FINAL CORE - Chapter 116 (Patreon)

Dear Diary,

I can't believe what happened last night. I snuck out to the forest to practice archery like I do every night, and I saw something move in the shadows. I thought it was a monster, and I panicked. I grabbed my bow and shot an arrow without thinking.

And then I saw him. The boy from the academy, lying on the ground with an arrow in his chest. He followed me out here, and I killed him. I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident.

I don't know what to do. I can't stay here. I have to run away. I can't face the other students or the teachers knowing what I've done. I can't go to prison. I can't bear the thought of being punished for something I didn't mean to do. I don’t want to see mom ever again for doing this to me.

I'm packing my bag right now. I'll disappear into the forest and head somewhere else. I'll never be able to come back. I'll have to leave everything behind except my bow and start a new life.

I'm terrified, diary. I don't know what the future holds. But I have to do something. I can't stay here.

I’m sorry.

~ Burnt diary entry of a young girl who once lived in the western city. The diary was found half-burnt in a camp-fire.

__________________________

Rorate

Dark-Elf, Female, Fighter + Field-medic

Location: The Tower, Chapel

“Sister, I’m frightened,” says the voice on the other side of the confessional curtain. It carries with it not a shaking uncertainty, but rather, one that is hinted at through the forced tightness of the words in a failed attempt to make them sound calm, which reveals the truth of their nature instead. “What is to become of us?” asks the man.

Rorate sits and listens, her eyes closed. “There’s nowhere left for us to go. The city is destroyed and I brought my family here, but now what?” he asks. “Monsters are climbing up towards us and there’s just… there’s nowhere left to go,” he explains. “What if they reach the island? What if they make it through the tower?” he asks. It’s quiet for a while. Rorate doesn’t answer, as she feels in her gut that the end of the man’s last question didn’t carry the right tone for it to be the end of his part. Sure enough, he goes on. “Hell, what happens if we do make it?” he asks instead. “Do we just… do we live here now?” he asks. “My daughter was in school before we fled the city to here. What does she do now? What future is there for her?” he asks.

Now it stays quiet for a time.

Rorate opens her eyes, staring at the floor for a moment as she thinks. More and more things like this have been coming to her, which is understandable. She’s even brought Scion in to help her stem the tide of unsteady souls who come out of fear rather than to confess a sin or misdeed.

“Those who wish to serve in the grace of Isaiah will be protected and well-kept from all the dangers of this world,” explains the priestess, lifting her gaze higher to look at the ornate ceiling of her side of the booth. “Those who do not will be evacuated from the island once it is safe to do so,” says Rorate. She looks at the mesh that separates the two of them, not able to see the face on the other side. “What you and your family will do, I cannot say for you. But neither your future, nor that of your daughters, is lost.” Rorate smiles. “There are many other cities, and they have excellent academies of all kinds. “You will find a spot for her there, and whatever work you did in the south, you can likely do elsewhere.”

The man sighs, and she hears a soft thunk — likely his head leaning back against the wall behind him as he thinks.

“I guess so…” he finishes, and she hears the sounds of him moving on the other side. “Thank you, sister,” says the man, leaving the booth. She doesn’t exactly know if he’s really eased, but the spark in his heart has been quenched, at least for now.

It doesn’t take a moment before the door on the other booth is closed again, with someone else sitting down.

“Hello, child,” says Rorate. “What are you here for today?” she asks.

A gruff voice comes from the other booth, a man again. “Sister,” says the voice. “I have a confession to make,” says the man, who is clearly trying to hide his real voice with some put on tone. It’s not too unusual. Even here, people are shy, skittish creatures.

“Go on,” encourages Rorate.

The man clears his throat, and there is a rummaging for a moment on the other side. “The thing is, I sometimes do stuff that makes someone else feel bad,” he says. “It’s just in good fun, but I kind of like the sensation of winning,” he explains. “But I feel bad for her, honestly. She’s just kind of lame.”

“Hmm…” says Rorate, looking at the mesh. “Can you explain in more detail?” she asks.

“Yeah, look at this,” says the man. Something thuds down on the small tray between the booths. It pushes through from his side to hers, and Rorate looks down at what he has to show her.

A rock.

(Pretty){Exotic Quality}[Rock]

A really fancy rock.

Weight: 0.6 kg

Value: 000 Obols

“BEULAH!” yells Rorate, jumping to her feet.

“What happened to that fancy river rock you wanted to find, huh? Guess it doesn’t exist,” says the man, revealing his voice. “Later, loser.”

Rorate yanks the door open and then the other door, but somehow, the man is already gone, leaving only a tuft of fox’s hair on the seat. She grabs the drawer, pulling it back to this side.

The rock is gone too.

Rorate grabs her hair in frustration and turns around. “Scion! We’re taking a break,” calls Rorate to the other booth.

“Uh… okay!” replies Scion, coming out a moment later. “What’s the matter?” she asks, yelping as Rorate grabs her hand and drags her off.

“We’re going to the river,” explains the dark-elf.

Scion looks at her, blinking in confusion. “— to pray?” she asks.

“No,” replies Rorate. “I need to find a rock,” she explains, leaving it at that, despite Scion’s marked confusion as she storms off with her in tow.

_______________________________________

Fairy Marjatta

Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West

Location: The Western Mountain City

“You can really pack it away, huh?” asks Marjatta, watching in horrified amazement as the young man eats a rather gluttonous portion of food by himself. She flies back a few feet, just to be sure that she doesn’t get grabbed and eaten too by mistake.

The young man stops, his cheeks still full, as he looks at her. He swallows. “Training with the cardinal is exhausting,” explains the hero, shrugging.

Marjatta tilts her hand, holding her hands on her hips. “He’s like… eighty,” she replies, raising an eyebrow.

The hero looks at her. “Sorry. Look… I wasn’t in great shape before I got here, okay?” he says, looking down at himself, at the muscular, god-chiseled body that is fighting its way out of his clothes. “Wild.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Well, it’s fine,” explains the fairy. “Heroes burn fast and hot,” explains the scribe. “The books say so too.”

“So, every hundred years, huh?” he asks, looking at her. “Your gods must really hate your world, honestly.”

Marjatta doesn’t really know if he’s wrong on that latter point, but the former she can correct. “It’s not every hundred. Every hundred, we have a crisis, but not every crisis gets a hero,” explains the fairy, looking at the confused young man from another world. “Sometimes we get… you know, other stuff.”

“…Huh…” says the man. “So… I’m here to fight a witch?” he asks, making a gesture of a triangle over his head to mimic a pointed hat. “Aren’t witches just cute and harmless magical casters?” he asks. “You think I can make her have a change of heart and become a good person?” asks the man, lifting his gaze to stare up at the ceiling for a moment as he thinks, scratching his chin. “That’s how this usually works, right?”

“They are not,” replies the fairy. “On both counts. And no, you can’t.” She shakes her head, looking at him. He has sooty black hair and the face of somebody who looks like a can-doer, but he seems a little mixed up here and there, a bit weird socially. Not hard to talk to, it’s just like he doesn’t pick up on all the normal cues that a person signals during a conversation, making him feel like he should be somewhat awkward and he is, but he is somewhat awkward with so much confidence that it seems like it’s on purpose.

The man shrugs and looks back at the food he’s eating. “Want some?” he asks, holding out a chicken leg for her to take that is the size of her whole body.

“No, thank you,” says the fairy. “Eat up,” she snaps, clapping her hands together. “Time is running short. We don’t have long before we have to get you to the south,” she explains.

“To save that… uh… Isabelle lady?” he asks, his mouth full of food.

“— Isaiah,” corrects the fairy. “And no,” she says, not sure if she should feel despair or not as she watches him pick up a traditional eating utensil and poke around with it completely incorrectly, like a five year old who didn’t understand it would do. “— To save us all,” she says, reminding herself that the exterior appearance doesn’t matter. He’s a hero.

And heroes get the job done.