"I'm very sorry," Rand sighed. "It was chaos. We couldn't handle everything. The bodies are buried in the back yard. When things calm down, you can go back and take a look."
There were too many dead. Burying bodies on the spot wasn't about compassion—it was to keep the summer heat from breeding plague.
Ansel shook his head slightly and murmured, "It's not your fault. They were stubborn. They never listened to anyone…"
As he spoke, blurry memories surfaced in his mind.
The original Ansel's parents had bad tempers, but they treasured their son more than their own lives. Refusing to leave after something happened was exactly the kind of thing they'd do.
"Do you know who did it?" Ansel asked quietly.
"No," Rand said, not sugarcoating it. "Scum roaming from place to place. Maybe I killed them, maybe they got away… Right now there's basically no one left in Sow's Foot. Those who didn't escape will probably end up as duergar slaves."
Duergar had psionics and were adept at enslaving other races.
Bratt couldn't hold back. "What about the Flaming Fist? They're just letting creatures from below run wild?"
"Yeah, why haven't we seen any Flaming Fist on the way here?" Ansel frowned, a faint hostility toward them rising in his chest for no real reason.
The Flaming Fist fortress was right on Wyrm's Crossing, only a kilometer or two away—yet so far, nothing.
Rand let out a long breath. "Yesterday the Flaming Fist were ordered to reinforce the collapse zone. They practically emptied their barracks and… got slaughtered. Losses are huge. The survivors have already pulled back into the Upper City.
"The fortress at Wyrm's Crossing is spent. Their new orders are to call for help and hold the bridge, nothing more…"
"I see." Ansel felt a chill. The Flaming Fist had over three thousand troops, and they'd fallen that fast.
He thought it over. "Because of the Weave? The duergar use psionics, so they look stronger in comparison?"
"Exactly. The Weave is in serious trouble. That's the real source of the chaos." Rand nodded, looking at Ansel with open curiosity. "You don't seem all that affected."
"I cast with mana," Ansel replied.
"No wonder." Rand's expression cleared. "Sorcerers are born with primal magic. In this kind of situation, they've got a natural edge. But mastering mana casting this quickly… you're gifted."
"I've seen you use Divine Smite. Is the Weave's instability hitting paladins hard too?" Ansel asked.
"I can only cast 2nd-level or lower spells now," Rand said bitterly. "It's hard enough to cast them at all, and they fail a lot…"
The Weave didn't just channel spellcasting. It was also the main link between clerics and their gods. With the Weave in turmoil, that connection was almost severed—and that was disastrous.
He didn't dare tell the common folk; the panic would be worse than anything the monsters could cause.
At that moment, Zahir walked over quickly. "We should move. Get the wounded back first, then we can talk about building a defensive line."
"You go. I'll hold here," Rand said, waving him off and gesturing for him to lead the injured away.
He patted Ansel's arm and added, "Ansel, go back to the church with the others. It's safe there."
"All right." Ansel didn't refuse.
With his parents gone, he was completely unburdened. What he really lacked now was a sense of safety—and a few quick levels. Sticking close to Rand was perfect for leeching XP.
He and Bratt went to retrieve their bundle and backpack, falling in silently behind the group. Bratt's face twisted with pain every few steps, but he still couldn't bring himself to drink the healing potion.
Ansel was speechless. He hadn't expected his teammate to be such a miser.
"Hold up a sec."
He stopped Bratt, planted his staff on the ground, reached out with his mind, and activated Goodberry.
The gray-green staff suddenly flushed green. The carved patterns twisted and spread as ten tiny shoots budded from the wood—and then… shriveled almost immediately.
"What just happened?" Bratt stared, baffled.
"Uh… little mishap, maybe," Ansel said with a dry laugh.
Checking the staff, he found it had definitely used up one charge. His best guess was that Goodberry's spell effect and charges both relied on the Weave, and the instability had caused a misfire.
He tried again. It failed. Only on the third attempt did it finally work.
The Goodberry Staff bloomed with plump, glowing little berries—ten in total, red and thumb-sized, like some kind of raspberry.
Ansel picked them one by one. The branches vanished and withered as soon as he finished, leaving the staff looking normal again.
"Here, try these." He cupped three berries in his palm and held them out to Bratt.
Bratt took them, eyes wide with surprise. "Sweetberries. Druid Goodberries?"
"You do know a fair bit," Ansel chuckled. It was his first time seeing the spell in action too. It was pretty cool.
Each magical berry restored 1 HP and gave a full day's worth of nutrition. They were extremely valuable.
Bratt popped one into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. Smacking his lips, he said, "Fresh, sweet and tangy, strong fruit flavor. Good stuff."
He tossed the other two in after it. His minor wounds began to close before Ansel's eyes. A few minutes later, all the cuts had scabbed over, and the slash on his neck was completely healed, leaving only a faint red line.
Once he saw Bratt was fine, Ansel ate one himself. It tasted just as good.
He put the remaining six berries carefully into his backpack for later. They couldn't be stored, though—if he didn't eat them within a day, they'd disappear.
"Must be nice being a spellcaster. You just conjure whatever you need," Bratt said with feeling.
"Heh. The wizards right now probably don't see it that way," Ansel joked.
They chatted as they walked.
Near the church, a tall figure stood by the roadside with a bow on his back, eyes fixed on Ansel and never moving.
Ansel recognized him—the archer on the slope who'd backed him up.
"Hey. I owe you from earlier. Were you waiting for me?" Ansel greeted him first.
If not for this guy, he might have had to burn a Shield—and that hobgoblin officer's javelin was nothing to scoff at.
"Yeah. Name's Finn. Beast Master. Wanted to ask you something," the man said with a tight grin that looked a little stiff.
"I'm Ansel, and this is Bratt. What's up?" Ansel replied, quietly sizing him up.
[Finn, Half-elf, Level 3 Ranger (Beast Master)]
Finn was even taller than Ansel—about 1.9 meters by the look of it. Tall and lanky, with a long face, eyebrows and beard that looked like they'd just survived a hurricane. He was ugly in a way that almost felt insulting to his elven bloodline.
"Um… you a wizard? Why isn't your casting messed up?" Finn's voice was dry, like he hadn't spoken in a long time.
"I'm a sorcerer," Ansel said, patting his own face. "Thought it was obvious. I ditched the Weave and spell slots. I cast with innate mana. There's still some impact, but it's manageable."
"Oh." Finn exhaled, disappointment clear in his tone.
Sorcerers cast on talent and instinct. Even if they wanted to teach you, you couldn't copy it.
"You might want to lean into archery instead. Put spellcasting on hold," Ansel suggested.
Most ranger subclasses didn't need spells. Hunter's Mark didn't rely on spell slots either. Compared to proper casters, rangers had it good.
"Yeah." Finn nodded and fell silent.
Ansel could only shrug inwardly. This ranger was too introverted—two sentences and the conversation flatlined.
Since there was nothing more to say, they just walked into the church together.
Zahir was busy, so the one who met them was an elderly priest with gray hair and beard, named Borg. He explained the situation to Ansel and the others.
The Church of Last Hope was dedicated to Tyr, God of Justice. It had many followers and a fairly large compound—but right now it had become a refugee camp. The yard, the hall, inside and outside—everywhere was packed with people seeking shelter, at least several hundred.
Most of them were the old, the weak, and those who couldn't move easily. The young had generally been persuaded to leave and fend for themselves.
Half of Twinsong was empty now. But since no duergar had made it here yet, there were still over a thousand people who hadn't left. That was why Rand had no choice but to hold the line at that roadway they'd just defended.
It would've been better to set the defense at Wyrm's Crossing. The bridge was easy to hold and hard to attack, with support from the Flaming Fist and Rivington on the other side.
Unfortunately, lots of people wouldn't cry until they saw the coffin. They simply refused to listen.
Most of the priests were ordinary people; classed characters were rare everywhere. They'd still thrown themselves into this task without hesitation. Their faith and sense of duty were beyond reproach.
Ansel was secretly glad he hadn't picked paladin as his class. In a disaster like this, even if he wanted to run, his oath wouldn't let him.
Breaking an oath was a serious problem.