After the fiasco with the shopkeeper, I began to travel around the city, weaving through its bustling arteries of trade and noise, looking for new partners and quietly planning out my actual goals. There's a real reason I want to travel to the human continent—beyond curiosity or adventure. On their continent, information doesn't trickle like it does here; it flows. In taverns, markets, and city squares, news spreads like fire on dry grass, and the archives of their great academies supposedly house centuries of knowledge that Orc lands never cared to preserve. To learn, to grow, to become something more—I would have to cross the ocean.
But Riaz and the herd? They likely wouldn't be able to come with me. Not because of willpower, but because of sheer cost.
As I walked the cobblestone streets, I asked around—dockhands, sailors with the smell of brine still clinging to their clothes, and merchants with their tally sticks always at the ready. The truth came quick and heavy: any fare across the ocean would cost me a gold piece, and any luggage, including tames, would cost half a gold. Riaz, loyal as ever, was priceless to me. But her herd, twelve strong, each counted as luggage. In total, seven gold. Seven heavy, glittering coins I didn't have.
To put it into perspective, a dockworker earned about a silver a month hauling crates, mending nets, or guiding ships into harbor. Seven years of labor for the chance at one crossing—that was the scale of my problem.
The only possible chance of raising that much within my lifetime was through what I already knew: venturing deeper into this continent and looting dungeons.
But that thought soured in my gut. Dungeon delving wasn't a mere pastime—it was suicide for the underleveled. Most adventurers I'd seen or heard of were level 3 or higher, walking in proper formations like living machines of survival. There were always roles to fill: shieldbearers, healers, scouts, spellcasters. I had none of that. The only reason I'd survived so far was dumb luck—the dungeons I'd entered were barren of monsters. They were eerie mausoleums, not death pits. If fate hadn't spared me, I'd have been bones in a hallway already.
While these thoughts circled me like hungry crows, something cut across my senses—something that made both my ears and many others' turn.
It started as a ripple of sound carried over the city's constant clamor. A voice—clear, lilting, not orcish, not guttural, but something that glided like water across stone. I followed it instinctively, weaving through narrow streets that reeked of roasted meats, tanned leather, and sweat.
The source stood in the center of a small square: a fishman. Beautiful in a way that felt otherworldly, with scales shimmering faintly under the torchlight, his gills flaring gently with every drawn note. His clothes were cut scandalously thin, the fabric clinging in suggestive places, draped loose in others. Each motion of his body seemed crafted to tease—his tail fins flicked as though to accentuate his hips, his voice rising and falling with melodies that made the air feel heavy, sticky with longing.
The crowd around him wasn't large, but it was thick with lust. Orcs, a few goblins, even a wandering giant—all with that same hungry look. Their scent hit me before their expressions did: musk, sour ale, and that unmistakable tang of desire. The fishman's song ended, his body shifting into more brazen displays. He revealed more of himself, layer by layer, until his performance was less art and more transaction.
When it was over, a few coins clinked onto the cloth at his feet. Copper, almost exclusively. Three here, two there. A pittance for what he'd given. I couldn't stop staring—he had exposed everything, revealed all his privates, all his dignity, for little more than 3 copper. It was… tragic.
For just a moment, as the crowd dispersed, his eyes met mine. They weren't the eyes of a performer, not really. They were lost, trapped, as though the ocean itself had dried up around him and left him stranded. A siren reduced to a beggar's carnival act.
I felt pity—more than pity, almost anger. His voice alone should have carried him further than this. Why hadn't he swum away, back to the sea that should have been his refuge?
When the last coin clattered and the crowd began to thin, I stepped forward.
"Hey," I said, firm but not unkind. "I know you don't want to just sit here, doing nothing. Why don't you follow me? I'm going to travel the world. I'll help you be worth more than this."
He looked me up and down, and when he spoke, his tone was flat but not cruel. "Look here. Every day I show my body off, and every day I get my copper. It's enough for food. Enough to survive. Why should I follow you? Adventurers don't survive for long. Especially a child… with an entourage of horses."
The truth of his words cut deep. He was right. I was only level 2, and he was level 1. Survival wasn't something we could promise each other. His morale, too, was battered—worn thin from years of degradation. One more failure might break him entirely.
Still, I pressed.
"I would rather risk my survival out in the world," I said, "because at least in the moments before death, I can say I lived. I'll see my mistakes, my suffering, my joy—all of it. Up till now, I can't claim I've lived a good life. I can't guarantee anything. I haven't known love, loss, or grief the way you have. But I know this: when my mother dies, when my wife leaves, when my arm is severed—I'll stand back up and say I lived. So tell me, fishman—have you ever won a war?"
His voice broke. "No, I have not."
"Have you ever defeated a giant and taken his loot?"
"NO, I HAVE NOT!"
"THEN HAVE YOU EVER SAVED A PRINCESS FROM A BURNING TOWER?"
"NO, NO, NO—I HAVE NOT!"
"GOOD!" My voice thundered. "Because neither have I. And I would love to have you on my side when I do it all!"
The words struck him. His eyes, dulled and hopeless before, glimmered now—just faintly, but it was there. A spark of hope.
"My name is Texan," he said, voice quieter now, but warmer. "I'm a mermaid. A siren, at that. Won't ya show me the world?"
I reached out, grabbed his hand, and pressed my last pouch of porridge into it. He blinked at it, then at me. "Thanks for the porridge. But… do you actually have any money? 'Cause ain't no way."
His bluntness stung, but he wasn't wrong. Even grand speeches didn't buy survival.
"There's nothing to worry about," I told him. "I just looted a dungeon and came out with plenty. We'll sell the haul. Then we'll see."
He nodded and dug into the porridge immediately, even though it was cold, stale, and crusted with fungus. When he bit into one of the moldy lumps, I snatched it away. "You'll get sick if you eat that. Don't die from something stupid."
"Ey man, how you gonna give me food and then take it back?"
I pointed to the fungus.
"Okay, and? Food's food, man."
I rolled my eyes and kept walking. But as we traveled side by side, I couldn't help studying him. For all his misery, Texan was healthy. His scales gleamed, his fins were intact, his body strong. He was handsome. Everything about him screamed vitality. And yet, he was still here. Still chained to the city.
He caught my stare. "Ya like what ya see?"
"Well, yeah," I said. "But I don't think you're a pedophile."
He barked a laugh. "But for real—what's up? You've been eyeing me down."
"Why are you here? Why haven't you left? I get it, you're only level 1. But you're a mermaid. You could've swum away. Better to risk death by sea creature than guaranteed slavery by Orc."
His face soured, fins twitching with agitation. "Ugh. I don't like thinking about it. But simple version? Some high-level fucker hated me—or my family—enough to curse me. I can breathe underwater, but I can't swim. I just float there, useless."
A pang hit me in the chest. "That's… really unfortunate."
We wandered the streets together, me and Texan, the stares of orcs following us like gnats. Orcs were accustomed to their own kin—broad tusks, crude clothes, heavy gait. A siren walking beside a child was an oddity, an eyesore, maybe even a scandal. Whispers slithered behind us, but I ignored them.
Eventually, the city itself gave us direction: a hanging sign etched with an anvil. The iron symbol was chipped and soot-stained, blackened from years of furnace smoke. The smell here was unmistakable—coal, sweat, scorched metal. A forge.
Inside, the heat struck like a wave. The place was dim, only lit by the white-orange glow of molten steel being worked at a nearby anvil. The blacksmith himself looked as though he had been carved from a lump of rock and left to rust. His tusks were cracked, his jaw square but crooked, his body swollen with layers of scar tissue that clung like melted wax. Ugly was too kind a word.
His single bloodshot eye narrowed on us, and his voice was as jagged as his face."The fuck is a fucking mermaid and an ugly, fucked-up kid doing in my shop?"
I stiffened. Texan blinked, taken aback, though he quickly masked it with a roll of his eyes. The insult stung more than I wanted to admit, but I bit down the words burning in my throat. Instead, I stepped forward and placed the bundle of weapons I'd hauled from the dungeon onto his counter.
"I'm here to sell these, Mr. Smith."
The orc's gaze slid over the pile like he was appraising a pile of dung. He picked up one blade with two fingers, sneered at its rusted edge, then looked me up and down again. "Two silver," he grunted.
My hands clenched. Not again. I wasn't going to be scammed like I had at the herb shop.
I grabbed a blade at random, pulled a rag from my belt, and dragged it across the steel. Rust flaked away like dried blood, revealing a faint shimmer of usable metal beneath. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"Four silver," I said flatly.
The blacksmith's one good eye twitched. He stared at me, long and hard, like he was weighing whether breaking my jaw was worth the trouble. The heat from the forge seemed to swell with his silence. Then, with a grunt that sounded almost like defeat, he tossed four silver coins onto the counter.
I scooped them up without hesitation and turned for the door. Texan was still grinning like an idiot, clearly entertained. Outside, I flicked him one of the coins.
"That's your share for now. Pay me back someday."
He caught it with a smirk. "Fair enough. How about we use it to buy some food at a pub? Ain't much adventuring on empty stomachs."
As we walked, he nudged me with his elbow. "By the way, if that rust wasn't so bad, why didn't you clean them all first before showing him?"
I glanced at him and smiled faintly. "I got lucky. All the blades are terribly rusted. I just gambled that one would shine enough to make him sweat."
For a moment, Texan stared, then he erupted into laughter that startled a passing vendor. "You scammed the scammer! Insaaane." His laugh carried down the street like a song of mischief, sharper and freer than the sorrowful tune he'd sung earlier.
Along the path there were a few poor vendors selling random items. I thought nothing of them except for one single leatherworker. It seemed like he had a talent for it because his leatherwork was far superior to most I've seen. His skills would definitely prove useful—having someone who could repair our leather armor on standby is infinitely valuable.
He seemed to keep himself out of view from everyone. He hid himself under a cloak and picked an area on the street most people wouldn't notice. He might just have an interesting backstory like Mermaid did.
I approached him and asked him to simply join my party. His eyes had no goals and his spirit wasn't unwavering. He was simply a man living—peacefully at that.
"How much you paying."
And he was all about money. Nothing about him was trapped or had meaning. He worked and worked because he knows with his talent he'll go further in this world—with or without me. And I respected that.
I tossed him a silver coin and he jumped up. "Where we going boss man."
Fair enough. "A pub. Get some food, information, then we'll see from there."
The pub was a squat, timber-framed building wedged between two taller stone shops. The door hung slightly crooked, the hinges squealing when Texan shoved it open. The smell hit us immediately—boiled meat, sour ale, sweat, and smoke thick enough to sting the eyes. Inside, the air was dim, lit by a handful of oil lamps that painted the room in greasy amber light.
Patrons packed the benches—orc mercenaries with arms like tree trunks, traders with coin-purses clutched close, a pair of goblins chattering over dice in a corner. Conversation was loud, messy, overlapping into a chaos that still somehow formed the rhythm of the city's lifeblood.
Texan ordered something simple: a hunk of bread, a slab of meat, and a half-pint of whatever ale they had that wouldn't kill him. He ate like someone who hadn't seen food in days, tearing into the bread as if it had insulted him. I chewed slower, letting the time pass while watching the room—learning the kinds of people who haunted these walls. Opportunists, mostly. Men and women who smelled like steel, blood, or coin.
"Excuse me, I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment." I sat down waiting for a meeting.
"Well I am the owner of this pub young man, although I also help with the bartending. What can I do for you?" He slid a small drink at me, offering a drink.
"Give me one moment." I got up, walked over to Riaz, and took a barrel from her. "Thanks Riaz, I'll see if I can get you premium food." I walked back into the bar and over to the owner.
"Here sir, this is why I'm here, let me sell you a barrel or two."
He looked at my barrel, popped open the top, and took a small sample. He gave it a good sip and paused for a moment.
"Young man, I won't be able to buy it from you." Damn it, the shit is poor quality. "This wine is far too high quality for my bar to purchase it—you'll have to sell it in the capital. It should be two weeks' journey north."
Hope. I have hope.
Two-week journey and I'll have enough wealth to purchase a crew for the journey to the human continent. I won't have to worry about equipment, food, and danger on the ship. Damn, money really is important—I didn't really think about it before these two.
We ate some food, costing barely 20 copper for us. I convinced Riaz to let these two ride with us and we moved along.
On the travel I wanted to bond a little with my peers. So I spoke up first.
"You guys understand that we're going to be fighting. There is no doubt about that in the slightest."
The mermaid responded quickly, "Yeah I realized that but we got no equipment. Like how am I or this guy gonna fight."
"Honestly speaking we'll have to scavenge for weapons. I have this extra sword for one of you guys but other than that we don't have anything."
The two of them kind of glared at me like I was some crazy fool.
"Well look, I want to be a mage but I've got no spells. I also won't be a bitch about things and run so I can confirm that."
The Leatherman spoke well, his clear voice showed signs of vitality, similar to the mermaid. I wonder what he is.
As we got about halfway across the fields I noticed a different dungeon—this one felt dangerous. I held the other two and asked them a question.
"Would you risk your lives for one another?"
The Leatherman replied, "If I have to, yeah."
The Mermaid replied, "I would rather not be in the situation that requires that."
I was pretty astonished by their answers, but at least they were being honest.
I told them to follow along and be ready. I kept two of the better weapons from the previous dungeons, one was supposed to be my back-up and the other was specifically for the mermaid. I realized I never even asked their names.
"So, do you two have a name?"
The Mermaid replied first, "Ya, ma name's Texan. I told you that before."
The Leatherman replied, "Abbot."
Abbot and Texan, huh. Weird names. And I can't believe I forgot his name already.