CHAPTER 6 — “Market Day” #2
He’s older than Bram, older than me—sixty if he’s a day, with white hair pulled back in a tail and eyes that have seen too much to be surprised by anything. He wears plain clothes, but he moves like someone who used to wear armor. Like someone who could still wear armor, if the occasion demanded.
Garrett.
The retired S-rank. The one who asked me what I really was, that first night in the tavern.
He approaches my stall without pretense, without the cautious circling the other villagers have done. Just walks up, picks up a healing poultice, and examines it with the casual expertise of someone who’s used a thousand of them.
“Good quality,” he says. “Better than most. Where’d you learn to craft?”
“Self-taught. Mostly.”
“Mostly.” He sets down the poultice, fixes me with those too-sharp eyes. “Like you were self-taught in combat? Like you were self-taught in dungeon delving?”
He’s fishing, Johnson says. Be careful.
“Is there something you want to ask me, Garrett?”
“Plenty. But this isn’t the place.” He glances around at the market, at the other villagers pretending not to watch our conversation. “You eat lunch yet?”
“No.”
“Tavern’s serving shepherd’s pie today. Edna’s recipe—only decent thing on the menu.” He nods toward the building across the square. “My treat. Unless you’re scared of an old man asking questions.”
It’s a trap, Johnson says flatly. Obvious trap. He wants to interrogate you.
“I know.”
You’re going to accept anyway, aren’t you?
“I need allies. He’s the closest thing to a real fighter this village has.”
He’s also the most dangerous. If he decides you’re a threat…
“Then I’ll deal with it. Stay here. Watch the stall.”
I’m not a dog. I don’t ‘watch’ things.
“Then sit on the stall and judge anyone who comes near. Same result.”
Johnson’s ear twitches, but he hops down from my shoulder onto the display cloth, settling into a position that makes him look like merchandise.
If someone tries to buy me, I’m biting them.
“Fair enough.”
I follow Garrett into the tavern.
The shepherd’s pie is, as promised, decent.
Not great—the meat is tough and the potatoes are slightly undercooked—but decent. Better than Granny Thorn’s soup, at least. We eat in silence for a few minutes, sizing each other up across the worn wooden table.
Garrett breaks first.
“I was S-rank for twenty-three years,” he says, conversational. “Made my name in the Northern Campaigns. Fought things most people don’t believe exist. Retired because my body couldn’t keep up with what my mind wanted to do.”
“That why you came here?”
“Partly. Partly because my wife was from this village. She died ten years ago, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
” He takes a bite of pie, chews thoughtfully.
“I’ve seen a lot of adventurers in my time.
Good ones, bad ones, ones who were going to die young and ones who were going to live forever.
I can usually tell which is which within five minutes of meeting them. ”
“And which am I?”
“That’s the problem.” He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention.
“I can’t tell. You move like someone who’s been fighting for decades, but your body’s barely twenty-five.
You talk like someone who’s seen things, but your eyes are older than your face.
And you walked into a floor boss fight at Level 1 and came out alive. ”
“Lucky.”
“Nobody’s that lucky.” He leans forward. “So I’m asking you straight, because I’m too old for games and this village is too important for me to let a mystery fester. Who are you, really? Where did you come from? And what do you want with Millbrook?”
Moment of truth, Johnson says from across the square. Our telepathic link doesn’t care about distance, apparently. You can lie. He might believe it.
I could lie. Could spin a story about being a prodigy, a survivor, someone ordinary who just happened to get lucky at the right moments.
But Garrett’s not stupid. He’d see through it eventually. And I need him—need his experience, his knowledge, his willingness to fight if things go bad.
Sometimes the truth is the only card worth playing.
“I’m going to tell you something,” I say carefully, “and you’re going to think I’m insane. I need you to listen until I’m finished before you decide what to do about it.”
Garrett’s expression doesn’t change. “Fair enough.”
I take a breath.
“My name is Velthar. Not a coincidence—the same Velthar who built the dungeon two hundred years ago. I was an Archmage, Level 97, the most powerful battle mage on the continent. I helped kill the Demon Lord. And then my party—my best friend, my wife, everyone I trusted—killed me and stole my power.”
Silence.
Garrett’s face is unreadable.
“Two hundred years later,” I continue, “I woke up in this body. A healer named Edrin, Level 1, on a farm I didn’t remember owning next to a dungeon I didn’t remember building.
I don’t know why or how. I just know that I’m back, I’m weak, and everything that was taken from me is still out there—with the people who took it. ”
More silence.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. This was either the smartest decision I’ve made since coming back or the stupidest.
Probably both.
“The Legendary Four,” Garrett says finally. His voice is flat, neutral. “Dario. Persephone. Gorath. Sylva. You’re saying they murdered you.”
“And erased me from history. The Legendary Four were supposed to be the Legendary Five. I was the fifth. They made sure nobody remembers that.”
“And Anton?”
“The Spymaster. He was there too. He’s the one who did the erasing.”
Garrett is quiet for a long moment. I watch his face, trying to read his reaction, but twenty-three years as an S-rank have taught him how to hide his thoughts.
Then he does something I don’t expect.
He laughs.
It’s a quiet laugh, almost rueful, like someone who’s just had a suspicion confirmed.
“You know,” he says, “I was at the Jubilee. The 50th Jubilee, celebrating the defeat of the Demon Lord. I was young then—just starting out, barely B-rank. But I remember the speeches. The statues. The way they told the story.”
He meets my eyes.
“And I remember thinking something was wrong. The tactics they described, the strategies—they didn’t match.
A Hero and a Priestess and a Knight and a Rogue, against the Demon Lord?
That’s not a balanced party. That’s a party that should have died in the first dungeon.
Someone was missing from the story. Someone important. ”
I stare at him. “You believed me?”
“I believe something happened that we weren’t told about. Whether your specific story is true…” He shrugs. “I’m old, son. I’ve seen stranger things than reincarnated Archmages. At this point, I’ll believe just about anything if it comes with evidence.”
“What kind of evidence would convince you?”
“Clear the dungeon.” His eyes are sharp again, focused. “All of it. Past the seal that’s stopped everyone else for two centuries. If you’re really the one who built it, you should be able to do what nobody else can.”
“I can. The seal recognizes my signature. But it’ll take time—I’m Level 7 now, and the lower floors have threats I’m not ready for.”
“Then get ready.” He pushes back from the table, standing. “I’ll help where I can. Training, information, equipment—whatever an old man with bad knees can provide. But I need to see proof before I commit fully.”
“Fair enough.”
He extends a hand. “To conditional alliance, then.”
I take it. His grip is strong—stronger than it should be for someone his age.
“To conditional alliance.”
“Good.” He releases my hand, turns toward the door. “Come by my place tomorrow afternoon. I’ll show you some things about fighting that your instincts might have forgotten. And bring the rabbit.”
“Johnson?”
“If he’s what I think he is, he’ll be useful.” A slight smile. “Besides, I want to see if he’s as judgmental as he looks.”
I am significantly more judgmental than I look, Johnson says in my head. But I appreciate the recognition.
Garrett leaves, and I sit alone in the tavern, processing what just happened.
An ally. A real one, or close enough. Someone who’s willing to believe me, or at least willing to suspend disbelief until I can prove myself.
It’s more than I had an hour ago.
Progress, Johnson says.
“Progress,” I agree.
The afternoon brings more customers, more gossip, and one unexpected visitor.
Mira appears around midday, clutching a handful of wildflowers and wearing a dress that’s seen better decades. She spots me across the square and breaks into a run, nearly tripping over her own feet in her eagerness.
“Mr. Flower Man!”
And there it is, Johnson says. Your official title.
“Hey, Mira.” I catch her before she can barrel into the display and knock over my remaining stock. “Careful. These potions break if you drop them.”
“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry. She looks delighted, bouncing on her heels, flowers extended toward me like an offering. “I brought you presents!”
“I can see that.” I take the flowers—slightly crushed, mostly weeds, absolutely precious. “Thank you. These are beautiful.”
“I picked the best ones. The ones with the most colors.” She peers at my display with wide eyes. “What’s all this stuff?”
“Medicine, mostly. Things to help people when they’re hurt or sick.”
“Like magic?”
“Like alchemy. Which is sort of like magic, but with more measuring and less talent.”
That’s reductive, Johnson says. Alchemy is a perfectly valid magical discipline.
“Is the bunny magic?” Mira asks, proving that children have an unsettling ability to ask exactly the questions you don’t want to answer.
“Johnson is special.”
“Can I pet him?”
No, Johnson says firmly. Absolutely not. I have standards. I have dignity. I—
“Sure,” I say, because I’m still an asshole.
Mira approaches Johnson with the same reverent caution as before, reaching out slowly, hand hovering just above his head. Johnson’s ear flattens. His mental voice is ice.
I will remember this betrayal.
“Be gentle,” I tell Mira.