The Archmetamagician: The Weave Collapses Again

”Then what do we do now?” Bratt asked proactively. Since it involved the Weave, he instinctively believed that a Wizard with extensive knowledge would have better judgment.

”Your thinking isn’t wrong. Most underground creatures dislike light. Tonight, we’ll hide up on Dusthawk Hill, but Baldur’s Gate isn’t a place we can stay in for long.”

”The underground is barren and brutal. Once the duergar come up, they definitely won’t be willing to leave easily. The sentries won’t leave the Upper City, and the Flaming Fist isn’t necessarily reliable. We have to get out of here—passively waiting could make things even worse.”

”Tomorrow, we’ll go to Wyrm’s Crossing. There’s a Flaming Fist fortress there, and once we cross the River Chionthar, we’ll be safe,” Anser reasoned.

”I’ll follow your lead.” Bratt nodded slightly. Leaving really was the safer option.

Wyrm’s Crossing lay southeast of Dusthawk Hill. For underground creatures to reach it, they would have to circle around most of the hill from the north and pass through several Outer City districts—it wouldn’t be possible that quickly.

”However,” Anser changed the subject, his expression complicated, ”before that, I need to go save my parents. They’re in the Sow’s Foot District. You don’t need to come with me. Tomorrow morning, we’ll split up.”

He didn’t have much emotional attachment to the original owner’s parents. The memories were like slides in a projector—still incomplete—and it was hard for him to truly empathize with the original owner’s feelings.

But if there was a chance, he still wanted to try saving them. If he did nothing at all, there would always be a knot in his heart.

That said, if danger arose, he would definitely prioritize his own survival.

”I’ll go with you,” Bratt said without hesitation. ”The Sow’s Foot District isn’t far from Wyrm’s Crossing. They should be fine.”

”Hopefully. How’s your recovery?” Anser felt a trace of urgency. The darker it got, the worse it would be for them.

”No problem. I can fight and I can run—don’t underestimate a Fighter’s recovery,” Bratt said as he tied his hair back with a strip of rag, looking alert and capable.

”Let’s go.” Anser stood up, grabbed his staff, and headed outside.

Bratt instinctively slung the pack onto his back, tightened it, then took a few quick steps past Anser and walked ahead with his sword in hand.

...

Night fell, and cold moonlight spilled down, making the River Chionthar shimmer like crystal. Unfortunately, the surroundings were broken walls and ruins, corpses scattered everywhere—like hell itself.

”Don’t go through Cliffgate. Follow the River Chionthar into the Tumbledown,” Anser whispered after sprinting several dozen steps.

Bratt understood immediately and turned south at once.

Duergar were an intelligent race and were very likely to occupy key intersections, waiting for humans to walk right into their trap.

These fleeing crowds usually carried valuables and food with them, saving the trouble of looting and packing.

After advancing several hundred meters, the buildings grew sparse, offering little cover. A city wall that had mostly collapsed lay stretched across their path.

Upon reaching the largest breach, Bratt suddenly stopped. His nose twitched, and his gaze swept over the sticky soil coating the stones, his eyes filled with vigilance.

Anser also sensed something amiss. ”Change routes.”

Bratt nodded slightly, sword in hand, and slowly retreated. After pulling back more than ten meters, he continued south along the wall.

A few curses came from the darkness, and the two of them quickened their pace at the same time. Escape was the priority now—they couldn’t afford to get entangled.

Where there were natural disasters, there were always man-made ones. What could be worse than people?

After this experience, Bratt deliberately chose a stretch of half-collapsed wall. Rubble was strewn everywhere, uneven and difficult to traverse, but it was safer.

Bratt truly lived up to being a Fighter. His athletic ability surpassed Anser’s by far. Carrying a large pack while scouting ahead, climbing and jumping, he still had to stop from time to time to keep watch—and to wait for Anser.

Anser smiled bitterly to himself, admitting that he had been fooled by Bratt’s earlier disheveled appearance.

In games, even poor attributes could still make someone a professional, but reality was different. Without real talent, it simply wouldn’t work. Nobles and major organizations wouldn’t waste precious resources on dead weight.

Unless you were lucky enough!

”Watch out!” Bratt shouted urgently.

Anser instinctively dove forward and rolled.

The next instant, a black shadow swept past over his head, moving so fast it was impossible to see clearly. A faint scent of blood spread through the air.

[You are attacked by a Stirge. Missed…] The combat log flashed past.

Anser was startled. Stirges were pack creatures.

He tightened his grip on the staff and swept his gaze around, but he didn’t spot a group of stirges—only the faint sound of wings beating somewhere overhead.

”What the hell was that?” Bratt had been attacked as well, but his perception and reactions were faster.

He dropped the pack, took a few quick steps to Anser’s side, and the two stood back to back on guard.

”Stirges—bloodsucking, pack-dwelling creatures,” Anser said as he pulled a wooden rod enhanced with the Light spell from his robes, though he didn’t remove the black cloth covering it.

Bratt looked up and observed for a moment, finding no other immediate danger. ”Looks like there are only two.”

”They might’ve gotten separated, or maybe they’re drunk on blood,” Anser speculated.

Stirges fed on the blood of living creatures. They had little intelligence, and after coming up to the surface, it wasn’t strange for them to run rampant once they found humans so easy to prey on.

”They haven’t left.”

”We move. You seize the opportunity.”

”Alright.”

The two advanced slowly. Bratt carried the pack and followed behind Anser, waiting for that ”opportunity” to arrive.

Anser remained calm. Stirges were weak, their attacks not lethal, and he had Shield—he could trigger a force barrier the instant an attack landed.

Just as they were about to enter the Dusthawk Hill area, the two stirges could no longer hold back and lunged through the air almost simultaneously.

Bratt halted. ”Here they come—”

Before the words had fully left his mouth, Anser yanked the black cloth away. Light burst forth instantly, driving back the darkness and revealing two bizarre creatures that looked like a cross between giant bats and oversized mosquitoes.

Stirges feared light. The sudden brightness startled them, forcing an abrupt change in their flight as they tried to flee.

”Slash—”

A flash of steel cut through the air. One stirge was cleaved in two, blood spraying in a streak.

”ફ્રીઝરે” (Ray of Frost)

A beam of white light shot from Anser’s palm and struck the other stirge in an instant.

The stirge stiffened, white vapor billowing over its body. With a dull thud, it fell to the ground. Its wings twitched twice, then went still.

[You cast Ray of Frost on the stirge. The enemy is frightened. The stirge is hit, takes 4 cold damage—critical hit. Target dead. You gain 25 experience points…]

Still uneasy, Bratt stepped forward and pinned it to the ground with his sword.

”So ugly.” Only then did he clearly see the stirge’s full appearance.

Bat-shaped in form, yet bearing a needle-like elongated proboscis, its entire body was crimson red. Black downy fur grew along its head and back. It had many claws and a long tail.

Anser wrapped the glowing rod tightly again and tucked it back into his robes.

”Move, move,” he said, lifting his staff and heading off.

Light was useful in a fight, but it could also draw danger.

”Ah,” Bratt sighed, glancing at the stirge corpse on the ground, then picked up his pack and followed. ”From my adventuring experience, stirges are definitely top-grade magical materials. It’s a shame to leave them behind.”

”Staying alive comes first,” Anser replied, feeling somewhat baffled. He hadn’t expected Bratt—who seemed so cautious—to be this greedy. Was it an adventurer’s common flaw?

”You don’t understand. Without money, you can’t take a single step,” Bratt said. Just thinking about how his entire fortune had vanished made his heart ache in waves.

”We’ll think of something tomorrow.”

”This… hopefully we won’t run into the Flaming Fist. They’ve never been ones to listen to explanations…”

Beyond the collapsed city wall lay Dusthawk Hill. At its base was the Outer City—the Tumbledown area. The two moved along the way without seeing any lights or people.

The disaster had struck only a day ago, and everyone who could flee already had.

Anser didn’t go deep into the city. Instead, he followed the River Chionthar eastward and finally found some fleeing crowds at the cliffside cemetery.

They didn’t linger. The two went straight into Dusthawk Hill, crossed a ridgeline, and finally stopped after finding a concealed mountain hollow at higher ground.

There was a small patch of woodland here, and with the mountain’s mass blocking the view, it was enough to cut off other creatures’ lines of sight.

Using his staff like a walking stick, Anser checked that no venomous snakes were hiding in the grass. Then he dropped his pack, sat down heavily, and let out a long breath.

”This should be safe.”

Bratt set the pack down beside him, then cleared the area with his longsword, chopping branches at the same time to set up some simple alarm devices.

Anser possessed survival skills and knew a bit about wilderness living, but he didn’t move.

Right now, he only felt hungry and exhausted, his mind worn thin. Casting cantrips was not without cost.