The amphitheater was packed with elves—from the stingy merchants that liked to haggle their way into wealth to disillusioned artisans who thought themselves the very best at their craft, from the lowliest baron to the most affluent duke, such were the intermixture of people that Sashaiuin's scrutinizing gaze swept over. This ancient dignitary had a very open secret—no, not the fact that she's one of the three Primes leading this nation—it was that she was frivolous, materialistic, and superfluous. She had a thousand foreign baubles decorating her estate, and she planned on collecting a thousand more. That was why she was here at the city of Thokos, the one place in Kirisal where the wares were never local, only foreign, and where the slaves were never boorish, only exemplary. This was Kirisal's biggest trading hub—a crosswalk of different cultures if you will. And that was what she and all the other participants of this auction were here for.

Currently, she had her eyes set on a very trifling trinket. It had a long and sleek body of wood, and a metal barrel was attached on top of this body. The body curved near the butt, the curve serving as the handle itself. Metal ringed around a curved protrusion down the handle—perhaps the trigger of the object. The auctioneer said it was capable of launching a projectile at incredible speeds—a rifle it was called. She thought of how useless this item was against a well trained and capable mage. With sense, as well as physical enhancing spells, such weapons were at a disadvantage. But she nevertheless pressed her lips into an exuberant smile.

“Going once, going twice….”

She raised the card that had a hundred thousand written on it, and the auctioneer beamed.

“Fifteen shackals! Will it go higher? Let’s go to sixteen—none? Going once, going twice. Sold to the lady over there.”

Sashaiuin was ecstatic, another decoration had been added to her collection. Well, considering her duchy was one of the wealthiest in Kirisal, she didn't mind the expense. The next item for bidding was not so much an item as a slave. But to many an elf, there was no difference—a slave was an item just as there was no difference between a human and a slave. It was all fallacies for her taste; she didn't really take kindly to slavery as much as she tolerated it, that was why she had as few slaves working in her estate and businesses as possible, and when she made them work, she made sure to give them a roof over their heads and food for their stomachs.

“This slave is special,” the auctioneer claimed, placing his mallet on the podium. “He comes from a breed of humans coming from the city of Thuruk, and not only that, he is one of their revered low-adventurers. That means he can read, that also means he can plan. It is quite rare to find a slave with a sharp intellect these days, which means it is also that much more worthwhile to gain one.”

Sashaiuin looked closely. The slave was dark-skinned, had a square and prominent jaw, a handsome face, and muscular build—very exotic. She thought hard about it. Since Kirisal and Ethera share a common tongue, the slave must know how to read and speak their language, which meant he'd be a handy assistant to have around. Looking at the man's grizzled expression, he wasn't that unfamiliar with labor as well. Strong muscles, sturdy stance. Alright, she had decided, she's going to put him to work under her fiftieth-generation grandson. He would be very happy to have a new slave help run his store. The starting bid was nine shackals. She did not mind buying him for more.

She raised the card for ten thousand tushackalie, adding it onto the starting bid.

“Ten shackals, any more bids. Eleven shackals from the nice gentlemen over there.”

She raised the card for twenty thousand tushackalie

“Thirteen shackals! Anyone else? How about that distinguished mistress over there. Fifteen shackals!”

She raised another card.

“Seventeen shackals… any more? Going once, going twice. Sold again to that illustrious lady over there.” The auctioneer casually said, not recognizing that he was talking to a Prime. For if he had, he would have groveled at her feet.

The symbolic as well as actual authority the Primes had were so absolute that citizens might as well have worshiped them as gods—again, another thing that wasn't to her liking. If anything, she wished the Primes were more focused on improving the lives of their subjects. Alas not everyone in the Triad agreed with her. All they wanted was wealth and more wealth regardless of how it affected their subjects. Of course who would listen to her, a newcomer who had ruled as Prime for merely forty years after the death of her predecessor? She had no choice but to tolerate Kirisal’s irksome political climate, which was why she wore a mask everytime she went outside on personal business—no one needed to know she was a Prime.

The attendants of the auction prodded the burly slave out into the back of the stage, perhaps binding him with the slave mark—the mechanisms of which would only ever be complete once she got her mana keyed into the enchantment. By then it would all be too easy to order him around. She could also have another person share that prerogative once she permitted them to key their own mana into the bind.

A few more items were being auctioned and she almost decided at that point that she would be eschewing the rest of the auction, but her flight was all but too slow to prevent the next spectacle from arresting her gaze.

Once you got to her age, you see, spiritual senses, especially vision, was already as habitually simple as breathing in air, that it was constantly running in the background. So she could not help but lock her gaze towards a young man—tanned and a bit too muscular for his age, with black hair that slicked back on his head, eyes piercing and determined. This young man, of no spectacular form, caught her eyes because of the ghostly tendrils of light that danced outward from his eyes, visible only to her spiritual eyes. Usually that should have been dancing tongues of light that closely resembled the cracklings of fire. Regardless of how it looked, that should be an indication of… spiritual vision. Was her sight playing with her mind? A human with an open spiritual sense? The shock stole her breath away for a moment that she had to breathe in a lungful, and release it into the most awkward sigh she had ever let out.

She immediately raised a card, forgoing the need to watch the large screen in front, which, according to the auctioneer, would show them all how this young slave had been capable of killing an elf. That happening was the least unbelievable thing right now. What merited more attention was the fact that the boy had opened his spiritual eyes. The very persona of impossibility—a sign of magical potential.

“One… One hundred shackals from the lady over there.”

The whole auditorium went silent. A million tushackalie… such a large sum for a slave… the best anyone could bid was twenty three shackals for a slave in peak condition. All eyes were upon her but she didn't mind. She had raised that card on the spur of the moment, and she had not meant to bid that high. Regardless, she owned this interesting human now, and she had a hunch this would change everything, and that this would challenge all known conventions of magic. She was happy to help that ship sail, even if for no other reason than to spite the other Primes. But the chances of that ever happening was still largely too low. Various experiments had been done to test humans’ affinity to magic and all of them came up empty handed. The purpose of those tests were dubious, most probably done in the hopes of using humans as tools for war. Again, another grim thing that she spurned even despite the fact that one of those tests was funded by her predecessor who had also been a close ally.

She quickly filed into the back of the auditorium where bidders claimed their prices. She entered when it was her turn and met the slaves she had bought. The older man seemed to have already accepted his fate, while the younger one still had fire in his eyes. Whether it was fire for rebellion or determination, she could not tell. Mixed in with that gaze was also a little bit of hostility.

At the behest of the auction employee, she keyed in her mana, setting the slave mark so that it would inflict pain on the slaves if ever they disobeyed her commands. Then she left, arranging for her possessions to be delivered to her estate, and since that was on the other side of Kirisal, that would take about a week to deliver by air, since delivery by teleportation had been banned long ago by the Triad when a terrorist took advantage of the system and had an important person assassinated by it.

When she left the auction house, ready to teleport to her estate, she saw a very unpleasant sight of an elf staggering along the streets, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of a dragon. It was Skandrim of Beyond Enterprise, the very founder and owner. She didn't like his ilk, all scheming and backstabbing. She knew of a thousand cases of him being accused of embezzling, and he was probably guilty a thousand times more than the cases let on, but the other Primes let it all slide without investigation because of the money Skandrim had been milking for them. Ugh, if she had been head Prime she would have already imprisoned the little rat. Again, another thing to tolerate.

***

After Merlion had been whisked away through the curtains, Winston sat in his cage, alone and distant. He looked around him and saw various crates, which elves around him wrenched open, revealing various items—from the smallest vials to the biggest axes, from the gnarliest vines to the sleekest cubes, such were the curio they contained. Then a little later, Merlion returned, escorted by two elves, his dark skin glistening with sweat, reflecting the light above them.

Afterwards, one of the elves forced Merlion to kneel down, pressing the end of a metal rod, which was a circle containing a mark, on Merlion's upper arm, causing the man to scream in pain. Winston gritted his teeth as he rattled the metal bars of the cage, raving wildly like a mad man.

“What are you doing to him!?” He screamed on the top of his lungs. “Get me out of here this instant and we'll see if you'd still be smug enough to hurt any of us.”

But the elf simply turned his head towards him, and with the most irritatingly, dastardly look, smirked at him. Winston's blood boiled, his palms sweating copiously and his heart beating like the twanging of a guitar strung quickly. He tried to bend the bars on his cage but Merlion simply looked at him, silently conveying the message that it was alright. Winston huffed in response, sitting down in his cell, appearing calm yet actually still gritting his teeth. The elf opened his cell and threw Merlion in.

The man pleaded with him, with two palms pressed against each other.

“Please boy, calm down. Just endure it for now, or else we'll both be in big trouble.”

Winston locked gazes with the man.

“They're hurting you—us! They have no right to do that!” He huffed, hurling expletives left and right.

“I know you're angry,” Merlion said, coaxing him. “But consider the situation, rebelling will only get us killed or plunge us to fates worse than death. You've got to understand that our actions, whether we like it or not, can either improve things for the better, or cause everything to descend into hell.”

“Then I will die trying! Or suffer any fate they plunge us into! And maybe you should do too! If not for successfully freeing ourselves, then at least for the principle of the thing!”

Merlion’s gaze fixed itself onto his eyes.

“I beg of you,” his tone still pleading. “Listen to me and understand. There are times when we have to pick our fights. And this isn't the right fight to fight for.”

He scanned the man before him. He was a mess: his clothes covered in grime and his body in sweat. His right upper arm was burnt with a strange mark. His face was covered in a bushy beard far longer than the man liked it to be, he was sure. But his eyes were determined rather than defeated, yet nevertheless imploring. Some part of him felt guilty; he shouldn't be dragging this man with him to hell or to whatever torture he wished to die in for the sake of his freedom. His blazing wrath slowly ebbed away, and his gritted teeth finally relaxed.

“I…”

Seeing the man he respected reduced to this state, he can't help but take pity, firstly on himself, for being unable to do anything substantial, and secondly on Merlion, for how he had turned out after their abduction. He clenched his fists in frustration, his mind racing through various thoughts about how to properly handle this, then his mind set on a decision. It did not dissuade him from being angry, but it did prevent him from lashing out.

“Alright, I'll concede,” he said, releasing the tension in his body, finally relenting. “I'll play along, if only out of respect for you.”

Merlion smiled at him albeit weakly.

A little later an elf opened their cell and picked him up, holding him in one arm. Another elf approached and held his other arm. But as promised, he played along. He was escorted into the biggest hall he had ever seen. He was standing on a stage in front of thousands of seats where elves of various walks of life sat. There were also seats on elevated platforms that contained many wealthy-looking elves. Some wore frilly dresses coupled with furry scarves that seemed to pop up. While there were males wearing studded and decorated armors as well as draping capes that glowed golden in the dim lights. He scanned the whole scene until his eyes stopped on a masked lady, just in the front seats, who was getting up from her chair, and whose eyes glowed in golden light that danced like fire. He scanned the whole hall again and saw no one with glowing eyes.

Huh, maybe the woman was casting magic of some sort.

Then the woman raised a card with her hand. If he was reading it right, it was a card containing the symbol for one million tushackalie. When the elf at his side announced it, the whole hall went silent. That was when Winston realized that this was an auction and that the masked lady had just dumped a hundred shackals on him. What the hell? That was more than he would ever earn in five years of adventuring. He drooled over the large sum, wishing he'd been hired with it rather than bought.

After the bid, he was shoved into the backroom and forced to kneel like Merlion had been. He knew what was coming next so he squirmed under the iron grip of one of the elves, screaming wildly and uncontrollably. He may have acquiesced to Merlion to play along, but the thought of pain made him lose grip on his sanity.

“Damn you!” He raved. “Cursed…. Agh!” The mark on the metal rod pressed itself onto his right upper arm. “Elves!” he drawled angrily and bitterly.

The elves laughed in unison.

“This one's an ass,” told one of them.

“Pity the lady who bought him,” the other one sniggered, pulling the metal rod from Winston's skin. “She has just wasted a ton for so little, this boy will not last a day under coercive service.”

Winston's breath quickened after the metal rod with the mark had been removed, no doubt because of his struggle to contain the pain that shot through from his burnt flesh. The mark did not only burn, it felt like some inner part of him, maybe his mind, was being clamped by a dampening force that made everything foggy, as well as increased the pain a thousand times more.

“Bah! Rich ladies and their impetuousness. Bet you a hundred shackalie that, that sum was only pocket money to her.”

The elves pulled Winston up and imprisoned him once again.

“Bet with yourself,” the other elf smilled. “I don't want to lose that much money.”

“Good choice,” the elf grinned at his companion. “‘Cause I don't actually have that much to spare, you just saved my ass dumbo.”

“Oh shut up,” The other said, pulling a pocket watch from his trousers. “Let's go. Don’t want to make the boss angry; he looks awful when he's fuming.”

Then the two walked away towards who knows where.

Several rich looking elves came into the backroom and claimed several items which Winston surmised were their price. One of them—an elven woman who looked forty by his estimate but was probably hundreds, if not thousands of years old—talked to one of the elven staff. The staff led her to their direction and she looked at him with curiosity. He, being too proud, looked back at her with unmatched ferocity.

“It's not glowing.” The elven woman said, more to herself than to him. “Maybe I imagined it?”

The lady then whispered something and flicked her hand, causing an overbearing force to swaddle Winston, making his burnt mark itch like hell. Then the elf left, leaving him to wonder about what she meant by glowing. Maybe it was connected to how her eyes were glowing earlier? A hundred other guesses came up to his head and he ignored all of them. What's the point? He'd probably never get to ask her the question anyway, what with him being her slave, and her, his master.

***

Winston waited in the foyer, annoyed and barely restraining his growing dissatisfaction. The mistress of the house had commanded him by letter to come and talk to her, and he had been here for an hour now and there was still no indication of her showing up. The maids, who were elves, didn't even bother answering him when he asked them what was taking the mistress so long, and whenever he intentionally let a thought, about flaking out, pass through his mind, a sharp, lacerating pain would eventually cripple him until he got rid of the thought. He guessed it was how the elves enforced their wills upon their slaves—not only through sheer, overwhelming force but also through a highly sophisticated but effective method. When he squinted his eyes a bit and focused dutifully on the mark on his right upper arm, light seemed to trace itself on the surface of the symbols, doubtlessly acting as the cause for whatever pain he had felt. Damn these elves, they may have been slaving bastards, but their magic was decidedly impressive.

He turned his attention to the room as a whole, and it was huge, bigger than the adventurer's hall back at Thuruk. What stuck like a sore thumb, however, was the fact that the whole place was overly decorated with trinkets that it, admittedly, did the opposite of whatever intention the decorator had had of beautifying the whole place.

A moment later, a voice cut him off from his reverie and he turned to see an elven woman coming to sit in front of him.

“Mistress,” he professed—as gently as he could—with a bow. He had not seen her since their encounter at the auction house, but he and Merlion had been well fed (for the last three weeks) and had a roof over their heads because of her. It wasn't so much that he respected her as he wanted to remain on her good graces for fear of losing those privileges. “I received your message and am here accordingly.”

“It's nice to finally be able to talk to you,” she chimed, smiling at him. “I hear you’ve done a good job helping maintain my grandson's store, offering needed muscle to take care of the heavy-lifting. I appreciate that by the way.”

Huh, did she just thank him?

“If I may be so blunt, Ma'am,” he couldn’t help but scrunch his face into a frown. “Why would an esteemed mistress, as yourself, thank a lowly slave like me?”

“Why wouldn't I?” the elf raised an eyebrow. “Working as a slave means you'd have to grind hours and hours of thankless work. Wouldn't you want to hear a simple thank you from your owner? I certainly would, if I were in your position. I am a frivolous woman, but never stingy with gratitude.”

“I see….”

He wasn't even able to finish his sentence when the lady cut him off.

“Enough of that,” she pronounced, fanning herself with her foldable fan. “Let’s get down to business shall we? I've been wanting to talk to you about this ever since I saw you on that stage but failed to do so because of my hectic schedule. I am… somewhat of an important figure, you see. Anyway, what I want to ask is….”

The woman closed her eyes, seeming to ponder how to put it into words.

“Do you, um…” she opened her eyes, “perhaps know any magic?”

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Winston's eyes widened. What an odd question. If he was asked by anyone what an elf of her stature would probably ask him if given the chance, he would reply: ‘Why are you so dumb and dirty?’ Not this.

“Um… m-mistress,” he stammered. “I don't know how to answer that or why this is even a question in the first place.”

She slapped her head with her fan.

“Of course, of course,” she said. “Stupid of me for not clarifying it first. You see, when I saw you on stage at the auction, I saw your eyes were glowing, or at least I thought I saw them. Were they? I mean, have you unlocked any of your spiritual senses?”

“You mean if I can see mana?”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, leaning in excitedly. “Exactly what I mean.”

Winston pondered for a bit. Should he tell her about his dream? No. He decided to omit the dream entirely and just talk about the skill he had gained from it. It would be too risky to reveal that to her.

“I… think so.”

“Can you show me?”

“Um,” Winston said, somewhat perplexed. How could he show her the very act of seeing mana? That would be like showing someone how to think. “I don't know how to show you?” It came out wrong. The words sounded more like a question than a statement, but all of that was because of his nagging fear of angering the woman.

“Oh, right. Silly of me.” She waved her hand in front of her. “Do you see anything?”

He squinted his eyes and looked very closely, just as he had been doing whenever he saw motes of light in the air or his own mana.

“I see a cloud of light….”

“Holy shit!” the elf exclaimed. “Your eyes are glowing, just like before. They're tendrils of light emanating from your eyes, just like before! Holy shit, holy shit, this is news!”

Winston looked at her eyes and saw them exuding the very same light he had seen during the auction, dancing like tongues of fire. He guessed that her glowing eyes meant that her spiritual eyes, or whatever that's called, was active, and that she herself was seeing a similar phenomenon happening to his own eyes.

“Can you do any magic?” she said, putting down her hands, making the cloud of light dissipate. At the same time, he also lowered his focus. “I mean have you done anything remotely similar to magic?”

“Well…” he hesitated. He didn’t know if he should tell her about his embarrassing foray into magic or if he should deny any involvement with anything magic related.

“Well? Spit it out boy!”

He decided to tell her.

“I've been trying to learn magic for some time now,” he began, fumbling in his seat. “When I was in Thuruk, I was trying to learn how to cast a fireball. It was difficult to aspect my mana at first, but then I learned how to feel it. After that, aspecting it was just a matter of….”

“You could what!?” She stood up from her seat and walked towards him. Then she placed both her hands on either side of his shoulders, shaking him vehemently. “You could feel your mana!? Not only can you see your mana, but you can also feel it? This means you've also opened your spiritual touch. This is big news, boy, big news!”

She then walked backwards and flopped onto the couch.

“I hate to disappoint, mistress, but it never worked. Proper spells seem to fail because my mana do not have enough push to form the necessary structure.”

“Proper spells?” She looked at him with curiosity. “What about cantrips?”

“Oh, those?”

He waved his hand, causing fire to flicker on top of his index finger, then he snuffed it out.

“Could do the fire based one easily, but no more than that.”

The elf just stared at him, stupefied.

“Boy, I am, by now, utterly and completely speechless.”

He offered her a questioning look.

She then recovered and looked at him with every bit of vehemence as she had when she shook him.

“No human, in recorded history, has ever learned to cast cantrips. You are the first!”

***

The elf, who had tested and taught him the basics of magic, brushed off the fact that he learned in a month what took an average elf a year—especially the fact that he learned anything at all! It was supposed to be impossible, but the elf either ignored the fact that he could feel and aspect mana (out of some supremacist viewpoint) or the elf was just dumb beyond belief. Sashaiuin believed it was a mixture of both, adding something about him being one of a kind, and that he should be given the chance to advance, at least for the benefit of the world. For if humans had any dormant talent at handling magic, and everyone was just ignoring it, then the world was missing out on a lot because of it. Perhaps an elven babe (at the throes of death because of an incurable disease) could have been saved by a human who had the right confluence of perspective, experience and talent to cure her. The world—especially her, Sashaiuin—could not bear the burden of failing to train a budding talent before everything was too late.

Such were the reasons why Winston was now standing in the training yard, carrying a wooden sword at his hip and waiting for the others to arrive. Sashaiuin had tasked him to join a team of elven mages under her command to learn from them how to overcome his mana's lack of pressure. But when the elves arrived (also carrying wooden swords), he became unsure how successful this plan would be. They were giving him dirty looks, scowling and scoffing while whispering in hushed tones, doubtlessly gossiping about his presence.

“Everyone!” a burly elf announced, facing everyone. “Get in line. Now!”

The elves, fifteen or so, scampered to form two lines, facing a direction perpendicular to the lines. Winston, being a novice, blundered his way to the side of one very tall elf. The elf gave him a sidelong glance, then the elf smiled, and the next thing he knew, he was tumbling on the grass. Blasted elf! Was he picking a fight with him!? Oh he was going to get it. Winston abruptly stood and prepared to launch a fist at the elf's stupidly long nose, when a hand blocked him, securing him in place.

“Slave Winston,” the burly elf spurted out, emphasizing the word slave. “Attempting to hurt a comrade is a grave offense against the militia's code of conduct. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“The hell? He pushed me first!”

The leader—the man seemed to be one—looked at the others.

“Did any of you see Soreith push the slave?”

The others shook their heads in denial.

“Then I guess that settles it,” the leader looked Winstond in the eye, with a dastardly irritating smile. “I’ll let you off the hook just this once. The next time you cause trouble, you're out! Regardless of the mistress's orders. I'd rather quit the job than be forced to teach a worthless slave who can't control himself. I'm sure you don't want that to happen?”

Winston gnashed his teeth and (despite himself) nodded.

The leader immediately stood in front, as Winston got in line at the back of the tall elf, while distancing himself just enough from the elf at his side, so the previous scene wouldn’t repeat itself.

“We'll be sparring for today,” the leader announced to all of them. “No magic. And for the benefit of the slave in our team, I repeat this again. Training the body is important for a mage if he wants to reel in his magic more skillfully, that is if he has any or if he's delusional enough to think that he has any,” the leader smirked obviously at his direction.

Okay deep breaths, calm down, calm down.

The leader moved his attention back to the whole group.

“The body, after all, is the foundation and main focus of any spell. Any questions?”

Silence….

“Alright, begin sparring.”

The elves began pairing up with each other leaving Winston to partner with the asshole elf who had pushed him. Was this intentional? Were they intentionally annoying him, so he'd lash out, giving them reason to evict him from the group? Because if that's what they were doing then it was working. But he refused to let them win, so he controlled his emotions and restrained his anger. He'd show this elf what he was made of.

The tall elf—Soreith as he was called—stood confidently opposite him.

“Make sure to give me one hell of a fight, slave,” he arrogantly challenged. “Personally, I think this is all a farce set up by the mistress. You are nothing special. And you'd never amount to anything.”

Winston closed his eyes. The fuming rage threatened to harass his composure, but if he was going to take any good out of this, he needed to calm down.

“I'd make sure not to damage your pretty face, at least,” he intoned, opening his eyes and smiling at the elf.

The elf seemed to take offense at this and lunged at him.

***

A month had passed and Winston did nothing but spar with the elves, almost always losing every fight. He was sure that they were cheating with magic because they moved and struck with such speed and strength that it was impossible to have come from flesh alone. He suspected they were intentionally obstructing his growth, or merely underestimating his potential. Whenever they did exercises to improve their spell casting or learned techniques to better master their spell control, Acsmith—the leader of the team—always never explained it in novice terms. Instead, he purposefully spoke jargon that only they could understand. Such impudence and haughtiness. But what could he do? He couldn't just go and whine at Sashaiuin with the hope of bringing Acsmith and the other elves to justice, that would just force them to treat him worse than they already did. No, he needed to keep silent and learn whatever he could. At least his combat skills had significantly improved in the span of the previous month.

Now though, he was deemed ‘worthy’ enough by Acsmith to join them on a mission. That was why he was sitting on a floating carriage along with the fifteen other elves, while Acsmith manned the helm. The carriage had a long body and two seats that were parallel with each other, so that he and seven other elves sat opposite the other eight elves. The carriage's roofed body was completely made of metal, and peering a little bit at the front revealed that Acsmith was steering the machine by some sort of levers. If the right lever was pulled down, the other would be pushed up, and the machine turned right and vice versa. What he was seeing piqued his interest grearly—such amazing feats of magical engineering. He wished nothing more than to drive the thing, but aside from the fact that he was a slave, he was just not qualified to do it.

When they came out of the estate, they followed a paved road that led to the city. Why the roads were paved he did not know. If you had floating vehicles why bother pave the roads at all? He got his answer when they arrived at the sprawling city. He saw that not everyone had floating vehicles. Some rode horseless, wheeled transportation that were also almost made entirely of metal. They were shining and beautiful to look at. Then he turned his attention to the city. Towering edifices that stood in almost every corner greeted his sight, while there were lower-storied buildings that were nevertheless massive albeit in the horizontal direction. His mouth was agape at the sights he was taking in.

When they had been traveling from the auction house towards Sashaiuin's estate, they were placed in a cage with two small windows, so he never got to see the city. And whenever they were called to work at the store, they always used those so-called tele-pads that teleported them to their destination, somewhat groggily and queasily. Working at the store granted few sightseeing chances as they were mainly working behind closed doors, a ‘warehouse’ they called it.

He then brought his attention to his teammates who were all looking rather sleepy, no doubt because it was still seven in the morning. He had learned in his time with them that the elves were fairly young (around eighteen years old). Soreith himself was nineteen, the oldest elf among the trainees. Acsmith on the other hand was older than the lifespan of those few humans who got to the age of a hundred, having lived for a hundred and eight years old.

After traveling for fifteen minutes they arrived at a town. It still had buildings that rose several stories high but not as impressive as the city—the capital of Sashaiuin's duchy. But it was nonetheless impressive—at least more impressive than Thuruk. What struck him as odd, however, was the lack of walls surrounding the town. But considering that the average elf was very powerful, he guessed, for the most part, that they did not need walls for security.

Their vehicle stopped at the town hall—the biggest he had ever seen. Thuruk's town hall was just the size of a house, but this one looked like eigth houses put side by side and stacked over each other.

An elf, wearing a blue robe, greeted them.

“Welcome, Sirs, we have been expecting you. Come, come, we must talk.”

The blue-robed elf led them into the town hall and then towards a briefing room.

Once in, they began to scatter and sit in chairs arranged all over the room in columns and rows.

“What seems to be the problem, Mayor?” Acsmith asked, striking immediately at the heart of the matter without dallying.

“Well, you see….” The mayor cooed, locking gaze with Acsmith and the rest of them as if he was gauging how serious they were about this mission. “We have been faring pretty well against a few minor monster attacks this past month, and we do not know why they're attacking unprovoked, as all of these monsters are herbivores….”

“Then why for the life of me did you call us?” interrupted Acsmith, pointedly.

“Ah yes,” the mayor responded, scratching his head. “We have wizened mages at our disposal but they aren't really geared for combat, so while they are effective against a few monsters, they're not qualified to handle what I'd like to request from you. They are more specialized in other fields of magic, most especially enchanting and healing. If we apply the adventurer's ranking system on any one of them, the highest rank would only be rank D.”

“I see. That's why you called for us,” Acsmith nodded. “More for me than for my students. You want an A-rank adventurer to handle this case, supported by at least a dozen more D-ranks.”

“Indeed, I requested for you specifically because of your track record and because your students are among the best D-ranks out there.”

Winston couldn't help but notice how the young elves around him preened themselves, doubtlessly pleased at being called ‘one of the best D-ranks.’ For all it's worth, he inferred from this that the strength of a mage didn't solely lie on his mana pool (or else his teammates would never hope to equal those ‘wizened’ elves, much less become one of the best) but also on his combat instincts, expertise in formulating stratagems, as well as cunning and deception, which every member of this team had. He supposed that those ‘wizened elves’ had bigger pools than his teammates (hence ‘wizened’ being the operative word) but lacked any combat related skills. Nonetheless, in a war of attrition, the bigger pool would always win, or if it was a war of pure unadulterated power, the result would always tilt towards the bigger pool which enabled the casting of more powerful spells.

“Have you investigated where the monsters are coming from?”

“Yes we have.” The mayor nodded. “There have been a few towns suffering the same problem as we have, and we have asked them about the direction the monsters came from. Coupled with the info of our own monster attacks, we have thus determined the source of the problem, and it all points toward Skurim.”

“Skurim?” Acsmith raised, his tone doubtful and unbelieving. “You're saying that the monsters that have lived in that forest without ever going beyond its boundaries for centuries are attacking towns?”

“I'm afraid so. There's always a first time for everything,” the mayor's eyes darted left and right, avoiding eye contact with Acsmith. Winston suspected the man had more information than he let on, but Winston chose to remain silent so that he wouldn't provoke the ire of their leader. “At present, only a few straggling monsters have attacked any settlement, so it hasn't yet reached the attention of the higher ups. And as much as I want to simply shrug it off as a passing matter that would eventually solve itself, I have a hunch that it's going to get worse.”

“So you came to us instead of the council, and you hope that whatever we find would convince them enough to take this matter seriously?”

“Exactly!”

“Is that all?”

“Well….”

The mayor fidgeted and fiddled with a coin, flipping it gracefully (and nervously) in his fingers. Okay, now he was really acting very suspicious. He seemed to be pondering what his next words should be as if careful not to reveal a secret that would jeopardize his safety (or if he was magnanimous enough, his citizen’s safety).

“There is this other thing…. Probably unrelated but it would help us much if you investigated it….”

“Yes? What is it?”

When the elf didn't talk but instead closed his eyes in thought, Acsmith became visibly impatient.

“Just spit it out already!”

The mayor opened his eyes with a start and backpedaled a bit, surprised at Acsmith's outcry.

“W-well,” he stammered. “Some of my citizens have been going missing for some time now. I was wondering if you could spare some time looking for them or investigating what the hell is happening to my town.”

Acsmith looked the man in the eye.

“Will do,” he said, standing up. “Leave it all to us.” He smiled.

***

Winston and the rest of his company were peering over the ledge of a cliff. Acsmith clacked his tongue, visibly worried at what he was seeing. This close to the edge of the Skurim forest, which they reached after they had driven for a full four hours, they could clearly make out a group of Dako-Bears. Based on Acsmith's estimation they were already at the third stage of their monstrous development. How in the deepest of hells (according to Acsmith's rant) did a group of stage-3 monsters get this close to the edge of the forest? Mostly, only stage-1 monsters should roam these parts.

“Suspicious,” Acsmith admitted, standing up and walking back towards the top of the cliff via the ledge that jutted along its side which sloped up to the top and to the bottom. The rest of the company followed.

“We are attacking those monsters,” Acsmith explained, once they were at the top. “We will have to, of course, investigate what's causing this gentrification, but before that, we need to eliminate this hazard. They might push through and attack any nearby settlements.”

“Understood,” Soreith answered for all of them. Winston thought if he should remind everyone that he was severely handicapped against these monsters, a case in point being that he never won any match against the elves—he just wasn't magical enough to deal with any threat above stage-2. Then he decided against the thought and would just stay out of the thick of it, only offering some needed support (if there would be any).

Once they were done formulating the plan, they descended down through the ledge. They stalked the twenty, sleeping Dako-Bears, readying to attack. The plan was to take them all in one fell swoop.

The sixteen elves jumped and struck at the monsters. But somehow, something alerted the beasts and they woke up from their slumber, buckling back. Only Acsmith’s sword struck true. Acsmith pulled his sword from the corpse of the Dako-Bear and began to lunge at another one. Winston himself wasn't left to his own devices as one of the bears pounced on him, but before the beast could maul him to his meat, he quickly jumped to the side, allowing the maw of the beast to pass by harmlessly at his side. The beasts were no doubt magically enhanced, and being stage-3 meant they were even more so, so dealing with them head on wasn't the best of plans (at least in his case). The beast bounded for him again but was blocked by Acsmith—sword on claw, the elf danced with the beast. Then he managed to slash a small wound on the beast's cheek and it bucked backwards. Before he could deal a final hit at the monster, two more vaulted for him, their claws ready to grind him to mince meat. But Acsmith simply erected a plane of force that was mostly transparent save for the fact that rippling blurs emanated from spots where the beasts’ claws struck.

Winston remembered that stage-3 monsters were supposed to have already fully developed a magical ability. He wondered why he wasn't seeing any signs of that…. A shard of bone flitted in the air that Winston barely dodged by leaning his head backwards. He only saw the attack from his peripheral vision. The sharp bone shard came from a Dako-Bear that one of his elven teammates was dealing with. Oh that magical ability. It took them (and by that he meant the elves; he was completely useless in the fight, a fact which he would make sure never to make permanent) about ten minutes to deal with the beasts completely.

They proceeded to make camp for the evening and sat around a camp fire, telling stories of tolerable bawdry and sometimes obviously made up horror tales of creatures of the night. Early on, it was clear that Winston had been demoted from barely tolerated companion to a non-existent expendable member of the team. He hated being made to feel that way, but what could he do? He had to endure it until he found some way to develop his previously budding but now stagnating magical abilities. He couldn't shape the threads into the same shapes that the humans in his vision formed with their mana despite being successful in being able to bend them into rounded shapes. With those thoughts in mind Winston piled on top of his sleeping bag beneath the stark embrace of the night sky. The elves didn't want to share a tent with him, that was why he was forced to sleep outside, amidst the crawling bugs and the annoying mosquitos that bit with annoying frequency. Soon enough he learned to shut off the world around him and drifted into sleep.

Seven hours later Winston got up from his sleeping bag and went to take a dump. He made sure to walk far enough not to be seen by his comrades and at the same time close enough not to be hunted by monsters. Once he finished, he stood up and proceeded to…. What's that sound? He swiftly panned his head around him and scanned for any movement. Halfway through his panoramic search an arm wrapped itself around his neck in a choke hold. Winston was finding it hard to breathe.

“Freaking human. Damn you all.”

The voice was familiar… Soreith, Winston was sure.

“How did you get the mistress's favor? Do you know I'm one of her multi-generation grandchildren and she has never even bothered to send any resources my way?”

It figured. Obviously an elf, as old as a two-thousand-four-hundred-year-old elf like Sashaiuin, is bound to have had thousands of descendants, that meant she could only focus her attention on so much, most probably on only those that caught her interest—whether it be because of their talent or their work ethic. Soreith just either didn't have what it took, or he was just unlucky. But regardless what did that have to do with him?

“Here comes a human, a slave for that matter, and he has somehow curried my ancestor's favor? What did you do, human? What trick have you performed to woo her favor?”

“I-I s-simply sh-show more promise than you.”

Winston couldn't help but smirk inwardly, and he felt Soreith tighten his grip. While that obviously wasn’t the real reason Sashaiuin was helping him (most probably the real reason was that Winston was just an interesting human—the first to do magic in the span of forever), the pleasure drawn from intentionally irritating someone you hate made him feel smug towards Soreith.

“Why you—”

Winston elbowed Soreith on the side which made the other man jerk backwards therby releasing him from Soreith's grip. Winston pulled his sword and prepared to launch a horizontal slash that would slice open Soreith's stomach. But before Winston could do harm, he felt a heavy weight weighing on his mind, as if his head was being constricted by a python. What the hell…. He could see Soreith pointing a finger at him.

“More promise eh? Let's see you break out of a sleep spell then.”

Winston tried hard to keep himself awake. He bit his lips, causing a tiny drop of blood to drip down from them. Then he clenched his fist, allowing his fingernails to dig into his skin. But the pressure on his mind forced him to kneel down.

A thud.

Everything went black.