Round Seven: Encounter

In the Star Realm, the Gith are unparalleled masters of movement. Forty-Seven thought he was fast enough, but seeing the fleeting figures of the Gith leading the way ahead, he knew such speed was merely a leisurely stroll for them.
Before long, the Gith’s fortress in the Star Realm appeared ahead. It glided gracefully through the silver sky like an island in flight. Gray-black stone towers with tall spires rose from the multi-layered defensive walls surrounding the island, piercing through the layers of stardust mist silently—as quiet as tombstones.
The Gith warriors ahead accelerated and vanished from Forty-Seven’s sight in an instant, once again proving they far surpassed even the most agile birds in the material world. Forty-Seven grunted, suppressing the urge to breathe dragon fire to see if he could scorch their backsides.
A shimmering barrier of light swept over Forty-Seven, enveloping his entire body. As anyone with even a little insight would agree, Morriel didn’t want to approach a city full of Gith unprepared. The force field shield, under the strange energies of the Star Realm, was no longer the invisible state it once was; instead, its kaleidoscopic glow was dazzling. Yet in this magical land of mind and spellcraft, the effects of spells were greatly amplified, ensuring that Forty-Seven in his dragon form was also covered.
Forty-Seven flew toward the fortress. At first, it seemed like just a ruined, majestic ruin, as even the watchtowers around it were empty. But as the distance shortened, he suddenly saw sentinels holding crossbows at their posts, and on the plaza built by flattening the rocks at the edge of the floating island, large groups of Gith warriors stood ready in formation.
It was quite interesting that life forms could only be detected within a range much smaller than what the eye could see—such was a characteristic of the Star Realm.
“The Gith are a real headache in the Star Realm. What do you plan to do? Or is trouble attracted to trouble?” Morriel complained as usual. “I don’t see anything good about staying in a Gith place… A woman of my age shouldn’t expect any surprises anymore.”
“Cheer up, Sister Morriel!” Kayro, as always, pumped her up with his fists, just as they used to do in Rain City.
Forty-Seven had no time to pay attention to the noise of a thousand ducks. He put the Gith’s silver blades aside for now; he had decided to take a look around—he hadn’t seen a spaceship in ages.
The dragon descended onto the plaza in front of the fortress’s gates, its cloud-like wings folding as it descended. Morriel pulled Kayro away from Forty-Seven, who was changing forms. In the Star Realm, where even the most difficult actions could be performed with just enough willpower, their movements were graceful, as if they were spirits floating in the air.
The light gradually faded from the three of them, flesh returning to flesh, metal to metal. When their feet touched the ground of the Gith fortress, normal gravity returned.

It’s pretty much like a space station… just dirtier. Forty-Seven stood at the edge of the square, ignoring the yellow eyes fixed on him, and stamped his foot hard. A square slab of stone about a foot across was kicked off and slid away from the fortress into the vast silver void.

This blatant act of destroying a Star Realm vessel caused unrest among the Gith forces, almost leading to a clash of weapons. Fortunately, the Gith commander in charge raised his hand to suppress his men, and Forty-Seven, who had shifted his attention to admire the fortress’s thick outer walls, stopped causing further damage.

“I am Urad, a traveler from the Primary Material Realm,” said the commander as he approached Moriel. His magically crafted armor, adorned with intricate patterns and reliefs, was embedded with many red and blue gems, exaggerating just how extraordinary he was—no wonder it wasn’t easy for outsiders to distinguish individual Gith members by appearance.

“According to our soldiers, you begged for shelter in our sacred castle until you could find a way to leave the Star Realm?” Urad spoke in Dragon Language, his tone cold and arrogant—though this was out of respect for Moriel being a powerful mage. “So, travelers, what kind of tribute do you intend to offer in return?”

“Well, we’ll ensure your pathetic little fortress doesn’t get completely destroyed,” Moriel thought maliciously, glancing at Forty-Seven.

“As you can see, I’m a mage with some knowledge,” Moriel replied, bowing slightly out of respect and using the common language of his world. “During my stay in this castle, I’m willing to assist the mighty Gith in any task within my ability.”

To the Gith, this was a rather “unreasonable” request, as the female mage hadn’t offered anything substantial—neither rare materials nor powerful magical items. Only someone with enough confidence and courage to face the Gith army would dare ask such a thing, and whether they’d succeed depended on their true abilities.

Urad didn’t hesitate long. Perhaps he sensed Moriel’s extremely strong mental aura, maybe Forty-Seven, who was watching the spectacle, confused him, or there was some other reason only he knew.

“You may stay temporarily in the subordinate city of the lower-class,” Urad said, pointing in the direction of a narrow path along the castle wall that stretched outward to the other side of the fortress, wide enough for two people to walk side by side. “I’ll give you orders if anything arises. Also, be careful with your words and actions, travelers. This isn’t the stinky Primary Material Realm.”

“What did that guy just say to you?” Forty-Seven asked, looking around the path. Aside from the impenetrable stone walls behind him, the surroundings in all three directions were nothing but endless voids.

“Let’s go. Haven’t you seen enough after staring at this for so long?” Moriel nudged him from behind. “He said he’s honored by your presence, that it brings glory to his humble abode…”

What does “so long” even mean? I’ve seen this my whole life.

The entrance to the vassal city was far more shabby—completely insignificant compared to the grand main gate with its imposing presence and square. The Githyanki sentries on the gate tower had clearly received orders; they glared at them with their cloudy yellow eyes, gave them a quick once-over, and raised the iron gates. Oh, and two other Githyanki warriors dragged out a blood-soaked, unresponsive man from the gate as if he were a dead dog and threw him into the Star Realms, where he floated away, spraying blood droplets—so perhaps the gates weren’t opened just to welcome the Forty-Seven.

“Get lost now! And if I see even a trace of blood on the ground when I come back, you idiots will end up like that guy!” The warrior turned and stormed back into the city, shouting at the onlookers, who immediately scattered quietly. Only a few short, half-orcish servants rushed out, struggling to carry iron buckets filled with sand and brooms to clean up. One of the half-orcs suddenly found a gemstone ring lost in a crack in the stone amidst the blood—probably left by that unlucky dead man. He quickly picked it out with nimble fingers and clutched it, but this didn’t go unnoticed by his companions. They stopped working and gathered around, whispering and arguing over who should own it, until a tall warrior came back, forcefully broke the half-orc’s fingers to take the ring, and “had” to break the poor creature’s arm to do so.

The Githyanki soldiers paid no attention to this. They continued their patrol, leaving behind only two pole-like silhouettes—after all, there couldn’t be any blood on the ground when they returned.

Kairo gasped in shock at the brutality, unable to bear to look away.

Moriel also frowned. She stepped around the blood without pausing. But as she passed by the half-orc sitting on the street, wailing in pain from his twisted right hand, she already had an ivory staff as thick as a pen shaft in her hand and touched it on his shoulder. Gentle, abundant positive energy flowed into him, traveling along his arm, realigning and healing the broken bones and damaged muscles. By the time every fingertip of the half-orc glowed with a faint white light, his injuries would be fully healed in just a few days.

The half-orc, probably experiencing healing magic for the first time, looked up in surprise, searching for his benefactor. He saw Kairo turn back and make a face at him, then was kicked by the Forty-Seven to the other side of the street—though aside from a sore bottom, he wasn’t hurt at all.

“Hey, good morning or good afternoon, beautiful lady of the Material Plane,” said a thief who had witnessed it all, quickly catching up to them. He walked lightly backward in front of Moriel, chatting with her. Two barely noticeable keratinous protrusions seemed to be on his forehead, hidden in the shadow of his cloak hood. “You’re really kind. But in a place like this, kindness always brings misfortune… Be careful, ladies.”

Moriel wasn’t interested in him. She continued walking expressionlessly. “Misfortune? Are you introducing yourself?”

“Haha, you’re quite amusing. Well, let me introduce myself first. My name is Gell, an adventurer like you who accidentally got trapped here…” The thief seemed to have eyes at the back of his head, easily avoiding obstacles and passersby. “Interested in a deal? I’ve got some nice things here—”

Gell lifted his magic cloak. His leather armor was a bit worn but fit well, with a short sword sheathed in black leather hanging at his waist. The emerald on its hilt clearly held great value. There were also two wands in the inner pocket of his cloak, but it wasn’t these he wanted to show the female mage.

“Look, this is the hard currency popular in any outer realm!” Gell took out a dirty money pouch, stained with dark marks that gave it an unappealing appearance.

Mysteriously, he pulled out a coin from the pouch—it wasn’t made of gold, silver, or copper. The coin was entirely dark red, with faint black streaks in the center, looking like solidified blood. “Amazing blood coins! Let’s keep our voices down—these are produced by dark coin mills run by great demons deep in the Ninth Hell, with a truly unique craftsmanship! Legend has it that even the lords of the Nine Hells use them to pay their armies! Miss, have you heard of the Paradise Coins produced in Platinum Paradise? Their brilliance can blind one! If we ignore other trivial factors and make a simple comparison, blood coins are like the Paradise Coins of hell! How about it? Interested in a deal? In my previous adventures, I’ve used up most of my gear… And you clearly just arrived in the outer realms! You must have plenty of resources, as can be seen from your entourage!”

As he stepped back, Gell tossed the pouch full of blood coins back and forth between his hands. “Sigh, I originally planned to save this money to invest in the City of Ten Thousand Gates. But whether I can even make it there in my current state is doubtful… I can’t be too picky. Let’s exchange one blood coin for the value of one main material gold coin! This is a price unmatched anywhere! Miss, would you be willing to part with your healing wand? Anything else will do too! Anything you don’t need? Wands, potions, enchanted items—trading with me, Gell, you won’t lose out!”

Morrill stopped in her tracks.

She stared coldly at the smiling Gell. “It’s indeed a price unmatched anywhere.”

“Do you think I’m a fool, Mr. Gell?” the female mage sneered mercilessly. “Just because I look like some noble lady who knows nothing and ran away from home because of fairy tales? You want to trade with me using blood coins? Fine, but it seems your money is dirty… Can we find a place to clean it? Maybe we won’t even need to—just rub it on a stone for a few minutes, and it’ll turn to dust! Tell me, Mr. Gell, besides maybe getting a few copper coins in hell, where else would anyone want to accept this stuff?”

The thief’s face darkened. He shoved the money pouch into his cloak, the small horns on his forehead seeming even more prominent: “So it’s pointless now, isn’t it, miss? If we can’t do business, can we at least be friends? Do you really think you’re strong enough to not need anyone’s friendship? This isn’t the main material world. Even if it’s just a little help—why can’t you be generous enough to save a worthless half-orc slave? Miss, you should know…”
Forty-Seven, who had been watching, was glad to see the talks break down.
Gel’s words were forced back into his throat by an iron hand gripping it, and he was lifted up and pressed against the outer wall of a simple stone house on the street, sending dust flying.
Forty-Seven tightened his grip methodically, watching as the thief futilely tried to break free, his eyes gradually bulging and turning red: “Did I come here to make you happy? The hell did I come here to make you happy?”
Moriel glanced around—she saw no one willing to intervene.
Although it didn’t matter whether this swindler trying to take advantage of her lived or died, the Gith soldiers might return at any time, causing unnecessary trouble. Mostly, it was because Kayro was watching… It wouldn’t be good to be too violent.
“Enough. Teach him a lesson and send him away,” Moriel said, then walked away with Kayro.
“Ears? Eyes? Tongue? Or… it seems you have some bone growths. How about I take care of that for you?” Forty-Seven raised his other hand, the tip of his index finger transforming into a sharp hook, slowly reaching toward the horn-like protrusion on Gel’s forehead.
Gel stopped struggling. He stared at the gleaming iron hook approaching, his face already purple from the pressure, showing a somewhat strange expression.
A cloud of black smoke with a sulfur smell suddenly enveloped the thief. Forty-Seven felt his grip loosen, and Gel, along with his cloak, dagger, and blood coins, turned into a fluid-like blur in the smoke—slipping out of his hands like melted snowman.
“Another trick?” Forty-Seven casually watched the black smoke flow away through his fingers, clenching his fist until his knuckles turned red hot like irons.
The smoke took the shape of a snake and rushed to the far end of the street, coiling back together to reform Gel’s body. Reassembling oneself after disintegrating was clearly no easy task; he looked exhausted, with one side of his face slightly skewed as if he’d had a stroke. The thief stepped back, rubbing his neck, but Forty-Seven didn’t seem inclined to chase after him.
“Next time… there will be plenty of time,” Gel said before disappearing into the poorly built, jumbled stone structures.
“Next time? Maybe we shouldn’t keep putting everything off until tomorrow like the winter crow,” Forty-Seven muttered, scratching his chin. But when he turned around, he found Moriel and Kayro blocked again by a very tall blue-skinned creature—what was going on? Could it really be that foreign movie stars were all prettier than locals?

“Hello, mighty warrior.” That creature was far wiser than Gell. He slowly and gracefully raised his hand to greet the approaching Forty-Seven: “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Jacob, an ordinary merchant.”
“I’m Hosenbruz, a great thief.” Forty-Seven, realizing he even had to look up at him, grew even more annoyed: “Hand over your coffee grinder, kid.”
“Hm?… Coffee grinder?” The merchant named Jacob wore a ridiculous hat made of what seemed to be several seashells combined, and his dark blue silk robe was layered upon layer—no one knew exactly how many—his hands crossed in front of his chest, those spider-leg-like, slender, and flexible fingers intertwined, with magic rings glinting among them.
He leaned forward slightly and asked tentatively, “I don’t have such an item right now. If you need it…”
“Ignore him. Does he look like someone who can make coffee by himself?” Morriel seemed quite friendly toward Jacob: “Mr. Jacob, you said earlier you’re a plane merchant?”
“Oh, of course.” Feeling that Forty-Seven’s hostility wasn’t as strong anymore, Jacob turned back and squinted at the female mage with his long, thin eyes: “Travelers, the wisdom and strength you showed in your interactions with the half-demon Gebul of Teflin have left a deep impression on me. Might I have the honor of inviting you to my humble abode? You must be tired from your journey… Please, do come. I’d be honored, Mr. Hosenbruz.”
Kairo glanced at Forty-Seven in confusion: “Hey… When did you change to such a complicated and unpleasant name?”
“It’s not just me who changed my name.” Forty-Seven grinned at her. “From now on, you’ll have to call your sister Morriel ‘Archmage Tzvakayelman’… And by the way, you’ll also have to make mashed potatoes for her every day.”