The wizard tower had no basement. The ground was too hard to excavate, so the storeroom was built on the first floor for easy loading and unloading.
Ansel had lived here for five years; he knew the place like the back of his hand. Squeezing through the broken door, he found the room had already been looted—whoever did it hadn't been gentle. Everything was thrown around in a mess.
Damn it, had to be those duergar.
He cursed inwardly, but his hands moved fast, quickly gathering anything useful into one pile.
Candles, a shovel, soap, waterskins, ink, a stack of blank paper, clothes, a spyglass… Nothing valuable, but all very useful to someone about to go on the run.
He stuffed it all into a big bundle and tossed it out into the hall.
But the thing he needed most—rope—was nowhere to be found.
He had no choice but to steel himself and head upstairs: dorms, kitchen, alchemy lab, meditation room…
Most of the rooms had been ransacked roughly, but not carefully. Because he knew the layout, he actually turned up quite a few good things.
Several coin pouches, two spellbooks, some food, and finally a coil of rope. The most valuable find was a spare staff from Fabian's room.
The duergar clearly had no eye for quality. Or it was those brainless goblins and orc slaves doing the searching. Shame I didn't find Fabian's secret stash.
The staff was a full six feet long, almost as tall as Ansel when set on the ground—a gray-green rod with faint, dull patterns on its surface. It looked utterly unremarkable.
He didn't know Identify, so he couldn't see its properties or special uses right away, but he could at least use it as a regular spellcasting focus.
Mentor Fabian had once said he'd reward this staff to the best-performing apprentice—one empty promise that had whipped a whole group of desperate wage-slaves into overdrive… and this was at a school they were paying to attend.
What a joke.
Most of the tower's dozens of apprentices had very little real potential—some didn't realize it, some had ulterior motives, and most were just unwilling to accept their own mediocrity.
To win Fabian's favor and fight over limited resources, the apprentices schemed against each other nonstop, plotting and backstabbing each other over assistant posts or procurement duties—never realizing those positions were just little tricks Fabian used to keep them at each other's throats.
Ansel suddenly thought of First Assistant Gais, who had screwed over the original owner. If he ran into that man, he wouldn't mind killing him in passing and "rightfully" inheriting Fabian's possessions.
He shook his head, pushing aside the messy thoughts. He changed into fresh clothes and boots from his own room, then packed all the valuables into a black leather backpack and slung it over his shoulders along with the staff.
The rest of the miscellaneous supplies he tied into a bundle and hid in a corner outside the tower, planning to come back for it later.
Rope in hand, he walked to the edge of the crater and leaned out. Below was pure darkness—he couldn't see a thing.
He had no choice but to pull the glowing stick from the side of his pack, peel back a corner of the black cloth, and wave it a little, then immediately wrap it tightly again.
"I'm here! I'm here!"
Bratt's voice floated up from below, unable to hide the joy in it.
Ansel scanned the area with the rope in hand and realized that directly above Bratt's pillar was a bad spot.
After the Brampton District and Eastway collapsed, the Chionthar River broke its banks. The surging water poured into the crater from the southwest, forming a series of large and small waterfalls. It had been flowing all day and had only weakened a little.
Bratt's position was unfortunate. Climbing straight up would put him right under the falling water, making things much harder.
Ansel shifted sideways, moving a dozen meters to avoid that section, then secured the rope to a thick broken tree stump.
"Watch for the rope!"
With that, he hurled the rope hard in Bratt's direction.
A few seconds later, it went taut. Bratt's voice came from below:
"I've got it. You don't need to pull—I'll climb myself."
"Okay." Ansel smiled faintly. Bratt was clearly worried the rope might fray and snap if they put too much strain on it.
Ansel pulled over the ragged blanket he'd prepared earlier and laid it over the edge where the rope hung, so the stone wouldn't wear through the hemp.
A few minutes later, Bratt's figure came into view.
He'd used his belt, rings, and the rope to rig up a safety harness. The knot at his waist looked very professional—every step up made the rope cinch tight. His pace was slow but safe. If he got tired, he could half-hang off the wall and catch his breath for a few seconds.
For the last few meters, Ansel didn't go lend a hand. He deliberately backed up a few steps and watched Bratt climb up and roll onto the ground, where he lay sprawled, panting hard.
"Thanks… so… tired…" Bratt raked his fingers through his tangled hair, revealing a thin, gaunt face. His lips were pale, but his pair of emerald-green eyes were striking.
He hadn't been as lucky as Ansel. After the water shifted, he'd been drenched for a long time, losing strength—exhausted and starving.
"Pretty professional. Adventurer?" Ansel gave him a once-over.
"Used to be. Until last night, I was captain of the security team at Dockside Hospital. Class: Warrior." Bratt forced himself to his feet as he spoke, unclipped his gear, and coiled up the rope neatly.
"Then you really are lucky," Ansel sighed.
Dockside Hospital wasn't far from the wizard tower. It had vanished from the surface entirely. In a disaster of this scale, classed or not, people weren't much different from commoners. Anyone alive now was riding pure dumb luck.
"Meeting you is the real luck. I owe you my life," Bratt said sincerely, his gaze unconsciously locking onto Ansel's face.
There, small dragon scales showed through, glinting with the faintest metallic sheen in the moonlight—barely noticeable unless you were close.
"Come over here to talk." Seeing that Bratt had recovered a bit, Ansel led him to where he'd hidden the bundle outside the tower.
It was better concealed there, less likely to be spotted by passersby or creatures from below.
Bratt trudged along with his longsword, steps heavy. His eyes lit up the moment he spotted the big bundle in the corner. "Got anything to eat?"
"A bit. Not much."
Ansel pulled a cloth bag from the bundle, reached inside, and tossed Bratt a dark loaf about twenty centimeters long and over ten centimeters thick. He grabbed one for himself as well.
"Brown-sugar walnut bread. Good stuff." Bratt didn't stand on ceremony—he hugged it to his chest and bit in.
Brown-sugar walnut bread, also called Amnish black bread, came in many varieties. It was the standard staple food of the wizard tower, but for poor folk it was a rare treat.
In that sense, Fabian did have a shred of conscience.
Ansel was hungry too. He hadn't really noticed it before, but as soon as the soft, sweet, rich bread hit his tongue, hunger surged over him like a tide.
He took out a waterskin and casually tossed one to Bratt as well.
In that dark corner, the two of them sat facing each other, saying nothing, just eating.
But Ansel never relaxed. His ears were pricked, constantly listening for sounds outside.
Bratt was the same. At any noise at all, he stopped chewing. His longsword rested by his hand, his vigilance even sharper than Ansel's.
His gaze constantly flicked across Ansel's clothes and staff, a knowing look in his eyes.
Once he washed down the last bite of bread, Bratt hooked the waterskin back onto his belt and asked in a low voice, "You from the wizard tower? A wizard?"
"Something like that. Name's Ansel." Ansel didn't elaborate. "It's dangerous here. What do you think we should do?"
"We can't stay here long. The north and northeast are crawling with creatures from below. To the south is the Chionthar River, and to the east is Dusthawk Mountain. Best bet is to hide up on Dusthawk Mountain…" Bratt said after a moment's thought.
His plan was to lie low. The Council of Baldur's Gate wouldn't just sit on its hands. Once the Flaming Fist and the Watch mobilized, this wave of duergar-led invaders would be driven back underground soon enough.
And if the powers in Baldur's Gate couldn't handle it, they could always call on the Lords' Alliance—Silverymoon, Neverwinter, Waterdeep… all of them were forces to be reckoned with.
"The Weave… is in trouble," Ansel said quietly.
That was the real catastrophe.
"What?" Bratt's eyes went wide with shock. Then, as though something occurred to him, he blurted, "Then… how are you still casting?"
"The Weave hasn't completely collapsed," Ansel explained. "I awakened draconic blood by accident and switched to mana casting."
Bratt lowered his head, his gaze flickering. After a long silence, he finally said slowly, "Then you're a real genius."
Clearly, asking a spell-slot caster to switch to mana casting wasn't something just anyone could do.
"Maybe." Ansel had no idea how different he really was from other classed individuals with his character panel, so he could only answer vaguely.