Chapter 1: Awakening

Alan Mead observed the crowds coming in. Tavern people. They were an interesting bunch. Some people, he could tell, were drowning the sorrows of their lives in corners by their lonesome selves. Others, they were in groups cheerfully raising their meads, beer, ale, and various other cheap drinks to each other. All in all, there were perhaps around seventy people in the first floor of the two-story tavern.

Taverns, especially the low to medium quality places, were a hodgepodge of emotions and human expressions. It made for an interesting observation to a person like Alan.

Alan spied a serving wench bringing three mugs of ale to a group of three men, all of them laughing and speaking cheerfully to one another. The tavern maid was probably around fourteen. Common, not pretty, but had a body that did not reflect her young age. From this, Alan could tell that the tavern owner was somewhat cunning. He had most likely hired the maid for cheap labor and as eye candy for the male guests who served as most of the tavern's income.

One of the more lecherous and drunk man sitting at the middle table felt the bottom of the serving wench with a lazy caress. The tavern maid exploded into an angry, forceful warning, but she didn't do anything violent. That would have resulted in a more chaotic scene. It made Alan believe that the tavern maid was experienced, having worked here for quite some time.

Tavern people, Alan thought to himself again. They made for an interesting bunch. Human interactions and emotions, all of them seen in excess and brought out ever the more by the alcohol.

Alan turned back around on his stool to face the barkeep, a heavyset man in his thirties. Single, most likely. There were no rings or any tokens of affections on him. He was the owner of this medium quality tavern named the Moonlit Deer.

Alan's pair of blue eyes met the barkeep's. It was a signal. The barkeep came over to Alan after dropping off a mug of beer to one of the male patrons, a tall, skinny man. “What will ya have, sir?” the barkeep asked, his voice strong and deep as one would expect from a large chest.

Sir? That was a strange form of addressing Alan. He was sure that he did not look like a noble or even a knight. In fact, Alan was dressed in a common brown tunic with cheap black trousers. He decided to ask. “Why call me sir?”

The barkeep only laughed at his question. “You look handsome, like one of those born lucky noble bastards, and by the way of you, I can tell that you have not worked much in the fields or done much physical labor. I ain't been working at a tavern for more than fifteen years to not be able to tell apart you from the others. I have seen all sorts go through my doors.”

Perceptive. It was one of the few times Alan had been caught dressed up as a commoner, and mingling among the more poor people.

“So who are you really, boy?” the barkeep asked, no longer keeping a polite address.

“Alan Mead, a merchant,” the boy with indifferent-looking blue eyes said, keeping his voice loud enough to be heard over the somewhat noisy tavern.

The barkeep chuckled. “Named just like one of my drinks eh?”

Alan smiled a somewhat false smile. “You could say that.”

“So you be the son of Falin Mead. Pretty rich bastard, ain't you?” the barkeep continued, his voice all in good humor. At least, that was how it seemed to Alan. It didn't really matter to him that he had been called a bastard. Instead, Alan was intrigued that the barkeep knew of his father's name.

“I didn't think you would recognize that name,” Alan honestly admitted. His father was only well known to the Council of Merchants and to some of the nobles he did business with. Alan's father, for the most part, liked to remain low profile, traveling from places to places, most of the time dragging Alan along.

“Knowledge is power. That is what I would like to say from the years of life I have seen.” The barkeep showed a hint of a sad smile. “I have some connections with some merchants, so of course I would know the name Falin Mead.” He waved a hand as if to dissipate the past memories. “Anyway, what would you like, boy?”

“Just a mug of dark ale, if you please,” Alan said politely, intrigued by the barkeep. He was an interesting character and Alan wondered about his past.

The barkeep grabbed a bottle of dark ale from the many shelves and poured into a mug, handing it to Alan. “Here ya go.”

From the secret folds inside his tunic, Alan grabbed out two silver coins worth about forty copper coins. They were far more valuable than the mug of dark ale the barkeep had given him. Twelve silver coins equaled to one gold coin, and twenty gold coins equaled to one Sovereign, which was made of rare mythril.

The barkeep glanced at Alan, and his hands hovered over the two silver coins Alan had left on the rough, wooden counter which went up to only a little above Alan's waist. “It's my own money, not my father,” Alan said.

“Good, I would not have wanted to accept money made not from one's own pair of hands,” the barkeep merely replied. He left Alan then, taking only a silver coin, before going toward his other guests. Alan stared at the one silver coin remaining for quite some time before putting it back into the folds of his tunic.

Once more, Alan thought that the barkeep was an interesting character. Were it Alan in his position, he would not have hesitated taking the two silver coins. Alan would have taken both of them. Quickly and without hesitation.

Alan looked around the noisy tavern for a short while, before turning back around and grasping the handle of the mug of dark ale. The mug was clean for the most part; it told Alan much about the character of the barkeep. Normally, taverns of low quality or medium quality had somewhat unclean plates and mugs. Alan sipped his drink, thinking upon his observations.

Taverns were really a great place for him to observe human interactions. Even now, five years in the running, Alan was still learning to fake human interactions and emotions, some of which even surprised him a little. Emotions were hard to learn for a person like Alan, who had been born with a dampened emotional capacity. It was like a blind man trying to describe a color, a lion trying to sympathize with its prey.

Suddenly, darkness.

There were suddenly two hands acting as a blindfold to Alan's eyes. The hands belonged to a woman, but not the usual pair of hands one would expect from the fairer sex. The hands were slim, yet strong. They were not soft, however. Instead, the pair of hands covering his eyes were calloused and experienced—hands which had seen much and been through many things.

“Guess who, Alan,” a woman's voice from behind Alan said. He could feel her body pressed against his back. No doubt, a purposeful move.

Alan set his mug down onto the counter. He removed the hands which were acting as a blindfold to his eyes. There was no need for a forceful removal, just a gentle nudge before Alan felt the hands release his eyes from their dark prison.

“Rhea,” Alan said. There was no need to turn around to confirm the identity of the woman. Alan could recognize those hands and voice from anywhere. Even so, turn around Alan did.

Brown eyes, as unrelenting and determined as the desert, met Alan's own pair of blue eyes. Alan smiled warmly at the woman, and she smiled back, her smile the better of the two.

It was only natural, for Alan's smile was a fake smile, fashioned to match the smiles of people he had observed over the past five years of his life. Today, in the late summer, was the day Alan turned fifteen years old. But days were just days, and years were just years, even if that day or year was Alan's coming-of-age.

“Ah! I know that look anywhere, Alan,” Rhea said with a warning tone. “You are probably thinking your birthday doesn't matter, and it's wasteful to spend a day on it.”

“Does my smile tell you that much?” Alan asked. He was wondering whether her perceptiveness about him came from her familiarity with him or from her experience. Alan had been sure his face had a somewhat false and believable happiness. Very few people could tell the difference.

Rhea grabbed his hands. The fingers of his hands were long and slim, and the palms were not calloused. They were the hands of a rich merchant's son, not that used to hard, physical work. Alan, just like his father, was a merchant. And though Alan was not used to hard, physical work, he was still fit, since both he and his father, including Rhea, frequently traveled around, rarely, if ever, staying in cities.

“It's been a year since we met, Alan, since the day you chose me,” Rhea said. “If I could not tell that much about you, I would consider myself lacking.” There was a hint of a sad smile on her face.

A year. It had been a year since Alan had bought Rhea from all those slaves at the slave institution in Milgard Outpost, a place located in the border of the Northern Region of Shail Kingdom. The outpost was one of the many bulwarks against the wilderness outside of the kingdom, which was full of goblins and other monsters. Even inside the kingdom, there were still many infestations of goblins, monsters, and a few dark elves in the forests. No one knew where the dark elves came from, but suspicions were that the dark elves wandered around from kingdom to kingdom, raiding villages, cities, and towns. The location of their home was also suspected to be somewhere in the eastern mountain ranges of the enormous Valian Continent.

And though a year had passed since Alan had obtained Rhea, she still remained a slave. The Slave Institution would not release her from the magic binding mark on her chest, which acted as a looming, executioner's axe. Without a little of Alan's blood smeared over the magic binding mark every two days, the mark would explode inwardly, instantly killing her. There were a variety of magic binding marks, but Alan had chosen the one that would give Rhea the most freedom.

“It has been a year, hasn't it,” Alan said, letting himself be pulled up from the stool he was sitting on. Alan followed Rhea out of the tavern and into the warm glow of the afternoon sun. The cobbled street felt solid against his booted feet, and Alan could see many people, all going about their tasks.

“Your father is waiting for you at the Sleeping Bear Inn,” Rhea said, walking side by side with Alan. The cobbled street was wide enough for that, and could have fit three wagons, even carriages nicely.

“I see,” Alan replied. He did not bother to ask Rhea the reason. It was quite obvious really. Today was his coming-of-age birthday, the day he would become a man at fifteen years old. This, however, didn't really matter to Alan. He had sneaked out at the crack of dawn to visit places and observe the people of Fauro city. Rhea, however, had found him in the afternoon at the tavern.

Matching his pace to that of Rhea, Alan could only think that Rhea was quite perceptive about everything, and if not everything, then at least when it came to Alan, she was perceptive.

“Is that your only reply?” Rhea said, sighing to herself a little. “You do know that the reason we came here to this city was to celebrate your birthday. That is why Master Falin made a stop here and handed the caravan over to Mister Aleka to continue the delivery to Count Lohan, a direct subordinate of Baron Blackwater.”

“You need not remind me of that. I know who they are,” Alan replied. He gave a cursory glance at his surroundings which were full of people. “Anyway, this city is pretty populated, isn't it?”

“I think you are missing my point here. I am speaking of your birthday.” Rhea glared at Alan, knowing full well that Alan was trying to change the subject.

At this, Alan could only think to himself that it was a good try to avoid the topic of his birthday. His father, Falin Mead...there was a distance between Alan and him. It was a distance forged of his own making and his father's making. His father was the closest person to Alan, yet also the furthest person away.

With Alan's birth, his mother had passed away, leaving only father and son. This had caused a growing rift between Alan and his father, especially since Alan had the face of his mother—her light blue eyes, her proud nose, and her soft, light brown hair, just to name a few of the features. Alan was the constant reminder of the pain in his father's heart.

As a child, especially at the age of six, when Alan became more aware of himself and his surroundings, he would notice the look his father would sometime give to him. It was a look of indescribable sadness, a yearning that could not be hidden away, nor ever forgotten by time's passage.

This was not the only cause of the rift between Alan and his father, however. No, the main cause was Alan's dampened emotional capacity. As a child, even as a small baby, Alan had never once cried. It terrified his wet-nurses, his teachers, and other children. Alan had often times been told that his eyes were not the eyes of a child. They were a pair of cold, indifferent looking blue eyes, incapable of strong emotions.

Alan shook himself free from these thoughts. The past was the past, set in stone and unchangeable. Rhea had also turned silent beside him, merely matching her pace to his. With his blue eyes that were not as indifferent as his past self after that incident when he was ten years old, Alan observed the populated streets of Fauro, the various vendors with their stalls, restaurants, taverns, bathhouses, and various other buildings.

Fauro was a small-sized city of the Western Region of Shail Kingdom. There were five regions in the kingdom Alan was born in; the Northern, Western, Eastern, Southern, and the Central Region. The Central Region was where King Balan vis Shail the Prosperous, Protectorate of All Five Regions, lived in. The king was a popular figure among both the nobles and the commoners. He had earned himself the title Prosperous due to making many advances that led to a better livelihood among the people. Among these advances were protected trading routes and the Royal Army, including the armies of the four Barons, one for each region, each Baron, including lesser nobles, investing soldiers to protect the people.

Due to this reason, the king was a popular figure to the Council of Merchants, and to all the merchants the council governed over. This year, King Balan would see himself into a ripe age of forty, ruling over a little above a million people.

Even with a little over a million people, Shail Kingdom was considered a small sized kingdom in the overall human territory, part of the Central Division among two other divisions (Northern and Southern). Shail Kingdom also did not trade much with the other human kingdoms. The kingdom was self-sustainable, having adopted agricultural techniques, metallurgy, fishing, sewing and looming, and many other technological advances.

These advances were all due to history and innovation!

Two thousand years ago in the long four thousand years of recorded human history, the Dwarfs who had walked hand in hand with the humans had suddenly disappeared. No one knew where they had gone, but theories had been made that the Dwarfs had retreated back into their mountains far away from this part of the continent where humans lived. Another theory—a very cynical one, Alan ironically thought—was that the Dwarfs became tired of the humans' shit. Bluntly put, humans were belligerent creatures. They often warred against each other, doomed to repeat the ignored lessons of history. No doubt, the Dwarfs must have regretted imparting their wisdom on metallurgy, agriculture, and other relevant technologies.

What was worse though was the war of the magi that came shortly after the Dwarfs disappeared. So harsh were the battles and wars that this time period was named the Age of the Magi War that lasted for two centuries.

There are four time periods in recorded human history.

Age of Reformation (lasted for about 1994 years)

Age of Magi War (lasted for about 192 years)

Age of Expansion (lasted for about 800 years)

Age of Prosperity (1124 years and continuing)

There are also many blanks in recorded human history, sometime even as long as a few decades of years going unwritten. It was wondrous to Alan, who had a great curiosity. He felt like a moth drawn to a blazing bonfire, a fire of the past.

In a way, Alan found his curiosity-driven enthusiasm for books quite amusing. Perhaps books were just a place of solace for him. As a child, he would often rather read books, ignoring everything and everyone. Was it due to his emotionally dampened mind? Perhaps. Alan hadn't really care much for it back then as a child.

“We are here, Alan,” Rhea said with a touch against his shoulder. It broke the thoughtful silence Alan had been entertaining.

Pausing for a brief moment, Alan looked up at the three-story inn where they were staying at. At the second story of the inn was a sign painted in bright, red letters in the almost universal human language. The letters were in Valian (also named after Valian continent), and were read as The Sleeping Bear.

The inn had an amusing name, almost unbefitting, truth be told, of such a high-quality and expensive inn. Had someone mentioned The Sleeping Bear to Alan, he would have first thought that the inn was an inexpensive inn, found in an outskirt town, and owned by a bear-loving owner.

Thinking such thoughts, Alan followed Rhea inside to the inn. The first floor of the inn was used for the dining room and was furnished with tables and chairs, all made of good-quality wood. At the back of the room, there was also a hallway that led to the kitchen. Near the entrance from whence Alan and Rhea came in was the counter where the owner of the inn, a thin, middle-aged man with glasses, was reading a book titled “A Discourse on the Nature of Bears.” Beside him were two burly guards, patiently sitting on stools, alert at the first sign of any troubles.

The dining room was empty for the most part. There were barely any people sitting at the tables. The few who were sitting at the table were lazily drinking tea or wine, speaking to their companions. The Sleeping Bear was an inn that was most frequented by the more richer travelers, merchants, and visiting nobles.

In the middle of this dining room was Alan's father, a thirty-five year old man with an immaculately shaven face and intelligent, dark brown eyes, busily tapping his finger against the table with a rhythmic pattern, mouth pursed in concentration while reading some ledgers. His similarly colored hair was cut short, and neatly combed to one side.

Appearance wise, Alan and his father were nothing alike. Upon asking his father as a small child, Alan had been told that he had inherited most of his mother's features.

With Rhea following along behind him, Alan cut across the dining room after nodding at the inn owner who had looked up from his book to see who had come in. Alan stopped in front of the table where his father sat, and abruptly sat down, taking care not to make the slightest bit of disturbance. Likewise, Rhea sat down to the right of Alan at the table fit for four person.

A young maid—pretty, Alan supposed—of perhaps twenty years of age instantly rushed over to the table. “What would you like, good sir and good lady?”

The maid did not know that Rhea was a slave under Alan. If the maid had known, she would have perhaps not called Rhea a good lady. Alan had painstakingly made sure that the binding magic mark on her chest, a telltale sign of a slave, could not be seen from the clothes Rhea wore. Thus, Rhea always wore clothing that covered her entire chest. Today, she wore a black vest with a thick, white tunic underneath. Alan knew that underneath her vest, she carried two daggers bought with his money.

Weapons were allowed in cities, towns, and villages. You could also use them in self-defense with a good cause, but if you drew a weapon without a good justification, the city guards would immediately punish you under the name of justice. It was possible to lose a few fingers and even a hand for just drawing a weapon under different circumstances.

Two seconds passed by before Alan decided on a drink. The region Fauro city was located in was quite famous for its various tea drinks. “I will have an Akarso Tea, please.”

“Same here,” Rhea said.

“It shall only take a quick moment,” the maid said, shooting a wide smile at the both of them, though it was somewhat aimed more toward Alan, who smiled back falsely. His smile, though false, looked sincere on the outside. Alan was never one to smile genuinely. He could count the number of times he had truly smiled on one hand.

The tea arrived shortly in ornate ceramic cups with no handles, their heights about one and a half hand's length. The tea was light green in color and transparent looking. Made from an Akarso plant, whose leaves were characterized by green and white stripes, it was a tasteful, healthy drink.

“Thanks,” Alan said to the maid, who smiled back again, before going toward another table.

Listening to the rhythmic pattern of Falin's finger tapping against the table, half a minute passed by before Alan saw him set aside his ledgers on the table. Falin looked at Alan with a serious expression. “Happy birthday, Alan. Congratulations on your fifteenth birthday.”

“Thank you, Falin.”

Ever since seven years ago, at the age eight, Alan had stopped calling his father, “father,” directly to him. Likewise, Falin only called Alan by his given name, and never referred to him as “son.” It was just one more display of the distance between Alan and his father. It was a distance that could never be overcome, not even with Rhea's insistence.

Falin gave a short nod. “I have a proposal, Alan. Would you like to continue traveling with me and working alongside with me or would you rather start out on your own with 20% of all my assets?”

It was a sudden question that caught Alan by surprise, though the surprise did not show on his face. Beside Alan, Rhea was also caught unaware, except she showed a somewhat widening of her eyes and lips.

20% of all of Falin's assets. Converted into gold, it was an enormous sum of money. Ever since fifteen years ago, when Alan's mother had passed away, Falin had focused all of his energy into his work, growing into one of the richest merchants. His name was not widely known among the people, but in the Council of Merchants and the nobles, all but a few knew of Falin Mead. Alan knew that his father had widespread contracts with many nobles and had businesses in all five regions of Shail Kingdom. From weapons to herbs to cutlery to food, Falin had a hand in almost everything. And now he would give 20% of all those assets to Alan?

It was a daunting prospect, but Alan knew—and Falin knew—that he was competent for the role. All his life, Alan had been following and traveling with his father, learning about the flow of trade, regional prices, ledgers, calculations, and other various factors such as the names and faces of nobles and merchants alike.

A decision came over Alan.

“I will continue working with you, father. There is no need to start out on my own,” Alan said.

His words surprised Falin. Noticeably. There was a huge widening of his dark, brown eyes as if Falin had not expected Alan to make this decision. A smile—a confused smile, that was the feeling Alan got from that—was formed on his face. “Very well, son. I will be glad to work with you for some more years.”

Beside Alan, Rhea breathed out a sigh of relief. No doubt, she had also been expecting Alan to choose the other alternative, the choice that would have widened the distance between Alan and his father.

You know, Rhea...even I did not expected myself of choosing this, Alan thought to himself.

These words were kept to himself, masked by the calm, almost seemingly indifferent face Alan showed to the outside world.

“And Alan...” Falin continued. “...no, never mind, it's nothing.” He stood up and gathered his ledgers. A small smile was on his face. “Shall we go celebrate your coming-of-age birthday now? Also, thank you for bringing him Rhea.”

<><><><><>

Lying on his bed, Alan glanced up at the ceiling of the double room he was staying in at the inn. The room was spacious and the bed was almost wide enough for two people. The walls were also dyed with white and two paintings of bears, one dancing and the other growling, hung against them. The owner, no doubt, must have liked bears.

At the other bed of the double room, Rhea was in her white night gown, also staring at her own section of the ceiling. It had been a year since Alan had bought her, thus also freeing her from slavery, though in reality, the slave binding mark could only be removed by a mage of the slave institution. The black mark on her chest, directly over her heart, was a constant reminder of her days as a slave.

Captured by slavers of this kingdom, she had spent two years having her will broken and reshaped into a more obedient nature. A quiet and fiery determination, however, still remained in Rhea even after she had been broken repeatedly, starved and beaten until she was almost a former shell of her personality. Unlike the other slaves, most of who were non-humans, Rhea was determined not to give up. She was, after all, a proud desert nomad of her Wanderers tribe.

The desert, however, was a harsh place. The Wanderers tribe had unluckily met a large group of giant humanoid lizards and almost the entirety of their tribe was wiped out. Each and every one of the warriors, women and men alike, died an honorable death, fighting until their last dying breath, diverting the attention of the giant humanoid lizards onto themselves so that a few could escape.

After the incident with the Skaros, one of the more frightening races that lived in the desert, the few remaining survivors traveled westward. Most of the survivors died before passing through a kingdom, only to be captured by a huge group of slavers. Not even Rhea, a trained warrior, could have handled that many slavers.

In the end, after two years, Rhea had ended up in Shail Kingdom separated by the few remaining survivors, not even knowing if they had survived. The most likely outcome was that they did not survive. Rhea held no hopes.

Hope was different from forged determination. There was a fine and clear line between the two.

Thus was how Rhea came to be, here in this double room, alone with a fifteen year old boy who had just become a man. The fifteen year old boy, Alan Mead, was her owner and her savior. It was quite ironic, especially if Rhea considered the fact that she was twenty-seven years old, almost twice as old as Alan.

Rhea sneaked a small glance at Alan. Oftentimes, when looking at Alan, Rhea would feel her lack of beauty. She knew that she would never be considered beautiful. Her tanned body held large lines of scars that spoke of wounds made from swords and various other weapons. Her face, likewise, also held faint lines of slash marks across her forehead and on her left cheek.

Despite this, Rhea was proud of these wounds of honor. She had obtained them from battles as a warrior serving in her Wanderers tribe. She was a born and forged warrior of the desert, excelling with twin daggers. Her husband and parents, who were also warriors, had all died long ago, defending the tribe from the Skaros. It was a saddening thought which took a few seconds for Rhea to shake free of.

Alan was, no doubt, a strange boy, or rather, a man now, Rhea supposed. Her very first meeting with Alan had been strange. A fourteen year old boy had walked into the Slave Institution at Milgard Outpost looking for a warrior slave, his blue eyes inspecting each and every slave, before the boy suddenly settled upon her.

Rhea could still remember the words he had said to her.

“I find you very interesting,” the boy had said, before buying her for twenty gold coins, which was haggled down into sixteen gold coins. As befitting of a merchant's son, Rhea thought to herself, somewhat grinning wryly inside her mind.

Naturally, Rhea had been suspicious, even forming a determination to kill the blue-eyed boy, and with that, herself. She would die rather than have her honor besmirched by anyone, even a boy! When the boy had introduced her to his father, who quickly accepted her after an initial surprise, the boy took her to his room in an inn.

With a killing intent hidden deeply inside her, Rhea calmly had asked what the boy planned to do with her.

“Nothing much,” the boy—Alan—had replied. “I wish for you to be my companion.”

“Why a slave as a companion,” Rhea hesitantly asked, unsure of whether the boy was lying or not. His statement certainly sounded a lie, yet his tone had a certain ring of honesty despite the boy's unnerving demeanor, which seemed somewhat false to her.

“I find it hard to trust other people. Call me a cynical bastard, but I would rather an interesting and determined warrior slave be my companion than some hired bodyguard.”

“Why choose me?”

The boy frowned a little bit, thinking upon that. Rhea could tell, however, that the frown was exaggerated, a somewhat false display. “Your eyes,” he said. “They are very intriguing to me.”

This was how Rhea had met Alan.

“Hey, Alan,” Rhea called out to the fifteen year old male on the other bed.

“Hmmm...what is it, Rhea?”

“Do you still find me intriguing?”

There was a small pause. Rhea knew that Alan was most likely questioning her motive behind asking that question. With an emotionally dampened mind, Alan calculated and concluded emotions based on his observations of human interactions. Rhea also knew that his feigned, sometime exaggerated emotions were done for effect—they were emotions that Alan could never truly feel. Love, joy, heart-breaking sadness, extreme anger. Alan could never feel such strong emotions due to his psyche.

“No, I do not, Rhea,” Alan replied, glancing back at her on the other side of the room.

Rhea let out a small, delighted laugh.

“What's so funny?” Alan asked in a serious voice.

Rhea burst out into more laughter. “Nothing. It's just that I know you quite well.”

Alan showed an amused smile toward her. “As perceptive as ever, eh Rhea? And I had thought my lie was believable this time. I even paused for an effect.”

The conversation continued for some time before Alan finally covered the magic lighting stone in the middle of the spacious, carpeted double room with a black cloth, instantly dimming the lighting of the room.

“Good night, Alan.”

“Sleep well, Rhea.”

“Just one more question, Alan,” Rhea started.

There was a waiting silence from Alan.

“Why did you choose to stay with your father?”

“The reason why, eh. I suppose it is because Falin is my father. He is my only family in the world after all, despite there being a large distance between the two of us.”

Family, huh, Rhea thought to herself silently in the dim light of the room. It was a good reason.

<><><><><>

Five Years Later

The day was hot, the sun burning brightly overhead. The two chain of caravans, each chain about eight carriages long, were moving at a slow crawl, matching the pace of the horses. The slow pace of the caravans combined with the heat of the sun screamed out a sense of slowness.

In the party of caravans, there were around thirty-five people, ten of them trusted, hired guards. Included in this group of people were Alan, Rhea, and Falin. Alan was riding atop a brown mare near the end of the caravans, casually observing his surroundings. Beside him was Rhea, also riding on a similarly-colored mare. Falin Mead, his father, was near the front of the caravans, leading the way.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“How's the heat, Rhea?” Alan asked.

“Pretty weak compared to where I was born,” Rhea replied with a slight grin. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad.” It was a lie. Alan was beginning to regret wearing his green long-sleeved shirt, black vest, and long trousers. The heat, even in the middle of this rough path inside the stretch of forest, was still strong.

Alan took out a small folded map from inside his pocket. Stretched out, the map was barely the width of three hands, only about one and a half feet. The map showed the Southern Region of Shail Kingdom.

“Looks like it will take about two more hours to get to the next town. Up ahead, after getting out of this forest, is another long road.”

“How utterly dull,” Rhea commented dryly.

“Agreed,” Alan said, folding the map back into a small square shape before putting it inside his pocket.

As if Rhea's words and Alan putting his map back into his pocket were a cue, a scream shattered the slowness of the day.

Rhea instantly tensed her body, looking around at the forest and at each gap the trees made. “Seems to have come from the front of the caravans.”

“Falin is at the front,” Alan said in a calm voice. “We should stick with him and check out the situation.”

Shouts came from the front, causing both Alan and Rhea to bypass the chain of caravans, hurrying their mounts. Horses that were pulling the carriages were panicking and their drivers yelling and attempting to calm the animals.

A shout, this time louder and more eligible, came again near the front of the caravans.

“Goblins! Rally to me, men!” It was the voice of the guard captain of the caravan.

The scene at the front of the caravans was chaotic. All ten of the caravan guards were clashing against twenty small, green-skinned goblins, with the guard captain leading them.

Alan and Rhea both dismounted, hurrying toward where Falin and a few of the other subordinate merchants were at. The rest of the people in the caravans were busy trying to maintain order and calming the horses.

“Seems like a raiding party of twenty goblins. The guards should be enough to easily handle them,” Falin said upon seeing the two join their group behind the line where the guards were fighting the goblins.

“I hope so,” added a nervous, fat merchant who was carefully wiping his sweat-covered forehead with a cloth. Before the merchant could put his cloth back inside a pocket, a fireball rained down upon where he stood, covering his entire body in blazing red flames.

“Ahhhh, help, help me! Get some water!” the merchant screamed out, running around like a headless chicken before its final death.

Those were all the words the merchant let out before he fell toward the forest path, the flames consuming his body. The sudden death of one of the members of the caravans caused an almost palpable fear to run through the party.

Alan looked above, tracing the path where the fireball had come from. It was no doubt the work of a mage. But what would a mage be doing attacking a caravan? Up above, Alan could see a hooded, black-robed mage riding on a giant armored bird. It was a flying mount called a Caverk, and was used solely by the army.

“Why in the ashes is a mage attacking us?” Falin said, echoing the words that must have no doubt been running through the minds of everyone in the caravans.

“Master Falin, we have finished killing the twenty goblins,” the guard captain said in a calm voice, keeping his eyes trained on the mage in the sky above. His sword was sheathed back again and strapped to the left side of his waist. A longbow was held in his right hand and an arrow in his other hand. “One guard was injured, but it is only a flesh wound on his left arm.”

Falin nodded. “Thank you, Captain Henrick.”

“I shall have you surrender everything to me now,” came the cold, mana-amplified voice of the hooded mage from above.

“Who are you?” Falin shouted back. “By law, no mages should be running about without constraints, let alone attacking merchants!”

“Then what if I am not human?” the mage replied, pulling off his hood and revealing light purple skin and two pointed ears.

Captain Henrick spat out a green wad of herb. The herb was something the guard captain was always chewing. It had something like an addictive, calming and tasty effect, at least that was what Henrick would always say whenever Alan asked. “A dark elf, eh. I don't know what he is doing in these parts so close civilization, but I will make him regret coming by his lonesome self.”

In a split second, Captain Henrick let loose an arrow from his bow, which went flying straight and true toward the head of the flying mount. But it did not hit—a wall of fire instantly appeared before the mount, blocking and burning the arrow.

“Don't get ahead of yourself, human,” the dark elf mage said with his mana-amplified voice, a palm pointed at Captain Henrick.

“Attack at will, men!”

The notched arrows of the other nine guards were let loose, but none of them hit their target, becoming instantly consumed by the walls of fire which appeared whenever the arrows got too close.

“Fecking mages. Hate these damned cowards.” Captain Henrick then shouted. “Come down here and fight, dark elf bastard!”

“I don't think so. I believe I will let my brothers handle it,” the hooded mage replied.

“Blood and ashes, didn't think there would be more of these purple bastards,” Captain Henrick said, instantly turning to look at his surroundings. There was nothing, however, that told of the presence of more dark elves. Captain Henrick and his men had already checked prior to the goblins' attack, but even looking around again, there were still no signs of any other enemies except for the sole mage above.

“Whoever said my brothers were below?” the hooded mage said.

His word acted as a trigger and the air around him shimmered, revealing six more hooded dark elves riding on Caverks.

All this time, Alan had been calmly observing the skies and the stretch of forests around him. He knew that mages were powerful existences. Aside from history, magic was also one of the fields Alan had an interest in. Sadly, he was not born with a capacity for magic. Only very few people, about one in over a thousand people, were born with magic. Even in Shail Kingdom with a population of over a million people, there were only about 4000 mages.

“Run to the forest!” Captain Henrick ordered. “Master Falin and Alan, follow me closely.”

Before Alan and the rest could even start running, walls of fire surrounded the whole area, including the two chain of caravans. The walls were more than seven feet tall—there could be no escape.

The seven dark elves in the skies above also started shooting down precise spears of fire and earth, each of them penetrating through to the unlucky humans down below. Screams from the victims were let out, and fiery, charred corpses fell to the ground, the fire still blazing on the bodies as if doing a dance of death.

Then the scene turned even more chaotic as the walls of flames disappeared, replaced by more than two dozen dark elves with goblins beside them. The dark elves held bows and had weapons strapped to their sides while the goblins held crude, short swords with tattered mail armor. It was a band of dark elf and goblin raiders working together, an impossible occurrence.

Arrows were quickly let loose and more than two dozen human survivors were instantly shot full of arrows. Screams pierced the air, and the few remaining human guards, including Alan, Captain Henrick, Falin, and Rhea regrouped together, charging toward a side of the forest where there were fewer dark elves.

There was just about enough time to reach the raiders before the next wave of arrows. Five dark elves and four goblins met the charging five remaining caravan guards. Rhea stuck close to Alan, a fierce, protective light glowing in her desert colored eyes. She was determined to protect Alan to the death.

Captain Henrick instantly cut off the head of a goblin with just one sword stroke, and moved on, clashing against a tall, purple male dark elf. Outnumber and outmatched, Captain Henrick only lasted for a few more seconds before three dark elves surrounded him. The guard captain fell to the ground with a steel sword through his unprotected neck, but not before putting his own blade through the stomach of the dark elf in front of him.

“Bastards! How dare you kill the captain,” a guard shouted, kicking a small, green goblin away after stabbing at it. That was all the time the guard had before an arrow was shot by a nearby dark elf. It was a perfect shot, straight through the unprotected head.

A slim dark elf dressed in leather armor came running toward Alan, a cruel smirk on his face. Rhea met the charge of the dark elf, her twin daggers drawn. Twin daggers crossed, she blocked the downward longsword stroke of the dark elf, before knocking the dark elf with a sweeping right leg. As soon as the dark elf was off balance, Rhea went forward, slashing at the throat.

The whole fight had taken only two seconds, and Rhea moved forward to meet another dark elf.

From a nearby corpse, Alan grabbed at a dropped sword and held it in his hand. This weapon had a longer reach and would be better than the hidden dagger he used for self-protection. Alan was untrained in fighting with weapons, so he figured that a weapon with a longer reach was better.

By this time, more of the people had been killed, and only two caravan guards, Rhea, Falin, and Alan remained.

“Run ahead Master Falin, Master Alan!” the guard shouted. “We will catch up, do not worry!”

There was no hesitation. Falin and Alan ran through the remaining three dark elves who were busy with the two guards. They entered the forest. Rhea and the one guard soon followed along, having killed off the remaining raiders.

“I will stay here,” the remaining guard said, the hint of tears forming at the edges of his eyes. “Both captain and my brother has died. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you Master Falin, for taking in a poor bastard like me and giving me a life.”

Then the ground and the trees around Alan suddenly exploded. There was a dull ringing in his head, and for a few seconds, Alan was deaf and blind to the whole world. There was a heavy weight atop him, and Alan tasted blood in his mouth. The sides of his face were also wet with blood.

When sight and hearing returned, Alan pushed the body atop him slightly, but gently. A cough went up from the body he had pushed away gently. Alan shakily stood up, and went down on his knees beside the body...the body of his father. There were splinters of wood and shards of earth pierced everywhere on his body, and a piece of wood was even lodged through one eye.

Falin—his father—had saved him, and now lied bleeding and dying on the forest floor, yet Alan could not feel tears or an overhanging sadness and despair.

“So many regrets, son...your mother...still alive.” A hacking cough that spurted out blood went through Falin, his body shuddering, trying to retain his failing strength. “...not human. Seek east. Sendarid Kingdom.” Those were the last words Falin said before the light in his eyes were extinguished.

Alan stood up, looking around at his chaotic surroundings. Upturned earth and splintered, exploded remnants of trees were everywhere. He breathed out an inward sigh of relief when he found that Rhea was still alive.

What had happened? Was it the mage that had attacked them? And why had his father chosen to tell him that his mother was still alive right before his death? Why couldn't he have told him that earlier? It was a stupid, damned illogical thing. A slight anger coursed through Alan. On top of that, there was also a dull, burning pain in his left side, which had been pierced by a piece of exploded wood.

Rhea came over to Alan, her left arm dangling uselessly, blood flowing freely down it, while her right hand still held a dagger. Alan could tell from the way she was walking that she was putting up a strong front. He could observe her trying to hide her limp, which was most likely due to her left leg sprained or being wounded in that explosion.

Surprise cut through Alan's dull, slightly angry state when Rhea suddenly embraced him with her right arm. “You can cry, you know.”

“I have never cried...not even when I was a small child...not even when I was a baby just opening his eyes to the sight of the world,” Alan softly replied.

Rhea let out a small, sad laugh. “Then you are an idiot, an unfeeling idiot. At least pretend to cry when your father has just died in front of you.”

“You are insulting me when my father has just died?”

Rhea stopped her embrace. She knew that Alan would never admit it to himself. “Well,” she said, “looks like our death is here.” Rhea held the black dagger in her right hand, staring at the dark elves and the goblins who had caught up to them.

One of the dark elf, a female dressed in a black armor, came forward. “All of you should have just died peacefully. I hope you are now satisfied, leading us into a merry chase. Our leader had to resort to even using more of his magic to stop you.” Her voice was cruel and cold with an accent. The female dark elf must not have been used to speaking in Valian, the almost universal human language, the language that was used for trade between kingdoms.

“You should run, Alan. I will stay here and fight them off,” Rhea said.

“I can say the same thing to you now, Rhea. Don't be an idiot. Running would be a futile thing. There is no way I could run away from the dark elves, especially when seven of them are on flying mounts,” Alan replied.

“Figured you would say that, Alan.” Rhea sighed a little. “I guess I just didn't want to see you die in front of me.”

The leading female dark elf made an exaggerated yawn. “Are you done talking?”

Rhea went forward, walking slowly toward the group of dark elves. Alan, likewise, followed along beside her. Both of them knew that they could die at any moment. There were more than a dozen bows trained on them, arrows nocked and ready to let loose at the slightest half second.

The leading dark elf held out a hand. “Don't shoot. I will handle the two by myself.” She drew out a black longsword from the sheath strapped to her waist.

Instantly, without hesitation, without warning, the dark elf came sprinting forward, closing the ten feet distance. A slash came falling down toward Rhea—the dark elf had recognized that Rhea was more of a threat than Alan.

Rhea dodged to her right, pivoting on her uninjured foot, and slashed at the female dark elf unprotected face. Meanwhile, Alan came from her blind side, attempting to stab at her.

The dark elf formed a wide, dark grin, backed up a small foot, dodging the dagger's slash by a hair's breadth, and with her black longsword, stabbed at Rhea. The blade penetrated through her stomach and Rhea grunted in pain, and her dagger dropped to the ground.

At the blind side of the dark elf, Alan felt the impact of three arrows hit his chest, forcefully stopping him in place.

“You really shouldn't believe my words, humans.” The dark elf pulled back her longsword, leaving a bleeding hole in Rhea's stomach. Then she kicked Rhea away.

Alan could not speak. The arrows had penetrated through his lungs. He could no longer even breathe, let alone try to speak. Strength in his legs failed him, and Alan went down on both knees. His eyes went toward Rhea, who was lying against the ground on her back, blood staining the disheveled forest floor with red.

Light in Rhea's desert-brown eyes, eyes which had accompanied him for six years ever since he was fourteen years old, were now fading away. Rhea formed a sad smile, and mouthed her final words to Alan. “I love you.”

These words were at once familiar to Alan. He had known Rhea for six years of his life, ever since he had bought her from the Slave Institution at Milgard Outpost. He knew, ever since three years ago, that Rhea loved him. Why, Alan did not know. Perhaps she thought that he had saved her from slavery. Alan, despite drawing upon his ten years of experience with human interactions, did not realy know. He could never truly feel love. He was like a garden full of dead flowers trying to reach for the sunless sky.

His sight was turning blurry now, and sounds, even close to him, seemed far away, as if coming from a hundred feet away. He looked up and saw the female dark elf and her black longsword descending downward in a killing thrust. Her words were ineligible. Alan could not longer hear anything. He was deaf to the world. There was only the flashing of the descent of the black longsword, which would soon end his life.

Pain was not even felt as the longsword penetrated through his chest.

Yet...

Why did the female dark elf had a look of surprise on her face? Had she not won? Had she not killed the both of them?

Alan felt unsure and instinctively moved his right hand to grab at the longsword through his chest. Yes, it was still there, penetrated through his chest. But there was no pain. The three arrows were also stuck through his chest. But there was also no pain from there.

Colors, sounds, and sight returned to Alan.

Along with unexpected strength.

Alan tightened his grip on the middle of the blade that was pierced through his chest. Unexpectedly, the little amount of strength he had put into his grip broke the black longsword into two. Small, shattered pieces of black steel fell toward the ground.

It was undoubtedly strange though.

Why did the falling pieces of the sword looked as if they were falling in slow motion. At the rate they were falling, it would take more, much more than a few seconds worth of time. How curious.

Alan looked at the slowly widening eyes of the dark elf, her mouth also in slow motion, trying to form a word. Her dark, black eyes looked fearful. But why would she fear Alan. Did he not have a blade and three arrows through his chest?

He tried moving a hand to push the dark elf away from him. At that thought, his right hand suddenly entered his vision and pushed at her stomach. The dark elf went flying back for more than ten feet, smashing against a tree, before crumpling onto the ground, her body twitching a little.

Alan stood up, frowning a little at the three arrows pierced through his chest. He could breathe a little better now. He pulled each of the three arrows out and there was just a slight bearable pain. Then he pulled out the half piece of blade stuck within his chest. That was a bit more painful, but nothing unbearable.

He went toward Rhea, who had died with her eyes still open. Gently, ever so slowly, Alan closed her eyes with a hand, wary of his new-found strength that had blown the dark elf away. He did not know where the strength had come from, but in his mind, he had formed a determination to kill the enemies. “Rest in peace, father...Rhea.” There was a small pause. “I love you too Rhea...”

Alan turned toward the group of remaining dark elves and goblins who were standing frozen with shocked expressions.

An older dark elf with a rough beard came forward. “Who are you!”

The words and movement of the dark elf did not seem so slow to Alan now. Had he gotten used to his new vision, or had his perception slowed down? And what was that dull ache between his shoulder blades, near his back.

Alan tried moving his shoulder blades and suddenly, he heard his vest and shirt tear, and eight wings came unfolded, four wings on each side. They were made of brilliant white feathers, comparable to the color of freshly fallen snow, and the four wings on each side were closely intertwined with each other. It made Alan think that without a careful glance, one would not have been able to tell that the pair of wings were eight wings.

There was a frightened expression on the bearded dark elf. “Please, forgive us. We did not know you were a Curatix.”

Alan formed a small, false smile. There would be no forgiving. He would kill every last one of these raiders, but would spare just one long enough for him to obtain information. Alan looked up at the sky and saw the seven hooded mages circling around the forest on their flying mounts. Yes, he would spare none of them.

To the shocked-still dark elves, the scene before their very eyes had transformed. Their ground leader had been killed, blown away by a push and now laid crumpled on the ground. What was supposed to have been an easy picking, an easy raid against some human merchants, they were now faced against what seemed to be a monstrous human who had suddenly grown a pair of wings! None of them, not even the hooded mages on their flying mounts knew exactly what Alan was. No, only the bearded dark elf, already a century and a half old, knew what Alan was.

He was a Curatix, a member of one of the Higher Races.

The bearded dark elf, the ground vice-leader, had heard of secret tales of the Higher Races, beings so powerful that they never showed themselves before humans, elves, or any of the other Lower Races. He had heard tales of the Curatix from his superiors once back in his underground homeland before he had been exiled. They were winged humanoids who looked exactly like humans except they were far, far more powerful.

The ground vice-leader blinked his eyes once, and suddenly, the light brown-haired human—the Curatix—was already more than halfway across. The winged human was a blurred figure, and in the next moment, the figure went past the ground vice-leader, absolutely ignoring him.

Screams, one after another, echoed each other in succession as the Curatix punched holes through the chests of the dark elves. Flesh, bones, and organs crumpled before the might of the winged human. The force of his punch created air currents. The purple blood of dark elves dyed the wings of the human, and his whole body and clothing had become stained with violet, drops of dark elf blood smattering them in unholy patterns.

The screams woke the other dark elves and the goblins. Fear ran through them upon seeing this winged human, whose speed they could not even perceive, whose strength they could never hope to match. They had already seen what three arrows and a blade through the chest had done to this winged human. It had barely fazed him. The winged human had simply removed them, and smiled his cold, false smile.

As Alan was chasing the fleeing dark elves and the goblins, not even allowing them to flee more than ten steps, the seven hooded dark elf mages were descending downward. They had seen the chaos Alan was causing and would reign order back in.

There was also a simmering anger coursing through the leader of the dark elf mages. His sister, the dark elf ground leader, had been killed by Alan and her body now laid still on the forest ground. The human, however deceiving his winged appearance was, would pay for his transgressions!

His dear sister, his lover, had been killed before his very eyes by this strange winged human. Taneros, a lower noble outcast, would not stand for such a thing. He had not been exiled by the matriarch of his family to stand for such things! His sister, the love of his life, had been killed by a human? Impossible. Impossible. The two of them were suppose to have had a happy ending, killing and pillage these weak humans. It was why he had gathered the other dark elves who had been exiled here, and now this winged human was ruining everything. Everything!

Hot with anger and blinded by it, Taneros yelled out from atop his Caverk. “Brothers, lend me your magic! We will avenge our fallen sisters and brothers!”

Taneros drew open his Animus, forming mana links with the other six mages. Invisible threads of magic of various colors from Animus, each specific to its wielder, were now connected to Taneros. These mana links directly connected the Animus of all seven mages with Taneros as the main wielder, while the other six mages supplied mana.

Taneros shaped the mana into fire magic, creating a huge square blanket of fire that was more than seventy feet long on each side. There was to be no escape for the winged human. Taneros directed the blanket of fire, which crackled with orange-red flames, directly toward the winged human.

Dropping the body of the dark elf he had just killed, Alan looked upward and saw a blanket of scarlet-orange fire that was quickly descending down on him. The trees which were caught up in the blanket of fire were instantly set afire, not able to resist the magical flames. It was as if a small, burning sun had descended upon Alan.

Nearby Alan, the remaining dark elves and the few goblins looked up in horror. There was no way they would be able to escape from this area magic. All of them would be sacrificed in order to kill this strange, winged human!

Alan instantly became alert with his new-found strength and moved toward the bearded dark elf, his body a shapeless blur to the eyes of the dark elves and goblins. He grabbed the dark elf with one hand, swiftly transitioning into carrying him atop a shoulder and sprinted away from the reach of the blanket of fire. Alan cut through the gaps between the trees, quickly running with all his might, ignoring and breaking through all of the branches.

Then an explosion of fiery destruction as the blanket of fire smashed into the ground and the trees.

It was a close call. Had he even started a second late, Alan would have been caught up in the fire. A whole section of the forest was turned into a blazing scarlet conflagration. More than five thousand square feet of the forest had been set afire.

Anger, however, coursed through Alan. The damned dark elf mages had burned both the body of Rhea and his father. Alan roughly dropped the bearded dark elf he had carrying onto the ground, and with two light stomps, broke both of his legs. The only way the dark elf could flee now was to pitifully crawl away.

The screams of the dark elf were not delightful to his ears, nor were they amusing. To Alan, they were unnecessarily loud and jarring to his improved hearing. It made Alan realize that he would have to become more familiar with his improved senses. Oh, and his strength. Alan could see that though his stomps were light, it had entirely crushed and shattered the bones of both legs. There was an unsightly scene of blood and shards of bones protruding from the flattened mess that was both of the dark elf's legs.

“Don't bother trying to crawl away,” Alan said with cold indifference. “But if you really want to crawl away, I suggest you to lean against that nearby tree.”

That was all the thought Alan spared for the bearded dark elf before looking upward at the sky, peering through the gaps of the canopies of the trees.

Alan faced a problem. How would he reach the seven mages on their Caverks. They were more than a hundred feet up in the air, flying above the forest, far out of reach for Alan even if he climbed to the top of the trees.

Should he try using his new wings that had suddenly sprouted from behind his back? But what if he started falling down due to inexperience and in the middle of a fight? That was, if he could even start to fly.

Alan mentally shrugged to himself. He would think about it later. He felt confident that his new body would survive. It had, after all, survived a blade and arrows through his lungs and near his heart.

It was extremely difficult. It took Alan a minute to even find the right muscles for his wings, let alone twitch them slightly. Only his shoulders moved for the first few tries. Then a connection was made between Alan and his wings. He could now move his wings like he could his hands, though it was at a slightly less effective degree.

With one powerful flap, Alan was suddenly lifted off the ground more than ten feet, breaking the branches of some of the trees he had bumped into, scattering leaves all around. His balance was off, and he still could not direct the strength of his wings properly. But Alan was flying! And to think it had only taken him a minute.

Suddenly, Alan felt immobilized and he fell back down. He could not even move one muscle on his body. He fell sideways, breaking more branches, and scattering more leaves. He hit the ground with a jarring thud. Alan was no longer bursting with energy. He could no longer feel strength in his body. His wings had also disappeared.

Then he saw the bearded dark elf crawl toward Alan with a vengeful smile. That was his last vision before unconsciousness took Alan.

<><><><><>

Up above, Taneros and the other six mages were observing the burning forest, looking to see if there were any more survivors.

“You used up too much magic, Brother Taneros. It will take at least a few hours to meditate and rest to regain back the mana,” the hooded mage directly to his right side said.

“Not to mention you killed off all of the subordinates we brought along. It's a shame your sister died though. She was such a pretty one too,” another mage added in.

At that, Taneros sent a cold glare toward the mage, hatred coiling in his mind like a snake. “Do not speak to me of my sister, Brother Leandros.” Taneros could barely control his emotions. He had even almost lashed out against Leandros, one of his sworn brothers.

It was not enough...It was not enough.

Killing that winged human once was not enough to quell the rage and sense of loss in his mind. His sister, his lover, the person who had been by his side for the longest years he could remember before their exile, was now dead by the hands of that winged human. Not even a thousand deaths and a hundred tortures would have been enough to settle his rage.

“I have completed my scan,” another hooded mage, Brother Caedor said. “I do not sense any presences that are human, goblin, or one of us in the forest. I suggest, however, that we leave now before any human mages show up. We have made a big mess here so close to a town and no doubt, they are already alert by now.”

“Tch. It seems that winged human has died, and I had thought that he would have been a challenge seeing that he was easily eradicating some of our warriors,” Brother Malfurion added in.

“Very well, let us head back to our outpost,” Taneros said in a cold, barely controlled voice.

The group of seven dark elf mages left on their Caverks then, shadow magic quickly forming bubbles around them and turning them into invisible presences if one did not look too closely. Only a closer glance and other counter magic would be able to perceive the invisible presences.

None of them, however, knew that Alan was a Curatix and that he had a greater magical resistance territory than even experienced, powerful mages. Had they known Alan, the dark elf mages would have certainly invested more effort into finding him.

Down below the forest, at a somewhat far distance away, Alan laid unconscious with the bearded dark elf slowly crawling toward him.

When the dark elf pulled out a dagger from under his light leather armor with a vengeful grin, a burst of powerful, blue-colored mana exploded outward from Alan, immediately rendering the dark elf into a state of unconsciousness.  

Vol 1-Chapter 2: Dispatch