CH288 Idealist Meets Cynical Pragmatist

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Back inside Earl Drake's office, just after Alex had been tossed out, a faint spark of lightning flickered at Drake's feet—a telltale sign that he had just used a movement technique.

[Abyssal Conqueror's Step: Third Step – Wraith's Crossing]

He lingered by the desk for a moment before turning toward the window, gazing out at the open sky.

"Amelia, you would be so proud of your boy if you were here. He certainly takes after you," he murmured, a soft, caring smile tugging at his lips.

For a moment, memories of the past surfaced—bittersweet fragments filled with joy, melancholy, and loss.

Just as Alex was about to embark on his own path, Drake too had once stepped away from his minor branch of the Fury family. Their founding baron had died more than half a century earlier, and though most would have folded under the wing of a stronger branch, his kin were stubborn—nay, dogmatic—about remaining independent, even as everything crumbled around them.

Drake had left home after learning his parents had passed away while he was still at the agoge—not that he had known them well to begin with.

The road was far from smooth. Back then, Drake was a nobody, wandering battlefield after battlefield, chasing coin and the fabled honour and glory that were said to be won in war.

Coin, he found aplenty. But the honour and glory? All he discovered was misery, pain, and memories best forgotten.

After a decade of taking orders, Drake grew weary. He longed for a brotherhood of his own—comrades he could truly trust with his back amid the endless wars plaguing the continent of Arun.

But founding such a band was easier said than done. Who would willingly follow a lone berserker, especially one whose bloodline only made him more vulnerable to archetype class's mental instability?

His attempts failed, and his calls went unanswered.

One night, as he drank away his frustration, a voice broke through his solitude.

"Wow! Your drinking form is so beautiful and elegant," said a young woman.

She wore a pristine white mage's robe, clutching a book to her chest.

The sight was almost surreal—a bright, graceful healer speaking so warmly to a gruff, battle-worn warrior clad in battered armour, his hair unkempt and his spirit frayed. Yet her gentle smile radiated a warmth that could have melted the coldest of hearts.

The female healer pinched the side of her eyeglasses as she adjusted it, the motion lending her a scholarly air.

"But you should cut back—or stop drinking entirely," she continued gently. "Alcohol is not good for your health in the long run, certainly not at the rate you're drinking it."

Her words sounded nonsensical to a veteran like Drake—after all, alcohol had been used as a medicinal staple for ages—but there was something about her presence, the conviction in her voice, that made even hardened drinkers pause.

Around them, patrons who had been drowning their sorrows—or joys—in drink suddenly glanced at their cups and jars, weighing the truth of her claim.

The tavern keeper grew visibly distressed. This sudden dip in morale, and perhaps sales, made her want to glare at the healer… but offending a mage was out of the question.

Drake, however, found the woman amusing.

She was a healer from a nearby mage tower, famed across the empire for producing high-quality healers. Their reputation was only slightly dimmed by their tendency to let their noses touch the sky –constantly looking down on everyone else.

This woman, however, clearly wasn't like that.

Still, Drake turned back to his mug and, without hesitation, downed its contents in a single swallow.

The healer pouted and stomped her foot at his blatant disregard for her well-meant advice.

"I'm sorry, my lady," Drake said, lowering the mug. "I know you're sincere. But there are people in this world who would willingly drink poison if it helped them forget—even for a moment. I just happen to be one of them."

There was a flicker of melancholy in his gaze.

His words caught her off guard. She pondered in silence for a heartbeat, then spoke as though making a decision.

"Alright. I understand," she said.

'Huh? Understand what?' Drake frowned internally.

"As a healer, I can't stand by and watch someone poison themselves," she continued.

'Why not? I've seen healers hand out poisons themselves to ease suffering,' Drake thought cynically.

"I'll show you there are other—more beneficial—ways to forget your pain," she declared firmly. "I'll help you forget your pain the right way. In exchange, you have to stop drinking."

'What is wrong with this woman? Is she playing a prank on me?' Drake wondered at first. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly. 'Wait… she's actually serious?'

He studied her more closely.

'Ah, I see… she's one of those naïve idealists I've heard about,' he assessed. His gaze travelled from her head to toe. 'Still… she's quite a beauty. Perhaps I can make use of this.'

The healer felt a flicker of offence at Drake's unabashed glance. She thought he was underestimating her abilities—a slight she wouldn't tolerate. She was just about to scold him when he spoke first.

"Alright. You look like a capable healer. My life would be a lot easier with someone competent at my side. As you can see, I'm a berserker—source of most of my troubles. So… what do you say?"

"I agree," the healer replied at once. Whatever lecture she had prepared scattered like leaves in the wind. "I'll make you the case study for my thesis while helping you overcome your alcohol addiction."

"That's fine by me," Drake said.

The two shook hands, each concealing a sly smile.

Drake believed a beautiful healer at his side would make it far easier to recruit companions for his fledgling mercenary group. Meanwhile, the healer thought she had finally found the perfect guinea pig for her research. She imagined countless experiments, all meant to prove her theories about alcohol's effects and how to rid its users of them.

"By the way, my name is Drake Fury," Drake introduced himself. "And you are?"

"A noble?" the healer blinked in surprise.

She had never seen a noble look so worn down—even as a berserker.

"Yes. Is that a problem?" Drake raised an eyebrow.

"No," she shook her head quickly. "My name is Amelia. I'm a commoner."

This time, it was Drake's turn to be taken aback. He hadn't expected a woman of such beauty, grace, and ability—an Intermediate, perhaps even nearing Elite-ranked healer—to be a commoner. Becoming a mage was costly; becoming a healer mage, even more so. Such people were almost always tied to noble houses or indebted to their mage towers.

Either way, she had to be a prodigy.

And yet, she bore only her tower's insignia—no crest of a noble patron. That meant she was independent. And, more importantly, she had agreed to their deal even after learning he was a noble.

"Well then," Drake lifted his mug in a toast. "Here's to the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

He downed another cup of alcohol in one go, leaving Amelia to sigh in bemusement.

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