Watching everything in front of him, Ansel's gaze was distant. They'd just escaped death—for now—but he didn't feel particularly excited or happy.
The one who feels pity is me.
The one who stands by and does nothing is me.
The one who empathizes is me.
The one who's powerless is also me…
He suddenly felt that the whole idea of alignment was strangely fascinating.
If he'd transmigrated here as a teenager, odds were he'd have been Lawful Good—making the same choices as the old priest.
But after years of "real world education," and more losses and hard lessons than he could count, he'd come to understand that a lot of people's misfortune came from their own personalities and choices. A moment of help couldn't change their fate.
And not everyone was worth helping.
His own life was a mess. Getting dragged into too many problems would only waste time, energy, and money. Family, by comparison, needed him more.
Time to go.
Rivington was giving him a bad feeling. All along the way he kept sensing unfriendly eyes on them. With tens of thousands of refugees jammed together, negative emotions would only keep building. It felt like things were going to explode sooner or later.
And if he stayed at the church, he'd constantly be forced into moral choices. When things inevitably went bad, he'd be stuck between sides. Better not to see it at all.
After a while, Rand and Zahir hurried back.
Those unfriendly gazes in the shadows faded away one after another. People might bully Lathander's priests, but they weren't nearly as eager to provoke Tyr's followers.
Ansel caught Bratt's eye and gave him a look. The three of them gathered together.
"We're leaving?" Bratt sounded like he already knew the answer.
"Yeah." Ansel nodded. "We'll say our goodbyes, find a place to stay, buy some supplies, and head out in the morning."
"Where to?" Bratt's expression was complicated.
Last year he'd wrapped up a less-than-pleasant adventuring career in a rush and picked Baldur's Gate as his retirement spot. Life had just started to settle… and now it was over again.
"North is full of duergar, south is wilderness and forest, and further south is Candlekeep…" Ansel said, choosing his words. "We'll go east, follow the Chionthar, and figure out the rest as we go."
He wanted to reach Waterdeep eventually, but heading straight north was out of the question.
"I don't have family. Anywhere's fine," Finn said, utterly unconcerned.
"No objections here. For lodging and supplies, I'd suggest the Adventurer's Guild. In times like this, that's about the only place that's relatively safe," Bratt offered.
"You're the veteran adventurer. We'll do it your way," Ansel said, slinging his pack over his shoulder.
They didn't disturb Rand. The three of them went to find old Priest Borg, said a brief goodbye, and left the church.
Borg opened his mouth several times as if to keep them, but in the end said nothing, just watched them go.
The moment they stepped out of the church district, Ansel could feel those unclear, probing gazes sweep over them again, lingering on their packs and gear.
Adventurers were strong, but low-level ones couldn't tank a mob. Plenty of them had died under pitchforks and clubs.
Ansel wasn't overly worried, though. High-level professionals wouldn't bother with their scraps. Anyone at their level or lower who picked a fight was asking to die. He wasn't just any caster.
The air in the streets was thick with a stench he couldn't even put into words. Both sides of the road were packed with disaster victims. Many just lay there in the open on a filthy blanket; if their chests weren't rising and falling, he'd have thought some of them were corpses.
The deeper they went, the more it was like this. This was no longer the Rivington from the original owner's memories.
Bratt led the way in front. A skinny teenage boy staggered up beside him and quietly slipped a hand toward the bundle on his back.
Just as the boy's face lit up in faint joy, a big hand clamped around his thin wrist.
"You dare steal from me?" Bratt turned his head, amused—until he got a good look at the kid's sallow, sickly face. His grip unconsciously loosened.
The boy seized the chance, yanked free, and dropped into a squat on the ground, looking absolutely terrified as he crab-crawled backward.
"Help! Someone's kidnapping me! Help—!"
Bratt's face went cold at once, but he didn't shout to defend himself. That wasn't his style.
The people nearby scattered like they'd just seen the plague. Even the refugees lying on the ground rolled themselves up in their blankets and scrambled away.
At the same time, a dozen burly young men closed in from all directions. The leader was a big, bald, beardless man in scale mail and a tabard.
The instant Ansel saw the leader, he knew what this was. He narrowed his eyes and quietly pulled his magic together.
The bald man chuckled darkly. His gaze slid over Ansel's staff, but came to rest on Bratt. "Outsider, you know—"
"Sorcerous Burst—Thunder."
The short Draconic incantation snapped through everyone's ears. A streak of light flashed and slammed into the bald man's face, detonating in a thunderclap.
Ansel didn't pause. In the next two seconds, he dropped three more Sorcerous Burst blasts into the densest part of the crowd.
Boom, boom, boom—
When the smoke cleared, people were sprawled all over the ground—not many injured, mostly just stunned senseless.
The bald man had just gotten to his feet. His ears rang, his face was a mask of blood, and his right arm was a mangled mess of flesh. If he hadn't thrown his arm up at the last instant, his face would be gone.
In front of him, Bratt had slipped into a fighting stance. Finn had already leapt onto a nearby rooftop, bow drawn and arrow nocked.
Ansel gestured to the two of them, signaling them not to attack.
"Bald Bill. Iron Anchor Brotherhood changed careers?" he called out.
He knew this guy. The Iron Anchor Brotherhood was a local gang that haunted the docks in Brampton, specializing in picking on the weak and fearing the strong.
Which was exactly why Ansel had chosen to strike first, with maximum intimidation. He didn't believe for a second that a parasite who lived by exploiting the lowest of the low would really risk his life if he knew he was outclassed.
"Uh?" Bald Bill froze. The sword he'd just raised slowly lowered. He wiped the blood from his eye with the corner of his tabard and gave Ansel a cautious once-over, looking completely lost. "And… you are?"
"Does it matter who I am?" Ansel deliberately hardened his expression, voice icy. "If I don't get a satisfactory answer today, I'll sell the lot of you to Thay."
In Baldur's Gate, if you accidentally pissed off someone you really shouldn't have, you either fought to the death or paid your way out.
The die flashed.
[Bald Bill, Human, Level 1 Fighter]
"Misunderstanding, misunderstanding, ah… mister wizard," Bald Bill said quickly, taking two steps back. "The brats didn't explain it right. I just came to ask—"
"Keep spinning that story," Ansel said, folding his arms, radiating confidence that he had Bill completely by the throat.
"Er…" Bald Bill forced out a smile. "Sir, we left in a hurry. Didn't bring anything. No food, nothing. So we had to take a risk, you know how it is. Our brotherhood never robs, we just—"
Ansel cut him off with a raised hand, pointing at the scale mail. "Nice armor. And a coin pouch. And gems. Take them off and hand them over. I'm giving you a chance. Don't mistake me for someone soft."
Bill was a classed fighter, and the others all had weapons. If it came to a fight, Ansel's side would win—but it would cost them mana and stamina they couldn't spare.
And things here were too chaotic. If they fought and came out weakened, someone else could swoop in and pick their bones clean. If he could scare them into backing off, there was no need to waste spells.
Intimidation wasn't just about sharp words. With the skill proficiency and his high Charisma, it carried real psychic weight—especially after a display of brute force.
"This…" Bald Bill's face twisted. After a long moment, he gritted his teeth and started taking off his armor.
The mage wasn't asking for their weapons or food—he'd aimed right at the edge of their psychological bottom line.
Today was just cursed. Wasn't everyone saying wizards couldn't cast? Why was this guy opening with spells to the face? Bill had seen plenty of cantrips before, but he'd never seen anyone sling them this fast.
Once their leader caved, the others had no choice but to drag out their own coin pouches. Before long, there was a small pile at Ansel's feet.
He didn't bother checking for anything they'd palmed. Instead, he flicked a glance at Bratt.
Bratt swooped in, wrapped everything up in Bill's scale-mail tabard, tied it into a bundle, and hefted it. In his heart, he silently gave Ansel a big thumbs-up.