Name: Terry Roosevelt (Age: 16)
Race: Human – Visigoth Branch (Racial Trait: When HP falls below 10%, Defense doubles)
Level: 5
Status: Moderately Injured
Class: Sailor Lv.5 (14423 / 16000 EXP)
Attributes:
Strength: 5
Dexterity: 6
Constitution: 7(Years of seafaring have strengthened the young sailor's body: +1 Constitution)
Intelligence: 9(Received good education in childhood: +1 Intelligence)
Perception: 7(Constant vigilance on the open sea sharpened his senses: +1 Perception)
Charisma: 5
Talents:
[Keen Learner]: You grasp new knowledge with remarkable ease — the kind of student every teacher dreams of. (Gain 20% extra experience when learning basic skills; gain 10% additional skill points per level.)(Starting Talent)
[Lucky Clover]: Fortune favors you in mysterious ways. Again and again, this gift has saved your life from certain death. (Whenever entering a near-death state, make a Luck check; success grants survival.)(Starting Talent)
[Born of the Sea]: As a sailor, you live and die by the ocean. When near or on the sea, gain either +1 Dexterity or +1 Perception (checked once every 24 hours). (Class Talent)
Basic Skills: Climbing, Jumping, Swimming, Balance, Fishing, Ropework, Wilderness Survival, Reading Expressions, Knowledge (Geography, Navigation), Stealth.
Professional Skill:
[Rowing]: Whether swimming or steering a ship, you perform these tasks better than most. (Proficient) (42/100)
Weapon Proficiency: None.
Background:
Born the illegitimate son of a minor noble from the continent of Europa. Received a decent education under his mother's care, but after her death, his father paid a sum of money to send him away to sea as an apprentice sailor.
"This NPC wishes to become your follower. Do you accept?"
Aldric studied the boy's profile in silence. Seeing Terry's natural talents and potential, he couldn't help but feel a surge of surprise and delight — this was no ordinary follower. This was a jackpot.
Captain Rockfell, noticing Aldric's hesitation, spoke up. "In my homeland, knights always take on a squire — someone to care for their steed, maintain their weapons, watch their back in battle, and clean the trophies afterward. Terry is the fastest learner I've ever met. If he were a bit older, I'd have made him my first mate. He may not yet be able to fight like you, but I promise — he'll grow into a capable and loyal squire."
Terry, his face tense with hope, quickly pleaded,
"Please, sir! I'll work hard, I swear it! My mother's gone, and my father… he never cared about me. Everyone looks down on me because I'm a bastard. And now that the captain's leaving, I don't want to keep living as just another sailor. Please take me with you!"
Hearing his desperate words, even the usually stoic witcher Gonz spoke up in his favor.
"I think he's worth taking. Witchers have always had a fondness for the unwanted sons of fate."
Under Terry's bright, expectant gaze, Aldric finally nodded. With that, the system chimed — a new tab labeled "Followers" appeared in his interface.
Captain Rockfell, having finished settling his remaining sailors, turned back one last time. "I'm sorry I can't repay your courage for now. But if you ever pass through Albion, let me know. I'll treat you to the finest caviar this side of the ocean. And please — take good care of Terry. Give him the treatment and training a proper squire deserves. Farewell, my friends."
With that, Emmus Rockfell, the old sea captain, straightened his coat, composed himself, and strode resolutely into the city to face his own fate.
"Alright then," Sir Gonz clapped his hands, breaking the silence that followed. Both Aldric and Terry were still looking in the direction the captain had gone. "Let's get moving. We'll find a place to stay the night. Tomorrow, I'll see if I can arrange a meeting with our young count. You—" he pointed at Aldric "—take your new squire and find a decent priest to treat him, unless you want a limping helper cleaning your kills later."
As he spoke, Sir Gonz tossed a small ornate pouch to Aldric. "Funds from the elves — our mission subsidy. Get these exchanged for something usable. I'll wait for you at the Boar's Head Tavern with this brat."
Aldric caught the pouch and peeked inside — it was half-filled with glittering, uncut gemstones. When he looked up again, the witcher was already leading his white wolf away, Terry following close behind.
…
Walking alone down the dimly lit streets, Aldric couldn't help but feel a tinge of unease. The sun had set over the medieval city, and finding a jeweler willing to exchange gems for coin at this hour would be no easy task.
Every few meters stood a lamppost casting a soft orange glow across the cobblestones. When he approached one, he could see the source of the light — small, luminous orbs floating gently within transparent glass spheres.
He was still examining them curiously when a sudden, brief scream echoed from a nearby alleyway, cutting through the night and snapping him out of his thoughts. Aldric had no intention of meddling in local affairs, especially not his first night in town but trouble, it seemed, had already found him.
Several rough-looking men emerged from the shadows, circling around him. From the alley ahead stepped their apparent leader — a wiry man clad in black leather armor, a blood-stained dagger dangling casually from his hand.
"Outsider," the man said coldly. "Tell me what business you and that white-haired old man have here. Do that, and I might grant you a quick death."
The dagger twirled effortlessly in his hand, flicking away droplets of blood to reveal a blade that gleamed wickedly under the streetlight.
Aldric sighed inwardly. His teacher's striking white hair was apparently a little too recognizable — they had been in the city for less than thirty minutes, and already someone had taken notice. He realized this was no random encounter; the game had just thrown him into his next decision point.
"We're just passing adventurers," Aldric Aldric calmly. "Rogue Camp has fallen. We barely escaped from the orcs alive. Why are you picking a fight with me?"
He wanted to test how much these people actually knew — whether they were small-time thugs, or pawns of something larger.
The man in black frowned, then snapped, "Enough talk. Get him!"
Seven or eight armed thugs rushed forward, brandishing daggers, clubs, and rusty blades. The first lunged at Aldric, only to have his weapon snatched away in a blur. Aldric kicked him square between the legs — a clean, merciless strike.
The man's eyes bulged wide open; his scream never left his throat. He crumpled silently to the ground, clutching himself in agony.
The sheer brutality of the move made the other thugs hesitate. Even the leather-clad leader instinctively tightened his thighs and winced.
Aldric, however, showed no mercy. He swung the stolen club with ruthless precision, knocking down three more men who had frozen in fear.
A short sword flashed toward him — a desperate counterattack. But Aldric had fought far worse before entering this world. Against such untrained opponents, his enhanced stats and talents made him untouchable.
He shifted his weight and leapt lightly aside, jabbing his club straight into his attacker's wrist.
"Argh!" the man howled, his weapon flying from his grasp — only for Aldric to catch it midair.
Without pause, Aldric spun around, swinging the short sword in a clean half-circle.
Clang!
Steel clashed against steel — sword tip meeting sword tip. The second attacker froze in shock, staring into Aldric's calm, indifferent eyes. Those eyes carried no tension, no fear — only the detached patience of a man picking out vegetables in a market stall.
Before the thug could react, Aldric twisted his wrist, knocking aside the enemy blade, then slammed the club squarely across the man's temple.
Another fell. Aldric pivoted gracefully, spinning like a hawk spreading its wings. His short sword handle cracked against the forehead of a third foe, dropping him instantly.
The last remaining thug — who had been lagging behind — stopped dead, his weapon trembling in his hands. He looked around at the fallen bodies of his comrades, then at Aldric, who hadn't even drawn his own weapon.
Despair crossed his face.
In a final, pitiful act of defiance, he turned his club on himself, smashing his own face — once, twice — in a desperate attempt to faint and escape the humiliation. Unfortunately, either from fear or hesitation, he didn't hit hard enough. He was left bleeding, swaying unsteadily, still conscious.
Aldric sighed and delivered a clean karate chop to his neck, sending the poor fool into blissful unconsciousness.
"Tsk. Brutal way to end your evening," he muttered.
The leather-armored leader wiped his face awkwardly, his expression twisting. "I knew it. With a bounty that high, it was never going to be easy. Enough talking—let's settle this the hard way."
Aldric lowered his stance, right hand holding the short sword behind his back, left hand extended forward. His knees bent, and his posture shifted into something straight out of an old kung-fu film.
With a slight smirk, he beckoned with four fingers.
"Come on."
(End of Chapter)