Chapter 38: Fanning the Flames

Gima had absolutely no desire to participate in this glorified, "playing house" style of adventure. Adventuring was tiring, dirty, and you could get seriously hurt. It would be much, much better to stay in the camp and relax.

Yes, her primary objective was to fan the flames of discord. But instead of fanning the flames during some tedious goblin-slaying excursion, it would be far more efficient to stay in the camp, make some clever arrangements, find a few simple-minded, testosterone-addled fools, stir them up a bit, and have them target George for her.

“Dear sister, I’m still just a child, you know.”

Liz smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But a squire should always fight alongside her knight. Besides, without you acting as George’s mouth, the journey would be so dreadfully boring, don’t you think?”

So you think the simps aren’t fighting hard enough for your affection, and you want to add another variable to the mix. Good. I like your style.

Gima looked at George for support. He said, his voice a flat rumble, “It’s not convenient.”

The red-haired Strong had originally wanted to say that this wasn’t a picnic and they shouldn’t bring a little brat along. But seeing George object, he immediately, and predictably, said the exact opposite:

“Don’t tell me you can’t even protect one little girl.”

Gima whispered to George, her voice a low hiss, “I can take care of myself.”

“Don’t force yourself.”

George nodded and silently, with an air of grim resignation, put on his bucket-helm.

The red-haired Strong laughed to himself, a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. In his eyes, George was a complete and utter adventuring greenhorn, his head filled with the exaggerated, flowery plots of cheap knightly novels. He had only managed to attract the beautiful Liz’s attention with his fancy mount and his flashy, and obviously impractical, armor. Now, he was insisting on bringing another useless burden. The sight of him fumbling around in a real combat situation later would surely shatter Liz’s unrealistic, fairy-tale white-knight fantasy.

It would be, he thought, especially amusing to watch.

Five people on four horses set off.

“Let me just say one more thing before we begin,” Liz said, taking a faintly glowing gem from her belt. “If we encounter any real danger, I will use this to call for reinforcements, and our little adventure will end. Actually, I hate doing this. It feels like I'm just playing with ants in my own backyard. But my father absolutely insisted on having the soldiers follow me.”

She smiled brightly. “But I’m sure we will all successfully exterminate the evil goblins without any trouble!”

The subtext was as clear as day: Whoever doesn’t pull their weight and makes my little adventure game unfun is immediately disqualified.

Gima thought about it, but she didn’t really care who won or lost this pathetic competition. In fact, she hoped to stay in Salem City for a while longer and level up some more. She just wanted to see George suffer a few embarrassing setbacks. After all, what could be more joyful than watching her sworn enemy suffer?

Finally, the five of them set off, their horses’ hooves clopping on the gradually narrowing dirt road, heading deeper into the mountains.

A young lady in a pale golden dress, a little girl in a frilly gauze skirt, and a poet in a completely defenseless, flamboyant outfit.

The poet Disha laughed.

“We are, without a doubt, the most leisurely and fashionable adventuring party in history.”

“You are, not us,” the red-haired Strong said, puffing out his chest to make his battle-worn, and very manly, armor more conspicuous. “Your ridiculous outfit belongs in a theater, singing sad operas. And you, bucket-helm knight, you should be on a stage somewhere acting out ‘The Knight and the Windmill.’ The two of you are a perfect match. Bring your little squire along, and you can form your own traveling theater troupe.”

George completely ignored him, his eyes focused intently on the road ahead.

The poet Disha retorted sarcastically, “You really are an experienced adventurer. I would have thought you’d be a gray-haired old man, close to death with all your vast experience. I really couldn’t tell you were so young and full of hot air.”

“When those evil little things tear up your handsome little face, you’ll know you were wrong,” the red-haired Strong continued, his voice rising. “You people don’t take goblins seriously at all. You only know that they’re weak, but you don’t know that they’re far dangerous than they appear. They’re cunning, vicious, and they bite!”

“Hahahaha,” Liz covered her mouth, letting out a tinkling, bell-like laugh. “Where did you hear that joke?”

“The upper society of Deepwater City is, in itself, a joke,” the poet Disha said, chatting happily with Liz and completely ignoring Strong.

The red-haired Strong finally realized that the poet Disha and lady Liz hadn’t been listening to his brilliant boasting at all. He tried to interject a few times, but the poet Disha was articulate and gave him no opportunity to insert himself into their cozy conversation. He could only stare with red, jealous eyes at the poet Disha, who was chatting so happily with his beloved.

I’m supposed to be the main force of this adventure, and that shameless, pretty-boy gigolo is stealing my spotlight!

He pondered how to win back the stage. He tried to interject a few more times, but Liz was clearly not interested in Strong’s adventure education and much preferred the poet Disha’s witty jokes.

For a time, only two people in the entire group were talking.

The red-haired Strong, desperate for an audience, tried to boast to George several times, but George was like a stone statue, completely and utterly ignoring him. Strong was so angry he snorted and said:

“When you get into trouble later, you’ll be crying for me to save you.”

With that, he turned his head and continued to ponder how to win back his beloved.

So boring. George is basically a rock… Gima tugged on George’s cloak and whispered, “George, aren’t you going to teach that loudmouth a lesson?”

George replied without turning his head, “There’s no need. It’s better to meditate and conserve one's energy.”

A rock with absolutely no temper at all. Useless.

You can’t start a fire by fanning a rock.

So, Gima turned her gaze to the poet Disha and Strong. As expected, in the red-haired Strong’s broad back, the pink whirlwind of jealousy was a size larger than the surrounding whirlwinds. A little smaller was the pale green whirlwind of wrath.

Just as I thought. He probably wants to kick the poet Disha off his horse and into a ditch.

Gima then turned her gaze to the poet Disha, and her eyes couldn’t help but narrow.

Contrary to her expectations, the poet Disha had no jealousy whatsoever. And the largest whirlwind around him was not the purple of lust, but wrath.

Gima blinked, making sure she wasn’t mistaken. The green whirlwind of anger was a size larger than Strong’s, and its color was a shade deeper. But he had a placid smile on his face, showing no signs of anger at all.

Don’t tell me he’s here to kill someone. He has no grudge with Strong, that's obvious. Could it be with Liz?

Just then, the poet Disha, who was in the middle of a lively conversation with Liz, seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. He turned his head and smiled at her. “What is it, little girl?”

The seven-colored whirlwinds on his back immediately dimmed, becoming almost transparent.

Strange. Very strange.

Gima pretended to be shy and turned her head away, seemingly fooling the poet Disha. Before long, the sound of their cheerful chatter resumed.

Could he be an assassin from Deepwater City, disguised as a bard, here to kill someone?

As soon as the thought arose, Gima suddenly found it amusing. Perhaps he was just someone who had been hurt by Liz in the past, and had changed his appearance to get revenge. Besides, even if he was an assassin, it had nothing to do with her.

Gima focused her attention back on the red-haired Strong, looking for the perfect opportunity to fan the flames.

An hour later, the opportunity came.

The mountain road became more and more difficult. Everyone prepared to dismount and approach the nest on foot, taking a short break to make their final preparations.

Liz was still laughing and talking with the poet Disha, completely ignoring her other suitors. The red-haired Strong watched, his thick neck turning a furious shade of red, looking more and more like an angry bull. And George remained completely zen throughout, kneeling quietly on the ground by himself, his hands clasped, silently praying to his boring god.

Gima peeked at the red-haired Strong. His ears were red with anger. He was scratching his head, desperately trying to think of a way to win his beloved back from the poet, completely ignoring the silent, imposing figure of George.

Gima aimed at his pink whirlwind of jealousy and quietly gave it a reverse-stir.

The red-haired Strong suddenly felt himself calm down. The sound of the poet and Liz’s laughter no longer made his heart ache with a sour, burning jealousy. He had an epiphany. His advantage was not in his words, but in his vast adventuring experience. The adventure later would be his stage. At that time, this short, sissy twink would be fumbling around in terror, and Liz would surely be disgusted with him.

The angry red on the red-haired Strong’s thick neck faded. He left the two of them and, with a renewed sense of purpose, began to meticulously check his equipment.

Liz saw that besides the poet Disha, no one was paying attention to her. She suddenly felt that the poet Disha’s jokes had lost their color and wit. She politely interrupted his endless stream of words, scanned the scene, and asked with the air of a commander:

“Alright, we’re about to reach the goblin nest. Who’s in command?”

“Me!” “Me!”

The poet Disha and the red-haired Strong spoke at almost the exact same time.

“I have rich and varied adventuring experience. Of course it’s me,” the red-haired Strong said, puffing out his chest.

The poet Disha pouted. “Oh, please. I once slaughtered an entire underground gang with a single dagger, and I just so happened to destroy a mind flayer’s secret base on the side.”

George was unmoved, still bowing his head in prayer. Gima followed his example, feigning piety. The silent, praying pair, in the midst of the arguing duo, were particularly conspicuous.

Liz looked at George. “George, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

“No.”

Concise, to the point, and utterly unhelpful.

The red-haired Strong also looked at George. He had originally intended to shift his gaze from George and continue to compete with the poet Disha for the leadership position.

Gima’s little finger gave a timely, gentle, and very mischievous flick.

A nameless, irrational fire rose in the red-haired Strong’s heart.

His gaze rested on the silver-armored George. He felt more and more that the other party was a complete and utter show-off. Silver armor with a silver horse, and a pretty little girl in tow. He really thought he was some kind of Prince Charming. He was clearly just as desperate for Liz’s body as he was, but he was pretending to be aloof and above it all to attract her attention, to reap the rewards without doing any of the hard work.

The red-haired Strong felt more and more that George was a despicable, cunning, and very dangerous potential rival. The poet Disha, on the other hand, was no threat at all. A brilliant idea flashed in his mind.

The red-haired Strong pointed an accusatory finger at George and said:

“Do you know how I can tell he’s a complete greenhorn? Can any of you see what’s wrong with him?”

The poet Disha said, “I see no problem. What is it?”

“Then let me open your eyes.” The red-haired Strong intended to establish his command by publicly criticizing George. He said to George, “Let me see your sword. I’ll point out exactly what’s wrong with it. How about that?”

George opened his eyes and looked at him strangely, not understanding how he had been dragged into this ridiculous pissing contest. He gave Gima a look.

Gima lifted her little face and said with the pride of a loyal squire, “This sword, my master has used it since he was a child. It has seen countless battles and tasted the blood of countless foes. You don’t need to trouble yourself with it.”

The red-haired Strong said, “That won’t do. Since the poet and I can’t decide who should be in command, how can this adventure possibly proceed? And since you’ve abstained from the vote, you should remain neutral.”

Gima whispered to George, “He probably thinks you’re a silent but deadly threat.”

George nodded, signaling Gima to give him the sword.

George didn’t think there was anything wrong with his sword. Before he was granted his holy sword, this sword, forged from pure adamantite, had always been with him.

Gima held the heavy sword with both hands and handed it to the red-haired Strong. He was surprisingly polite, drawing the sword and giving it an impressive flourish. It hummed through the air. His eyebrows furrowed into a single, bushy line, and he kept shaking his head in disapproval.

Liz asked strangely, “It looks like a good sword to me.”

“There’s a big, big problem.” The red-haired Strong’s spirits were high. He held the sword with both hands and handed it to Liz. “Feel it.”

Liz took the sword. It was a bit heavy, but she could lift it easily. If she had to say there was a problem, it might be that it was far too plain, with no gems or runes. It was just a simple, unmagical sword.

Liz asked, “It’s not enchanted?”

“No, it’s too heavy.”

“Huh?” Liz lifted the sword in confusion. “Even I can lift it without much trouble.”

The poet Disha watched with a detached interest, saying nothing. Everyone’s eyes were on Strong. He felt a little smug. He cleared his throat loudly and said in the tone of an experienced, worldly-wise elder:

“It only takes a little bit of force to kill a man. A weapon doesn’t need to be too heavy. If it’s too heavy, it will put a great strain on the wrist when you swing it, and it will be difficult to control, consuming a great deal of stamina. Generally speaking, a one-handed sword weighs a little over 600 grams. The largest two-handed greatsword, about 1.8 meters long, only weighs about 3.6 kilograms. And a ceremonial two-handed greatsword, which is never used in actual combat, only weighs about 4.5 kilograms.”

His tone was quite professional and utterly convincing.

With that, the red-haired Strong held the thick blade between two fingers and shook his head with pity.

“This sword weighs at least ten kilograms. It can only be used for flourishing, for practice. A real warrior would never use such a clumsy practice tool on a real battlefield. Scholars who have never touched a weapon in their lives like to exaggerate the weight of weapons in their books. It seems our knight friend has never been in a real battle. Otherwise, he wouldn’t believe the ridiculous descriptions in all those knightly novels and bring a practice sword out on a real adventure.”

Gima found it incredibly amusing. Strong was, technically, absolutely right. But George was a supernatural being who had long since surpassed human limits. He was incredibly strong, and his joints were tough as iron. Such a heavy weapon was just right for him.

Although she found it amusing, she put on an indignant expression, put her hands on her hips, and sneered:

“I suppose a goblin would think that any weapon in the world that weighs more than 200 grams can’t be swung.”

The red-haired Strong replied proudly, “You are not qualified to speak with me. Mr. George, am I right?”

George didn’t answer, simply signaling Gima to take back the sword. She got closer to took the sword with a dramatic huff.

“You win.”

She hoped to anger George into action, but he remained completely silent.

“I said, only your master can speak with me.” The red-haired Strong stared at George, holding the sword Liz handed him, but not giving it back to Gima. “Silence is the greatest form of arrogance. Answer me with your own mouth. Am I right, or am I wrong?”

George had no intention of competing in this ridiculous display of machismo. He firmly believed that actions spoke louder than words. If he could lie, he would have smiled and said, “Yes, yes, you’re right about everything. You’re the best.”

But he was a Paladin. He couldn’t lie. He could only say, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, “Completely wrong.”

“Hah. There’s not a single nick on the blade. It’s clearly never been used.” The red-haired Strong took George’s words as stubborn pride and handed the sword back to Gima.

George didn’t bother to explain. Adamantite was so incredibly hard that it was naturally, almost impossible to leave a nick on it.

Gima snorted, took the greatsword, and handed it back to George.

With no further objections, the red-haired Strong became the de facto captain of this small, dysfunctional team. After he gave a few self-important orders, the team officially set out.

On the way, George and Gima fell to the back of the team.

George took off his bucket-helm and whispered to Gima, “Do I look very punchable today? I feel like I’m being targeted for no reason.”