Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee Chapter 187: Messed Memories

I was already walking away when the bookmaker called after .

"Hey, boy!"

I turn back. He’s still got the betting and matchups ledger open in front of him. He taps the page three tis in quick succession.

"You forgot to register your war na."

"Right... of course."

I stand there, hand on the rail of the stand. It seed easy enough to pick a fighter’s na—but nothing fits. Everything I run through my head either sounds wrong or too arrogant or like a stage costu soone else has already worn.

The reason we’re doing the Oathring right now is to train and to execute a much bigger plan later. Obviously, a handful of fights here isn’t going to give us the experience we actually need, but we’ll get there. Step by step.

And the reason is to raid a Deepwarden base. To find my father. He’s the only person who can help us rescue Lola.

’3-in-1 benefits...’

I glance over at the group across the plaza, near the convenience shop. Oliver, Veric, Rhayne. And on my Party HUD, Lola’s heart still beats. Steady. Rhythmic. A small tether of synchronicity that keeps my sanity intact. The days are piling up since I last saw her, and the absence of Lola is starting to feel strangely familiar. Like she’s always been gone, and I’ve always been carrying the empty shape of her.

So that’s why I choose the na.

"My na will be Uncle. Uncle Den."

I say it looking at the palm of my hand, not entirely sure why. Another fresh mory of a woman I don’t want to recall surfaces unbidden—the warmth of her hand in mine, her thumb tracing the small lines across my palm.

I shake my head. Push the thought aside. Stupid place for that to co up. I need to focus on the plans to rescue Lola.

The bookmaker scratches the na onto the page without comnt. Doesn’t ask why. Probably doesn’t care.

I push off the stand and walk back toward my team.

I decide to tell them to stay in the crowd at the Oathring. They aren’t the target after the last failed attempt, and from inside the crowd, Rahul won’t dare try anything. The Deepwarden wouldn’t tolerate two mistakes in one day, especially when one of them already involves one of their own.

I don’t need to ask if Oliver is okay. He’s visibly much better. Walking on his own again, back to chewing on a piece of his jerky like nothing happened.

He offers a strip without a word. I just smile at him in a polite refusal.

I’m satisfied that it was only a scare. And I start asking myself why every bad thing in our day seems to always land on Oliver’s turn. It could easily be a signature of Chaos Theory, and I start running through possible interventions to break the pattern.

"Listen up." I keep my voice low. "Head to the bleachers. Watch my fight from there. Safer in the middle of the crowd after what just happened."

"Wouldn’t it be safer to head to the royal castle?" Veric suggests.

I think about it for a mont. The castle has Garen and his entire household guard, and Rahul would never extend an arm into that periter—not even by proxy. It’s the right call, tactically.

"If you think that’s safer, fine. I can handle myself here."

"I’m not leaving Dryden’s side," Rhayne says, head down, looking at sothing on her feet that doesn’t exist for any of us.

"Right..." Veric says, his voice sounding a little disappointed. To cover it, he turns to Oliver. "Need a hand, sir?"

"Ha! Sir? That’s a good one." Oliver laughs out loud, genuinely enjoying the treatnt Veric is offering him.

Veric has been changing lately. His arrogance has shrunk by visible degrees. What’s left is still a noble, still loaded with the small habits a childhood under crystal chandeliers stamps into you—still flicking imaginary dust off his shoulders, still using his last na like a weapon when the situation calls for it. But sowhere under all of that, a different person has surfaced. Soone willing to help. Soone willing to lift another’s weight without being asked, and without making a show of it.

We head toward the bleachers.

The crowd is openly tracking Oliver with their eyes. I wonder why, so I lean over to a nearby spectator and ask.

"It’s because... because... well... he... that... he’s a patron summoner!" The man stamrs it so badly I have to piece the words together myself, but the aning lands.

The crowd that saw Duvilin appear thinks it was Oliver’s defensive patron. Excellent.

Defensive patrons are creatures summoned by classes of Order S or above, and Oliver just gained status by accident—which saves from having to explain anything to Rahul. The Deepwarden will be running his face through every database they have, looking for a class that fits. They’ll co up empty, but the investigation will buy us ti.

I make a ntal note to thank the universe for delivering an alibi I didn’t have to forge, but I need to monitor how far these rumors spread to protect him and ensure his safety.

I walk toward the entrance of the Oathring, preparing myself for whatever is about to co. I chose my opponent, knowing exactly the difficulty I was inviting.

So might call it imprudence. Others, arrogance.

I’d just call it showti.

And a demonstration of why I survived so long in the trenches with so many deaths brushed off as monster kills, when they were actually Diver-versus-Diver hits disguised by clever reporting.

The crowd doesn’t seem particularly interested in . After Oliver’s loss, the spotlight on our team has cooled considerably. That’s fine. Lower expectations are easier to invert later and earn money.

I nod at the narrator-judge. He authorizes to enter the arena on the opposite side from the contender. My opponent hasn’t arrived yet. If he had, the entire crowd would already know.

I step inside the periter pillars. The blue energy hums softly as I cross.

Ti to find out how far Cassio Veil is from becoming the man I knew.