Chains of Fate

Ralph de Morgan's Night Patrol

Early in the morning, Blake, still riding the thrill of his previous night's gambling success, clapped Ralph on the shoulder and slipped a silver coin into his hand.

"Good man!" Blake said, laughing heartily.

Last night, Ralph had helped Blake turn the tables at the gambling table, allowing Blake to turn his losses into a winning streak. Ralph accepted the silver coin without hesitation, advising with a smile, "Gambling's a losing game nine times out of ten. Don't go overboard."

"Don't worry about me—I know what I'm doing," Blake replied, waving off the concern.

As they headed out, they passed by a few other guards who had lost everything the previous night. They looked haggard and glared at Blake, some of them even shooting cold glances at Ralph, clearly holding a grudge over his assistance to Blake.

According to custom, the winner treated everyone to drinks. Blake happily agreed and promised to take them all to Red Oak Tavern that night. After setting the plan, the group dispersed to rest.

Ralph returned to his small house near the Baron's estate. The modest one-room cottage had all the essentials. He drank some water and immediately began practicing his new martial arts.

Thunder Strike was an external martial art, focused on building physical strength rather than channeling inner energy. Following the guidance he'd learned from Roderick Evans, Ralph carefully practiced each movement, focusing on his form and power. After three hours, he felt himself approaching the first stage of mastery.

In the evening, Ralph headed to Red Oak Tavern for the planned gathering. Blake was treating, but knowing he had the night shift, Ralph refrained from drinking. The older guards didn't have such reservations; to them, as long as they didn't get drunk, a bit of drink wouldn't hurt. The officers rarely conducted late-night inspections, unless it was an emergency.

With everyone slightly tipsy, they made it to the prison just in time, narrowly avoiding a delay. However, as they arrived, they ran into Head Warden Pratt, who eyed the tipsy guards with a deep frown.

"Scoundrels!" he barked. "Do you have any sense of decency while on duty?"

A few of the senior guards quickly stepped forward to explain. "Sir, you know how it is; the night shift's damp and cold. A bit of drink helps keep our bones from rotting out in three years."

"Indeed, sir. We're always dedicated to our duty, only occasionally needing a bit of relief," another chimed in.

"Not to mention, this month our meal allowance's been cut short, barely enough to keep up our strength," added another, hoping to sway Pratt's frustration.

The guards were clearly relying on their seniority to smooth things over, but Ralph, as a newcomer, stayed in the back, keeping quiet and following the others' lead.

Pratt shot them a cold look but knew that this wasn't the time to press the issue. The warden waved them off, annoyed.

"Get out of my sight. And if I catch you like this again, there will be consequences."

"Thank you for your mercy, sir!" the guards replied, hiding their relief. While Pratt wasn't high-ranking enough for the title "sir," the guards used it to show respect and appease him. They knew that if Pratt seriously pursued them over a bit of drink, they had ways of making his life difficult.

Luckily, Pratt didn't push the issue, and the guards quickly headed to their posts in the prison.

During the night shift, Ralph took it upon himself to patrol the prison. When he reached Roderick Evans's cell, he pulled out a bottle of wine and a wrapped portion of cured meat, passing them through the bars.

"No roast chicken this time—cured meat will have to do."

Roderick didn't mind; he eagerly grabbed the food, tearing into it with ravenous delight. After taking a long swig from the bottle, he sighed with satisfaction. "It's been too long since I've tasted wine. The other guards are vultures—none of them would treat me this decently. But this meat, it doesn't taste like it's from the tavern I mentioned."

"I picked it up from a small shop on the way here," Ralph replied, taking care not to involve the tavern Roderick had mentioned to avoid the appearance of colluding with him.

Roderick paused briefly, then nodded with understanding. "Don't worry, I know the rules. I won't ask you to pass messages—that would be crossing a line."

Satisfied with Roderick's discretion, Ralph nodded, then asked about his training. "How long does it usually take to master Thunder Strike? And to reach the first level?"

Roderick set down his bottle, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "For most people, at least a week to enter the basics. If their talent's lacking, it could take a month. Me? I reached the basics in three days and the first level in two months."

Ralph was taken aback. He had reached the basics in just a few hours—was he truly a martial arts prodigy?

But then, he thought of his limitations. Despite his skills, he lacked a martial vein and couldn't cultivate inner strength. The idea that fate had gifted him physical skill but denied him the ability to advance to a true martial path filled him with frustration. Why give him talent but deny him power? It seemed a cruel twist of fate.

"Do you have any inner strength techniques?" he asked.

Roderick paused, then set down his food and looked at Ralph earnestly. "Look, I know you're not satisfied. Many ordinary folks like you have tried to break through the limits of their bodies to train inner strength, but every one of them has failed. Some even ended up dead from the attempt. I know a few techniques, but if I teach you, it's as good as killing you. Trying to force inner strength is a death sentence—none of them lived past thirty. Don't risk it, Ralph."

Ralph's frustration suddenly melted into excitement. "So you're saying it costs years of life?"

"More than that. Without a martial vein, forcing inner strength techniques is just trading your life away. Only those with martial veins can truly cultivate, extending their lifespan. Ralph, I get your frustration, but take my advice—give it up."

"No need to persuade me; I'll take responsibility for myself. Just teach me the technique," Ralph insisted.

Roderick looked at him, perplexed and almost regretful. He had believed Ralph was wise enough to know his limits, but now he feared he would watch him walk into a death trap.