After chatting with James for a bit, Oliver finished his meal and got ready to leave.

Just then, he caught a snippet of conversation from the next table about Grik, the rogue.

They’d spotted Grik in town that morning, getting into a fight and taking a serious beating. He ended up with a black eye and a bloody nose before being chased off by a gang of thugs.

Now he was apparently hiding out near the forest’s edge.

“Hiding out, is he?” Oliver scoffed.

It seemed Grik had finally run out of luck. The scoundrel spent his days drinking and picking fights, and it looked like he’d crossed the wrong people this time.

"Perfect chance to settle the score... and get my land deed back."

With his thoughts spinning, Oliver left the little tavern and headed toward the forest.

At the forest’s edge, Grik lay groaning on a flimsy cot in a deserted hunting shack.

He was a mess—face swollen, body bruised all over.

“Damn Eirik... Someday, I'll break his legs and take his little bitch wife for myself,” Grik muttered, seething with rage. “She’s something, with a figure like that…”

Suddenly, he froze, propping himself up nervously.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” he shouted, voice shaking.

To his credit, Grik’s instincts were sharp—training under an old knight had honed his senses. Realizing he’d been found, Oliver stepped out from the shadows.

“It’s you?” Grik spat as he recognized Oliver, the farmer’s kid. He let out a sigh of relief, then sneered. “Damn brat! What are you doing here, trying to give me a heart attack?”

He’d expected Eirik’s men, not this skinny farm boy.

“You’re still alive?” he snickered dismissively, but Oliver’s silence unnerved him.

As Oliver stepped closer, Grik started to feel uneasy. Wasn’t this kid starving just a few days ago? Why did he look so… dangerous?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Grik sprang to his feet, glaring. “Stop right there, kid! What do you want?”

Oliver didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a stone and took another step forward.

“You’re asking for trouble!” Grik roared, swinging a fist at him.

Incredibly, Oliver caught Grik’s punch, holding it as if it were nothing. Panic spread across Grik’s face as he realized he couldn’t pull free. The boy’s grip felt like a vise, unyielding and cold.

At that moment, the power granted by Oliver's mana core surged within him, filling him with formidable strength

Grik? He was nothing now—a squirming insect in Oliver’s grasp.

Oliver grabbed Grik by the throat, lifting him as one would a helpless bird. Grik thrashed, kicking and clawing, but it was pointless.

With a rough toss, Oliver hurled him out of the shack, landing him hard on the ground outside.

Grik gasped in pain, fear flashing in his eyes.

“Please... show mercy! I—I get it now!” he whimpered.

Oliver regarded him with calm pity. It was almost laughable how easy it was to deal with Grik now.

Once, this thug had towered over him, taking his land deed and leaving him with nothing.

But now, with his newfound power, Grik was insignificant.

“Enough talking. Where’s my land deed?”

“Uh… well…” Grik stammered.

Oliver drove a swift kick into his gut, doubling him over in agony.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I—I sold it! To the lords in town!” Grik cried, desperation in his voice.

The news hit Oliver like a weight. If the lords had his land, reclaiming it would be difficult.

They already owned vast estates and still found ways to snatch more from farmers.

These lords wielded influence that stretched far and wide.

Grik fumbled, holding out a small pouch. “Here! This is all I have left—thirty silver coins.”

“Thirty?”

“Fifty... I spent twenty on drinks,” he whimpered.

What kind of drink would cost twenty silver in just a few days? Oliver seethed, sending Grik sprawling with another kick, his cries echoing through the forest, scattering birds into flight.

Oliver pocketed the pouch of coins, eyeing the pathetic figure before him. What was he supposed to do with Grik?

“Let me go! I’ll pay you back, I swear! I’ll be your loyal follower, whatever you need!” Grik pleaded.

Spare him? Had he spared Oliver when he’d stolen his land? When he’d plotted with Walter’s men to sell him into slavery?

No. There would be no mercy.

Oliver tightened his grip on the stone and moved closer, his shadow falling over Grik.

Grik’s eyes widened, pure fear in his gaze. He scrambled backward, hands digging into the ground.

“No!” he screamed, terror cracking his voice.

But his pleas went unanswered as the stone came down.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The forest echoed with the heavy, muffled sounds, and a lifeless body lay discarded in the underbrush.

The smell of blood soon drew vultures overhead, circling ominously.

Oliver cleaned his hands and turned away.

This was his first kill, and a torrent of emotions churned within him. He ran to the edge of the forest, struggling against a wave of nausea.

“Grik was no good. He wouldn’t have kept any promise…”

Had he let him go, Grik would have surely betrayed him to Walter and his gang.

He had no choice—he had to protect himself.

But Grik’s death wasn’t the end of his troubles. Walter and his cronies wouldn’t let him be.

He needed more power.

Only by growing stronger, by becoming a true mage, would he be able to stand up to these lords and their greedy lackeys.