Eli's reply carried the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance—not the hollow bravado of a fool, but the quiet certainty of someone who'd stared down hydras and lived to sketch their teeth. He'd never once doubted his ability to see this through, and for a long moment, Niquel could only stare at him, the capital noble's usual poise cracking under the weight of that conviction. It wasn't Eli's strength that stunned him, though—it was the sheer scope of the ambition.
Power was common among nobles like him; a dream so big it felt like a dare to fate? That was rare.
"I truly hope you finish that notebook," Niquel said at last, his voice softer than before. "For this world… it could mean everything."
Eli just grinned, tucking the quill pen behind his ear. People with real vision didn't waste breath on empty praise. They forged ahead, ink-stained and unapologetic, because the story was worth the risk. That's why his notebook existed.
He'd been in this world for twelve years now. His childhood had been a patchwork of lessons from Pastor Tallas, the grizzled hunter who'd taken him in as a scrawny kid with no memory of where he came from.
Tallas had been a master of the Sethelis Plateau's wilds—could track a frost-wolf by the half-moon scratch of its claws, knew which mushrooms near the Noisy River would cure poison, and had once wrestled a cave bear with nothing but a sharpened branch.
But even the best hunters had their limits. Tallas died on a hunt gone wrong: a landslide beast, bigger than any he'd faced, had collapsed a cliff on him. Eli remembered the day they brought him back—Tallas's body crushed beneath a slab of granite, his hunting knife still clutched in his hand.
That loss had lit a fire in Eli. He'd spent months going over Tallas's journals, piecing together the old hunter's knowledge, and realized something: this world was beautiful, yes, but it was also hungry. Monsters lurked in every shadow—stone-toothed gorgons in the Stonefang Mountains, shadow-stalkers in the Underdark, hydras with venom that melted steel. Even the "civilized" races had their dangers: the gray dwarves of Syon hated outsiders, the Slara toads of Jackal Valley were territorial to the point of murder, and the two great empires were always on the brink of war. One wrong step, one misread sign, and you were a footnote in some bard's tragedy.
Hunters needed a guide. Not just a list of monsters, but a story of the world—where to go, what to avoid, how to survive. So Eli started writing.
His notebook, The Volume of Mountains and Seas, was a chaotic masterpiece. He'd draw maps of every valley he passed, sketch monsters with obsessive detail (down to the number of spines on a manticore's tail), and jot down everything he learned: which plants cured fever, which caves housed sleeping dragons, how to barter with nomadic centaurs. He took it so seriously that he'd even asked his friends for feedback. Siona, the elven ranger who traveled with him, had nearly thrown the book at him once.
"You note the landslide beast's pre-quake rumble and its ability to turn flesh to stone—fine, that's useful," she'd said, arms crossed. "But 'meat is tender when roasted low and slow, especially if marinated in lakeleaf juice to lock in moisture'? Eli, are you writing a hunting guide or a recipe book? Last week you added a section on 'best spices for griffin steak'!"
Siona hated studying, but she never missed a meal Eli cooked. Over time, the notebook had become a weird mix of survival tips, monster lore, and surprisingly detailed recipes. Eli didn't mind. He'd named it The Volume of Mountains and Seas as a private joke—his own version of the Classic of Mountains and Seas, that ancient Earth text he'd read in a past life. Arrogant? Maybe. But fitting. Both books were love letters to the strange, dangerous worlds they chronicled. Of course, his was nowhere near as vast yet. But he'd get there. It had already saved his skin more times than he could count.
"Map's done," Eli said, closing the black leather-bound notebook with a snap. He glanced at the group, who were sprawled on the rocky outcrop, catching their breath. "Rest up. We need to talk descent. I heard the south slope of Eagle's Beak is gentle, but the north? Near-vertical. We climbed the long, winding path on the south—easy enough. The north has a 200-meter iron chain path, barely wide enough for one person. We need to decide who goes first. This ain't a stroll."
He pointed to the cliffside ahead. There, a frayed black chain hung from the rock, anchored by rusty iron rings every few feet. Carved into the stone beside it were shallow handholds—just enough to grip. Below, 200 meters down, a broad slate ledge jutted out, shaped uncannily like a giant toad. That was Toad Rock. Below that, a gentle staircase led to the valley. Above? Nothing. Just sky and the occasional screech of a mountain hawk.
The sight left everyone speechless. Most just sighed, adjusting their packs. Niquel, though, burst out, his aristocratic calm shattered.
"Is this a path for humans? A rusty chain and some holes? Slide 200 meters down? It's insane! Is there no other way?"
Typical capital noble, Eli thought. Umai, Niquel's bodyguard, went quiet, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Gawain, the dwarf drummer, snorted—loud enough to startle a nearby bird. Siona, blunt as ever, cut in before Eli could reply.
"There is. The Bluestone Road, fits carriages. But you chose Eagle's Beak. You said the scenic trail was better, forced us off the main road. You're the employer—we followed you here. Now you want to turn back?"
Niquel's face flushed. He opened his mouth to argue, but Umai stepped forward, his voice calm but firm.
"My lord isn't turning back—he's worried. Lord Eli, look closer. That chain's covered in rust, and the handholds are slimy with moss. It looks abandoned. Any slip could be fatal."
Smart guy, this bodyguard. Eli inspected the chain. Yeah, it hadn't been used in ages. He'd been hired to solve problems, after all.
"Niquel, that chain's a deathtrap," Eli said, standing up. "Let's try a faster route to Toad Rock."
He grabbed Niquel and Umai by the arms, pulling them close. Siona and Gawain, old hands at Eli's antics, instantly hoisted their packs. Niquel blinked, confused.
"Faster route? What do you mean—ah!"
Eli yanked both men toward the cliff edge, gave them a shove, and leaped after them. Siona and Gawain followed without hesitation. Five figures plummeted down the rock face, the wind tearing at their cloaks.
If the chain was out, why not jump? Sometimes, the fastest path was straight down.