Chapter 13: Chapter 13: Night School Language Class and Bridge Thugs

That night, the forest along the ancient asphalt road felt a bit friendlier, or perhaps Dayat had just gotten used to the sound of fist-sized insects buzzing like drones. They camped about a kilometer away from the location of the merchants/scavengers they met that afternoon. A distance far enough to be unseen, but close enough for Dola’s advanced sensors.

Dayat sat cross-legged on a flat rock, chewing the leftover roasted tuber they brought. His eyes watched Dola standing motionless facing the merchant camp.

Dola was in full concentration mode. Her eyes were closed, but the neon ring on her temple blinked rapidly in a staccato rhythm. She was doing something humans called “eavesdropping,” but for Dola, it was “Long-Range Linguistic Data Acquisition.”

“Dol,” Dayat called softly. “Got the cheat sheet for tomorrow’s exam?”

Dola opened her eyes. Her blue light looked dimmer, a sign she had diverted power to audio sensors.

“Data processing at 82%,” Dola reported. Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “The subjects in the camp are very vocal. Their topics of conversation range from scrap metal price fluctuations, the quality of root-fermented liquor, and… the reproductive anatomy of livestock used as metaphors for insults.”

Dayat chuckled. “Standard neighborhood watch banter. So, can you speak the language?”

“The grammatical structure is a hybrid,” Dola walked closer and sat across from Dayat. “The base is similar to Proto-Austronesian mixed with rough dialects evolved from ancient technical terms that have suffered semantic degradation. Example: They use the word ’Tek’ (from Tech/Technology) to refer to magic or valuable items.”

“Okay, Professor Dola. Bottom line, can you talk to them?”

“Affirmative. And now, it is Master’s turn to learn. Tomorrow morning we cannot continue being mute tourists.”

Dayat winced. “Ouch, don’t transfer it to my brain again, okay? It’s still throbbing from the Grappling Hook earlier today.”

“No massive memory transfer required. I will activate Real-Time Interpreter mode. I will be Master’s whisperer.”

Dola scooted closer. Her strange body scent—a mix of static ozone and fresh forest air—wafted to Dayat.

“Mimic my speech. We start with basic survival phrases,” Dola ordered.

“Okay, Miss Teacher. What’s the first word?”

Dola looked into Dayat’s eyes seriously.

“Vash’na grok.”

“Fas… na… grok?” Dayat repeated hesitantly. “What does it mean? ’Hello, how are you’?”

“It means: ’I have no money, don’t kill me’,” Dola replied flatly.

Dayat choked on his own spit. “Holy crap! What a grim opening sentence! Nothing a bit more polite? Like ’Excuse me’?”

“In an anarchy environment like this, politeness is often misinterpreted as weakness, Master. But very well, if Master desires a diplomatic option. Mimic this: ’Esh’kal tor’va’.”

“Eskal torfa.”

“Meaning: ’We are just passing through in peace’. Say it with a low tone and stable eye contact. Do not blink.”

Throughout that night, under the light of an alien moon with two thin rings, Dayat learned a new language. Not through textbooks, but through phonetic mimicry from the most beautiful (and deadliest) language teacher in the world. They practiced intonation, hand gestures, and even the “correct” way to spit to look like tough locals.

There were funny moments where Dayat’s tongue slipped, changing the sentence meaning from “I am a traveler” to “I am a rotten sweet potato,” which Dola had to correct patiently (and with a hint of sarcasm).

“Enough,” Dola finally said, as dawn began to break. “Basic module complete. Master has mastered 15 key phrases. For the rest, let me whisper the translations in Master’s ear as events unfold.”

Dayat stretched his stiff body. “Cool. I feel ready to be an intergalactic diplomat.”

“Or at least, an amateur market thug,” Dola corrected while putting her hobo cloak back on.

They cleared their camp traces and returned to the asphalt road.

That morning’s journey felt different. Dayat felt more confident. He was no longer a blind and deaf stranger. He held the “key” to understanding this world.

About two hours into the walk, the asphalt road narrowed. In front of them stretched an ancient concrete bridge crossing a dry rocky riverbed. The bridge was still sturdy, though its guardrails were long gone.

The problem wasn’t the bridge. It was what was on top of it.

A barricade made of rusty car wrecks and tree trunks lay across the middle of the bridge. And in front of it sat four armed men.

They weren’t merchants like yesterday. They looked more… militaristic. Or rather, organized thugs. They wore shoulder pads made of used tires, cracked helmets, and held iron spears and spiked clubs.

“Illegal Toll Post,” Dayat muttered. “Turns out the culture of illegal levies is universal, across dimensions.”

“Target analysis,” Dola whispered from under her hood. She walked closely behind Dayat, her left hand holding Dayat’s elbow, playing the role of a scared wife. “Four male subjects. Nutritional level better than yesterday’s merchants. Weapons better maintained. Likely unofficial border guards or bandits controlling this choke point.”

“Tactical advice?” Dayat asked quietly without moving his lips.

“Do not look weak. Do not look rich. Be boring and slightly dangerous.”

They arrived in front of the barricade. One of the guards, a bald man with crude rune tattoos on his face, stood up. He slammed his club onto the asphalt.

“Halt! Vash ni’ka?” the Baldy barked.

Dayat took a deep breath. Showtime.

Dola whispered in Dayat’s ear, her voice very low, only for the two of them. “He said: Stop! Who are you?”

Dayat put on a flat face, slightly annoyed, like someone woken up from a nap.

“Grom… Esh’kal tor’va,” Dayat replied with the deep voice he practiced last night. (“Greetings… We are just passing through in peace.”)

The Baldy narrowed his eyes. He spat next to Dayat’s shoe.

“Tor’va? Hah! Bakasa ’no grat! Pay’sha!”

Dola translated instantly: “He said: Passing through? Hah! Bakasa isn’t free! Pay!”

Dayat had expected this. He shrugged, then patted his empty pants pockets.

“Vash’na grok. Ni’ka Tek,” Dayat said. (“I have no money. No Tek/Valuables.”)

The Baldy didn’t believe him. He stepped forward, the tip of his club poking Dayat’s chest lightly but threateningly. His eyes then glanced at Dola who was bowing behind Dayat.

“Ni’ka Tek? Kora…” The Baldy grinned disgustedly, pointing at Dola. “Wo’man… Tek.”

Dola whispered the translation with a chillingly cold tone: “He said: No items? That… Woman… is an item.”

Dayat’s blood boiled. Once again Dola was treated as merchandise. His right hand inside his pocket was already gripping the folding knife. He badly wanted to tear that ugly smile off the man’s face.

But Dola gripped Dayat’s elbow tighter. “Hold your temper, Master. Physical conflict escalation is currently disadvantageous. Use Bluffing. Follow my words exactly.”

Dola began dictating a long sentence in Dayat’s ear. The sentence sounded complicated, full of glottal sounds and hisses.

Dayat swallowed hard. He stared into the Baldy’s eyes sharply. He puffed out his chest, trying to look bigger than he was.

“Kora… ni’ka Tek,” Dayat started, his voice trembling slightly but getting louder. “Kora… Vash’tar zol… Kur’gath! Vash ro’na… Pox!”

The Baldy stepped back. His previously dismissive face suddenly turned pale. His three friends sitting in the back also immediately stood up, holding their weapons nervously.

Dayat confused himself. What did I just say?

Dola whispered again, “Continue. Point at her chest. Say: ’Maat’ (Death).”

Dayat pointed at the Baldy’s chest with his index finger. “Maat!”

A tense silence followed. The wind blew, scattering dust on the bridge.

The Baldy swallowed hard. He looked at Dayat’s hand pointing at his chest, then at the mysterious Dola behind him. He mumbled something to his friends.

“Pox… Pox Walker…” they whispered in fear.

The Baldy hurriedly moved a log from the barricade, creating a narrow gap to pass. He bowed his head, not daring to look Dayat in the eye anymore.

“Go… Go! Vash go!” he shooed them in panic, waving his hand for Dayat to leave immediately.

Dayat didn’t waste time. He nodded briefly (acting cool), then led Dola through the gap with a firm stride. He held his breath until they were fifty meters away from the bridge.

After being sure they weren’t being chased, Dayat let out a long breath. His knees went weak instantly.

“Crazy… my heart almost popped out,” Dayat said. “Dol, what did you tell me to say? Why did they shut up instantly?”

Dola opened her hood slightly. There was a thin smile—very thin but mischievous—on her lips.

“Master said: ’This woman is not an item. She is a Vessel of the Kur’gath Disease (Blistering Flesh Plague). I am taking her to exile before she explodes and infects all of you’.”

Dayat stopped walking. He stared at Dola in disbelief.

“Huh?! You told me to say you’re a walking disease?!”

“Correction: A highly contagious deadly disease,” Dola added casually. “In the psychology of primitive societies, fear of plague is far more effective than fear of weapons. They are not afraid of dying in a fight, but they are afraid of dying rotting away.”

Dayat laughed. He laughed freely until he clutched his stomach. “Damn! You’re so smart! No wonder they called us ’Pox Walker’ and chased us away. They were scared of getting infected!”

“Efficiency is key, Master Dayat. We saved energy, saved money, and Master looked very convincing as a suffering husband taking care of a cursed wife.”

“You bastard,” Dayat wiped tears of laughter. “But thanks. I swear, I thought we were gonna brawl back there.”

“You are welcome. However, this method has a side effect.”

“What?”

“Now Master’s reputation on this road is ’The Plague Bringer’. We might be avoided by people, but that also means we won’t be bothered until the city gates.”

“That’s good. I’m not in the mood for socializing anyway.”

They continued their journey with a much lighter mood. Dayat felt proud of his acting skills and new “language,” while Dola secretly updated her database: [Social Strategy: Deception = Success Rate 99%].

However, behind that small success, real danger was lurking. The “Plague Bluff” method might work for petty thugs, but for someone who knew what Dola actually was, that bluff became a very clear trail to follow.

And one cunning merchant from yesterday’s encounter, who wasn’t as stupid as he looked, was observing their trail from a distance with ancient binoculars.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep