Kurt Ozhorn in Action
IF there were ever a contest for the unluckiest man alive, Gustaf Hagg knew he’d want to be in the running.
Born the fifth son of a farming family, he was kicked out at fourteen (there simply wasn’t space for him in their cramped home) and fell into the life of an adventurer. Every party he joined fell apart not long after, but somehow, he stuck with it, grinding through the years until he found himself at forty-six, still swinging steel.
Back when he was thirty, the kingdom had taken a liking to him for some reason and started requesting him by name for official quests—again and again. Now, in his advanced age, he was starting to think about retirement. Maybe find a quiet town, start a school, train the next generation, and live a quieter life for once. But the world, as always, had other plans.
Retirement? No, fate seemed to whisper. How about you lead the charge on this quest to slay a mighty dragon terrorizing the Crack Valley instead?
The summons had come. The kingdom needed him again.
Why me? he lamented. Sure, he still held the title of Master Adventurer, but that, by now, was little more than a courtesy, an inheritance from earlier, more capable years. His axe-swinging arms certainly weren’t what they used to be—maybe seventy percent of their prime strength on a good day. These days, the paper master wasn’t even sure he could win a duel against a veteran.
As for why the kingdom continued to hold him in esteem, he could offer no satisfying answer. Perhaps it was his appearance: the sort of stern, weathered look suggested capability and resolve. In truth, Gustaf Hagg was a deeply nervous man. He was the type to overthink things and lose sleep before important events. His stomach was as weak as they came.
But he did have a loud voice—and that seemed to be all that everyone ever cared about.
It was after Gustaf took a deep breath, muttered a quiet you’ve got this to himself, plastered a grim sort of confidence onto his face, and stepped out to inspect the troops that he knew, without a doubt, he’d win that bad-luck competition. Hands down.
What kind of ragtag, unprofessional, utterly ridiculous people were these?
One party was dressed head to toe like clowns, wobbling around on unicycles while juggling bright red balls. They looped in lazy circles, occasionally honking each other’s noses like it was some kind of battle tactic. Were they a support team? Or did any of them actually plan on fighting?
Another group was decked out like ninjas, tiptoeing through the grass and flinging shuriken into the dirt with exaggerated flourishes. One of them did a slow-motion cartwheel for no reason at all. Since when was this a stealth mission?
And…what even was that? A party of massive, half-naked men, their hair tied up in messy topknots, bellies heaving with every breath. Their outfits amounted to a single taut string, wedged so far up it left nothing to the imagination. They groaned like dying beasts, rolling on the ground and spewing what had to be the last three meals. Either they were deeply hungover, or the carriage ride over had turned their insides to soup. Maybe both.
Ten parties. Five people each. Fifty men in total. And these were the people he’d been given to face a dragon?
The dragon? Scaled menace of the east? King of monsters?
Versus…this circus act?
A strong gust blew through the camp, and Gustaf took the opportunity to toss his notebook into the wind. In it was his battle plan. A solid, carefully thought-out mix of tactics, positioning, and clever use of the combined forces of magical and physical combat—and now it was gone.
“Are the healers here, at least?” he muttered to his aide next to him.
Healers.
The one group that gave him any sliver of hope.
Unlike adventurers, that half-mad assortment of mercenaries who answered some vague call to action and stumbled in from who-knows-where, the healers at least came with a shred of professional credibility. Clad in pristine white, they were recognized by the crown and operated directly under royal authority. They only appeared for official, crown-sanctioned quests, making them a rare—and coveted—sight for most adventurers.
Because of how rare they were, they were always kept safe, guarded heavily, and placed well out of harm’s way.
Also, because of how rare they were, they were usually a bunch of uptight, insufferable weirdos with delicate egos.
Even still, on the battlefield, they were treated like gold. Like treasures. Because, after all, they were their literal lifelines.
“Two of them have arrived, sir,” the aide replied.
“Their ranks and names?” Gustaf grumbled.
“Sir Bacchus Ehmann, fourth rank. And Sir Patrick Halin, sixth rank.”
Just my luck, Gustaf thought, dragging a hand down his face. “A hack and a bronzeling. Great.”
In a flare of frustration, he kicked the tree stump at his feet. Thankfully, it was so rotted it exploded into a harmless cloud of dust.
This was a fifty-man unit. These were the healers he had to work with.
Maybe one more would show up—if the gods felt like being kind.
Bacchus Ehmann. Even hearing the name made Gustaf bristle with irritation.
He’d had the privilege of working with Ehmann on a prior mission, and the man had easily earned the title of worst healer he’d ever had the misfortune of being treated by. Nobility, nearing fifty, with graying blond hair slicked back with too much oil and a mustache trimmed far too precisely, Bacchus Ehmann was a foppish mess of a man.
Gustaf would’ve been okay with how he looked—if he’d been a healer worth even half his salt. No. In fact, such was his incompetence that Ehmann had earned himself a nickname in the adventuring world: the “not there” healer.
If someone got mauled by a monster, a limb barely hanging on by a sinew, Bacchus would start treating their feet. Not there.
Someone clutching their abdomen with their guts spilling onto the ground? He’d dab a bit of magic on a forehead scrape. Not there.
Why? Because he couldn’t stand getting dirty. Couldn’t risk his outfit or muss his hair. Adventurers, to him, weren’t people—they were walking bundles of mud, blood, and bodily fluids, barely worth his time.
Gustaf had no idea what criteria were used to promote healers, but he was certain it wasn’t based on raw healing ability. Because if it were, someone like Bacchus wouldn’t have even sniffed rank ten.
But to be fair—charitably fair—it was possible the man just hated fieldwork and performed better in a pristine little clinic somewhere. Not that that was any comfort here, on a battlefield where a split-second decision could mean the difference between saving a life or scraping someone off the dirt.
As for the sixth ranker, Patrick Halin—Gustaf had never heard of him. Probably a rookie who’d just earned himself a promotion.
The brooches healer wore on their chests were color-coded to indicate rank: gold for one and two, silver for three through five, and bronze for six through ten. Gustaf just hoped this “bronzeling,” as he liked to call them, had something useful between his ears. Every now and then, there was the rare low-rank gem hiding in the dirt.
So there was a chance.
A very, very, very, very, very low chance.
“If only she were here.” Gustaf let out a long, weary, and slightly lovesick sigh. “What I wouldn’t give to see Lady Florence again.”
He remembered her as one remembers warmth in winter. Though she belonged to that rarified class of high-ranking healers—so often self-important and remote—she had been neither. Her manner was calm, her hands precise, and her presence somehow steadying. She smiled like someone who had never seen suffering yet had quietly chosen to bear it. It had been easy to believe, in certain moments, that her smile alone could mend a wound.
But she was not here. And memory, however comforting, could not stop a man from bleeding.
“At this rate, it’d be a miracle if half of us make it out alive,” he muttered. “Bad luck. What can you do?”
So he could clear his head, Gustaf went for a walk around the camp. He was mid-stroll, absentmindedly scratching his scalp, when he nearly walked past him—and then stopped dead.
“Ozhorn the Silent…” he breathed.
“Greetings,” the man said. “Kurt Ozhorn, rank three healer of the Royal Fifth Healers. Apologies for the late arrival—I had a lot of ground to cover. I assume you’re the leader of the combat team? I’ll be leading the healing team. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Gustaf paused, then gave a half-smirk. “Right. Gustaf Hagg, axeman. Pleasure, I suppose—though we’ve worked together several times before.”
He kept his tone dry, his expression unreadable. But beneath it, he was nearly giddy. The sight of this cold, clockwork bastard filled him with such joy that he almost wanted to kiss him.
Almost.
But this changed everything.
Update the prediction: only one or two men might die on this mission.
Update the tactics: a sustained attrition-like battle was now on the table.
Update the epitaph: Gustaf Hagg was no longer the unluckiest man alive.