Synthesis-type adventurers

Chapter 8 Playing True to Oneself

The morning fog in Rust Harbour is pungent and choking; the damp, cold smell of the sea and rust clings to the skin and penetrates to the bone.

The heavy oak door of the guild headquarters was pushed open a crack, and Rhodes squeezed in, soaked to the bone, looking like a drowned rat drenched in the rain.

Over his specially made linen battle suit, he wore a tattered coat stripped from a pile of corpses, smeared with the rotting entrails of black-toothed rats he had collected on his return journey, as well as some indescribable filth.

The stench was enough to drive away any living thing within three steps.

"Commander, Commander..."

Rhodes seemed to be gripped by the terror of surviving a catastrophe. His body went limp, and he collapsed onto the edge of the office carpet, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Commander Damon, behind the desk, immediately raised his hand to cover his mouth and nose, leaning back as far as he could, the chair legs scraping sharply against the wooden floor in protest.

"Get lost! Damn it, did you plunge headfirst into a cesspool?"

Damon waved his other hand forcefully in front of him, trying in vain to swatt away the stench.

"Vice Commander Kyle...he...and Buck and the others..." Rhodes looked up, his face streaked with tears and mud. "A dragon! We encountered a red dragon! They're all dead! Only I...I hid in a ditch..."

His words were fragmented, and as he sobbed, he shakily pulled a filthy cloth bag from his bosom and presented it with both hands.

"This is what I found in the ashes... the vice-captain's sword hilt, and some other miscellaneous things..."

Damon's eyelid twitched slightly.

He didn't touch the dirty bag; his gaze only swept over the opening.

Even on the broken ruby ​​on the half-melted hilt of the sword, the griffin emblem of the Hohenheim family could still be discerned.

Total annihilation.

Damon's mind raced. He had no doubt that Rhodes, usually an honest, timid, and submissive fellow, would lie about something so important.

Compensation, guild accountability, the suppressed anger of the Hohenheim family... each and every one of these is a trouble that can crush a person.

At this moment, the sole survivor before him, this useless Iron-rank logistics soldier, became an eyesore and an unnecessary thorn in his side.

Kill him?

Damon frowned slightly.

No, that's too dirty.

The blood and the stench would ruin his office carpet, and a fresh corpse would give the guild's nosy investigators ammunition to criticize him.

The easiest way to deal with it is to let him disappear into the stinking ditch of the slum.

This insect doesn't deserve to die by his blade.

"Enough!" Damon rudely cut off Rod's wailing. "Get your trash out of here!"

"Commander, what about my salary this month..." Rhodes asked timidly, his eyes darting around.

Damon, enraged, laughed coldly: "Salary?"

He grabbed the brass paperweight from the table, intending to throw it, but then thought it would dirty his own things, so he put it down.

"You killed the entire squad, and you still have the nerve to ask for a paycheck? From this moment on, you're expelled from the Anvil Mercenary Group! Don't you dare let me see you again!"

"Yes, yes! Thank you for sparing my life, Commander!"

Rod felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders and scrambled out of the office. In his haste, he tripped over his own foot and nearly fell.

The instant the office door closed.

Rod straightened his back.

The fear on his face evaporated instantly. He casually wiped away the water that had gotten into his eyes when he came in, the water that had just flowed out as tears, leaving no trace.

Acting skills?

No need.

Anyway, the original owner's life was always so pathetic, and Rhodes is just "playing himself" now.

"I was thinking of giving you a few gold coins to appease you, but since you don't want these 'scrap metals,' it saves me some money."

Without turning his head, Rod walked straight through the courtyard and headed towards the workers' dormitory in the back alley, where he would stay for the last time in the Anvil Corps.

The dormitory was dark, and the smell of mold filled the nostrils.

Rod quickly cleaned himself up, changed his clothes, and then dragged an exquisite wooden box out of place from under the bed.

This was his only private property, and also his arsenal.

The box was opened, revealing what others would consider waste.

A broken steel spring [elastic potential energy], dried slime rubber [physical cushioning], the shattered carapace of some giant beetle [hardness enhancement (weak)], and a bundle of expired potion bottles he bought cheaply at the market [fragile] [contains impurities].

These materials would be nothing more than kindling for any adventurer, but to Rhode, they each shimmered with a unique light.

All of them are valuable materials.

Rod worked quickly and efficiently, sorting the materials into categories, carefully wrapping them in oilcloth, and stuffing them into a large bag that had been prepared beforehand.

He even took the whetstone [for rough polishing] that he had hidden under the bed for three months.

After tidying up, only an empty space and a few wads of scrap paper remained in the room.

Rod shouldered his backpack, which was taller than himself, and resolutely walked into the morning mist of Rust Harbor.

……

At the end of Blackwater Lane, in the Rupiah Harbour slum.

An abandoned underground warehouse, more humid than above ground, but secluded enough, and with low rent.

The only ventilation opening was a metal-barred window that only a stray cat could squeeze through, from which a few rays of light cast dappled shadows.

This is Rhodes' new base, and also Ivy's hospital room.

On the bed made of a few planks of wood, Avira was in a daze.

Her burns were horrific. Although she had been given a bottle of basic medical treatment, the large areas of charred skin, if left untreated, would fester and could be fatal.

"Wake up, it's time to clean the wound."

Rhodes lit a kerosene lamp and placed it by his bedside.

He was holding a chipped, rough earthenware bowl, which contained half a murky, grayish-green paste.

That was a paste he made from hemostatic herbs he picked on the road, flour, and water, costing no more than two copper coins.

Avira struggled to open her eyes, her bright green pupils bloodshot.

"Drink it," Rode commanded forcefully. "This is a 'Potential Pain Potion,' a black market item, worth two hundred orms a bottle! It will speed up the healing of your wounds, but at the cost of excruciating pain... You know, the more effective the potion, the more severe its backlash; that's common sense."

Because of her delirium, Avira did not question where Rhode got the money to buy such an expensive potion.

She struggled to sit up, the slightest movement aggravating all the wounds on her body, causing her excruciating pain.

She opened her chapped lips and drank the strange ointment in one gulp, a grassy and astringent taste of raw flour choking her throat.

"vomit……"

"Bear with it."

Rod put down the bowl, extended his gloved right hand, and hovered it over the most severe burn on Avira's left shoulder—a charred scab with grotesque red swelling around the edges.

[Analysis Vision] was activated, and the world before his eyes suddenly changed, revealing multiple gray entries.

[Charred Skin (Gray, Inferior Quality)]

[Deep Infection (Grayish Inferior)]

[Extreme Pain (Grayish Quality)]

[......]

"Stripping".