Ch 2.3

The next day, Benjamin woke before the sun.

He headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Supplies were low, but the hut kept a small library of seeds.

Ben grabbed a few vegetable seeds and planted them just outside. He channeled his mana into the soil; within minutes, a tidy mini-garden of ripe tomatoes, carrots, and potatoes swelled from the earth. He harvested them into a basket and carried it back inside.

Ben’s ability was every farmer’s envy, so long as he had seeds, hunger was never a worry.

With the fresh vegetables, he set about making a hearty stew and a pot of tea.

His master rose at dawn and came to the dining room, where breakfast was already laid out.

“Good morning, Master,” Ben said.

The master nodded and settled into a chair. Ben poured tea into his master’s favorite porcelain cup and set a bowl of stew on the floor. A furry creature darted from the corner, three tails flicking with excitement.

“Hold on, Mop, the stew’s hot,” Ben warned.

He took a bowl for himself and sat across from his master. He tasted a spoonful of steaming soup and smiled with quiet pride. “I might have outdone myself. This turned out delicious. You sure you don’t want a bite?”

His master’s golden, slit irises narrowed. “You know I don’t indulge in human cuisine. It all tastes stale to me. If you brought me the blood of a talented bearfolk, though, that would be appetizing. It’s been a month since I last had real blood.”

He sipped his tea slowly.

Ben smiled. “I don’t think you’ve tried enough human dishes to dismiss them all. And you do seem to like the tea.”

The master sniffed. “Tea is a drink, not food.”

“If you say so,” Ben replied, returning to his stew.

After a moment, the master set his cup down. “Time to brief you on today’s assignment.”

Ben straightened. “So what is it? Are we hunting the Rockface Boars in the forest, or tracking that grizzly Steel Python by the southern ridge?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” the master said, taking another sip. “You’ll be on an escort mission. You’re joining an old friend of mine, Kraven Dumbskull. He’s a seasoned adventurer. Your task is to escort someone from Barville Port to Withering Woods.”

Ben’s enthusiasm drained. “An escort mission? That doesn’t sound interesting.”

The master fixed him with a stern look. “Given how impressively you failed your last ‘interesting’ mission, this will be good for you.”

Ben grew quiet and ate.

“And your charge is a woman of the cloth from the Zephinya Kingdom,” the master added. “She’s coming to spread their faith.”

Ben’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth. “A woman of the cloth? From the church?”

“There’s only one faith those people serve,” the master said. “You know who I mean.”

Ben set his spoon down, anger rising. “The people of the cloth are our enemies. Why am I protecting them?”

“Kraven will handle most of the guarding,” the master said calmly. “You’re tagging along, consider it training.”

Ben bristled.
“For the church to come this far, it doesn’t sit right. Shouldn’t we stop them before they establish a foothold?”

The master put his empty cup on the table with a thud. “We are enemies of the church, yes, but that doesn’t mean going on a rampage and killing every emissary. The Church of Virtues has tried to plant roots on this continent for centuries and failed. This is another attempt, a nuisance, not an invasion.”

Ben pressed, “Then why not stop her now? We don’t want the church gaining any ground. This is the last continent where we’re safe.”

The master stood and slammed a hand on the table. “Your priority should be earning your adventurer’s stamp, not hunting enemies. Beastmen tribes are already hunting the woman, you know how dangerous this land is for humans.”

Ben fell silent.

“Every time the church tries, some beastmen tribes gain wealth and influence from the effort,” the master continued. “This time is no different. The woman will be a guest of the Ulfar tribe. Their chief accepted the church’s request to build a small chapel in Withering Woods; she will oversee it. Your mission is straightforward: escort her from the port and hand her over to the Ulfar.”

Ben frowned. “The Ulfar? Weren’t they banished for eating members of the Grok tribe? I heard they were expelled from the forest.”

“You heard right,” the master said. “They were ostracized for heinous crimes and sent to Withering Woods. With nowhere else to turn, they accepted the church’s aid and allowed a church to be built on their land. For all we know, that woman is as good as dead once she’s reached there.”

“Wouldn’t the other tribes object?” Ben asked.

“A few do, but many stand to gain from the church’s presence,” the master replied. “In any case, the Ulfar chief specifically requested you. A human escort might make the woman feel safer among beasts and elves.”

“So, I don’t have a choice?” Ben asked. “Can I decline?”

“Not after you messed up your last mission,” the master replied. “You will protect her until she is delivered to the Ulfar; after that, she’s their responsibility. Kraven will handle most of the guarding, and you’ll earn your stamp. Now stop complaining and get ready to leave.”

With that, his master rose and returned to his room.

Ben stood as well. A little stew remained in his bowl, but he didn’t want it; he scraped the leftovers into Mop’s bowl. He had lost his appetite.

Mop, oblivious, devoured the extra stew with relish. The little furball’s white face was smeared red with broth.

Ben patted Mop’s head. “Eat your fill. I’ll be gone for a while. Try to survive in the forest until I get back, don’t become someone’s dinner.”

Mop’s face never left the bowl.

Ben straightened and went to his room. There was a lot to prepare.