The carriage rocked steadily as it rolled down the uneven dirt path, the wheels creaking softly with each turn. Inigo sat with one arm braced against the side wall, the other resting atop his knee. Outside, the forest blurred past—green and gold, patches of light filtering through the canopy above.
It had only been an hour since they departed Valebrook, and he was already feeling it.
"This is... rougher than I thought," Inigo muttered.
He leaned back against the padded wall again. It wasn't exactly painful, but the constant vibration beneath the wheels, the occasional jolt from potholes, and the general lack of suspension made it a far cry from anything he was used to.
Back home, he'd ridden buses with air-conditioning, caught rides in taxis with smooth suspension and Spotify playlists. Even the worst traffic in Manila came with honking horns and street food at every stoplight.
Here? The soundtrack was creaking wood, rustling trees, and oxen snorting with effort.
He looked around the interior again. No cup holders. No phone charger. And definitely no Wi-Fi.
Yet… it wasn't all bad.
There was something strangely peaceful about watching the world go by without a screen in front of him. Birds called from the trees, and the sky was as blue as a digital wallpaper—but real. Unfiltered.
No billboards. No exhaust fumes. Just the wilderness, raw and sprawling.
Still, his legs were beginning to itch for movement.
Garrick noticed the fidgeting. "You'll get used to it. Most don't, but some do."
Inigo gave a small smile. "I think I'll survive."
They passed a few smaller hamlets along the way—just clusters of homes with thatched roofs and fenced fields. Children stared as the caravan rolled through, some waving timidly. Inigo returned a nod through the curtain slit.
By late afternoon, the caravan leader gave the order to halt.
"Time to rest the oxen and start camp," Garrick announced, stretching as he climbed out. "Sun's still got two hours, but we need the firewood."
Inigo hopped down from the carriage and took in their surroundings. They had stopped beside a shallow creek, with trees thick enough to provide some cover but open enough to spot anything coming. The guards immediately fanned out, checking the perimeter.
One of them—an older man with a gray beard and scar down his chin—began barking orders to set up camp.
Inigo walked a few steps away and crouched beside the creek. He cupped his hands, splashed his face with cold water, and let out a low breath.
This wasn't a respawn point.
There was no fast travel.
Every mile he covered, every night he endured—it all added up. This world wasn't just some game backdrop anymore. It was real. And it demanded effort.
By sundown, the campfire was crackling, the oxen fed and tied, and the wagons arranged in a loose defensive semi-circle. Inigo sat with his back against one of the wheels, unwrapping a piece of travel bread and jerky from his ration kit.
Garrick took a spot beside him and passed a canteen of water.
"Sleep in shifts," the older man said. "I'll take first watch. You get some rest after eating."
Inigo nodded. "Thank you."
***
The next morning.
A faint ping echoed in his head.
[+50 Tokens – Daily Log-In Bonus]
[Current Balance: 1863 Tokens]
A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning to you too," he muttered, mentally swiping the notification away.
As he stepped around the camp, he began to take better stock of the caravan.
Five wagons, all wooden, loaded with sacks of grain, barrels of dried fish, smoked meat, and cloth rolls. There were two merchants per wagon—some older and round-bellied, others lean and sharp-eyed, clearly used to haggling down to the last copper.
Guards were scattered throughout. Eight in total, not counting Garrick and himself. Two archers. Three spearmen. Two swordsmen. One axeman with arms the size of ham hocks and a permanent scowl on his face.
It wasn't a professional escort, but they were disciplined. Alert. Each had a hardened look that told Inigo they'd seen real blood before.
A few nodded at him respectfully. Some still regarded him with a curious glance—clearly aware that he wasn't just another merchant's boy. Something about the way he walked. Too upright. Too composed.
Too… prepared.
The caravan was back on the move before the sun had fully risen. The wheels groaned as they rolled over uneven paths, the morning birdsong replaced by the rhythmic creaking of wagons, hoofbeats, and quiet chatter between drivers.
Inigo climbed back into his carriage and resumed his seat opposite Garrick.
"Sleep well?" the older man asked, sipping from a tin mug.
"Well enough," Inigo replied, looking out the window slit. "Though I miss mattresses that don't involve twigs under your spine."
Garrick chuckled. "You'll miss the carriage more after a week in the capital. Trust me."
They rode in silence for a while, the landscape shifting from dense woods to wider fields. Every now and then, Inigo's eyes swept across the trees, scanning for movement. His instincts hadn't dulled.
The guards outside walked in loose formation beside the wagons. Two out front, one at the rear, the rest distributed between the carts. They made for a decent moving wall—enough to dissuade small-time troublemakers. But Garrick wasn't wrong. If something serious hit them, it would fall to the few who could actually fight.
Like him.
The wheels rolled on, the sun climbed higher.
Then—
BOOM!
An explosion shattered the calm, tearing through the morning air like a thunderclap.
The second wagon—in front of theirs—burst into a ball of flame and shattered wood. The blast threw one of the oxen back in a heap, and the entire vehicle tipped sideways, groaning as it collapsed into the ditch.
Their own carriage lurched violently. Inigo barely had time to brace himself before the floor tipped—hard.
CRASH!
The world turned sideways.
Wood splintered. Curtains ripped. Something heavy slammed against his shoulder as the carriage flipped and landed on its side.
Dust filled his lungs. A sharp ringing echoed in his ears.
Inigo blinked, dazed, blood pounding in his skull.
Then he heard it.
Screams.
Shouts.
The clash of metal.
And the shrill whistle of arrows splitting the air.
They were under attack.