Chapter 31:

Wolf Boy

Blood Pawn : 400 New Years (Book 1)


It’s been three days since I woke up from that little disaster.

The world feels... clearer now. Sharper. More honest.

The colors are brighter, the sounds less distracting. Everything has meaning again—because now, everything is mine to shape.

My body moves with grace and precision. Not the awkwardness of Mr. Average, not the brute force of Rage. Each step is calculated. Every breath measured.

I’ve resumed training, but not like before. Now I’m refining. Polishing.

The mana heart I forged in desperation hums steadily in my chest. Stable. Predictable. Operating at seventy percent efficiency. A solid number. Not perfect—but nothing in this world ever is.

Yet.

I’m not chasing dreams of perfection.

I’m building leverage.

The higher I climb, the steeper the cost. Mana theory bends, but doesn’t break. I know the ceiling. I’ve seen the cracks.

Still, that won’t stop me. Because today’s goal isn’t power.

It’s politics.

A side quest. One that demands patience, respect... and a touch of charm.

"Mom! I’m ready. Can I go now?" I call out, adjusting the sleek cloak draped over my shoulders—black with silver lining, hand-stitched by Anara herself. I chose it because it looks expensive.

Anara appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands with a damp cloth. She approaches like a hawk inspecting its prey.

She doesn’t ask. She adjusts.

She tugs the fabric straight, buttons my tunic without a word, smooths my collar, and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. Her fingers are warm, but her gaze is sharp.

“Remember what I said,” she says, tilting her head so our eyes meet. “Be respectful. It’s a church, not one of your sparring fields.”

I smile. It’s easy. Polished.

“I know, Mom.”

She exhales softly and steps back. There's a smile on her lips, but her eyes linger a little too long.

“And come home fast, Ori, okay?” Her voice is lighter now, but there's a tension in it. A mother’s intuition. She senses something’s changed.

But she won’t ask.

And I won’t tell.

“Okay, Mom,” I say, smiling again. My voice is warm, my tone gentle. She deserves the illusion, so I give it to her.

I step outside.

The road beneath my boots is familiar. Dusty, sun-warmed stone. But the path today isn’t to the church.

Not yet.

There’s a debt I intend to collect.

-------------------------------------------------

I reach Darius’s home—a sturdy thing, made of thick wood and quiet pride. No frills. No flair. Functional, just like the man.

I raise my hand.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Who is it?” comes the growl from within. Darius. Grumpy as ever.

I don’t answer.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Louder this time.

I let the silence hang just long enough to become uncomfortable.

Let him come to me. Let him open the door.

Let him remember who I am now.

The door swings open with a creak, and Darius fills the frame like a mountain. Broad, imposing, already scowling.

His irritation shifts in an instant when he sees me. His brows lift, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Ori! It’s you,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Why didn’t you answer when I asked who it was?”

I meet his gaze without blinking. “Where is my reward?”

The smile freezes. His eyes widen slightly. A beat of silence.

“Reward?” he echoes. His voice rises a notch, the disbelief barely hidden. “What reward?”

Before I can answer, a voice rings out from deeper inside the house—bright, sharp, and unmistakably in control.

“Who’s at the door, honey?” Morgana. The true ruler of this house.

“It’s Ori!” Darius shouts back, half-turning his head.

“Well, bring him in!”

I open my mouth to object, but Darius grabs my shoulders and pulls me in like I’m some lost kid returning from a trip.

“Rascal, what reward are you talking about, huh?” he chuckles, spinning me slightly before setting me down. His laughter echoes in the small entry hall.

I step away from his hands, smoothing my cloak. My voice is steady, precise.

“Reward for my kills.”

He blinks. Then tilts his head, scratching the back of his neck.

“That fight, huh…” he mutters, his grin returning like it never left. “Alright, alright. You’ve earned it. But next time, maybe ask instead of demanding like some spoiled prince.”

Before I can speak, the queen herself arrives.

Morgana steps into view, her hands still damp with whatever she’s been cooking, towel in hand, hair pulled back. She eyes me like a merchant inspecting gold that talks.

“‘Spoiled prince,’ huh?” she says with a smirk, eyebrow arched. “Sounds about right.”

She leans casually against the doorframe, weight on one hip, gaze sharp. It’s not affection—it’s assessment. She knows what I am now. And she still plays the same game.

“Asking for a reward when you just barely dragged yourself back alive?” she continues, cocking her head. “Are you sure you’re Anara’s son? She’s got more sense in her little finger.”

Darius snorts beside her, grinning wide. “More like her spirit. The kid’s always had fire. He just talks big now.”

I don’t answer.

I let them speak.

Every word, every smirk, every laugh—they’re distractions. Noise that tries to disguise itself as warmth. I don’t reject it. But I don’t absorb it either. Not like before. Not like him.

Morgana waves a hand. “Well, don’t just stand there, Ori,” she says, tone sliding toward practical. “Sit. Let me get you something to eat before Darius gives you whatever ridiculous ‘reward’ he’s dreamed up.”

Darius lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, the kind that shakes his chest and makes the cups on the nearby table tremble.

“Ridiculous, huh?” he says, his grin widening like a lion who’s found a reason to roar. “I was actually thinking about the reward money. Thought I’d take you to the adventurer’s guild.”

Reward. There it is.

I raise an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “Let’s go now then.”

Morgana scoffs behind him, loud and sharp like the crack of a whip. She leans against the kitchen doorway, one brow arched high.

“Typical. He’s barely upright, and you’re already dragging him to the guild. What’s next, Darius? A sparring match on the way there?”

Darius slaps a heavy hand on my shoulder. The weight is familiar, but it’s still irritating. I don’t like being touched without purpose. His palm nearly sends me stumbling forward.

“Hey, the kid’s eager! Gotta give him credit,” he says, laughing again. “What’s wrong with making sure he learns the ropes, huh?”

“What’s wrong,” Morgana snaps, folding her arms tightly across her chest, “is that you two share one brain cell when it comes to danger.” Her voice lifts pointedly. “And don’t expect me to patch him up again when he comes back half-dead!”

“I’m fine, Aunt,” I say, voice clipped and controlled, shrugging off Darius’s hand like dust from a shoulder. I don’t need her concern. Not now. Not ever.

Darius chuckles, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “See? He’s fine! He’s tough!”

Morgana throws up her hands. “Fine! Go on, then. Just don’t come crawling back when you realize you forgot something important—like eating.”

“Eating’s for after the reward,” I reply without missing a beat, already stepping toward the door.

Darius laughs again, grabbing his coat from the peg and swinging it over one shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Alright, let’s move out, rascal.”

We step outside. The sun slants across the cobbled street, catching on the dull silver of Darius’s armor. The scent of morning fills the air—baking bread, burning wood, the mix of sweat and livestock that clings to village life like a second skin.

Morgana leans out of the doorway one last time, her sharp green eyes locking onto mine. “Don’t let him rope you into anything stupid, Ori!”

“No promises,” I answer coolly, a faint smirk brushing the corner of my lips. I’m not promising anything to anyone. Not unless it serves me.

Darius throws an arm around my shoulders again. His grip is firm. Warm. He means well. That’s the problem.

“Don’t worry, Morgana!” he calls out. “I’ll make sure he ropes me into something stupid instead!”

She mutters something I don’t catch before ducking back inside. Probably another warning I’ll ignore.

The guild isn’t far. But with Darius walking beside me, it feels longer. Louder. He talks too much, laughs too often. I let him. People like him need to fill silence. People like me use silence to measure what’s worth keeping—and what’s worth taking.

As we walk, the air shifts.

It’s subtle at first—then unmistakable. The smell of iron and grit. Of sweat and dirt and ambition. Of desperation pretending to be bravery.

The scent of a hundred failures buried beneath a hundred more attempts.

The adventurer’s guild.

It looms ahead like a giant that’s seen better days. Weathered wood patched over in places, rust on the iron hinges, windows slightly fogged. The building isn’t impressive. But I’m not here to be impressed.

I’m here to begin.

When Darius pushes open the doors, noise hits us like a wave.

Voices overlap—young adventurers puffing out their chests, exchanging half-truths and shaky boasts. The clink of tankards, the scrape of steel on scabbard, the low thrum of desperation disguised as pride. Everyone here wants something. Gold. Glory. Respect. All of it tastes the same to me: opportunity.

I scan the room. Most of them are barely seasoned—sloppy stances, ill-fitted gear, a few with dried blood on their tunics that isn't even theirs. Children pretending to be wolves.

But a few stand out. Sharper eyes. Heavier steps. Real experience. Low-rank, maybe mid-tier, but in this forgotten village, they pass for gods.

Pathetic.

Darius’s presence shifts the room like gravity. I see it in their glances—the subtle nods, the way conversations dip as we pass. Even now, retired and gray at the temples, he commands space.

“Come on,” he mutters, nudging me forward with that damn hand on my shoulder again.

We move to the counter. One of the two receptionists looks up—a middle-aged woman, short hair, sharp eyes. She doesn’t smile. She calculates.

“Welcome, Darius,” she says. Brisk, efficient. She knows her job.

Darius leans casually on the counter like he owns the place. “Hello, Clara. How are you holding up?”

Clara taps her pen against the ledger. “Same as always. Keeping these fools in line.” She doesn’t bother hiding her exhaustion. “What brings you here?”

Before I can speak, Darius pulls me forward like some prize pet, ruffling my hair again.

I hate that. But I let it happen—for now.

“You remember the wolf boy?” he says with a grin, nodding at me like I’m a stray dog that learned a trick.

Clara’s eyes narrow slightly, and she tilts her head. “Ah, yes. I remember.”

Darius gives another chuckle, oblivious to the insult. “Well, he came to collect his reward for those kills.”

Clara looks me over again, this time slower, with more weight. “You’re Anara’s son, aren’t you?”

I hold her gaze. “That’s right.”

She laughs—soft, dismissive. “You’ve got her eyes. But I didn’t expect to see you here so soon after that wolf stunt. Most kids would still be in bed recovering.”

“Most kids aren’t me,” I reply smoothly, letting just enough steel slip into the words.

She catches it. I see her expression shift.

Clara smirks. “You’ve got her stubborn streak too.” She opens a thick logbook and drags a finger down the entries. “Let’s see… wolf bounty… ah. two confirmed kills. That’s not bad for someone your age.”

“Not bad?” Darius barks, slapping the counter. “It’s damn impressive! Kid’s got talent!”

Clara glances at him, unimpressed. “Or someone watching his back.”

I tilt my head, slowly, toward Darius. “He was there,” I say calmly. “But he didn’t kill my wolves.”

Darius grins down at me. “Hey, don’t sell me short! He didn’t need me for two of them!”

Clara doesn’t buy it, not fully. But she doesn’t argue either. “Alright, alright,” she says, scribbling something in the logbook. “You’re here for your reward. Wait here. I’ll process it.”

As she turns, I watch her. Watch the way she moves, how she handles the paperwork. Efficient. Organized. Predictable.

Good. That makes her exploitable.

I fold my arms behind my back, pretending to relax. But in truth, I’m already thinking ahead.

This place isn’t much.

But it’s where the game begins.

As Clara steps away, I roll my eyes—an act, of course—but I allow a smirk to slip through, just enough for Darius to catch.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I say, brushing imaginary dust off my sleeve.

“Of course I am,” he says with zero shame, folding his arms across that barrel chest of his. “What’s the point of having a nephew if I can’t embarrass him every now and then?”

Clara returns with a small pouch in her hand. She doesn’t look rushed, but efficient, like everything she does is part of some unspoken system. She places the pouch on the counter, fingers tapping the worn wood once before sliding it toward me.

“Here you go,” she says, her voice still brisk but warmer than before. “Two kills. Three silver coins. Don’t spend it all in one place, alright?”

I take the pouch. It’s small, unimpressive—but weight isn’t the measure of value. Symbolism is. I tuck it into my cloak with a nod. “Thanks.”

Darius claps a hand on my back—he never seems to understand the word restraint. The jolt nearly pushes me into the counter, but I roll with it.

“Now, was that so hard?” he says, grinning. “You’re officially earning your keep, kid. Next stop—big leagues.”

Clara mutters something under her breath, but I hear the faint smile hidden behind it. “Adventurers and their egos…”

And she’s not wrong.

We step back into the sunlight, and Darius immediately throws an arm around my shoulders like he’s claiming credit for the sunrise itself.

“Alright, wolf boy,” he says with mock ceremony. “What’s next on your big adventure?”

I adjust the pouch at my side, feeling the coins press faintly against my hip. “We’ll see,” I answer, voice steady, calm, deliberate. “This was just the start.”

But that’s all I give him.

I shrug off his arm before he tries to ruffle my hair again—he doesn’t get to do that anymore.

“I need to go to the church,” I say, stepping away.

“Bye, Uncle Darius.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly expecting more. “That’s it? Where’s the party for getting your first reward? You just earned your silver. Isn’t this the part where you celebrate?”

I glance back, already halfway out the door. “Of course there’s a party.”

Then I let the smirk show.

“At home. Mom will give you the best treats.”

He stares, then lets out a booming laugh, shaking his head. “Rascal,” he mutters, like it’s both a curse and a compliment. He knows what I meant—he’s invited, if he can catch up.

I don’t wait for his reply. The sun outside catches the edge of my cloak as I step onto the street, its weight shifting like a curtain drawn over shadow.

The village buzzes around me—merchants barking about fish too fresh to be real, children running between carts, an old man yelling at a chicken for reasons I’ll never care to know.

But none of them matter.

Before the church, there’s one thing left.

Treats before taming.

That’s the rule. I give a little, show a smile, offer something sweet—and then take what I want.

People are like creatures. You feed them first.

Then you slip on the leash.


S S DUDALA
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