Ch 2.4

Ben stood before the mirror. Candles arranged around the room threw a warm, flickering light that almost bathed him in red, his hair blending into the glow as he studied his reflection.

He’d strapped on a heavy jacket and long trousers, all patched and fitted with pockets. Some had been added later, sewn by his own hand; he looked like a handyman ready for anything.

“I look like a walking toolbox…” he muttered, then moved to the bookshelf at the side of the room. There were no books, only hundreds of glass jars, each filled with a different kind of seed. He’d turned the shelf into an armory, stocked with the plants he used for battle.

Ben excelled at the healing arts and possessed inhuman strength that could tear his own body if he lost control. Because of those risks, he relied on plant magic for offense and utility.

His master had sourced exotic seeds from across the world: vines that slithered like tentacles to entangle foes, fruits that ruptured like grenades and scattered lethal shrapnel, and flowers that bloomed into cushions to break a fall. What happened in a fight depended on how Ben used them.

He grabbed handfuls of seeds and filled his pockets, starting with the most useful and stuffing the rest wherever they fit. He tucked a few into his gloves for emergencies and crammed seeds into every available pouch. Then he slung on his backpack, vials of mana potions, spare clothes, a map, a compass, and other essentials packed inside.

Ready, he checked his reflection once more and felt absurdly bulky, like an overstuffed teddy. He headed upstairs; his room was in the basement, which he’d dug himself, so the main floor led to the door.

After patting Mop and packing a few extra rations, Ben stepped outside. His master stood on the porch with his hands clasped behind his back.

“There’s a carriage waiting on the north road. It’ll take you to Barville Port. Your contact is Kraven Dumbskull,” his master instructed.

Ben frowned. “Barville’s huge. Where will I even find him? I don’t know what he looks like.”

“You’ll find him in a tavern or a brothel,” the master replied. “He’s from the Wolfmen tribe. Look for the biggest wolf beastman with a cross-shaped scar on his chest. Despite his looks, he’s a dependable man that you can count on. Just focus on completing the mission and get your damn stamps.”

“I don’t want to be in a brothel full of beastmen,” Ben said.

“You’re in no position to complain,” the master said sternly. “Move quickly, or you’ll have to walk to the port.”

Ben bit his lip. “Fine. Take care of Mop while I’m gone.”

The master said nothing.

Benjamin pushed north, deeper into the marsh. There were no proper trails here, only crooked trees, puddles of rotting water, and endless clouds of insects. The place looked utterly desolate, and as he pressed on, the terrain grew increasingly difficult to traverse.

At one point, he came upon deep mud pits and quagmires that could swallow a careless step whole. Bones lay scattered across the ground, some unmistakably human.

None of it fazed Benjamin. He moved with the ease of someone trained in this marsh, his senses alert. Soon, his steps slowed, eyes scanning the brush ahead.

He veered off the trail without warning, leaping onto a row of stones, then swinging from a vine to a distant boulder. Behind him, the path narrowed into trees, trapped, he knew, like everything else in this cursed swamp.

Ben had traversed this trail hundreds of times, and he knew every trap placement by heart. Yet, even now, standing and gawking at the path before him, beads of sweat formed on his brow as he faced the next hurdle.

Beneath him lay a quagmire, its dark depths ready to swallow him whole with a single misstep. The only way to cross it was to climb the tree and traverse the branches to the other side. But his master, ever vigilant, had set wire traps along those very branches, traps that would explode on impact.

The only viable option was to leap over the tree trunk itself, then spring from one tree to the next, clearing the trail with careful precision.

Before Ben stood a familiar tree, its trunk marked with faded handprints, the ones he had left behind countless times. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself toward it, grabbing hold of the bark.

However, the moment his feet made contact with the trunk, he recoiled, his heart pounding. A red mist erupted from the cracks in the bark, followed by a swarm of carnivorous ants that spilled out like liquid fury to defend the tree.

Without hesitation, Ben sprang to the next tree, but once again, the ants surged from it as well. He leaped to another tree, staying just out of reach as the angry swarm chased after him. After three more leaps, he finally landed back on the path, panting and shaking the remnants of the attack off his skin.

“That was too close,” he muttered under his breath. “I really hate those.”

He straightened and resumed his cautious hopping, rock to tree, vine to boulder, evading ants and hidden snares. His master had been thorough, especially along the border of the Jarla Forest.

After a tedious stretch of hopping and dodging, he crossed a stream that marked the forest’s edge. The sickly swamp and its sour reek fell away.

The Jarla opened into clean air and a wash of green: lawns of ferns, low shrubs, the sweet scent of living plants. Birds called between the trunks; butterflies and bees busied themselves among the wildflowers. A smile touched Benjamin’s face.

The forest was not only beautiful, but its plants were a trove of medicinal herbs and alchemical ingredients. To a healer and plant magician like him, it felt like paradise.

He moved into the forest with the practiced eye of someone cataloguing resources: noting trees, identifying shrubs, imagining the potions and medicines he could make this season. There were hundreds of valuable herbs here, any of which could fetch a high price, if only they could be sold. Benjamin knew he could not do that.

The Jarla Forest stretched mostly to the northeast of the swamp. If he kept walking north, he would cut through it and reach the road where the carriage waited.

As he walked, a glint in a nearby shrub snagged his attention. At the base of a large tree hung a small, brown, bell-shaped pod. It was a seed pod of the Mystbell, a plant prized for potions that restore mana. The pod was about to release its seeds; Mystbell seeds bloomed only a few times each year and were nearly priceless.

If he could take that pod, he could farm mana potions whenever he pleased.

Benjamin approached on tiptoe to avoid trampling the undergrowth. He reached out to pluck the pod. A cool breeze brushed his face, and with it came that prickling sensation of being watched. He froze, his hand halting inches from the pod. He drew his hand back, sighed, stood upright, and turned back toward the trail.

Cold sweat beaded at his temples, but he forced calm. When he glanced up the treeline, his sharp eyes found nothing, but he could feel half a dozen stares from the branches above. The Jarla was fiercely protective of its own; its inhabitants did not take kindly to thieves. Trespassers were killed and fed to the soil.

Only Benjamin and his master had special permission to pass through the forest to reach the northern and western roads. He had almost forgotten that the Jarla’s rangers watched constantly.

Half an hour later, he emerged from the Jarla. A riverbank lay before him, its far shore hidden in fog. The northern road ran along the opposite bank. A vine bridge spanned the water, only a single path of living vines bristling with thorns. For anyone else, the thorns would puncture and poison; Benjamin’s master had prepared the bridge for them.

Benjamin gathered mana in his palm and gripped the vine. The thorns retracted as long as his mana held, and he crossed. The bridge was narrow; only one person could cross comfortably, and it was the only way through. If anyone tried to force entry, the Jarla rangers would take care of them.

Once he reached the far bank, he released the vine. The thorns sprang back, sealing the entrance.

A monstrous carriage awaited nearby, pulled by a Hail Gekko, a lizard known for its impressive speed and endurance. An old man with dog-like ears sat in the driver's seat, his face shadowed by a black hat as he puffed on a cigar.

"Took you long enough, Master Benjamin. I thought the swamp had eaten you," the old beastman said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.