“I, the betrayer, have myself been betrayed,” Kandz the Puppeteer continued, “I must be avenged! I may have been a fool to betray my liege for the sake of others, but I am fool no longer. Take my power from me in hopes that you will kill those whose honeyed words spoke of peace and prosperity. Take vengeance on those who spoke of unity and grace. Take vengeance for me against those damned Heroes! Damned Heroes that had gathered from all races to kill our kind…Take vengeance on them…for me…”

Kandz struggled to say more, yet his power was fading, what he had saved for this moment diminishing into nothingness. Banst had heard the voice and seemed lost, Kandz unsure if his efforts had been futile or not. Darkness was all that existed before Banst. No sound nor feeling, no wind nor other element could be sensed. Only the voice of this “Kandz” something to latch onto to let him know he was awake. Yet, Kandz was fading, leaving Banst alone in this unfeeling place, Kandz’s choice of last word “vengeance” repeating weaker and weaker, as if he were desperate not to let the word go.

Kandz had a mission. With the last vestiges of his strength, he placed the accumulation of his vengeance, the package meant to be delivered to his enemies, into this young man that he had entrapped.

Through the void, images and knowledge most profound dove into Banst. The young man shuddered uncontrollably, blood leaking from both his lips and nose, eyes rolling back. A gray creature looked at him with filmy green eyes, pupils that of a cat. Horns like an antelope grew tall upon his brow, the theme continuing to his feet where hooves lay. Upon his hands were claws and what swished lazily behind him was a spaded tail.

A strange creature to Banst, one not readily recognized. Yet, in Banst's childhood, there had been a book about such creatures. Elves, dwarves, fairies, goblins, orcs, and other Brambleborn greens—none had the fury or power of this gray creature. It was a demon, powerful, wicked, filled with ambition to decimate and destroy; demons, these were the spawn of malevolence.

However, what appeared next was not of evil or spite. What came was the gray demon mourning over his mother while other demons spat and brayed like rambunctious animals at his misfortune. He could not fathom the cruelty of his kind, to wish to mock his emotions as he lost the only person who cared for him. He needed a way out to a place where he could live without his kin’s heinous ways.

In the years that followed, the gray demon had grown to become great. No longer did mocking laughs appear on his kin’s lips nor did they bray and haw like animals. No, they revered him, no, they worshiped him. But he was not content. He wanted to be different. No need to be a god nor leader, he still just wanted a life away from being simply a demon.

That was when they came. Upon majestic steeds they rode, with glittering armor and luscious capes that the wind couldn’t help but kiss and handle with ravenous love. These were the others of the world, the others who didn’t feed on each other for sustenance or hound an emotional boy that had lost his mother. These were humans, elves and dwarves - their own kind called them Heroes.

Deals he brought to them, with smiles he congregated with them in the darkness of night. These were his shepherds that would lead him to green pastures.

It was the final battle between these Heroes and his kind. His king, the one who had helped raise him to his current status, was in the midst of killing these invaders. Triumph would soon be wrought, and with it, death upon the world. However, as the one called the Demon King brought his black blade up to strike the final blow, the gray demon appeared and stabbed into his back through to his heart. Betrayal entered the Demon King’s eyes but not for long. He died, and so did the chances of demons ruling this world.

A celebration, the likes of which no one had seen, was birthed, all thanks to the gray demon and his timely save of the Heroes.

Yet, the scene changed. What the gray demon had thought would be his green lands of paradise turned into a dated execution. Above him these so-called Heroes stood, their eyes mocking, the smiles taunting. A guillotine poised above the gray demon’s head, spittle flying from his mouth and sharp teeth bared, he screamed one word, “Vengeance!”

Banst was still falling in the dark. The memories of the gray demon had gone. No presence of Kandz’s voice remained, only a sorrowful feeling as if rain had begun to drop at a funeral of a war hero.

A change would occur within Banst that he would have never guessed was possible. Of course, that was to be for later. Now, he had only darkness and transformative change warping his world. Down in the depths of nothing he fell, without knowing that someone had opened the chest he was lying in. The chest itself was no longer embellished and warped, devoid of horns or gold. It had become dull as if it had never been strange at all.

Steam and smoke rose up in the air like disturbed mud in water. Bubbling and boiling, glasses of liquid spherical in shape, brewed herbs of kinds that only the practitioners of alchemy would recognize. A man plump from age and standing too long in one place for years, stood by the boiling brews upon a table filled with his tools of his trade. Upon his brow was a floppy cap meant for the licensed alchemists of the land.

Above and around there sat potions on shelves, of kinds that could not be guessed, only by the alchemist and still, even he had forgotten what some of them were. Plants hung above floating in pots of soil, hung by thin chains that dangled from the ceiling. Magic was inlaid within the room, lighting its entirety with magical light, the enchantments humming like a worker enjoying their work.

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Rousing from behind the alchemist appeared a young man too thin to be considered a threat, though he wore iron armor and a blade leaned upon his bed as if waiting for its master to rise and take it home. The young man was Banst, awakening as if he’d been sleeping for days, groggy and unbalanced, holding his head as if it would fall off. The smell of alchemy was too strong not to recognize. On the wall, a symbol he had seen many times stood out – a depiction of a sword, shield, bow, dagger, and staff, each weapon in gold against a black backdrop. It was the symbol of the Adventurers Guild.

He had returned to the guild and had been transported to its apothecary. But how? He was uncertain. An elf had chased him, and a demon had probed his mind. Or so he thought. Could it have been a dream? He had no clue, still too groggy to reason and logic.

“Ah,” the alchemist exclaimed, “It seems the boy is awake. I must tell the Branch Master and his second of this matter.” Though plump above his waist, his legs still showed shades of his thin past, and he moved rather quickly given his round gut, away toward the exit.

“But,” Banst responded to the retreating alchemist’s back, “what’s going on…?” No matter how curious and how much he wanted to reach toward the man, he could not, given his state of weakness and instability. Something had happened to him that had left a lasting influence upon him, and he was not quite sure what.

Within a few minutes, trembling could be felt, slight tremors along the stone beneath Banst’s feet. The door swung open to reveal a gargantuan man more muscle than man, jaw thick to accompany his thick brow, his eyes a strange brown, near red. Blowing back his wild dark russet hair stuck as if he had traversed through a storm. Despite his unusually barbaric appearance, he wore tunic and pants fit for a noble gentleman, though it all seemed stretched to their limits, fighting to contain his bulging frame.

Next to him stood someone quite the opposite – a young blonde woman with hair more so flowed than fell and a face more angelic than the paintings and statues within a church. Her frame, though closed in a set of steel armor, stuck out in the most feminine ways imaginable. She was a picture of beauty and it said as much with Banst unable to close his mouth watching her.

“You’re Banst Vale?” the gargantuan man growled, the bass in his voice shaking Banst slightly, getting Banst’s attention immediately.

“Y-yes, sir!” Banst yelped like a frightened dog.

The woman eased beside Banst, smoothness in her steps akin to floating - her scent alluring, her lips plump and pink. Her voice drifted into Banst’s ear like romantic music, “Don’t let the Branch Master frighten you, Adventurer. He’s more bark than bite.” The colossal man, the Branch Master, growled. “Please, tell us what happened.” A soft touch after a brutal approach, a typical dance of the duo, be it purposeful or accidental was for them to share.

“Huh?” was all Banst could say. Men fell to beauty often, mostly they stuttered and stalled. She was the Vice Branch Master, Sindle Weva, and the man looming over all was the Branch Master, Golatian - leaders of this branch Adventurers’ Guild in the capitol of the Kingdom of Marlinen, Hildew City. Never had they met the 'Weakest Adventurer,' nor did he meet them. Why would the mountain top care for the pebble in the valley? How would the pebble ever make it to the top of a mountain to be noticed?

The Vice Guild Master clarified, “An Adventurer team responded to a distress call from an Adventurer badge belonging to a member of your team. You were discovered unconscious, stuffed in a chest, in the burned down village of Fand.” Banst began to tremble. “Your team was led by a,” Sindle’s brown eyes fell to a parchment in her hand, “Harl Hawthorne, Deer-Ranked member, Party Leader Level D. Quest: Goblin Elimination in the Fand Forest. Casualties: Five Guild Members, Two Porters.” She carried on from there but her voice soon fell when no reaction came from Banst.

Sitting on the bed, Banst wasn’t moving. An utterance fell from his lips, “The elf…” His shoulders were slumped, his eyes wide, clammy hands clasping together.

“Elf?” Sindle echoed, her pretty face turning to the Branch Master, Goltian, whose expression darkened.

“Tell us everything,” Goltian grunted, his deep voice rumbling.

Memories were turned into words as Banst told of what had transpired at the burned down village, from the point of meeting Harl and the others at the guild, to the dramatic appearance of the elf. When the elf was described, the guild leaders stiffened.

“Ghastly Specter…” Sindle whispered as if speaking of a curse.

“We must alert the king,” Goltian remarked and departed without another word.

Sindle on the other hand lingered. Banst found her hand resting upon his arm, her face wielding a bright smile. “Do me a favor, Band” she entreated, having forgotten his name already, but Banst didn’t correct her. “Don’t give up. It isn’t when it’s bright that we show ourselves to be true Adventurers. It is in the darkest times when hope is lost that truly defines us.” With a nod, she left, her hips swaying, hypnotizing Banst with the rhythm.

“She’s a noble, so give it up.”

Banst flinched. Beside him was the alchemist at his table, wiping colorful stains off his hands as if he’d been painting, his eyes scrutinizing.

“I wasn’t thinking anything!” Banst replied, his face flushed.

“I like when young people dream,” remarked the alchemist. “It gives me hope. But try to keep things realistic.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything toward the Vice Branch Master!”

The sun was on the other side of the sky from when Banst saw it last. Dawn had come, its glow highlighting an expansive lobby that lay between him and the exit, plump furniture around that looked like ripe fruit. People were already lounging - Adventurers awaiting the rest of their party, about to embark on a quest for the guild.

When Banst came into view, silence took over. As he passed, whispers grew. Never a subject of rumors, Banst was known as the “Weakest Adventurer,” which meant his tale was one of pity, not juicy gossip that prompted others to speak in hushed tones when his back was turned. Banst shrugged and made for the sturdy oak doors leading outside.

The receptionist desk was ahead, the receptionists not yet situated for the day, filled the area with sounds of shuffling papers and scratches of sliding files. A young blond man was at the desk, speaking with a strawberry blonde receptionist, their smiles mirroring each other. When Banst neared, they fell quiet, causing Banst’s brow to furrow. They stared at him in the eyes without looking away until he left.

Shaking his head helplessly, Banst left wordless. When he stood upon the cobbled street outside, he stared across the humble city of Hildew - the more affluent side of town. Soon, he would return home, where there wasn’t as much shine, despite the sun shining equally on all things.

When he made his first step, pain attacked his mind and sent him downward, crashing upon the stone street.