“Hero Day?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes, Hero Day,” Cadmun repeated, “it’s a holiday where we honour the Great Hero’s sacrifice.”

  “There’s an entire holiday dedicated to him? He must have been an exceptionally strong hero!”

  “Oh yes, he truly was great,” Cadmun’s drowsiness gradually dissipated. “They say his bravery and charisma were unparalleled. Lord Thomas and Lord Alastair couldn’t stop praising that man’s achievements.”

  Unconsciously, he began to grin. “Why? What did he accomplish?”

  The bald man paused his attempts to light a fire and turned towards him.

  “He’s most renowned for slaying the Gods. They don’t refer to him as the Godslayer for nothing.”

  “The Gods? You mean Arslan?” He seated himself closer to Cadmun.

  Cadmun chuckled, catching his infectious enthusiasm. “Precisely! So even you’ve heard the name.”

  “Montgomery mentioned that Lord Alastair assisted him in killing the Gods.”

  “Did he now?” Cadmun let out a hearty laugh, slapping his knee. “I guess you can say that. Lord Alastair did fight alongside them. But truth be told, it was Arslan and his right-hand man who vanquished the God of Death, while the rest of the group wanted to retreat. Though I shouldn’t say that.”

  Wow! The Great Hero!

  One question still burned in his mind. “Why did they slay the Gods?”

  “Because it was their destiny,” Cadmun replied, “the Adventurers were summoned to tackle the rising threat of monsters in the land after the Continental War ended.”

  “So Arslan was a Player?” He couldn’t help but rock back and forth.

  Cadmun scratched his chin. “Most of the great warriors were back then. They vanquished hundreds, if not thousands, of monsters and made our country safe again. We’re not talking about Dire Wolves here. These were Dragons and Mutants and Demons at least three metres high!”

  “What? That’s incredible! I mean, Dragons? Gods? The Adventurers truly are extraordinary.”

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  Cadmun crossed his arms. “It wasn’t like this from the start. The majority of Adventurers were a bunch of cowards unable to kill a measly goblin. If not for Arslan whipping them into shape, they’d all still be drinking milk holed up in the capital.”

  Amazing!

  “He sounds like a formidable leader.”

  “You see, that was the Godslayer’s greatest feat. He instilled hope in the people and the courage to fight.”

  His eyes sparkled. A true hero!

  “What happened then?”

  Cadmun gazed at the mansion uphill with a sombre expression in his eyes.

  “The good die young,” Cadmun said. “The Adventurers had a falling out after his sacrifice. That’s how we got Carnifex.”

  His excitement waned. And with Arslan, hope died too.

  They sat in silence by the fireplace, enjoying the morning sun warming their backs. Only when they heard the first rustling of a tent did Cadmun speak again.

  “On your feet, Recruit! Just because it’s a holiday, doesn’t mean there’s no work to be done!” Cadmun commanded with an authoritative tone.

  “Yes, Sir!” he sprang up.

  But-

  “What am I supposed to do?” he asked shyly.

  “Uhm…” Cadmun eyed him with wide eyes, scrutinising him from head to toe. “You don’t look like you can lift anything heavy with that frame. You look like a stick!”

  He tried not to be offended by Cadmun’s remark, but he still blushed. And your head looks like it can be used as a mirror.

  “I carry the pickaxes every day,” he retorted.

  “And you look like shit doing so. Your breathing sounds like the steam engine in the old factory ready to give out. You shake more than a western belly dancer.” Cadmun added more insult to injury. “And you miss your daily quota. Perhaps you should stick to fetching the water for the stew. Although the buckets might be too much for those frail arms-”

  “Enough! I get it!” he shouted over the humiliation.

  “You wish to yell at me, Recruit?” Cadmun stood up, towering over him. “You truly want to disrespect me?”

  Oh, no!

  “I apologise for the disrespect!” He instantly bowed, snatching two nearby buckets in the same motion and dashed towards the well before Cadmun could respond. “I’ll fetch that water for you, Sir Frost, yes Sir!”

  As soon as he reached the well, he sighed in relief. It didn’t seem like Cadmun was after him. He lowered the buckets into the well one after the other, distracted by his conversation with Cadmun. He fantasised about confronting Baron Bonatelli clad in heavy silver armour. He would challenge him to a duel and before Bonatelli could even react, he’d deliver a devastating blow that would easily tear down the mansion’s tower. One of those blows that could slay a God right in his smug face. Wait, what am I thinking? That’s the mansion of the Blitz family.

  As he hoisted the second bucket from the well, he realised something significant. If not for today’s holiday, he might never have heard the tale of Arslan. He was so absorbed in the monotony and isolation imposed by the Baron that he forgot the most crucial thing: hope. The story of the Great Hero, of how Cassandra escaped. That was what helped them persevere through those challenging times. What allowed them to dream. From the well he stood next to, he could see a hole in Lydia’s shack revealing the dismal interior. As long as there’s hope, we can endure.

  He returned to the slave camp at the same time Reacher and Becket arrived. His hair stood on end. I thought it was a holiday!

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