Chapter 158: The Stranger of Alinbion

“When I first washed ashore, I thought I was dead for sure. I never expected the mists to suddenly rise, followed by those ghosts appearing out of nowhere. Crouched by the shoreline, I was terrified to death, but fortunately, they set upon the pirates first.
However, it wasn't long before the pirates were wiped out, and they started coming after me. Naturally, I ran for my life! To be honest, I'm not boasting, but there are very few people in the Port of Urialla who can outrun me. When I ran out of road, I jumped straight into the water and dove down. Luckily, none of them could swim.
Back in the days of the Warrior's Path underground trail, I was among the first few to make it through, so of course I've got great stamina. But those things weren't willing to give up either, just floating on the water, waiting for me...
Seeing the green light glowing from above, I didn't dare poke my head out. I clutched a rock and held my breath, kept holding it, until I finally couldn't take it anymore and surfaced, only to discover that, goodness knows when, they had all vanished.
This story teaches us never to abandon hope. When you feel completely hopeless, think a little more, try a little harder, and perhaps you can break free from the jaws of despair!”

Excerpts from Zoro's *Give Up Now! The Match Is Over*
Ranked 2nd in the Tuirseach Family's Annual Inspirational Speeches
……

The final surviving sailor of the Golden Merry, along with the four members of the Phantom Troupe, walked for a day and a half and arrived in Alrikbyon by the afternoon of the second day.

According to Vig, this was a quiet little village where he had spent some time in the past. The most intense conflicts that ever broke out here were at most village women slapping each other across the face or men bashing each other over the head with wine bottles.

Handing two full bags of crowns to Zoro, Viktor told him to take the money back to the Port of Urialla and distribute it to the families of the fallen comrades. Tears welling in his eyes, Zoro swore upon his honor that he would return every single crown.

Viktor now had a slight grasp of Skelligan oaths—they meant staking one's life as collateral.

Patting the sailor's shoulder, the youth had Vig escort him to the fishing port to arrange a boat back to Undvik. Although this was a minor port, it still had regular boat traffic. Afterward, he and Angrima followed the road toward the local tavern.

Due to its proximity to the sea and the erosion of the salt-laden winds, Skelligan buildings had to be sturdy and durable, mostly constructed from massive stones. In every courtyard hung air-dried rabbits and tanned leather, while cured pork hung from the porches.

Passing the notice board, Viktor paused slightly. He and Angrima split the task, each reading half, and then they had to ask for directions to find the inn since it lacked a sign.

It was afternoon. Pushing open the tavern door, they found the air quality inside was decent, not overly murky.

Viktor was just mentioning to Angrima that they should take some time later to buy whale meat. Judging by the advertisement on the notice board, the prices offered by the whaler Clovgard weren't too high, and buying some to try would be quite nice; furthermore, whale oil and whale bones could also be used as alchemical ingredients.

Suddenly, two figures blocked the path of the Phantom Troupe.

At a glance, it was obvious they were two troublemakers looking for a fight.

The one on the left, with a fat head, big ears, and a fur cap, said, "Look what the tide washed ashore. You! Which clan do you belong to?"

"I have no clan, I come from the mainland."

The one on the right, with triangular white eyes, a hooked nose, and an amulet hanging around his neck, said, "Ha! And yet you're dressed like a Craite! Let me tell you, only warriors of Skellige are allowed to drink here!"

Tch! He hadn't paid attention to the style of his leather armor. No wonder the gazes cast his way along the road had been so subtle; due to territorial disputes on Great Skellige, the northern clan Craite and the southern clan Drummond could be considered bitter enemies.

In other words, being picked on was partly the youth's own oversight.

Thinking of this, Viktor let out a breath. "Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble—"

The white-eyed, hooked-nose man interrupted him. "—Look at this guy, just speaking up a bit louder and he acts like a stray dog hearing a wolf's howl. He's scared!"

The fat-headed, big-eared one spat as he spoke. "Want to eat? Get the hell out to the yard and wait for us to throw out our leftovers!"

The youth smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Only Skelligan warriors are allowed to drink here, so what are you two doing here? You look like a pig-feeder, and you're just a sheep-herder!"

White-eyed hooked-nose: "Even if I herd sheep, as long as I'm a Skelligan, I'm a warrior by birth!"

Fat-headed big-eared: "But you definitely won't understand this logic: everyone in the mainland kingdoms is a slave, born as bastards, who only know how to flatter their masters and wait with wide eyes for handouts."

Though they were nothing more than scum, their smug faces were truly grating. Viktor rubbed his chin, considering how to teach them a lesson.

"Bam!" Suddenly, a figure stepped out from slightly behind and to the side of the youth, delivering a punch squarely to the hooked-nose's snout, sending him flying sideways to smash a table to pieces.

Then, parrying the fat-headed one's attack, the assailant delivered a punch to the stomach followed by a strike to the face, sending him spraying a fountain of blood from his nose as well.

The person who struck was Vig, who had just returned after sending off Zoro.

"You two blind dogs acting all high and mighty! Do you know who you're talking to? It's a great person you could stare at until your necks snap and still not see the full measure of—two pieces of trash!" He cursed relentlessly while spitting unceremoniously at the fat-headed man, then kicked viciously at the hooked-nose. Such villainous behavior truly befitted a scoundrel.

The sudden outbreak of commotion instantly startled the others in the tavern. Though there were few people in the afternoon, a few patrons stood up and began to approach.

The scoundrel let out a roar, "Trash! Come on then, you cowards, Vig Todaroch isn't afraid of any of you!"

Those patrons promptly sat right back down. Vig the scoundrel was a rather notorious madman who had wagered his life for honor countless times; ticking him off meant he would genuinely draw his sword and start hacking people to pieces.

Having shouted down the onlookers and given the two prone figures another couple of kicks, the scoundrel recognized the hooked-nose and the fat-headed man, breaking into loud mockery: "Ha! So it's you two pieces of trash, Kori and Kroki, you bastard brothers! Don't you recognize me, Vig?"

Seeing the cowering expressions of the two brothers, it was clear they had been thoroughly beaten up by him in the past. Gone was any trace of their earlier arrogance. Viktor shook his head; sometimes, you could only say that wicked people met their match in even worse ones.

"Thud! Thud!" Footsteps approached from nearby. "Vig, it's you again. Causing trouble here again?"

Viktor initially thought this person would be cut from the same cloth as the two on the floor, but to the youth's surprise, turning around, he saw that the speaker was in his early thirties, clad in a thick bear-fur cloak. His appearance was upright and solemn, and at a glance, he looked like a righteous character. The only comical thing about him was his hairstyle—a topknot pointing straight up.

"Bah! Jormund, stop talking nonsense. They were the ones who blocked the road and picked a fight; I was merely acting in self-defense." What was even more subtle was that, facing this man, Vig did not swing his fists to attack, but was actually willing to offer an explanation.

"Very well, but beating herdsmen in a village is by no means the conduct of a warrior, and you two," Jormund said earnestly to the two on the ground, "refusing to shelter travelers only displays your own pettiness and shames your clan. Didn't your father teach you these principles?"

The hooked-nose and the fat man clutched their noses as they rose to their feet, cursing fiercely at the topknoted man: "Bullshit, Jormund! If you mention my father one more time, I'll stuff you into a barrel!"

Then they glanced at Viktor, perhaps wanting to utter some harsh parting threats, but upon catching Vig's "unfinished" gaze, they stumbled headlong out of the tavern.

"Jormund, the only man with spine in Alrikbyon," Vig introduced the topknoted man to the youth.

He then continued, "The commander I now follow, Dovahkiin of the Phantom Troupe, Lord Viktor Corleone."

Hearing the title, a look of surprise crossed the topknoted man's face as he bowed slightly. "To think it is the Dragonborn Viktor who has come to Alrikbyon. Jormund, son of Sigurd, greets you."

The youth placed a hand over his chest in return. "Greetings, Jormund. I'd like to know, are you a member of the village council of elders?"

"Yes, the youngest one. Is there something you need?"

"Buy me a drink. We can't just stand here with parched throats; I have some matters regarding the 'Edborg Lighthouse' to discuss with you."

"…My pleasure."

……

After informing him about the lighthouse and presenting the evidence, Jormund readily expressed his gratitude and stated that men would soon be selected to man the lighthouse once more.

Jormund was indeed a fine fellow. Back when Vig used to stir up trouble here, they had exchanged blows and forged a mutual understanding through their fists.

Moreover, he was generous, sincere, and warm-hearted, making him an excellent conversationalist. Through him, the youth also learned quite a few island secrets and interesting lore.

By the time they drank into the evening, only Viktor, Jormund, and the tavern keeper remained in the tavern. Angrima had already gone upstairs to rest, and Vig had stepped out to use the privy.

Amidst hearty laughter, the topknoted man raised his cup to his lips, then suddenly paused in confusion. "Vig seems to have been gone for a long time."

Reminded by Jormund, Viktor immediately sensed something was amiss. The scoundrel had left a few times earlier as well, but had never stayed away from his seat for this long.

Just as the youth set down his wine cup, a series of panicked cries echoed from outside: "Murder! Murder! Vig the scoundrel is murdering people!"

Viktor and Jormund exchanged a glance, both reading suspicion in each other's eyes. Dropping coin for their drinks, the two burst through the door and ran toward the source of the shouts.

……

……

The Drummond clan, entrenched in the southern half of Great Skellige, differed from the Tuirseach or Craite clans in that they did not directly adopt the largest port, "Kaer Trolde," as their capital.

Instead, they rebuilt "Kaer Muire" high up on the mountainside overlooking the port. Though this spiraling fortress built along the mountain paths could not match the magnificent grandeur of Kaer Trolde, it was likewise an impregnable stronghold.

Two days after the Alrikbyon murder incident, inside the luxurious guest quarters of Kaer Muire, Viktor, Angrima, and Jormund were discussing how to rescue Vig from the cells.

On that night flowing with blood, the only undeniable truth was that Vig had cut down Kori and Kroki in the alleyway. The deed was quickly discovered, and the village guards had surrounded and arrested him.

Kori was the fat-headed one, and Kroki was the white-eyed, hooked-nose man.

However, the events leading up to the incident had turned into a Rashomon-style mystery, with two conflicting accounts. According to Vig's version, while he was visiting the privy, Kori and Kroki provoked him, lured him into an alleyway, and suddenly four or five men jumped out to ambush and kill him. After he killed the two brothers in self-defense, the others fled in terror and shouted that he was a murderer.

The other account was much simpler: Vig had run into Kori and Kroki in the alleyway and drawn his sword to cut them down over a mere disagreement. This was the version accepted by the majority of Alrikbyon's residents.

Although theoretically there should have been many eyewitnesses, most of them claimed they were "drunk" or that "it was too dark to see clearly," so no one could prove Vig's innocence.

Consequently, the scoundrel was now locked in the cells of Kaer Muire, awaiting "Mad Lugos," the lord of the Drummond clan, to determine his guilt.

Jormund shook his head. "I'm sorry, I tried my best, but the father of those two brothers, Leif, is also a member of the council of elders—even more senior than I am. So no villagers were willing to step forward to testify for Vig."

Angrima bit her lower lip. "What Vig said must be true. Those two pieces of trash clearly came over to provoke him and even tried to ambush him."

"But we have no evidence," Jormund said with a helpless expression.

Angrima said discontentedly, "We've been staying here for so long, and Mad Lugos still refuses to see us. Now that Leif is complaining to him, are you certain your lord will render a fair judgment?"

Jormund could only offer a bitter smile at Angrima's skepticism. The universally accepted moniker "Mad Lugos" already explained a great deal. A lord's duty was to command obedience, and commanding obedience did not necessarily require fairness.

Nearby, Viktor sat in a comfortable chair and reflected. Ever since they arrived here following the arrested Vig, Lugos had refused to see them on the grounds of being busy with state affairs. Even producing King Bran's letter proving his status as the Dragonborn had proven useless; they were wined and dined, yet utterly ignored.

The youth wondered what on earth was going on here. What was this lord called Mad Lugos thinking? Until a certain thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

Perhaps Mad Lugos was holding out for a better price? Was there something he needed the Dragonborn's assistance with, yet he didn't want to appear weak, so he was using this incident to put Viktor in his debt as a personal favor?

Extrapolating from this perspective, the delays over the past few days became very easy to understand. Only by making the Dovahkiin feel a sense of urgency would his favor hold any real value.

He asked aloud, "Jormund, you said the lord is currently speaking with Leif?"

"Uh… yes, I just saw him go in."

Viktor nodded. "Good. Then I'll go inform Mad Lugos. I also wish to join the conversation. It's time to put an end to this probing and speak directly."

Jormund was utterly baffled. "How do you intend to inform the lord? …You're not planning to force your way in, are you?! This is the heartland of the Drummond clan; you mustn't trap yourself here as well."

The youth waved a hand. "Certainly not! I am the Dovahkiin—the Last Dragonborn. How could I engage in such a reckless brute's behavior of storming the place? Naturally, I'll inform him using my own unique method."

With that, Jormund watched helplessly as Viktor walked over to the window, facing the direction of the lord's keep—a magnificent building with outer walls painted in a somber grey.

The youth retrieved a potion from his herbal pouch and chugged it down in one go.

Then, he drew a deep breath.

Angrima decisively covered her ears.

"FUS──RO──DAH!!!"