of the fire. A sort of swish, like when Mam used to sweep the floor. Berrin blinked, wonderin' if he'd imagined it.

The big man with the sword went all stiff-like. His eyes got real wide for a moment, then he just... fell forward. There was blood, so much blood, pourin' from his throat and soaking' into the dirt.

Berrin's breath caught in his chest. What's 'appenin'? hethought, his heart beating faster than a rabbit's. But none of the other bandits seemed to notice. They just kept on talking and laughing like nuffin' had happened.

Then another one, the skinny fella with the yellow teeth, jerked backward real sudden-like. There was a knife sticking out of his chest, right where his heart should be. His mouth opened like he was gonna scream, but no sound came out.

He just... fell over, scattering coins everywhere.

Berrin couldn't move.

He couldn't even blink. His eyes darted 'round, tryin' to make sense of what was happenin'. But the other prisoners wasn't payin' no mind, just starin' at the fire or off into space.

There was another one, up on a big rock keepin' watch. Berrin saw 'im go all stiff, then topple right over the edge. There was another knife in his throat, and he made this awful sound as he fell.

"Urk-!"


Berrin couldn't breathe. His heart was beatin' so fast he thought it might burst right out of his chest.

All 'round 'im, the world had gone mad.

One moment, the camp had been quiet-like, just the usual grumblin' of the bandits and the soft whimperin' of the other prisoners. Then, faster than Berrin could blink, everything changed.

It started with them knives, flyin' out of nowhere and findin' their mark every time. Berrin watched, his eyes wide as saucers, as five of the bandits fell. They didn't even make a sound, just toppled over like puppets with their strings cut.

The rest of the camp started to wake up then. Berrin could see the fear spreadin' through the bandits like a sickness. They was supposed to be the scary ones, but now they looked as frightened as he felt.

Garen the Gaoler, the meanest of the lot, jumped to his feet. Berrin flinched, rememberin' how the man had shoved his ugly face right up close, breath stinkin' worse than the village midden as he threatened to cut out Berrin's tongue if he didn't stop cryin'.

But now Garen looked scared too. He drew his sword, his head whippin' back and forth as he tried to spot the danger. "Oi, keep yer eyes open," he hissed. "Someone's here."

Another bandit, a skinny fella with a nervous twitch, muttered, "This ain't right..." His words was barely out of his mouth when another knife came flyin' out of the dark.

It hit the twitchy man right in the neck, and Berrin watched in horror as he fell into the fire. The flames leapt up, sendin' sparks flyin' into the air like angry fireflies as the man burned in silence.

That did it.

The rest of the bandits finally sprung into action, drawin' their weapons and lookin' 'round wild-like. One of them shouted into the darkness, "Show yerself, ye coward!"

Berrin huddled closer to the ground, tryin' to make himself as small as possible. He'd never seen the bandits scared before, and that frightened him more than anythin'. If these big, mean men was afraid, what chance did a little boy like him have?

One of the bandits, a big fella with arms like tree trunks, suddenly turned tail and ran. Berrin watched 'im sprint towards the woods, his breath comin' out in big white puffs in the cold air. "I'm gettin' outta here!" he yelled.

But he didn't get far. Somethin' came flyin' through the air, too fast for Berrin to see proper. It smacked into the back of the running man's head with a sound like a melon splittin' open and thudded to the ground, the thing a rock the size of his the bandit's head at least.

The man fell face-first into the dirt, his body twitchin' somethin' awful. Berrin felt his stomach turn as he saw the blood pourin' from the man's smashed head.

Everything went quiet then, so quiet Berrin could hear his own heart poundin' in his ears. The air felt thick, like it did just before a big storm.

Then, like magic, someone stepped out of the shadows. Berrin couldn't help but let out a little gasp when he saw 'im.

It was a young man, not much more than a boy really, but he looked like somethin' straight out of his nan's stories. His hair was a bright yellow, shinin' in the firelight like it was made of real gold. His eyes was as blue as the summer sky, the kind Berrin hadn't seen since before the bandits took 'im.

The stranger was dressed all fancy-like, in a green shirt with a shiny silver buckle at his waist. He had yellow bands 'round his wrists that gleamed in the firelight that Berrin realized had to be real gold. But what really caught Berrin's eye was the sword on his back.

It was white as new-fallen snow, and it seemed to glow with a light of its own. Berrin had never seen anythin' so beautiful in all his life.

The stranger moved like he was dancin', all smooth and quiet-like. His eyes swept over the camp, lookin' at the shakin' prisoners and the few bandits left standin'. Then he smiled, just a little bit, and said, "I'm looking for a Berrin."

Berrin felt like his heart had stopped. Me? he thought. he's lookin' for me? his legs felt wobbly as he stood up, comin' out from behind the other prisoners. he tried to speak, but his voice came out all shaky and quiet. "M-M-Me?"

The stranger looked right at him then, and his smile got bigger and warmer. It made Berrin think of 'ome, of sittin' by the fire with his mam and da. "Your dad sent me, he wants you home," the stranger said.

Berrin felt a rush of hope so strong it made 'im dizzy. Da's lookin' for me? he ain't forgotten me?

But before he could say anythin', Garen stepped forward. The big man was shakin' like a leaf, but he had his big sword out and pointed at the stranger with two hands. "'Oi, the 'ell you fink you are?" he growled.

The stranger didn't look scared at all. He just kept smilin' that warm, unbothered smile. "I'm a hero," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Berrin gasped.

A hero? A real one, like in the stories? He couldn't believe it.

But as he watched, the stranger pulled out that pretty white sword and pointed it right at Garen.

"And as a hero," he said, "I gotta do my job."

 

[ZFighter18]

I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 28 chapters into Season 2, working on chapter 29 right now. Should end on 30.

That's 27 chapters ahead.

Chapter 9 is my first NSFW chapter of anything ever. Unfortunately, it won't be posted here.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 3 chapters ahead, at 7.7c.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters. Working on Issue 10

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.



II-1: The Beginning's End I

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg's boots crunched in the snow-covered underbrush of the Lonely Hills as he rushed forward to meet the bandits, the cool night air filling his lungs. He could've enhanced his sword's sharpness, made it slice through their weapons like a lightsaber — weapons, bone, flesh, all at once really — but that trick was a drain he couldn't afford with multiple people on his head. Plus, he mused, a little swordplay made for good practice.

The bandits, clearly not used to their prey fighting back, circled him with a mix of shock and anger on their rough, dirty faces. The huge guy with the greatsword looked super pissed, like he obviously wanted to split Greg in half. On either side were two of his bandit buddies—one with a bastard sword and the other with a quick little smallsword, both ready to get a piece of him — while two others hung back by the treeline.

Greg braced himself, feeling the barely noticeable weight of his own sword in hand, ready to meet their advance head-on. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Let's get some practice in, he thought, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Look 'ere, boys!" the big guy with the greatsword bellowed, his voice rough as gravel, a mouth full of black, rotting teeth. "This wee lad finks 'e can take us all on!"

Greg's eyes narrowed. Wee lad? Seriously? "Hey," he shot back, "your penis is small."

The brute roared and swung downward in a move that could have cleaved Greg in half… had it landed. Hit a nerve! Greg's response was immediate, stepping back with a swift pivot that turned a lethal strike into a harmless miss. His boots skidded slightly on the snow-covered rocky ground.

As the greatsword gouged the dirt, the bandit with the bastard sword jabbed at Greg's open side. Simultaneously, the smallsword wielder lunged from the right, blades hissing through the air.

Greg twisted away, feeling the wind of both blades missing him by inches. He stabbed back with his own sword, forcing the two bandits to jump away.

"I'll gut ye like a fish, boy!" the bastard sword guy yelped, barely avoiding the counterstrike.

"Ye can't dodge forever!" the smallsword wielder hissed.

The blond in green parried a thrust from the smallsword, his blade clashing against the metal and sending sparks flying. He used the momentum to block a swing from the bastard sword, the impact juddering up his arm.

"You know I killed all your guys, right?" Greg taunted, his blood pumping. "Like I've only ever done the knife thing on trees. It works on people, too!"

The three bandits circled him, their movements growing more coordinated. As the bastard sword swung toward his midsection, the smallsword darted in from the side

Greg twisted out of the path with a practiced backstep he couldn't have pulled off a few months ago, smirking as the bastard sword stumbled. The third bandit, nimble with his smallsword, shot in like a striking snake again, attempting to exploit Greg's momentary distraction. He shoved the smallsword wielder back with a hard elbow, only to have to immediately duck a whistling slash from the greatsword.

"Not so cocky now, are ye?" the big man growled.

Greg parried the slash with the flat of his blade, metal ringing sharply. He ducked under, the greatsword slash going wild. "Actually," Greg grunted, "I'm not cocky at all. I just hate you." He wasn't even joking, he really did hate people like this.

Something in him just couldn't see them as human and he didn't really care much about pushing that down as he slashed forward, a slight smile on his face.

Each move was a calculated risk, a test of the skills he'd picked up recently. Every breath was measured against the tornado of blades around him. His heart raced, adrenaline surging, but his head was clear.

Sharper than ever.

This was the training he couldn't get from simple drills in the woods.

The rocky outcroppings of the Lonely Hills loomed around them, casting long shadows in the moonlight. Snow crunched underfoot, and the clash of steel echoed off the stone faces.

The bandits pressed their attack, blades flashing from all angles. Greg parried and dodged, his sword a blur of motion. He caught the smallsword with the flat of his blade and redirected it into the path of the bastard sword, the two bandits nearly striking each other.

"Watch it, ye idiot!" the bastard sword wielder snapped.

"T'ain't me fault, Dom!"

The bandits, however, didn't seem appreciative of being used as practice dummies. The smallsword wielder, frustrated, tried to sneak in a low strike, but Greg caught the movement from the corner of his eye and blocked it with an ease that he doubted any one with his level of practice should have.

"Stand still, ye little shit!" the man spat, his face contorted with rage.

Greg couldn't help but smirk, despite it all. "Yeah, no. I think I'll pass."

Feeling a familiar prickle of intuition, Greg ducked under another heavy swing from the greatsword, feeling its wind rip through his hair. He rolled to the side, his hands gripping the damp earth as he narrowly avoided a stabbing motion from the bastard sword. Snow crunched beneath him, the cold barely seeping through his enchanted green clothes.

Greg bounded to his feet and lunged, abandoning defense for a brutal offense. Less about strength, more about precision.

The other man, overconfident and slower, didn't anticipate the change in target. His sword sank into the bandit's forearm with a sickening, meaty crunch before he yanked it free, trailing ribbons of blood.

The bandit howled in pain, dropping his weapon and clutching the stump of his arm as blood spurted wildly, staining the white snow crimson. The scream that filled the Lonely Hills was bloodcurdling, and Greg winced at the sound, irritated. Geez, drama queen much? he thought, before immediately feeling guilty for the callous thought.

"Sorry about that," he muttered with only a hint of sarcasm. If it were anyone else, he would have meant it. Even here, he almost did, even if he only felt bad for how he didn't feel bad.

He just couldn't find it in him to care about guys like this. "Really."

The remaining two bandits hesitated, shock evident on their faces as their comrade writhed on the ground.

Greg lazily kicked the writhing man away, his boot squelching in the blood-soaked snow. He turned to face the remaining two as the fallen bandit's screams echoed off the trees, bouncing between the rocky outcroppings. The sound sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Three left.

Now it was just him against the greatsword and the smallsword. The latter's wielder looked hesitant now, his eyes darting to his disabled companion. The man's face was pale, a sheen of sweat visible even in the dim light.

"Ye've gone and done it now, boy," the smallsword wielder growled, his voice shaky. "We was just gonna rob ye, but now... now we's gonna make ye suffer."

Greg wrinkled his nose, unable to keep a straight face with that blatant lie. "...what?" He snorted at that. "This is not the first of your guys I killed."

The greatsword snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "I'll cleave ye in two, I will!"

"Ye'll try," Greg retorted with a cocky grin. God, I love this accent. I sound like Braveheart.

Before he could make another move, Greg's intuition whispered again. He ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as a blade grazed where his head had been seconds before. The smallsword wielder slid past, his blade scraping against a nearby tree and showering Greg with bark and splinters.

"Stay still, ye little rat!" the big man roared, slashing his own sword down and embedding his own blade in that same tree with an even angrier yell.

Greg's senses heightened, the metallic scent of adrenaline and fear mingling in the air with the coppery smell of spilled blood. He launched a rapid series of attacks, his blade flashing in the dimming light. The smallsword bandit parried frantically, the sound of clashing steel a constant echo in the cool evening air.

"What in th' seven hells are ye?" the smallsword wielder gasped between parries.

Greg grinned, a manic edge to his voice as he replied, "Just your friendly neighborhood Witcher! Wait, is that this universe? Let's go with... hero?" His grin widened. "Yeah, I fight evil. That works."

He was learning the rhythm of real combat, a far cry from the neat forms and drills he'd practiced. This was raw, chaotic, primal. But there was a strange exhilaration to it, a fierce joy in the strain of his muscles and the hammering of his heart, as he danced between both men, snow crunching under his feet, his breath coming out in sharp, visible puffs.

The greatsword arced down and Greg barely twisted aside in time, feeling the heavy blade score a line of icy pain across his bicep. He hissed through clenched teeth, but the wound was already knitting itself closed, flesh and skin sealing as if by magic. Gotta love that healing factor.

Granted, it only seemed to work faster after he killed some bad guy, but Greg figured that was just his HP recovery mechanic or something. He didn't really wanna think about it too much.

Greg spun away, putting some distance between himself and the greatsword, and nearly impaled himself on the smallsword as the bandit lunged, lips peeled back in a feral grin.

"Thought ye could forget about me, eh?" the man sneered. "I'll be takin' yer guts for garters, boy!"

"Dude, gross," Greg grimaced, batting the sword away. "Seriously, what's with you guys and guts? Is it a fetish or some--oh shit!"

The smallsword managed a quick stab that sliced at Greg's arm, nicking just above his wrist. The sharp pain was immediate, but so was the healing—Greg felt the wound stitch itself closed almost as quickly as it had opened, a warm rush flooding through him as his adrenaline spiked with frustration. Okay… stop fucking around.

Greg spun, his sword flashing out in a wide arc, aiming to keep both the smaller sword and the greatsword at bay. His blade connected with the smallsword again, forcing the wielder back a few paces. The clash of steel rang out, echoing off the rocky hills around them.

"Ye can't keep this up, boy," the big man taunted, his greatsword whistling through the air.

He dropped into a roll as the greatsword whistled over his head, coming up in a crouch. The big man roared in frustration, spittle flying from his mouth as he charged again blindly like an enraged bull. Ole!

Greg waited until the last second, then pivoted sharply, letting the brute's momentum carry him past. He hammered the pommel of his sword into the bandit's kidney as he went by, eliciting a bellow of agony.

"Oh I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Greg mocked. Shit, I sound like a villain. Quick, say something heroic! "Uh... crime doesn't pay!"

Nailed it.

Greg parried another thrust from the greatsword then slid past a stab from the smallsword wielder, only to spin around to deliver a hard kick to the second man's knee. As the bandit stumbled, Greg swept his blade in a wide arc, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. His sword slashed across the back of the bandit's legs, hamstringing him with a spray of blood. The man screamed and crumpled, his blade tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Me leg! Ye bloody bastard, ye've taken me leg!" the man howled, his face contorted in agony.

"Technically, I just sliced it. It's still attached. Mostly," Greg quipped. Man, when did I get so... cold?

"Yield, ye bastard!" the bandit sobbed, clutching at his ruined legs. "I yield!"

Greg ignored him, whirling to search for the big man-- just in time to catch a greatsword to the chest. His own blade flickered up, catching the heavy steel in a shower of sparks, but the force still slammed him back a step, driving the air from his lungs. Shit, that's gonna bruise!

"I'll 'ave yer 'ead on a spike," the brute growled, baring his teeth. "An' fuck yer corpse for the crows!"

"Okay wow, you have some serious issues," Greg panted, an eyebrow raised. I swear, one more threat involving my entrails and I'm going full Vlad the Impaler on these assholes.

Steel clashed against steel, breaths mingling in the frigid air as they strained against each other. Greg's arms trembled as he tried to hold the guy off, slowly giving ground before the bandit's brute strength. Crapcrapcrapc--

With a burst of desperate strength, Greg shoved the sword away and darted back, barely avoiding another swing.

With a roar, the bandit rushed after him.

That's it, fuck you! Greg met the charge head-on, twisting to let the greatsword pass harmlessly while delivering a punishing elbow to the man's jaw. The impact sent the bandit staggering, his grip loosening on his weapon. In pain and clearly more a berserker than anything, greatsword made one last desperate swing.

Greg ducked under the swing, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. With a quick, clean flick of the wrist, his blade caught the moonlight as it opened the belly of the man, who fell to his knees with a wet thud on the snow. The man's eyes widened in shock, his hands frantically trying to hold in what should have stayed inside.

With a grunt, the teenager flicked his wrist out in the other direction, his own blade slicing viciously at the brute's neck-- a clean, perfect decapitation. The bandit's head flew free, a fountain of arterial spray painting the snow crimson as his body slumped into a twitching heap.

Greg straightened up, breathing hard, his sword dripping with a cocktail of regret and necessity. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, making him want to gag as it always did after a fight like this.

Then, that familiar whisper of intuition told him to move—he stepped aside on instinct just as an arrow whizzed past his face, embedding itself in a tree with a solid thunk. The sound made his heart leap into his throat.

Turning, he saw the archer, the last of the bandits, nocking another arrow, face pale with fear but determined. The man's hands shook as he drew back the bowstring.

"Don'tcha come any closer now," the bowman warned, his voice trembling. "I swear on the old gods an' the new, I'll put the next'un through yer eye!"

Greg frowned, fatigue nipping at his edges. I need this to be over. With a reluctant sigh, he swung his sword from a distance, channeling his power into the blade. A crescent of blinding blue-white energy sizzled from the metal, streaking across the snowy clearing like a comet. The air crackled with power, the hair on Greg's arms standing on end.

A half second later, another head fell to the floor in one clean cut, a body following it a moment later. The bow clattered to the ground, unused.

"I really hate doing that," Greg muttered as he watched the headless body collapse. The energy moves were flashy but draining, leaving him feeling like he'd sprinted a whole city block. He glanced around at the carnage, the reek of blood and raw meat thick in the icy air, doing some quick mental math.

Shit, one got away… After a moment, he shrugged and then looked up at the faces of the hostages, their eyes wide with a mix of awe, nausea and tearful relief.

"So... job said rescue a kid," Greg said out loud, biting his lip. "Guess I got a… nine-for-one deal, huh?" He turned, his gaze finding the rocky outcrop nearby. "Ash! You good, buddy?"

A loud grunt came back in answer as a small brown fuzzy figure poked its muzzle over the rocks. He blinked and a half-second later, made an odd noise that he was barely able to keep from turning into a groan as memories flooded his mind. What the…

Pulling himself together, Greg quickly nodded, turning back to the kids with a smile that he hoped was reassuring and not terrifying. "Okay, we're good. Let's go."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)

Roll: Blessing of Shadows [Legend of Zelda: Hero of Words] {Illusion} (300 GP) - "Increases your skill in sneaking around, and allows you to use shadow magic and the ninja-like abilities of the Sheikah tribe"

Grimoire Points: 250

 

[ZFighter18]

I want to thank my current Patrons a great deal. I appreciate the support and the updates will keep coming fast as I can write them. I'm not working right now because I'm at school full time. And this helps keep me afloat.

If you're fans of Fool of The Devil, all the chapters all the way to the end of Season 1 are up there on the Patreon. I have posted the first two chapters of Season 2. I'm working on the third as we speak.

Nerd in the North is 29 chapters into Season 2.

That's 27 chapters ahead.

Chapter 9 is my first NSFW chapter of anything ever.

Life Is But A Game is 3 chapters ahead on there, all the way to 2.17. I'll be working on more chapters for that this week.

Greg Vs is 6 chapters ahead, at 7.9a.

Where the Heart Is is written up to Issue 9, so 2 more chapters. Working on Issue 10

Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting me.



II-2: The Beginning's End II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The morning sun shone down brightly on the town of Wintermoss, a low buzzing in the background as the people went about their daily routine. The air hummed with the sounds of daily life - the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of smallfolk going about their business. It was a decently sized settlement, home to over three thousand souls eking out a living in the harsh landscape of the North. The air was crisp and cold, biting at Greg's nose and cheeks as he trudged through the muddy streets. His muscles ached from the long night's trek and a lack of sleep, but he pushed the fatigue aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Greg had only just walked into town after a long night's trek with all the captured near-slaves, his return to Wintermoss after leaving it several hours before oddly quick. The town looked different in the daylight, less creepy and more... well, medieval. Thatched roofs, timber frames, and the occasional stone building dotted the landscape. The smell of woodsmoke and something less pleasant - probably sewage, Greg thought with a grimace - hung in the air.

He found himself leaning against a wooden post not too far from the father who had hired him, an owner of a small brewery, one hand idly rubbing the smooth white piece of wood that hung from his twine necklace. The man had just finished embracing his son and was now yelling at the eight-year-old who had gotten himself captured by bandits. Berrin, the kid, was staring at the ground as his father admonished him, looking like he wanted to sink into the mud beneath his feet.

Ye addlepated fool of a boy!" the father bellowed, his face red with a mix of relief and anger. "What was ye thinkin', wanderin' off like that? Ye coulda been killed! Or worse!"

Greg winced at the volume. Geez, give the kid a break. He's been through enough.

The man continued his tirade, his Northern accent thick with emotion. "We was worried sick, ye 'ear? Yer mum's been cryin' 'er eyes out, thinkin' ye was dead!"

Berrin mumbled something, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

"Speak up, boy! I can't 'ear ye when ye's mumblin' like a simpleton!"

"I'm sorry, Da," Berrin said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to worry ye. I just... I just wanted to see th' 'ills."

The father's face softened slightly, but his voice remained stern. "Aye, well, ye've seen 'em now, 'aven't ye? And nearly got yerself killed in th' process. Ye'll not be leavin' th' 'ouse for a month, ye 'ear me?"

First things first, Greg had delivered the other rescued smallfolk to the town headman. Said headman, a grizzled old man with a limp and a missing eye, had readily agreed to house them in the town hall until runners could be sent to their home villages.

Huh. Wonder why he was so quick to do what I asked? Greg pondered, scratching his chin. Maybe because everyone keeps thinking I'm some kind of lordling or something?

He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I'm just doing my part," he spoke under his breath. "No big deal."

Honest.

Greg rolled his eyes, and nodded to himself, "I'm just doing my part."

He glanced down at his hand, thinking back to what happened on the trek out of the outpost in the Lonely Hills with the people the bandits captured. He had felt that weird level-up thing again, finally.

That strange feeling of his soul...expanding, for lack of a better word. It had happened three times during the fight with the bandits.

Last time something like that happened was a month ago, he recalled, brow furrowing. Right after I first got to the Lonely Hills. Right after...

His eyes narrowed slightly. Merek.

The memory of that encounter sent a shiver down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. Greg shook his head, trying to focus on the present.

Forcibly pushing the thought aside, Greg focused on the new...what, powers? Abilities? Whatever they were. That last skill he'd picked up had been some kind of people-finding radar. Like he could sense missing persons somehow. Weird, but hey, weirder things have happened. Like randomly getting a magic sword with a bit of my soul in it. Or conjuring gold strength-boosting armbands out of thin air. Or having an entire new outfit just poof into existence...

But last night...

Last night had been a whole 'nother level of bizarre. He'd gotten a whole slew of new memories. Flashes of a life growing up in some strange elven ninja village, learning the ways of the shadow warrior.

Not a great one, but still... "What the fuck?" he scoffed, earning a strange look from a passing villager. I mean, I wasn't a great ninja wizard or anything, but still! Since when is that a thing?

In comparison, the other two abilities seemed almost mundane. His sword had gotten some kind of upgrade, letting it function like...what, a magic wand?

"Gonna need to test that one out," he mused, mind already racing with possibilities. Maybe I can shoot fireballs or something. That'd be sweet.

The other one was what felt like something tiny settling in his soul.

And by tiny, he meant TINY.

But he felt it, still.

It popped up when I was thinking about the hurt and thirsty kids on the way back here, Greg recalled. Something to do with water and healing? I felt...attuned to it, somehow.

"Whatever that means."

Greg rolled his eyes, a heavy bag over his shoulders as he walked away from the yelling father, Ash trotting by his side. The bear cub let out a small grunt, as if sensing Greg's frustration.

"I know, buddy," Greg said, reaching down to scratch behind Ash's ears. "This place is weird as hell."

Good thing I got my pay before Dad of the Year started chewing out his kid, he thought wryly. The five gleaming silver stags clinked dully in his pouch, nestled amongst dozens of other silver coins and a few coppers. Spoils from the now very deceased bandits - weapons, valuables, and cold hard cash.

The bag on his back was full of all the other stuff he had raided from the place. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the night's events. Maybe I should feel bad about looting the place, but... eh.

And now...

Waste not, want not, Greg figured, hefting the sack of ill-gotten loot. His eyes focused on a sturdy stone and timber building, incongruously solid amidst the more ramshackle structures of the town. Even the rooves in this town looked thicker, better made. Way better than Stonegate. And Frostfall, for sure.

The sign above the door creaked slightly in the morning breeze.

"Wintermoss Post... hm, to the point."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The door protested with a loud creak as Greg pushed it open, the heavy wood scraping against the packed earth floor. A gust of frigid morning air rushed in alongside him, the chill wind biting at his exposed skin. But the cold was quickly overwhelmed by the warmth radiating from the trading post's hearth, the crackling fire a welcome respite from the harsh elements outside.

As Greg stepped fully inside, his senses were assaulted by the building's unique aroma—a blend of leather, fur, and something metallic that hung heavy in the air. It was the scent of iron and sweat, as if the very walls had absorbed the essence of countless transactions over the years.

Man, this place smells like my gym locker and a Renaissance fair had a baby, Greg thought, wrinkling his nose slightly.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the clutter that seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the space. To his left, rough-hewn shelves groaned under the weight of small barrels filled with dried fish, their briny scent adding to the overall miasma. Beside them, sacks of grain were piled haphazardly, tied loosely at the top with fraying twine.

To the right, an assortment of tools hung from wooden pegs set into the wall—axes, sickles, hammers—their edges dulled by age and heavy use, but still appearing sturdy enough to last a few more seasons, at least. Above them, well out of casual reach, were the real valuables: swords and blades of various shapes and sizes, carefully wrapped in cloth to protect them from prying eyes and sticky fingers.

Tetanus City, population: all this shit, Greg mused, eyeing a particularly precarious stack.

Every inch of the wall space seemed to be claimed by something—bundles of dried herbs, coils of rope, even odd trinkets from far-off places: a carved bone whistle, a bit of southern silk, tarnished but real. The place was completely empty of any customers, unsurprising given that the morning was just starting.

A large counter dominated the center of the room, its surface scratched and worn from decades of transactions. Behind it stood the post's owner, a grizzled man with a graying beard as thick as the rest of him, and eyes as sharp as a whetstone. He glanced up briefly from his ledger, sizing up Greg as he entered without much interest at first, only for the man's eyes to widen as he properly took him in.

Great, another 'holy crap, it's a kid' look. Just what I needed this morning.

To his side, an iron scale, blackened with use, sat near a few scattered coins—mostly copper pennies, but the glint of a silver stag caught the light from the fire. Greg found his eyes drawn to it, remembering the weight of his own coin purse. It felt good to have money, even if it was in a currency he still didn't fully understand.

Greg strode forward and walked over to the counter, slinging the bag off his shoulder. He let it thud on the counter with a muffled jangle of mixed treasures and trinkets. The sound caught the tradesman's attention fully now, his eyes sharpening not out of curiosity, but clear greed.

The blond found himself recognizing it, the same look on Merek's face familiar now. It sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning cold.

"Well, now," the tradesman rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "What's this, then? Traveler brings gifts, or trouble?"

Greg quirked a half-smile, quickly untying the bag's top to reveal the jumbled contents within: three bows, two greatswords, a longsword, two bastard swords, three thinner-than-a-bastard swords, six daggers, two padded jerkins, and three sets of worn leather armor. The scent of blood, faint but unmistakable, wafted up from the pile.

"Neither," Greg replied easily, watching as the tradesman's eyes darted over the goods. "Just looking to sell. Lighten the load a bit, you know?"

The man reached out almost reverently, calloused fingers brushing against the hilt of a particularly ornate dagger, the leather wrappings faded but still intricately detailed. "An' where'd a young lad like yerself come by such fine goods, if I may ask?" His tone was light, but the underlying question rang clear.

"Found 'em," Greg said instead, keeping his own tone casual even as he watched the tradesman's face carefully. "Bandits' stash, out in the hills. Took out the camp, so they won't be needing this stuff anymore. Figured it was better off here than rusting away out there."

The tradesman let out a dry, rasping chuckle, both appraisal and disbelief fighting for a place in his eyes. "Bandits, eh? Ye look a mite…untouched fer a lordling what's been fightin' bandits in th' Hills."

Greg's chuckle was dry, his hand absentmindedly touching the pommel of his sword. "...yeah, sure."

The man harrumphed, but the lure of profit drew his attention back to the bag like a lodestone. He began to sift through the contents with the speed and surety of long practice, setting aside the choicest items and pushing the less desirable ones off to the side.

"Fine goods indeed," he spoke aloud, more to himself than to Greg. "I'll give ye a fair price for th' lot, minus a finder's fee, of course."

Greg watched him work, noting the quick, greedy movements. "Long as it's fair," he said, his tone carrying a slight edge. "Fought last night. Took a long walk into town this morning. Not in the mood for cheats."

The tradesman paused his next words, his eyes meeting Greg's, spotting the sword on his back. Something in Greg's expression must have given him pause, because the greed in his eyes was quickly replaced by a hint of... was that fear?

"Fair, aye. Always fair 'ere," the man said, his voice a touch softer than before.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg stepped out of the trading post, his mind swirling with thoughts of a well-deserved rest. Ash, comfortably nestled on his shoulder, let out a soft grunt as the cold morning air hit them. Greg's pouch felt heavier, now one hundred and fifty something stags richer. The weight of the coins was a constant reminder of his successful, if bloody, night.

He nodded to himself slowly, a frown creasing his brow. "...that guy definitely cheated me."

Whatever, he shrugged, scratching Ash behind the ears. Not like he really cared all that much, considering he had left the rest of the shit in the bag with the trading guy. Being real, there was no way he was seriously gonna carry all that to another town. I mean, come on. Do I look like a pack mule? Back's already killing me.

Greg's eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for a sign, any indication of a decent inn where he could rest. Sure, he had more stamina and he was a good bit tougher… but there were fuckin' limits, goddamnit. Even isekai heroes needed their beauty sleep.

As he navigated through the mostly empty morning streets of Wintermoss, the sound of his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground echoed off the timber and stone buildings. The town was just starting to wake up, a few early risers shuffling about their business with bleary eyes and hunched shoulders.

A sudden collision made him pause in his tracks, the teenager glancing down in confusion. An old woman, frail and pale, stood before him, dressed in what he could only describe as rags. Her eyes were wide with a desperate urgency, her gray hair as thin and wispy as her bony frame. Trembling hands clutched a small doll, the fabric stained a dark, ominous red that could only be blood.

"Find 'im, please, m'lord," the old woman pleaded, her voice cracking with raw desperation. "Ye must."

Greg blinked, taken aback by both the sudden address and the unexpected title. M'lord? He still wasn't used to villagers just assuming shit like people couldn't wear nice clothes or be clean for no reason. "What? I can't...who?"

Without hesitation, the old woman thrust the doll into his hands, her voice breaking with each word. "Find th' man who killed 'er. My Sera...please, m'lord. Find th' bastard an' gut 'im like th' pig 'e is. I beg ye."

Greg held the doll awkwardly, his face a mask of shock as he tried to process her words. The weight of it felt unnatural in his hands, heavy with a raw, sinister aura he couldn't quite understand. What the hell? This thing feels...wrong. Like it's pulsing with some kind of dark juju. The fabric seemed to throb against his skin, thick and cloying with something he couldn't exactly see.

"I...I'm not sure I—" he began, but the woman cut him off, her voice rising in pitch.

"Ye must, m'lord! Ye must! Th' gods, they whisper o' ye, a man who finds th' lost, who sees beyond th' veils. I know it, I do!"

The gods? Okay, this is getting way too weird, even for me. "Look, lady, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not—"

Suddenly, a man rushed over, grabbing the old woman gently but firmly by the arm. "M'lord, forgive us. Old Mara...she used to be our woods witch, not right in th' head, ye see. Lost 'er daughter an' goodson, an' then 'er granddaughter four moons past ...it broke 'er, it did. Forgive 'er, if ye would"

The old woman, Mara, looked up at Greg with pleading eyes, her gnarled hands still extended towards him as if the doll held the key to her salvation. Fuck. I can't just ignore this, can I? She looks so...broken.

"It's alright," Greg said softly, meeting Mara's desperate gaze. "I understand. But this—this isn't something I usually—"

"Please, m'lord," Mara interrupted, his voice dropping to a shaking whisper as she stared deep into his eyes. "Ye can find 'im, can't ye? Th' one what spilled blood on th' snow? Pour 'is blood back to th' earth, spill 'is guts and make 'im beg for mercy, return 'im to th' Old Gods..."

"Mara!" the man hissed, his grip tightening on the old woman's arm. "Mind yer tongue!"

Greg looked down at the doll in his hand, feeling the magic that clung to it like a miasma—an echo of pain and a clear, dark path to follow. This is insane. I'm not some kind of magic detective. I can't just...

But even as the thought formed, he could feel the trail unspooling before him, not just a physical path, but a magical one, a link to the perpetrator still fresh with malice and sorrow. Son of a bitch. I can, can't I?

"Please, m'lord," the man pleaded, his face lined with worry. "I beg of ye. Forgive 'er. She don't know what she's sayin'..."

Greg sighed heavily, the weight of the doll seeming to grow heavier by the second. "I said it's fine, okay? I'll...shit." He ran a hand through his hair, the blonde strands sticking up wildly. "I'll handle it."

The man sagged with relief, his weathered face creasing into a grateful smile. "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye. May th' Old Gods bless ye."

With that, he quickly led Mara away, the old woman's sobs fading into the bustle of the waking town. Greg stood there, alone, the doll pulsing in his hand like a thing alive. What the hell did I just agree to?

He could feel it, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a gingerbread house of horrors. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

But he knew, deep down, that he couldn't just walk away. Not now. Not with the echoes of Mara's anguish still ringing in his ears. Goddamnit.

Greg looked down at Ash, the bear cub peering up at him with curious eyes. "Well, fuck."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Northern Bane (Kill 10 Northerners) - 200 GP

Breaker of Chains - 200 GP


Roll: Device [Lyrical Nanoha] {Magitek} (Free) - "A Device could be seen as a high-tech magic wand. It aids with the complex math involved in manipulating Mana into spells. There are many different levels of power, intelligence and complexity. This grants you a base Device which you can customize with other perks."

Roll: Freebies [World Seed] {Modus} (Free) - "All people playing Neolife may choose two schools of magic to start with, and so do you. There's a school of magic for pretty much everything, including Gravity, Sound, Barrier, Blood, Aura, Origin (the creation of matter ex nihilo), Solar, and Summoning magic. Of course, there's also a field of magic for any element you can think of and more, such as Fire and Earth magic, and even Nature magic and Technomancy exist.

You can also pick two affinities to start off with at 5%. Affinities, in case you don't know yet, can be literally anything. If something exists, it has a mana signature. And if something has a mana signature, the signature can be forged (cultivated) and controlled. Be it an affinity for life, fur, time, leaves, bark, a specific fetish, or something more abstract like luck, order, madness, or chaos, the variety of affinities is truly endless.

Grimoire Points: 650