Reborn as an Adventurer: I Gain a Skill From Every Monster I Eat

Chapter 127: Chapter 127 — Approaching the City

Ferris found him at breakfast the next morning and pressed a small parcel into his hands before he’d even finished asking directions — a wedge of hard cheese, a twist of dried rootbriar, ”for the road, since you asked about it properly instead of just eating it.” Arlen thanked him, settled his pack, and set out from the village a little past midmorning with the last of his exhaustion finally, fully behind him.

The road changed almost immediately.

Not dramatically, not all at once, but steadily — the packed dirt track that had carried him since Corvale widening by careful degrees, the ruts smoothing, gravel appearing in patches where the road crossed low or marshy ground. He noticed the first proper milestone late that same afternoon, a weathered stone marker carved with a distance he didn’t recognize and a symbol he did: the same stylized sunburst-and-road crest he’d seen once before, briefly, on a courier’s badge passing through Corvale.

Capital roads, he thought, running his thumb over the worn carving. Getting close enough now that they’re maintaining the way properly.

Traffic increased with the road. Where the stretch past Corvale had offered him a merchant cart every day or two, he now passed two or three in a single morning — heavier wagons than he’d seen before, drawn by sturdy draft horses, guarded more often than not by a pair of hired escorts who eyed him with brief, professional assessment before returning their attention to the road ahead.

”Heading to the capital?” one such guard called down to him, on the third day out from the village, her wagon rolling past at an easy pace.

”Eventually,” Arlen said. ”Taking my time about it.”

”Wish I had that luxury.” She laughed, not unkindly, and the wagon rolled on without further conversation.

He kept his own pace deliberately unhurried despite the road’s growing urgency, stopping where he pleased, cooking properly each evening rather than simply gnawing through dried rations, cataloguing what small, unfamiliar plants he found along the verges now that the terrain itself had begun shifting — the scrubby hedgerow country giving way, over the following days, to broader, more cultivated farmland, wheat and barley stretching gold toward low, rolling hills on either side of the road.

He passed two smaller waypoints in quick succession — a cluster of farmhouses too modest to properly call a village, where he traded a few coppers for fresh bread and the farmer’s wife pressed a jar of preserved plums on him ”for the road, since you’re clearly not from around here and ought to try them”; and a single, well-maintained coaching inn standing alone at a crossroads, evidently kept in business entirely by the courier traffic now passing steadily in both directions.

”Busy road, this close in,” the innkeeper told him, over a meal Arlen paid full price for without complaint, the coin no longer feeling quite so precious now that steady quest work and a year of careful saving sat behind him. ”Everything that matters to the crown eventually comes down this stretch. Grain, ore, messages, soldiers when there’s cause for them. You get used to the noise.”

Arlen didn’t mind the noise. If anything, he found himself oddly comforted by it — the sense, walking a road busier than anything he’d traveled since Ashford’s Crossing, of moving steadily toward the true center of something vast, rather than simply wandering its quiet edges.

He kept his journal current through those days, the entries shorter than his earlier, more reflective ones, but steady — a running account of terrain and traffic and small, accumulating detail, the kind of record he suspected he’d want later, once the specific texture of before the city had blurred into simple memory.

Day twenty-nine, he wrote, one such evening, camped a comfortable distance off the road where the traffic’s noise had finally faded into something more like the road’s ordinary weight than genuine crowding. Passed my third proper waypoint today — a horse-breeding operation, according to the fencing, though I didn’t stop long enough to ask. Road’s noticeably better maintained than anything since Corvale. Milestones every few miles now, all pointing the same direction.

I keep thinking about what the innkeeper said — that everything that matters to the crown eventually comes down this road. Strange, walking a path that carries with it that much accumulated purpose, when all I actually want from it is to see where it ends.

He crossed a proper stone bridge on the fifth day out from the last village — the first genuine stonework he’d seen since leaving Greyhaven, arched and solid over a wide, slow-moving river considerably larger than anything the Ashen Frontier had offered — and found himself stopping at its center for a long moment, simply watching the water below, before a merchant’s impatient wagon forced him to continue on.

The land kept changing around him. Farmland gave way, gradually, to something closer to managed woodland, tidy stands of trees clearly planted and tended rather than left to grow wild, and beyond them, on the eighth day, his first proper glimpse of the city he’d been steadily approaching all week — walls that dwarfed anything the Ashen Frontier had ever built, smoke rising from more chimneys than he could begin to count, and beyond the walls themselves, rooftops stacked and layered in a way that suggested a settlement considerably larger than even Ashford’s Crossing had been.

A milestone at the roadside named it plainly: Marrowgate, the distance marked beneath in careful capital script, and beneath that, smaller, the crest of whatever authority maintained the road this close to the crown’s own territory.

He didn’t push toward it that evening, content to make one more quiet camp within sight of Marrowgate’s distant walls rather than arrive road-worn and travel-stained after dark. He built his fire, prepared a proper meal from the last of Ferris’s rootbriar and a portion of dried meat, and sat for a while simply looking at the city’s scattered lights — more of them, spread wider across the horizon, than he’d ever seen gathered in one place — feeling the particular, settled anticipation of someone close enough to a destination to properly imagine it, without yet having to actually arrive.

Day thirty-three, he wrote, the entry carrying more weight than its brief length suggested. Marrowgate, the milestone called it. A proper city, walls alone bigger than anything the Ashen Frontier ever built, and from the spread of the lights, I think it may genuinely outsize Ashford’s Crossing. I could reach it tonight if I hurried. I don’t intend to hurry.

Eight days since the last village, and the road’s grown steadily busier and better kept the whole way — proof enough, I think, that whatever waits at the actual capital, this road has been built to carry the weight of it. I find myself genuinely curious what a city this size will actually feel like to stand inside.

Tomorrow, I suppose, I’ll find out.

He closed the journal, banked the fire low against the mild night, and settled in with Marrowgate’s distant lights still visible through the trees — a whole unfamiliar place waiting patiently for morning, and beyond it, weeks still, the true, enormous shape of everything this long road had been quietly building toward.