The Gate Traveler-Chapter 37B5 - : Signs of Something Better

We reached the next city marked on the Map, and its uniqueness became clearer as we drifted closer. This one was much smaller than the other cities we had passed before. Those other cities seemed to hold tens of thousands—perhaps even a hundred thousand people each. This city, however, looked like it might house around ten or twenty thousand tops.

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The walls—or rather, the lack of the towering, fortified stone walls we had grown used to—were the next noticeable difference. Instead of the imposing fortifications of stone that surrounded the other cities, this one had three rings of wooden palisades. They looked more functional than intimidating, a layered defense rather than a fortress.

Inside the first ring, residential houses stood in neat clusters. Between the first and second palisades, rows of what looked like warehouses or workshops stretched out. From the faint glint of tools and piles of stacked goods, it was clear this was where the city's industry was located. Beyond that, between the second and third rings, were fields—patches of green and brown, along with a few animal pens.

Another difference was the houses themselves. Some were built of stone, others of wood, yet none seemed grander than the others. It wasn’t like the other cities, which were divided into unmistakable rich and poor areas. Here, everything was almost uniform in quality.

But it was the people who truly made this city distinct. Even before we reached its outskirts, we began to spot them moving through the sparse woods surrounding the area. From above, the trees looked scattered, their canopies far apart, providing glimpses of the activity below. People walked briskly or worked in small groups, chopping down trees and hauling lumber. Some dragged bundles of sticks or firewood tied together, while others led dogs harnessed to carts. One group worked to skin an animal carcass with quick and efficient movements. And everyone carried a weapon—swords, spears, or even guns slung casually across their backs or resting in their hands. From this vantage point, the glint of steel and the dark barrels of rifles were impossible to miss.

Closer to the city, the activity intensified. Three distinct groups were chopping down the trees closest to the palisade, their axes rising and falling in steady rhythms. Nearby, another group was digging around a large stump, likely preparing to remove it. A small convoy of people pulled carts loaded with logs. Dogs barked occasionally, their tails wagging as they tugged at carts or trotted obediently beside their handlers. Watchtowers dotted the outermost palisade. Archers and riflemen watched from them, their heads swiveling as they scanned the horizon. Occasionally, one of them would lift a spyglass to peer into the distance.

The city buzzed with life like the larger ones hadn’t. From above, the streets seemed full of activity, people darting from place to place, carts and wagons rolling along the dirt paths between the rings of the palisades. Smoke curled up from chimneys, blending into the air as the balloon drifted overhead. Even the fields between the palisades weren’t still; people worked the land, tending crops or gathering supplies. It was as though every inch of the city was alive with purpose, every person a cog in a well-oiled machine. This city didn’t look like only a stronghold, but a community.

More dogs were pulling carts on the far side of the city. When we flew closer, I could see the carts full of stones and twisted metal.

“That’s different,” I said, my eyes still scanning the city below.

Al nodded and hummed as he leaned against the basket's edge. Mahya, on the other hand, was thoroughly engrossed. She practically draped half her body over the basket’s rim as she peered down, her braids swaying in the breeze.

“Want to visit it?” I asked, glancing between the two of them.

“It might only look different but hide the same problems we encountered before,” Al said, his tone measured as he tapped a finger thoughtfully against the basket's edge.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, shrugging slightly. “But don’t you think it looks promising?”

Mahya straightened up, brushing a strand of hair from her face as the wind tugged at it. “It does look much better,” she said, her gaze flicking back to the city below. “I’m willing to take the chance.” She turned to Al, one brow raised in question. “What about you?”

After a moment of silent consideration, Al nodded. “Yes. We should visit it. But if we discover it is as depressing as the others, I request that we leave immediately.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning back against the basket. “If it’s the usual doom and gloom, I’ll personally drag you out of there.”

We flew on for a few more minutes, the trees below becoming thicker and taller. When we passed over them, a ruined city came into view. It looked different from the other ruins we had visited. For one, no monsters were roaming the streets. That alone made it strange.

About a third of the city looked like it was “disassembled.” This was the only word that fit. Large empty lots showed where buildings used to stand, their foundations still visible in the dirt. Further in, people were actively dismantling buildings, stacking the stones in organized piles. Some people loaded the stone piles onto carts, while others waited for workers to finish. Dogs pulled the loaded carts toward the inhabited city.

Closer to the center, another group worked on a large, broken-down vehicle. They were taking it apart piece by piece, setting each part aside while an empty cart stood nearby, waiting to be loaded.

Six armed guards patrolled between the groups, their weapons ready. They kept looking around, scanning the area like they expected trouble at any moment. Their movements weren’t casual—every sound seemed to draw their attention, and they stayed close enough to the workers to intervene quickly if something happened.

After a few more minutes, we found an area without people and with enough open space to land. Once Mahya stored the balloon, we walked toward the workers with the vehicle. Even from a few hundred meters away, I could hear them talking, but couldn’t understand a single word.

“They speak a different language here,” I said.

“How do you know?” Mahya asked.

“I can hear them.”

Al’s eyebrows shot up, practically reaching his hairline. “You can hear that far?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head and mumbled, “I must raise my Perception urgently.”

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Mahya chuckled, crossing her arms. “For now, focus on turning invisible.”

The wind tugged at me, pulling my awareness in three different directions, each carrying a distinct impression of the portal of doom. “There are three dungeons here,” I said, my gaze shifting to the horizon.

“Where?” Mahya asked, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the area.

“Can’t see them,” I said. “Just got the directions from the wind. That’s all I know.”

“Do they clear them?” Al asked.

“No clue,” I said, shrugging.

We turned invisible and crept toward the group working on the vehicle. Their voices carried over the clinking of tools and the occasional scrape of metal. Their language was similar to the one we had already learned, but not quite the same. It reminded me of how Spanish and Portuguese sound alike—close enough to catch some words, but different enough to make it impossible to follow the conversation, at least with my rudimentary Spanish.

In this case, the similarity was beneficial. Al needed only ten minutes to feel comfortable with it, instead of the usual twenty or thirty. We moved away, practiced a bit, and headed back toward the group.

A man standing guard in the window of a ruined building noticed us and shouted, bringing the guards running, weapons at the ready.

We raised our hands to show we were unarmed.

“We mean no harm,” Mahya said calmly. She gestured toward me. “He is a merchant.” Then, pointing to herself and Al, she added, “We are his guards.”

The guards didn’t lower their weapons, their stances still tense and cautious.

“Why do you have a monster?” one of them asked, his voice sharp and accusatory.

“This is not a monster—it’s a dog,” I replied, keeping my tone even as I motioned toward Rue.

“I’ve never seen a dog like this,” another guard said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Rue.

“We come from the south,” I replied, keeping my voice steady, hoping that would be enough to satisfy their curiosity.

“What city-state?” one of them demanded, his grip tightening on his weapon.

“Tolarib,” Mahya said.

The reaction was immediate. Their stances shifted, their tension escalating as murmurs passed between them. If anything, the mention of Tolarib made them even more agitated.

“What is the problem?” Al asked, his tone calm but firm.

“We don’t allow slavers here!” the one in front shouted, his voice angry.

“He’s telling the truth—he’s a merchant,” another guard interjected, though his tone conveyed uncertainty.

“A merchant can be a slaver!” the first guard snapped. “You want to put our people in danger?”

At that point, I finally used Identify. Yes, it took me a while, but better late than never. All six of them had classes, ranging from levels seven to ten. The names of their classes sounded generic: warrior, archer, spearman, and mage.

“Which class are you displaying?” I asked Mahya and Al telepathically.

“Mage.”

“BladeDancer.”

I turned my attention back to the guards. “I understand one of you has the skill Identify, am I right?”

Their suspicion deepened, and they exchanged wary glances before one reluctantly nodded.

I pointed toward Mahya. “Did you check her class and level?”

The same guard nodded again, this time with visible hesitation. “Blade-dancer, level 36,” he said, his voice quieter now.

The tension in the group spiked immediately. The rest of the guards stiffened, their hands tightening on their weapons. I could practically see their muscles vibrating, as if bracing for an attack.

“Exactly,” I said, keeping my tone measured. “If we meant you harm, you’d already be dead. We wouldn’t be standing here having this discussion.”

Some guards relaxed, but not the leader. He glared at us with naked hostility, his hand gripping his weapon tightly. “We don’t need slavers, merchants, or anything else. Go away, or we’ll make you go away,” he growled.

“Are you the leader of this community?” Al asked.

The leader, Porit, Warrior level 8, shot Al a death glare that could have melted steel. “No,” he spat.

“Then it is not for you to decide whether we can visit this community or not,” Al said coldly.

Porit’s expression darkened further, the hostility radiating off him like heat.

“Why the hostility?” Mahya asked, her eyes fixed on him.

He ignored her completely, his jaw clenching as his glare remained locked on me and Al.

Mahya turned her attention to the guard beside him. “Why is the idiot so hostile?”

That was the last straw for Porit. With a furious shout, he lunged at her, sword raised.

Mahya moved faster than he could react, her fist connecting with his face before he even completed the swing. Porit crumpled to the ground like a sack of rocks, his weapon clattering beside him.

The rest of the guards immediately tensed, their hands tightening on their weapons, their eyes darting between Mahya and Porit’s unconscious form.

“I asked you a question,” Mahya said, her voice calm but carrying a dangerous edge as she turned back to the man she had addressed.

The guard stammered, his face pale as he struggled to find his words. “H-his wife … she was taken by slavers,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mahya visibly relaxed, the tension leaving her shoulders as she turned to me. “Can you heal him?” she asked, her tone lighter now.

I nodded and cast Healing Touch on Porit. His eyes snapped open almost instantly, a mix of confusion and anger flashing across his face. He grabbed his sword, sprang to his feet, and assumed a defensive stance, his body coiled like a spring, ready for another fight.

“I’m sorry your wife was taken,” I told him, keeping my tone steady but firm. “But we’re not slavers. I know you don’t believe me, but that’s your problem, not mine. We are going to the settlement. If you try to stop us, my friend will punch you again. And next time, I won’t heal you. Understood?”

Porit’s anger flared again, and I could see he was ready to lunge at me, but another guard, Toman, Spearman level 9, stepped in. “You can heal?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Yes. You just saw me heal him.”

“Can you heal somebody else?” Toman pressed.

“Yes."

Porit, however, wasn’t done. He shouted at Toman, his voice filled with fury, “You’re going to trust slavers? They’ll take your sister!”

“Oh, shut up already,” Toman snapped back, his voice rising with frustration. “Not every person you see is a slaver! You killed people seeking shelter, but I won’t let you kill a healer! We need his help, and you know it.” He shook his head, his tone turning heavy with anger and sadness. “I’m sorry for your pain, but you can’t kill all of us because of your anger.”

He turned to me, his expression softer. “Please forgive Porit. He’s a good man, but losing his wife greatly hurt him.” Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he added, “Just to be safe, watch your back.”

While Toman spoke to me, Porit kept shouting, his voice growing hoarse, but we both ignored him. So did the rest of the guards, who avoided his outbursts with indifference that looked practiced.

Toman led us toward the group dismantling the vehicle. As we walked, he glanced at me and asked, “I thought you were a Merchant. How come you’re a Healer, too?”

“I’m a healer first and foremost,” I said. “The merchant part came later because I bought and sold a lot.” I gestured toward the city in the distance. “Can you tell me about this place?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked, his tone cautious.

“Whatever you can tell me,” I said with a shrug, keeping it casual.

He gave me an assessing look, and I got the feeling he still questioned whether he could trust us.

I smiled, keeping my tone light. “Or not. It’s not a problem,” I added, leaving the decision in his hands.

He nodded but stayed silent as we continued walking. When we reached the group working on the vehicle, Toman called, “Silas! Come here for a moment.”

A tall, muscular man approached us, his movements careful. A brown wrap served as a makeshift bandage on his arm, and he cradled it protectively. His face was lined with fatigue, and his eyes squinted slightly as he looked at us.

Toman pointed at me. “He can heal your arm,” he said firmly.

Silas’s gaze shifted to me, and his eyes lost focus. “He’s a merchant,” he said, his tone dismissive.

I sighed and changed my class. “Look again,” I said.

He looked again, and his eyes widened, his expression shifting to one of utter disbelief. “How?!” he exclaimed, sounding downright scandalized.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, waving off his shock. “Do you want me to heal your arm or not?”

Without a word, he held out his hand, his skepticism still obvious. I cast Healing Touch, and he jerked slightly, his whole body stiffening as if he hadn’t expected it to actually work. His eyes grew even wider as he unwrapped the bandage from his arm, staring at the now-healed skin with sheer astonishment.

I sighed. Sadly, this song and dance were all too familiar.