As the first ray of sunlight touched the hollow in the mountainside, Ansel felt something, and suddenly rolled over and sat up.
He hadn't slept well. After finishing his attunement with the staff, he'd been unable to fall asleep for a long time. Memories from his past life and the day's battles churned through his mind, leaving him with a tangle of thoughts.
Before, he'd been too busy dealing with one crisis after another to think. The moment he stopped moving, his mind started running wild. It wasn't exactly easy to just "get used to" transmigrating.
Still, in his previous life he'd been a bored, exhausted wage slave. Now he was a classed character who could wield real magic. All things considered, this side was definitely more interesting.
"You're up," Bratt's voice came from nearby.
Following the sound, Ansel spotted him perched in a tree not far away.
He was squatting on a thick branch, sword in his arms, gazing off into the distance. Judging by his posture, he'd been there for a while.
"This early?" Ansel asked.
"It's enough. I sleep well. Besides, if I stayed down any longer, the mosquitoes would've drained me dry." Bratt flipped down from the branch.
"There are mosquitoes?" Ansel asked, puzzled.
"You've got dragon blood. You think insects dare come near you?" Bratt shot him a sideways look.
"So that's how it is." Ansel chuckled. He hadn't expected draconic blood to come with that perk.
"We should get moving early. Dusthawk isn't big, but it's not easy to walk." Bratt took some food from the bundle and handed a portion to Ansel, then held out a nearly half-empty cloth bag. "Put this in your pack. If we get separated, at least you won't starve."
He'd long since noticed that Ansel lacked real wilderness experience, and he wasn't entirely at ease about it.
"What about you?" Ansel didn't take it.
"Please don't question the survival skills of a veteran adventurer," Bratt said, stressing the title on purpose.
"You keep it. I've still got food in my pack," Ansel said with a small shake of his head.
He might not have experience, but he wasn't stupid. All the good stuff was stored in the backpack that stayed on him.
"Fine." Bratt glanced at his pack, then reminded him again, "When you're on the run, food is more important than anything. Sometimes even dragon coins won't get you a loaf of bread."
"Thanks for the warning." Ansel nodded.
Dragon coins were a common gold currency in Faerûn, exchangable for 10 silver or 100 copper (mixed alloy coins). One copper could buy about a pound of wheat.
Breakfast was cold bread, aged Gald cheese, and strips of smoked turkey. They didn't hold back—no strength, no fighting or fleeing.
By the time they finished eating, the sky was fully bright. They packed up and headed down the mountain, then continued east along the Chionthar.
Dusthawk Hill was only two or three kilometers across and a few hundred meters high, with no particularly dangerous beasts. For convenience, many locals often traveled straight through the mountain, so there were plenty of small paths.
The two of them moved cautiously, on edge the whole way. They didn't see a single creature from below—or even another human.
Only a few rotting corpses reminded them this place wasn't truly safe.
It was the Month of Summertide—mid-summer—so heat made bodies reek quickly.
"At least a day old, and done by humans," Bratt said, sounding like he'd seen it all before.
Creatures from below didn't know the terrain. They wouldn't find such a hidden spot this fast.
Ansel pressed his lips together and stayed quiet. After a day of adjustment, he could now look over corpses without changing expression—but the fermented stench of rot was still unbearable.
After more than half an hour, the ground leveled out.
They crossed a bare, rocky slope and their view opened up. Dense clusters of buildings sprawled ahead—mostly low wooden houses, gray and shabby, chaotic and cramped, with no sign of planning.
On the riverbank a few hundred meters away, a high bridge spanned the Chionthar, its entire length crammed with buildings. Calling it a "bridge" was generous; it looked more like a commercial street built over the river upon Wyrmrock.
This was the famous Wyrm's Crossing. The grand fortress in its center was the Flaming Fist stronghold.
It was a key traffic hub. On the far side of the bridge lay Rivington; on this side, the Twinsong District. Just north of Twinsong was Sow's Foot District.
With the original Ansel's memories, he knew all this well and wasn't particularly surprised.
Using the height to his advantage, he scanned Twinsong. He didn't see any creatures from below, but there were still plenty of humans lingering there.
"Looks like the creatures from below haven't made it this far yet," Bratt said, turning to Ansel with a questioning look.
"Let's go." Ansel didn't hesitate. He took the lead heading down the mountain.
They skirted along the edge of Dusthawk toward the northeast, not going deep into the districts and avoiding any contact with people hiding inside buildings.
A single narrow avenue linked Twinsong and Sow's Foot, with low slopes on either side.
Rounding the foot of the mountain, they saw a broad, hardened road ahead, winding off to the left before vanishing behind the rock.
At the same time, a wave of noise crashed into Ansel's ears—roaring wind, screams, shouts, the clash of steel…
"Something's wrong," Bratt murmured, stopping and quietly drawing his longsword.
"Duergar," Ansel thought, his heart sinking as he caught snatches of Undercommon and Goblin.
They moved more quietly now, creeping closer. The noise grew louder. As the road curved, a chaotic battlefield came into view.
A dozen or so humans were fighting against more than thirty duergar slaves. The fighting was fierce, the ground littered with corpses and blood.
Ansel narrowed his eyes. It was his first time seeing such a brutal melee. He was nervous—yet strangely excited.
"The duergar actually pushed this far," Bratt said, face dark.
Ansel realized too—going into Sow's Foot District was probably no longer an option.
"The ones in front are paladins of the god of justice. They're… not in good shape," Bratt said, quickly reading the battle.
Looking closer, Ansel saw the human side wasn't just humans—there were halflings and dwarves as well. Their outfits weren't uniform; clearly they were a hastily assembled party.
At the front stood two human paladins, shields and swords blazing with holy light as they stubbornly held back an enemy force several times their number, just barely keeping the line from collapsing.
The duergar side was mostly goblins, with several hulking bugbears and hobgoblins among them, plus around a dozen orcs. Four or five duergar stood in the rear, not yet joining the fight directly.
"I know them. Rand and Zahir of the Church of Last Hope in Twinsong," Ansel said quietly.
The original Ansel had grown up in the outer districts and knew the Church of Last Hope well. As a kid, he'd often come here to play.
"Do we help them?" Bratt looked to Ansel, waiting for him to decide.
Logically, they should jump in. If the duergar won, they'd seize Wyrm's Crossing—and then no one would be getting through.
But people valued their own lives. Why risk them if you could just run?
"Not yet," Ansel said, focusing on the duergar in the rear.
[Duergar Warlord, Dwarf, Challenge Rating 6]
[Hobgoblin Officer, Goblinoid, Challenge Rating 3]
His eyelid twitched. Retreat suddenly looked very attractive.
Level 5 was a major watershed. Wizards at level 5 could cast 3rd-circle spells like Fireball, and their power spiked sharply.
Level 5–10 characters formed the backbone of major organizations. City guard captains were usually in that range, known as elite adventurers.
Challenge Rating was another thing altogether. A standard party of four adventurers was expected to handle a monster with CR equal to their level.
And a young black dragon was only CR 7.
Ansel calmed his racing thoughts and turned his gaze back to the human side.
[Rand, Human, Level 6 Paladin (Oath of Devotion)]
[Zahir, Human, Level 5 Paladin (Oath of Devotion)]
"This fight's winnable," Ansel said after a few seconds of thought. In the end, he still chose to help.
Duergar were sensitive to sunlight. They were weaker in the day. And most importantly, paladins didn't betray their allies. Even in defeat, they'd cling to the enemy's main force and drag them down.
Ansel tugged Bratt closer, quietly pointing out several of the stronger enemies and signaling him to be extra careful of those.
"We're going in."
"Stay behind me," Bratt said with a feral grin, gripping his sword in both hands as he charged forward first.