The silence that descended upon the Redstone Defile after the Argent Excavators' hasty retreat was heavy, broken only by the groans of wounded Explorer's League guards, the nervous whickering of the draft animals, and the crackle of a few small fires ignited by stray spells. The narrow canyon floor was littered with the detritus of battle: discarded arrows, scorch marks on the rock walls, the fading light particles of defeated Excavator Legionary NPCs, and the lingering scent of ozone and blood.
Drake leaned heavily against a wagon wheel. The fight had been brutal, his takedown of Commander Vorlag a desperate gamble that had paid off spectacularly, shattering the enemy's command structure and forcing their withdrawal. His own health bar was dangerously low from the accumulated damage he'd taken through the fight.
Around him, the caravan was a scene of controlled chaos. Captain Borin Stonebeard, his massive axe notched and stained, was bellowing orders, directing uninjured guards to secure the perimeter while others formed a triage area for the wounded. Lyra, the NPC caravan healer, worked frantically alongside a couple of the scholar passengers who possessed basic first aid skills, tending to the injured League guards. Several guards were down, their health critical, and at least two looked to have suffered fatal blows during the initial ranged volley or the Legionary charge.
"They took losses. Serious ones. This wasn't a clean victory by any means. If Vorlag hadn't focused on me, or if I hadn't taken him..." The thought was sobering.
A few guards, under Stonebeard's direction, quickly checked the bodies of the fallen Excavator Legionary NPCs. As expected from disciplined NPC soldiers, they dropped little of value – mostly broken standard-issue weapons, a few copper coins, and [Excavator Insignia] that were likely just vendor trash. There was no high-end gear drop from the player commander, likely due to Legacy of Alvari's harsh PvP death penalties often including temporary gear suppression.
As his combat buffs fully faded and the adrenaline receded, Drake took a moment to truly assess the situation. He had survived. The caravan had survived. But the Argent Excavators now knew of his presence, his capabilities, and likely his player ID from their combat logs. He was a marked man.
The civilian passengers, who had cowered behind the wagons during the fierce fighting, began to emerge, their faces pale but etched with awe as they looked towards Drake. The elderly scholars, the nervous young explorers – they had all witnessed his incredible duel with Commander Vorlag, the way he had single-handedly dismantled the enemy leader. Whispers started, quiet at first, then growing louder. "Did you see him? That Bladesworn?" "He took on their commander... a player much higher than his level!" "His speed... his defense... I've never seen anything like it." "He saved us. He definitely saved us." They approached him hesitantly, offering words of gratitude, their fear replaced by open admiration. Drake, uncomfortable with the attention, simply nodded, deflecting their praise. "The guards fought bravely. We all did what was necessary."
More significantly, the surviving Explorer's League guards, seasoned veterans all, regarded Drake with a new level of respect. They had seen countless adventurers, skilled warriors, and flashy mages. But what they had witnessed from Drake was different. It wasn't just about power; it was about the consistency, the flawlessness of his execution under extreme pressure. One of the dwarven guard sergeants (Level 33), who had fought near Drake during the final push against Vorlag, approached him, wiping soot from his beard. "Lad," he rumbled, his voice hoarse, "I've been a League Guard for twenty seasons. Seen my share o' scraps. But your bladework... that defense... never seen a body move so precise, block so clean, every single time, in the thick of it like that. Not a wasted motion. Not a fumbled Parry." He shook his head in disbelief. "Most fighters, even good ones, get sloppy when the steel starts flyin' proper. You? You got cleaner. It ain't natural, but by the Forge, it's effective."
"They noticed the SCR. The 86% Parry, the 100/84% basics... Even if they don't know the system numbers, they see the result: no fumbled blocks, no missed attacks. That's the 'unnatural' consistency of Eidetic Execution."
Captain Borin Stonebeard, having finished organizing the immediate defense and casualty assessment, strode over, his face grim but his eyes holding a deep respect as he looked at Drake. He clapped a heavy gauntlet on Drake's shoulder. "Bladesworn," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "That was... extraordinary. I saw you take on Vorlag. Saw you turn aside blows that would have flattened any other man your level. Your skill, your composure under that kind of fire... it was the turning point. Your precision in taking down their commander, and your foresight in warning us just before they sprang their trap..." He shook his head. "Your precision and foresight saved this caravan today. No doubt about it. We owe you more than just your passage fee."
Drake inclined his head. "Just glad I could help, Captain. They were a serious threat."
"They still are," Stonebeard corrected, his gaze sweeping the silent, bloodstained defile. "They retreated, but a pack of wolves like the Argent Excavators doesn't just give up after one lost skirmish, especially when their commander was taken down. They'll be back, or they'll be waiting for us further down the trail. We can't afford to linger here." He raised his voice. "Alright, lads! Hasty repairs on Wagon Three! Secure the dead as best we can for later rites! We move out in ten minutes! Double patrols, weapons ready! This defile is a deathtrap, and we're not staying to see if the wolves come sniffing again!"
The order galvanized the remaining guards. Wounded were helped onto wagons, minimal repairs were made to a damaged axle, and the caravan prepared to move with grim efficiency. The brief respite was over.
As Drake took his place back within the reformed convoy, he felt a subtle shift in how the veteran League guards treated him. It wasn't just the gratitude of saved men; it was the acknowledgment of a peer, despite his lower level. They had seen his skill, his unwavering precision under fire, and recognized it as something beyond the norm. He was no longer just another passenger, another adventurer. In their eyes, he was a warrior of extraordinary, almost unnerving, technical mastery.