The conversation with the corrupted soul hung heavily in Imp’s mind as she finished walking up the hill to reach the orchard. It was the only stable source of food that she could think of, and she needed something to eat now before she started to look for a more complete food source. The green-yellow leaves of the apple trees in the distance served as a marker for her feet to track while her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

  The corrupted soul reminded her of an adventurer who was past their prime. It was a worry for all adventurers and Imp was not immune to the thought. The tired demeanor, the desire to continue, and the knowledge that nothing good would come from continuing. Imp had always known that there would be a day when she stepped into a dungeon and failed to see a trap before springing it. Or a day where she missed the telltale signs of an ambush and the caravan under her protection would pay the price.

  Adventuring was not a long-term profession. There was a reason that older adventurers spent more time in guilds and taverns than they did in dungeons. Sure, they were there to make sure that the upstarts knew the ropes, but they were also there to avoid the tremor in their hand from acting up right before dealing the killing blow to a demi-dragon.

  Imp had seen that light fall from the eyes of adventurers that she considered to be friends, mentors, and even rivals. If Imp had cared about that though, she would have accepted the knighthood that the Regent tried to arm her and Assan with. Then she would not have to keep delving into dungeons or protecting traveling caravans. When her prime was passed, she would have been able to live out her days comfortably as the knight retainer in a faraway castle.

  The thoughts evaporated when Imp reached the edge of the orchard. There was a small stone fence to mark the land and just beyond that, at the closest tree, a worn leather pack sat on the ground. A few leaves had fallen onto the pack, threatening to one day hide it entirely beneath nature’s decomposition. However, for now, Imp’s travel pack was still easily recognizable.

  She vaulted over the fence with ease and knelt at the pack. This was not exactly where she remembered leaving it. Imp had been sure that she had her pack with her when she went to the chapel. Yet here it was.

  This was the tree that Imp had picked an apple from on her way into town. Looking up at the branches, she could see the exact place where she had pulled a golden-hued lamplighter’s apple. It was just at the edge of her reach. She vaguely remembered setting the pack down so that she could reach it without finding a ladder.

  After opening the top of the pack to confirm it was hers, Imp reached up to the tree and plucked a few more of the overly sweet apples. One stayed in her hand, to eat now, while the rest disappeared into the pack before she slung it over her shoulder. With the pack, Imp now had several changes of clothes, emergency rations, and a few survival tools.

  What she still did not have was real food and a weapon. Looking around, Imp saw a string of farmhouses through the orchard’s rows. They sat between the crop fields and the orchard. Imp could not be sure if there was anything left behind, but it was worth checking.

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  Nearly an hour later, Imp was wearing a fresh set of clothes. She had used the washroom to clean up. While her travel clothes were not as dirty as they could have been, they bore several days of dirt and sweat from her time on the road. After clearing off the grim of travel, Imp felt her nerves settle slightly.

  The gloom of Delden Town still hung on her shoulders. A corrupted soul forced to hunt down the souls of their former neighbors, the idea of it bit at her core. Even the priest, her only true conversation partner in Delden Town, had revealed a dark truth about his nature.

  Imp searched through the farmhouse’s pantry. A small room attached to the kitchen that had once been stocked with all manner of flours and cooking essentials. However, now it sat in ruins. It was not ruined by bandits but by time. A shelf had been held up by a broom handle, presumably until a permanent solution was found.

  At some point, the handle snapped, and the shelf fell. Oil and flour crashed into jars of spice and sugar and the room smelled sickly sweet. Imp could not tell if there was anything to salvage. She left the pantry behind and looked for a more permanent storeroom. Fortunately, the larder was freshly stocked.

  It was slightly larger than the pantry and instead of being attached to the kitchen, the larder was a chilled room in the farmhouse's basement. While all the produce and fresh dairy had long since spoiled, Imp was able to find a block of hard cheese and a container of dried fruits.

  After breaking off a portion of the cheese, Imp started to pick through the breads that the deceased owners had left behind. Most were either starting to mold or were completely lost to decay. After half-heartedly searching, Imp found a loaf that was stale but not inedible.

  It was enough for a few days. More importantly, the cheese, fruit, and bread that she found would taste better than the hard biscuits that served as her emergency rations. Those were for when things were truly dire and not even fruit trees offered sustenance. With a stable source of food for future hunger, Imp made her way out of the farmhouse to look for the last thing she needed: a weapon.

  Imp’s sword would have served her well. The metal was already blessed through ancient rites. She would need to sanctify it at the stream before it would deal with the corrupted soul in a single slash. That sword, though, was no longer hers.

  When she was traveling toward Delden Town and taking on odd contracts to make enough money, she eventually had to start selling gear when the work began to dry up. First went the armor, then her spear. Without the full gear, she had looked like a wandering rogue. There were some contracts left, a monster in the woods, and a merchant wanting protection on a trip to the north. Her sword was more than enough to handle those.

  Eventually, those contracts dried up as well and Imp had to sell more gear to afford the journey. She parted with her sword last, when she was just a few days from Delden Town. There was no point in going back for it now, Imp knew from the gleam in the merchant’s eyes that it was going to be sold quickly. For all she knew, the sword had found its way back to the dungeons in the hands of someone who could wield it earnestly.

  Looking down at Delden Town from the string of farmhouses, Imp knew that there were weapons somewhere in there. After all, she had seen the destruction through the eyes of a bandit. There were more blades and axes than she had been able to count. Though… only one truly stuck out in her memory: The sword that her father had drawn.

  The sword was a gift from the state for services performed under great danger. It had been personally given to her father by the Regent. Its dark red blade was rumored to be made from dragons and titans. It had a fantastical name that eluded Imp, but she wondered if it still lay somewhere in Delden Town.

  At least she had someone she could ask. Supposedly, the reaper in priest’s clothing had buried the dead. That should have included her father and even in death, she wondered if that blade could leave her father’s hand.