Chapter 71: Goodbye Novaria

The morning of my departure was cool, crisp, and overcast. A soft morning mist hung over the cobblestone streets of the Commercial District, carrying the fresh scent of autumn rain.

The damp air chilled my face as I stood inside the guild hall, taking one last look at the place where I had spent the last three years of my life.

I stood in the front showroom of our guild hall, wearing a sturdy brown traveling coat over my durable cotton shirt, dark trousers, and reinforced leather hiking boots.

My magic pouch was strapped securely to my leather belt, hidden beneath the hem of my coat along with my essential tools. Everything was packed and ready to go.

Victoria stood in front of me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was trying her absolute best to look stern and composure, but her eyes were bright red and brimming with unshed tears.

She kept biting her lower lip, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if she wanted to jump forward and grab me at any second.

"You have everything?" she asked for the tenth time, her voice trembling slightly. "You packed the extra wool socks? The healing potions? The emergency ration biscuits I bought from the bakery yesterday?"

"Victoria, my magic pouch is so full of food and clothes that I could survive a winter in the mountains," I replied with a gentle smile. "I even have three extra water canteens and two sets of spare boots."

"Do not take that tone with me, Little Lamb!" she nagged, stepping forward and suddenly pulling me into a tight, desperate hug.

She squeezed me so hard my ribs let out a soft creak, burying her face into my shoulder.

"You are ten years old! You shouldn’t be traveling across dangerous borders alone! What if you get lost? What if bandits try to rob you on the forest?"

I stayed still, wrapping my small arms around her waist and letting her hold me for a long moment.

She smelled like flowers in a huge garden scent that had defined my early days in this world.

"I have to go, Victoria," I said softly into her apron. "You know I have to."

"I know," she sobbed softly, wiping her eyes with the corner of her floral apron as she pulled back.

She cupped my cheeks with her warm, calloused hands, looking down at me with so much care that it almost made me feel guilty for leaving.

"I know you are far smarter than any of us. But you will always be my little lamb."

She reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a small, beautifully polished brass key attached to a sturdy leather cord.

The brass was buffed to a mirror shine, catching the dim morning light coming through the shop window. She leaned down and tied it carefully around my neck, tucking it beneath my shirt collar.

"This is the master key to our guild hall," Victoria said, her voice firming up as she wiped away another stray tear.

"No matter how far you go, no matter how many fancy workshops you build in foreign kingdoms, this guild will always be your home. If things get too dangerous out there, you turn around and come right back here. Do you hear me?"

I looked down at the smooth brass key resting against my chest, feeling its warm weight. It wasn’t a magical key or a spatial tool, but it felt heavier than any star-iron key I had ever forged.

"I know, Victoria," I promised, offering her a genuine, bright smile. "I’ll keep it safe."

Behind her, the older locksmith members of the guild stood in a polite line, tipping their leather caps toward me with deep respect.

These were the same men who used to look at me like I was just a strange kid, but over the years they had seen what I could build.

Tobias stepped forward, giving me a proud nod and a firm pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked me over.

"Safe travels, little boss!" Tobias called out, his rugged face breaking into a wide grin. "Show those foreign mages what real locksmithing looks like! Don’t let those empire fools think they know more about gears than we do!"

"I will, Tobias," I called back with a laugh. "Keep the forge running while I am gone."

The younger apprentices waved timidly from near the back workbench, looking at me like I was setting off on some grand heroic quest instead of a dangerous undercover business trip.

I turned around, picked up my small leather traveling pack, and pushed open the front glass door. The small brass bell above the frame chimed softly, echoing through the quiet showroom one last time.

I stepped out onto the cobblestone street, taking a deep breath of the cold morning air.

I walked down the familiar alleys of the Commercial District, passing the bakery where the smell of freshly baked rye bread filled the air.

The local blacksmith shop was already firing up its forge, the heavy rhythmic clanking of a sledgehammer sounding like a familiar heartbeat.

I passed the busy morning markets where merchants were just setting up their wooden stalls, unrolling canvas canopies and stacking fresh crates of apples.

An hour later, I reached the massive stone archway of the capital’s northern gate. Tall stone walls reached high into the sky, guarded by heavily armed royal guards wearing gleaming iron chestplates and holding long spears.

A long line of merchant wagons was waiting to pass through inspection. I walked up to the side pedestrian lane, pulling out my official documentation from my inner coat pocket.

The guard on duty was a tall man with a thick mustache. He took my Novarian Independent Merchant License and Artisan Travel Waiver, unfolding the parchment with a bored expression. But as his eyes scanned the official royal blue wax seals and read my age listed on the paper, his eyebrows shot up in complete disbelief.

"You?" the guard asked, looking down at my ten-year-old frame and then back at the document. "You are a certified master artisan running an independent trade trip?"

"The seals are authentic, sir," I replied smoothly, handing him a small tip coin. "Feel free to verify the wax stamp with the Commercial Council."

The guard squinted at the wax, pressed his thumb against the official emblem, and realized everything was completely legitimate. He let out a low whistle, stamped my travel waiver with the gate authority seal, and handed the papers back to me.

"Well, kid, I don’t know what kind of business you are, but the road north isn’t safe," the guard warned, waving me through the iron portcullis. "Watch out for wild beasts and foreign border guards."

"Thanks for the advice," I said, slipping my papers back into my coat.

Beyond the gate lay the long, winding highway that stretched across hundreds of miles of open plains, dense forests, and fortified mountain passes, eventually leading toward the heavily militarized border of the Vhaltrar Empire.

I stopped at the edge of the city, turning around to take one final look at the Novaria Kingdom’s capital.

Arielle was studying in her academy towers, probably complaining about her cursive handwriting and writing another angry letter to me.

Ignatius was somewhere out there in the wild lands, beating up monsters with a bronze cooking pot and drinking cheap tavern ale with his party.

Victoria was running the finest locksmith guild in the city, setting outrageous prices for arrogant foreign nobles.

Everyone was moving forward. And so was I.

I turned back toward the open road, adjusting the strap of my leather pack across my shoulder.

I reached inside my coat, my fingers brushing against the cold, pitch-black surface of my new foreign spatial key.

The dark metal felt cold against my skin, vibrating with silent, compressed power that was waiting for the right moment to be used.

"Just wait for me, Vhaltrar," I whispered to the open road ahead, a confident smirk spreading across my face. "A new merchant is coming to open a shop."

I took my first step forward, leaving my home behind, and walked onto the long road toward the empire.

The dirt road leading away from the kingdom was long, quiet, and dusty.

For the first few miles, I could still see the high stone walls of the city behind me, but by the time the afternoon sun began to dip behind the trees, the kingdom had shrunk into a tiny gray line on the horizon.

I kept a steady pace. Being ten years old meant my legs were shorter than an adult man’s, so I had to take more steps to cover the same distance.

My boots were sturdy, but the dirt path was uneven, filled with loose rocks and tree roots sticking out of the ground.

By the end of my first day on the road, my thighs were burning and my shoulders felt stiff from holding my travel pack.

I found a small clear spot near a winding creek, away from the main road where passing travelers might see me.

I set up a small camp under a large oak tree. I did not want to light a big fire that might draw unwanted attention, so I used a tiny heat crystal to warm up some water.

I pulled out a couple of Victoria’s hard ration biscuits and sat on a flat stone, chewing slowly while listening to the sound of flowing water.

It felt strange being completely alone. For the past three years, my mornings were filled with Victoria shouting about cold eggs, Ignatius laughing near the counter, or old Tobias complaining about his stiff back.

Now, the only sound was the wind blowing through the autumn leaves and the chirping of crickets in the tall grass.

I pulled out my leather tool pouch, checking every pick and tension bar before laying them back down. My new dark spatial key rested inside my inner coat pocket, cool against my chest.

"One day down," I whispered to myself, wiping a spot of dust off my favorite pick. "A few more days to the coast."

I wrapped myself in a thick wool blanket, rested my head against my pack, and fell asleep under the quiet stars.

The second day of walking was much tougher. The flat dirt road slowly turned into a rough forest trail that wound through thick, dark woods.

The trees grew taller and closer together, blocking out most of the sunlight and leaving the forest floor in a cool green shadow.

My feet hurt, but I kept moving. I spent most of the morning practicing my mana control as I walked, channeling tiny threads of golden energy down into my toes to keep my muscles from cramping up. It was a good way to pass the time and keep my core active.

Around late afternoon, as the shadows in the forest began to stretch long across the trail, I heard loud voices up ahead.

I stopped in my tracks, pressing my back against a thick tree trunk. I held my breath and listened closely.

There was shouting, cursing, and the heavy thud of wood cracking. It sounded like a fight or a hold up taking place right on the middle of the trail.

I quietly crept through the bushes, keeping my boots light on the soft dirt. I peeked around a large rock to see what was happening.

A large wooden trade wagon sat tilted on the side of the trail.

One of its heavy rear wheels had slipped off the axle and was stuck in a muddy ditch. The wagon was loaded with several heavy wooden crates tied down with thick ropes.

Surrounding the wagon were four rough looking men wearing dirty leather armor. They were holding rusted iron swords and short axes, shouting threats at the driver.

They looked like classic forest bandits, messy, loud, and impatient.

Standing on top of the wagon frame, looking down at the four bandits, was a single man.

He did not look scared at all. In fact, he looked completely bored.

The man was in his forties, with short gray hair that was cut messy and uneven. He had sharp gray eyes that seemed to scan everything around him with calm experience, and a long dark scar ran down his right cheek, starting from his ear and ending near his jawline.

He wore a simple, faded brown coat over a thick leather vest, and a heavy iron broadsword rested casually over his right shoulder.

I can’t remember but he looks pretty familiar.

"Look, boys," the scar faced man said, his voice deep, gravelly, and completely relaxed. "I have had a very long day, my wagon wheel is stuck in the mud, and my back hurts. I really do not have the patience to play forest robbery with you right now."

"Shut your ass up, old man!" one of the bandits yelled, pointing his rusted sword upward. "Drop your sword and throw down those crates, or we will carve you up and leave you for the wolves!"

The scar faced man let out a long, heavy sigh.

He rolled his shoulders, making a loud cracking sound come from his neck.

"You guys always say the same line," the scar faced man muttered, shaking his head. "Does someone write these speeches for you, or do you all just share one brain?"

I crouched behind the rock, watching the scene with a small smirk. The scar faced man did not move like a helpless merchant.

His weight was balanced perfectly on his feet, his grip on the broadsword handle was loose and ready, and his sharp eyes were tracking every movement the four bandits made.

He was a dangerous veteran.

The lead bandit got angry, raising his axe and stepping closer to the wagon. "Move! Get him!"

Before the bandit could even swing his axe, the scar faced man moved.

He did not even draw his broadsword from its scabbard. He simply stepped off the wooden wagon frame, using the heavy iron scabbard like a club.

BANG!

He slammed the iron tip of the scabbard directly into the lead bandit’s chest.

The impact sounded like a heavy hammer hitting a wooden wall.