Chapter 5: Sewer Preparation - Part 1
The Guard Captain's office smelled of old leather and older regrets. Maps covered every wall—city sectors, patrol routes, incident markers. Behind the desk sat a man built like a barrel, grey streaking his beard, eyes that had seen too many eager young men march off to die.
"You want the sewer contract."
"Yes."
"The contract that's killed four people this year."
"Yes."
He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked ominously. "You're fifteen. Maybe sixteen, if I'm generous. What makes you think you can clear a drowner nest when grown men with combat experience couldn't?"
"Because I know exactly what I'm facing. Because I won't underestimate them. Because I'm more afraid of staying weak than dying prepared."
"I don't think I'm better than them," I said instead. "I think I'll prepare better. Give me three days, the sewer maps, and I'll clear your nest."
"Three days." Something shifted in his expression—not quite respect, but a reduction of contempt. "Most contractors want to charge in same day. Get it over with."
"Most contractors die in those sewers. You just told me."
He studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw made him reach into his desk and pull out a rolled parchment. The sewer maps. Basic layout, main tunnels, water flow direction. Not detailed, but better than nothing.
"Twenty crowns on completion. Bring back proof—drowner teeth work fine. And if you don't come back..." He shrugged. "I'll spend the bounty on flowers for your memorial."
"Fair enough."
[QUEST ACCEPTED]
[Clear Drowner Nest]
[Objective: Eliminate drowner infestation in Oxenfurt sewers]
[Estimated Hostiles: 8-12]
[Reward: 500 GP, Combat Abilities Unlock]
[Warning: First combat engagement. Preparation strongly recommended.]
I took the maps and left before he could change his mind.
Three days. Seventy-two hours to prepare for my first real fight in this world. The clock started immediately.
Day one: equipment.
The market sprawled across Oxenfurt's eastern quarter, stalls and shops competing for attention. I moved through crowds with purpose, mental checklist running through my head.
"Oil. They hate fire—every source agrees on that. Oil for the water surfaces, oil for improvisational weapons."
Three flasks of lamp oil: nine crowns. Expensive, but worth it.
"Torches. Need light anyway, and burning torches can become weapons in a pinch."
Six torches, bundled together: two crowns.
"Rope. For climbing, for traps, for whatever I haven't thought of yet."
Thirty feet of hemp rope: three crowns.
"Sword. I need something with reach. The knife is backup at best."
The weapon stalls were dangerous territory. Every vendor claimed their blades were legendary quality. My Scanner told a different story—mostly mediocre steel, overpriced and underperforming.
But one sword caught my attention. Not pretty. No decorative engravings, no elaborate hilt. Just a straight blade, well-balanced, with an edge that the Scanner rated as "acceptable sharpness."
[ITEM IDENTIFIED]
Short Sword (Functional)
Classification: Combat Weapon - Common
Condition: 78%
Actual Value: 18 crowns
Notes: Practical design, no frills. Suitable for close-quarters combat.
The vendor wanted twenty-five. I talked him down to twenty, which still hurt. My savings bled away with each purchase.
Leather padding came next. Not armor—real armor was beyond my budget—but thick leather pieces that could be strapped over vitals. Another eight crowns gone.
By evening, my total expenditure was forty crowns. I had twenty-seven left, and a pile of equipment that might keep me alive.
"Or it might all be worthless if I panic and forget everything."
Day two: intelligence.
The sewage workers gathered at a specific tavern near the river docks. I found them by smell as much as reputation. Hard men doing hard work, not particularly interested in talking to a teenager.
Coin loosened tongues.
"Water's deepest in the central junction," one said, pocketing my five crowns. "Four tunnels meet there. Anything living in the sewers, that's where they'll nest."
"Movement patterns?"
"What?"
"When are they most active? Do they hunt at certain times?"
He exchanged glances with his companions. "Night, usually. When the torches burn out and the rats get brave. But during the day? They hide in the deep pools. Ambush anything that comes close."
"Ambush predators. That tracks with drowner behavior."
I found a rat-catcher next—a wiry woman who earned her living hunting vermin in the tunnels. She charged ten crowns for information, but her details were worth every coin.
"Infestation's maybe eight or nine of them. Saw tracks. Could be more, but I doubt it—sewers aren't that big, and drowners are territorial."
"Where exactly?"
She drew on my map with charcoal, marking areas. Water depth. Likely ambush points. Places she'd avoided because her instincts screamed danger.
By the time day two ended, my annotated map looked like a battlefield plan. Which, I supposed, it was.
Day three: training.
The alley behind the Drunken Scholar was narrow, filthy, and private. I'd been using it for sword practice since buying the blade, building muscle memory my body didn't naturally have.
The forms felt strange at first. My arms moved through positions that my mind hadn't learned, as if Finn Colen's body remembered training it never received. Childhood lessons, maybe? A father who taught basic defense before dying or leaving?
I didn't know. The transmigration hadn't come with this body's history.
"Doesn't matter. Work with what I have."
Strike. Guard. Thrust. Reset.
My footwork was sloppy. I tripped over my own feet twice, nearly putting my eye out with my own blade once. The sword felt too heavy, then too light, then wrong in ways I couldn't articulate.
"You're gripping too tight."
Mira stood at the alley entrance, carrying a tray of dirty dishes toward the kitchen's back door. She'd stopped to watch.
"What?"
"Your hands." She set the tray down, demonstrating a grip with an invisible blade. "You're strangling the handle. The sword has to move with you, not against you."
I adjusted. The balance immediately improved.
"How do you know that?"
"My father was a soldier. Before the wars took him." No emotion in her voice—an old wound, long scarred over. "I watched him practice every morning when I was little."
"Thank you."
She picked up her tray. "The rumors say you're going into the sewers tomorrow. Drowner contract."
"Rumors move fast."
"You're insane for taking that contract." She met my eyes directly. "But I hope you come back."
Then she was gone, kitchen door swinging shut behind her.
I practiced until dark, incorporating her advice. The sword moved easier now. Not mastered—not even close—but functional. Enough.
It would have to be enough.
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