Outside the window, the sun began to sink, and the sunlight was no longer harsh. The flow of people on the main street gradually increased.
Anser had just awakened from meditation. His stomach growled with hunger, yet he looked spirited, his Magic Power fully replenished.
Many people did not understand that there was a fundamental difference between the meditation of a Sorcerer and that of a Wizard.
A Wizard's meditation was a mandatory daily discipline. It required an extremely high level of concentration, and its primary purpose was to review and comprehend spell models through the Weave and spellbooks, as well as to prepare spells. It was mentally exhausting.
A Sorcerer, by contrast, relied on innate magic and did not need to prepare spells. Even sleeping soundly was enough to restore spell slots or Magic Power. So-called meditation merely accelerated this process and was quite relaxed.
The room's curtains were drawn, leaving the lighting dim. Bratt and the other person were both absent. A row of muskets stood in the corner, polished clean, with a faint smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
Anser picked up one of the muskets. It had a wooden stock and a long barrel, equipped with a ramrod used for pushing in bullets or cleaning the barrel. The bullets were made of lead and looked rather irregular.
He was not an antique firearms enthusiast, but he vaguely remembered that in the later stages of development, lead bullets also included conical projectiles and paper cartridge ammunition.
"If there aren't many of these, their threat isn't very high."
The greatest danger lay in the unpredictability of the bullets, because even the gunner did not know where a shot would land.
Anser was not particularly interested in muskets. He casually set it down, stood up, and knocked on the door across the hall.
The door opened. When Finn saw it was him, he grinned broadly, revealing a set of somewhat uneven teeth. "You're awake."
"What's going on with the Conch? And what about the guard?"
Finn closed the door and looked a bit puzzled. "The Conch ran aground. The guard—who knows where they went. They haven't made any moves at all, so I didn't call you."
Anser frowned, unable to figure out what the guard was afraid of, or whether they were also one of the participants in the slave trade.
Something had just happened in Baldur's Gate, and the three Grand Dukes were still there—yet these people were already in a hurry to find a new patron?
He took a few steps to the window. From here, he could look out over most of Silver Scale Bay.
Out in the bay, quite a few ships were coming and going. The Conch was floating in a quiet stretch of water far from the docks, two or three kilometers offshore. There were many figures bustling about on the deck; it looked like they were still repairing the ship.
Anser narrowed his eyes, and for some reason he felt a bit annoyed. "Keep watch from the window for a while. Let Grey Eagle come back and rest. We'll still need to put it to work again tonight."
Finn paused, then nodded. "Alright."
"How much did we pay out?" Anser glanced down. The garden was spotless, and the plants and trees showed obvious signs of trimming.
Nornoth was carrying little Claira on a walk in the garden, fully saddled. It pranced along in quick little steps, rising and falling slightly, making the little elf giggle nonstop.
Bratt and Darla stood guard on the left and right. The scene was very warm.
"We didn't pay anything," Finn shrugged.
"Huh, not bad." Anser was a little surprised. "I'm going to eat. Call me if anything happens."
"Mm."
Anser did not disturb Bratt and the others and entered the treehouse restaurant by himself.
It was only mid-afternoon, yet the restaurant was completely empty—not a single customer in sight. Only a few attendants were busy cleaning.
He sat down at the bar and ordered elven bread, grilled fish, a vegetable stew, and herbal tea from the attendant. Having gone half the day without eating, he felt like he could eat an entire cow.
Before the food arrived, Kaleno came over as soon as he heard the news.
"You're famous now," Kaleno said. He plopped himself down across from Anser and casually set a cup of mead in front of him.
"Not infamous, I hope?" Anser joked.
"Famous!" Kaleno spread his hands wide, his expression exaggerated. "The whole Silver Scale Bay is talking about it. There are even bards who've turned your story into songs."
"Oh right, there are titles too—Ashen Knight, Scale of Justice, Sin-Burning Envoy, Black Knight… Well? Sounds pretty imposing, doesn't it? I came up with Ashen Knight myself."
"Wow, thanks so much," Anser said, the corner of his mouth twitching. He had no desire to become famous—once you had a reputation, trouble inevitably followed.
Besides, those titles were far too embarrassing, cringe to the extreme. But there was nothing to be done. This was one of Faerûn's defining traits: anyone with even a bit of fame ended up with a pile of titles or epithets.
Some adventurers were shameless enough to give themselves titles, each more outrageous than the last.
That said, titles represented prestige, and prestige was genuinely useful on Toril.
In itself, it signified social standing and group recognition. High prestige brought many conveniences—for example, it made it easier to gain certain people's trust, allowed access to places others could not enter, and made it possible to meet people others would never get to see…
For example, if you wanted to commission a high-quality magic item, without any prestige you probably would not even get to see a master craftsman.
The downsides were also obvious—some factions would regard him as a mortal enemy!
"You're welcome." Kaleno clearly did not catch Anser's meaning at all.
"I want to ask you about something," Anser suddenly lowered his voice.
"Go ahead." Kaleno was immediately intrigued.
"That slave ship, the Conch… whose is it?"
Kaleno's expression turned serious, and he replied in a low voice, "I heard from my sister that it should belong to the Nashivaar Family, one of the Five Families of Amn. Many slave traders are more or less connected to them…"
Recently, the slave trade had been rampant, just short of being conducted openly. Some people, driven to desperation, even volunteered to sell themselves into slavery. The authorities could not control it—and did not want to.
Those refugees were all destabilizing factors and were not welcome by the magistrates, who wished there were as few of them as possible.
"I've heard of them." Anser lifted his cup and drained it in one go, his thoughts surging. He had not expected to run into them again this time.
No wonder there was a proverb in Faerûn: where there are people, there are slave traders!
'So that makes it even more impossible to let you go.'
From the slave traders' actions today alone, it was clear what kind of people the Nashivaar Family were. They would never give up quietly. Retreating would be useless—striking first was the better option, and it might even earn some experience points and extra money.
But the Conch was out at sea, with guns, cannons, and professional combatants aboard. It would not be easy to deal with.
He silently reviewed the various spells he had mastered, until his focus finally settled on a second-level spell: Alter Self!
With the problem of boarding the ship resolved, the question of combat remained. He kept calculating it over and over in his mind.
Seeing that Anser was deep in thought, Kaleno did not want to disturb him. He quietly stood up and left.
...
Late at night, Anser methodically sorted through his gear, item by item.
He took the Azure Poison Blade and the Fireworks Wand with him, but left behind the Treasure Coin Pouch, the Goodberry Staff, the Holy Symbol and the Holy Grial.
He was going to swim underwater, so it was not suitable to carry too many items. The holy symbol and the grial were of little use for a nighttime assault at sea, and the divine aura they carried could easily expose him.
There were few spellcasters in Amn, and with the Weave in disarray, there was no real need to worry about spell damage.
As for why he brought the Fireworks Wand, it was purely because the Goodberry Staff was too cumbersome. A wand was compact—just over thirty centimeters long—and convenient to carry. This was also why spellcasters generally preferred wands.
"You're really going?" Bratt asked, his tone filled with concern. "Isn't it too dangerous?"
"There's no danger. Once I'm in the water, there's nothing they can do. The initiative is on my side," Anser said confidently, having rehearsed it countless times in his mind.
"If it gets dangerous, send a signal. We'll be ready at any time."
"Mm. Don't turn off the lights. Wear your hoods and move around by the windows—make it look like both rooms are occupied."
Before the two could voice their confusion, Anser began chanting a spell. A flash of light and shadow passed over him, and his form and appearance changed completely.
He became tall and powerfully built, with bronze-colored skin. His dreadlocks were tied back, and a massive greataxe was strapped to his back, engraved with the Flame Sword holy symbol of Tempus, the god of war.
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