Warriors will die if they charge.

After paying Lawrence a hefty sum for medical expenses, on the way home, Marcus wanted nothing more than to grab Trish's pointed ears and give her a stern lecture.

"My lady Trissy, that young man was just trying to strike up a conversation; it's quite common in taverns."

"He sat down next to me." Trish paused, then added:

"And he smelled awful; his perfume had a fishy, ​​musty odor."

"You mean he has body odor, right? But that's no reason for you to suddenly attack him."

"The dagger touched the joint but didn't cause any real damage; it's a minor warning."

"Okay, okay, I understand." Marcus suddenly turned around, his face slightly flushed with drunkenness, gazing into Trissy's alluring red eyes in the night:

"Let's establish a rule first. Do not use force before there is clear hostility. Human kingdoms on the surface usually have complete and sound laws. A drow who has killed someone and a drow who has fled the Underdark are two different things."

Triss remained silent for a long time: "I will try my best."

She wondered to herself, what does that usually mean? Is this an exception?

Back home, Marcus went to bed, while Trish was also thinking about what had happened in the tavern.

Marcus's expression at the time clearly showed that he wasn't interested in the smelly man; he would probably say a few words and send him away without having to pay any compensation.

But is gold really that expensive? Triss was puzzled. Rare metals were everywhere in the Underdark, but what truly made drow valuable were mithril and adamantite.

She turned over to look at the man who was fast asleep, thought about what had happened in the past two days, and finally closed her eyes.

If some drow had already adapted to life on the surface, then she... should be able to as well.

For a while afterward, Marcus didn't rush to find missions to go all in. He spent his days in the militia camp improving his basic skills as a soldier, mainly training in swordsmanship, and also getting to handle military weapons such as guns, flails, and maces.

The abundant physical strength made the training very effective. At least Fielding thought that five gold coins were too little. Marcus had destroyed thirteen training dummies and five iron swords, and the loss of these supplies could not be reported to the town. He had to make up for it himself.

"Are you ready?"

Fielding held his swords in front of his chest; this was their final practical training session.

Marcus tapped the round shield with his iron sword: "Alright, let's test the results of these past two weeks of training."

The militia captain nodded, and swung his greatsword toward the center line with a basic, powerful slash. The speed was not fast, but it was very steady.

Seizing the center line was a battle strategy that Fielding had always emphasized, and Marcus was well aware of it. He easily judged the direction of the furious slash and raised his shield to block.

Just as the greatsword was about to touch the shield, Marcus noticed that Fielding had slowed down by half a beat, but the experienced captain seemed unaware of this change, instead pressing down on the hilt and continuing to swing at the shield.

Speed ​​bumps.

The shield easily parried the slowed blade, and Marcus swung his left arm outward, pushing Fielding's weapon away.

The longsword, poised at his waist, thrust towards the captain's throat as the shield moved.

Having anticipated the thrust, Fielding dodged to the side, pushed the two-handed sword aside with his shield, rotated his wrist, lowered his center of gravity, and swept it towards Marcus's thigh.

But with each of his attacks, he slowed down by half a beat just before it hit, giving Marcus ample time to react. He pressed down on the blade, and the cross-shaped guard perfectly blocked the two-handed sword that was about to strike his thigh.

At the same time, the shield was raised, its broad edge smashing down on Fielding's head.

The experienced captain dodged with a sliding step, easily avoiding the fierce blows of the shield, and the two of them took the opportunity to create some distance between them.

The captain slowly lowered the two-handed sword he had been holding in front of his chest, his tone filled with emotion:

"You have the heart of a warrior, Marcus."

"I don't understand."

"You dare to say 'no,' that's what makes a warrior." Fielding set his two-handed sword aside, tore open a bottle of ale, and took a big gulp.

"And I've accepted my fate and said 'yes' to life. Congratulations on completing the training."

"But we've only exchanged one blow." Marcus deftly twirled his sword with his right hand, and the feeling of being used as a speed bump was actually quite addictive.

"If you keep fighting with a tireless bull and twist your back, you'll have to spend money on ointment to treat your cracking bones."

Marcus, resigned to his fate, felt a touch of sadness as he laid down his training sword and shield, promising to return often, and left the militia camp.

Fielding, who had just looked like he had a sore back, suddenly had his eyes darting around.

Finally, the bull was sent away. Ordinary soldiers, after long hours of high-intensity training, must use ointments and medicated baths to soothe their sore muscles and tendons.

But after training every day, this bull would lead that mixed-race drow to the Pig Lung Tavern to drink and play cards, showing no signs of fatigue from training.

As expected, talent is something that hard to make up for later. Let's go find Nora tonight and reminisce about the good old days.

The young women in the Japas tents have no trace of the passage of time; women are like grapes, the more wrinkles they have, the sweeter they are.

He'll have to walk the rest of the road by himself...

-

Marcus had just left the militia camp when he saw Kuran passing by carrying a dark red linen bag that was constantly seeping blood.

He greeted them, preparing to go home to check on Zhuo'er's condition, but after nodding in response, Kuran suddenly asked:

"Marcus, some interesting people have recently arrived in town. Interested in going to see them?"

Marcus didn't know whether this was a gesture of goodwill or whether the arduous training over the past two weeks had finally brought him into the sights of the town's youth leaders.

He glanced at the dark red linen bag Kuran was carrying and joked, "Looks like you won your bet."

Kuran laughed heartily, stepped forward, patted Marcus's arm, and waved the bag of fresh meat in his hand:

"That goblin's arm wasn't as strong as yours, but it still managed to tear its own brother apart. I've invited those out-of-towners to do cockfighting in Liegou. Let's play a few rounds together."

The militiaman was very talented, a prized student of Fielding, and extremely skilled with swords and spears; he was a seasoned warrior.

He is also a typical young man from Linhe Town: playful, combative, and loyal. Whenever his patrol duty ends, he will call on his companions to go into the woods to catch goblins and have a tense and exciting cockfighting match.

As for cockfighting, it is the most representative sport in Linhe Town, and people are willing to pay a lot for a tense and exciting competition...

Marcus nodded. After training for half a month, perhaps a proper relaxation wouldn't be bad.

The two walked across the street to the Kuran family's yard, where a huge, bright red fighting rooster with blood-red feathers stood proudly atop the one-meter-high chicken coop.

Fighting cocks are large, about the size of a medium-sized dog, with a streamlined body and feathers that shimmer in the sunlight. The only difference between them and their sharp beaks and steel hooks is that they have a particular fondness for pecking at eyes.

Kuran untied the blood-stained linen bag, holding a handful of bright red raw meat cut into chunks, and mumbled something under his breath:

"Redclaw, this is your favorite goblin meat. After you've eaten your fill, come with me for a fierce fight and let those bastard dogs from out of town know that Onis' son, Kuran, will always be the best chicken trainer."

The militia held a goblin cockfighting competition in the woods, where they would throw two goblins of similar size into a pit and force them to fight each other with spears.

The loser would be fed to the hounds, while the loser would be chopped into pieces and fed to the family's fighting cocks. Some people believed that feeding the winning goblin to the fighting cocks would increase their ferocity.

Marcus leaned against the wall, watching the down feathers on the fighting rooster's head stained red with goblin blood, and said jokingly:

"If Aunt Nora finds out you're wasting goblin meat like this, she'll be furious. This could have sold for a lot of money."

Kuran smiled but didn't respond, feeding Red Feather the fresh goblin meat from the bag bit by bit.

He beckoned Marcus over to talk.

The two stood shoulder to shoulder, almost touching. The militiaman squinted, looking around to make sure there were no spies on the street, and whispered:

"I've made a deal with Stowe. You just need to invest your money in Red Claws, and I'll take care of the rest. I guarantee you'll make a fortune."