Brog was not a complicated man.
He liked heavy armor. He liked his massive greatsword, 'Daisy'. And he liked saving people.
Sitting in the corner of the inn's common hall, Brog took up the space of three normal men.
He was seven feet of muscle and scarred skin, squeezed into plate armor that looked like it had been forged from the hull of a battleship.
He stared at the stairs, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
[System Notification]
[Target is nearby. Be ready, Host.]
[Quest: The Silent Cry for Help. Status: Active.]
Brog sighed, his breath blowing a napkin off the table. "I know, System. I'm ready. I won't let the poor man suffer anymore."
Yesterday had been a tragedy.
Brog had been eating his stew when the tyrant, Captain Valerian, had stormed in.
Brog had wanted to intervene—his Saviour System had been screaming at him to draw his sword—but the pressure from that Wood Dragon had stunned him for a second too long.
And in that second, he watched the tragedy unfold.
