THE EIGHT PATHS OF THE HERO'S REDEMPTION
"There is no worse blind man than the one who refuses to see."
Three weeks before the invasion of Eldoria…
Don woke from a nap that was damn near impossible to enjoy, thanks to the constant jolts of a slow-moving cart. Its typical white-grayish canopy was filthy from countless trips between villages and towns. The cart belonged to a humble vegetation user—a second-rank sorcerer. Knowing jack shit about this world's possibilities, Don asked the old man what he did.
"A cultivator," the man said.
The reserved bastard wouldn't say more, even though he was paid to haul two strangers along with his livestock. So Don glanced at Miriel, silently begging her to explain what the hell the guy—perched in the driver's seat, steering a horse—meant. She said his power probably let him speed up crops or sniff out plants good for medicines, anything tied to natural vegetation. That was his limit; he couldn't do magic for shit.
They were headed to a bustling destination, cutting through open fields with sprawling landscapes. The wind whipped the crops and tree leaves into a dance, and every so often, a sweet breeze fucked up Miriel's neat haircut.
Miriel stayed awake the whole damn trip, always on guard, while Don finally pried his eyes open.
He could barely keep them open, though. The poor son of a bitch kept slipping back into a torturous sleep—minutes or hours, depending on how shitty the road was. Some paths were dangerously narrow, half-assed, or littered with obstacles of every size, from massive fallen trees—who the hell knows what toppled them—to tiny stones that chewed up the cart's lifespan.
Don, desperate for a shred of peace, tried to sleep in a rig built for cargo, not people. At least they were shielded from the sun and the brutal heat of the Lunaria valley. But it made the trip more dangerous, stopping them from crossing rocky valleys and bone-dry landscapes with any calm. It pissed Miriel off during rest stops.
An hour later, when Don cracked his eyes open again for a few minutes, he noticed something. Peering through the silence, he realized a third passenger had snuck aboard, one he hadn't clocked before. A fantastic melody hit his ears—full of future vibes, a tune so sensational it could drag you to a world brimming with hope. The guy had dull purple eyes, short black hair drooping to his neck, a loose braid on his right, and a pirate hat—probably stolen, or maybe not. He looked about thirty, with a sharp jaw, dressed humble as hell with a bird feather in his right ear, playing the flute like a goddamn pro.
Don, barely peeking out with timid eyes again, sized up this weird-ass character before boredom hit him like a brick, and he crashed back to sleep.
Contrary to what you'd think, Don and Miriel hadn't been far from the last inn since their last adventure—where they snagged the fused obsidian crystal and stuffed it in their bag.
This new day kicked off their journey to hunt down the next missing piece on Don's long-ass list. He needed it to craft something that'd let him walk among people without looking like a freak—or worse, getting nabbed for some unknown reason.
They'd ditched the lands of the noble Dusk family over three hours ago, stewing in silence and bad vibes. Their values had smashed head-on during tough calls in extreme shit—like that night two enslaved kids died because of Don's naive ass in a cruel-as-hell world.
Sure, he wanted to follow his Master's orders and grab the damn list items, but Miriel's passive bullshit toward injustices was starting to grind his gears.
At first, it was all smiles and warm handshakes. Now, just two days after leaving Don's homeland, Dunkaster, shit had changed.
This clash—between a world that doesn't tolerate stupidity dressed up as nobility and the natural, decent urge to help anyone in need—makes you picture two worlds slamming together, their mutual curiosity shattering fast.
But they're both young, so let's not jump the gun on this story.
Five hours into the trip, on Don's sixth wake-up, he met the handsome bastard tagging along on this long haul to the next village. Don, rude as hell, stared at the guy playing the flute and singing tales—secrets from a thousand places—making the ride less of a drag for some, like the driver busting his ass and Miriel. She'd been on edge for over half an hour, clocking that the shortcut through a sunless forest might've been a dumb move.
The driver, though, stayed cool as shit, bragging he'd hauled tons of fresh veggies and pricey meds through that route without dangerous thieves jumping him. He swore he'd beat their asses if it came to it.
But no matter how tough you are, the fuckers who rob, loot, and kill don't mess around with their prey. Not one bit. Most victims spill about their cruelty and total lack of humanity.
"The artist who spins adventures wherever he steps," the guy said, first to offer a handshake to a curious young man—older than him, maybe, who knows—with a calm, serene look.
He took the lead introducing himself.
"My name is Gregory Newland, and I'm a simple artist who dreams of being a knight and guarding what I hold sacred. Nice to meet you, traveler."
"The pleasure's mine, Mr. Newland."
"Please, just call me Gregory or Mini," he cut in, like he was fixing a slip-up, then added, "Minigregory, at your service, Don."
"Heh, heh, heh… Gregory's fine," Don said, flashing a nervous grin.
Then, out of nowhere, Miriel barged into the chat. She hadn't swapped a word or even a hello with Gregory since he climbed aboard, but she blurted out:
"Where are you from?"
"Miriel, that's rude as hell to ask," Don snapped at her.
"No, don't sweat it. It's normal to distrust folks, especially when you're a guide—I'm guessing, from your getup and that bag you guard like a hawk behind your daggers. But yeah, I'm an artist. I'm from Dunkaster."
"Seriously? Me too!" Don lit up, scooting closer like they were already kin or best buds. Confused, he tilted his head. "But that's weird… I've never seen you before. Which house did you live in?"
"Well… I didn't stick around long. Lived with my grandparents, but the itch to travel the world—meet its people, soak up its culture, its history—grabbed me young. So I took off to chase the world's wonders early. Chances are you weren't even born yet," Gregory said. Miriel's brows twitched, barely, as she dissected every word, suspicious of his charming vibe.
She turned away fast, zeroing in on watching the road, while he and Don kept yakking about random shit. Don picked up some Varnokian quirks—how they dress, what they eat, drink, celebrate, fight, their ballsy pride in a scrap, and, of course, the stuff two young guys brimming with hormones can't skip: the beauty and fertility of women.
Their talk pulled an embarrassed glance from Miriel, just hearing Gregory's weird fetishes—like washing a lady's feet, and other shit. I'm damn sure listing every one he bragged about to Don, shameless as hell, would be too much.