Ch 3.2

Ben’s master was known only as the Old Demon; whatever name he once carried had long since faded from memory.

Countless mages had crossed to the Isle to inherit his plant and poison arts, and he turned them all away, until Benjamin Almond arrived. The boy possessed a rare body with a prodigious healing factor, a will hard enough to survive merciless training, and a hatred of the Heavenly Virtues that matched the Old Demon’s own. The master had a score to settle as well, but a blood oath bound him to this continent; vengeance was beyond his reach.

Strict and unrelenting, the Old Demon taught Ben to bend plants to his will, to push his regeneration to its limits, and to endure pain until it became a tool. At times, Ben suspected the old man took pleasure in suffering, but when the training bore fruit, he accepted him wholeheartedly as his master.

The carriage rocked and creaked over the ruts, leather straps groaning, wood complaining at each jolt. The air inside was thick with the driver’s cigar smoke sneaking through the slats, mingling with the musk of fur and oiled leather, the metallic tang of weapons, and the clean, faint scent of herbs that clung to Ben’s jacket from the seeds he carried in his pockets.

Ben knew his master had enemies, but none had challenged him openly until now. Grimor’s gaze sharpened as Ben’s eyes went cold, the space between them crackling.

Grimor was nearly three times Ben’s size, all corded muscle and old scars. Chains of war tattoos wound over his torso and down both arms, linked circles by the thousand, each a life taken. Most would have stepped back at the sight.

Ben didn’t know the full meaning of those tattoos or how dangerous Grimor truly was. He only knew that no threat against the Old Demon could go unanswered.

Ben’s hand, still locked in Grimor’s shake, tightened until his veins stood out like cords. Mana surged through his arm as he crushed down on the lion’s fingers.

“If you want to kill him,” Ben said coldly, “you’ll have to go through me first.”

Grimor’s eyes widened as he pushed back, but Ben’s grip held like iron. Bones shifted beneath his fingers with a sickening crack; skin split, bone pressed through, and blood seeped between their hands.

The carriage went silent. Even the elves at the back, who had feigned boredom until now, glanced over with interest. Outside, the Hail Gekko hissed, the wheels jolting on a seam in the road, as though the beast itself could sense the pressure inside.

Lukero shot from his seat, feathers ruffling.

“Grimor! Enough—the boy’s bleeding!”

But Grimor only barked out a laugh through clenched teeth.

“Hah! The pup’s got the strength to back up his bite. I like it!”

Ben didn’t let go, gaze like ice. He was waiting—ready—for the moment Grimor’s amusement turned into real hostility.

Instead, Grimor’s lips curled into a wry smile.

“Now that’s more like it. You didn’t flinch. You stood your ground for your master’s honor. I respect that.”

Ben’s expression hardened, unmoved.

“I was only joking,” Grimor said, blood dripping from his fingers, the smile refusing to fade. “I wanted to see if you truly stood by the Old Demon—or if you were just another parasite chasing his arts. For all his reputation, the Isle owes him more than most admit.”

Ben blinked. “Joking?”

Grimor’s rumbling laugh filled the carriage.
“Don’t look so alarmed! The Old Demon’s had enough assassins sent after him—half for glory, half for coin. None fared better than you, just made me. He may be a cranky old monster, but his potions and medicines have saved more lives than I can count. Call it a test, then—not a threat.”

Lukero exhaled, exasperated. “Your sense of humor is terrible. Joke or not, let him go before you both lose an arm!”

Grimor finally looked down at their locked, bloodied grip and gave a rough chuckle.
“The blood’s mine, actually. Tell the pup to ease up.”

Ben released him at once. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it that far.”

Grimor flexed his mangled fingers, winced, then nodded with approval.
“Impressive. A few broken bones are a fair price. You’ve got steel in you, boy—not just bark.”

Blood dripped to the floorboards as he grinned.
“I won’t lie—I'd have loved to face your master in his prime. But that blood oath keeps him leashed. A shame. Meeting him someday, learning from him—that alone would be worth it.”

Lukero shot him a glare.
“You’ve known the kid all of ten minutes and already drawn blood. This is why folks keep their distance from you, Grimor.”

Grimor barked out a laugh. “That’s fine by me. I’ve no use for cowards anyway. Besides, I’ve got you lot—my fine comrades-in-arms.”

“We’re not comrades,” Rukas said flatly. “Just an envoy sharing a carriage to the Warlords’ Council. Nothing more.”

“Ah, don’t be shy,” Grimor replied, flexing his bloodied fist. “Our tribes will have to stand together for what’s coming. Might as well start getting along.”

“Whatever,” Rukas muttered, giving up.

Ben’s ear twitched at that. Warlords’ Council? Battles ahead? The idea of tribes uniting—and even elves traveling alongside beastmen—was unusual. Under normal circumstances, they could barely tolerate one another.

Something big is brewing, he thought.

Lukero frowned at Grimor’s hand. “Enough boasting. That needs treating. Let me see if I have a potion for it.” He began rummaging through his pack.

Grimor just grinned down at the damage—three crooked fingers, bone pushing beneath torn skin. “Don’t bother. A little spit’s enough for our kind. Still, impressive strength for a human to do this much.”

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. He’d nearly forgotten the incident that caused it. “Sorry about that—let me fix it,” he said.

He took Grimor’s hand and released a pulse of mana. A soft green light flowed around the shattered bones—flesh knitting, bone setting until the fingers straightened as though time itself had reversed.“There. Try them now.”

Grimor flexed, grinning.“Good as new. And the grip to match. As expected of the Old Demon’s disciple.”

“You praise me too highly,” Ben said, finally easing. “I still have a lot left to learn.”

Grimor’s eyes glinted with satisfaction.“Keep training. Grow stronger. When the time comes, let’s clash—you and I—so fiercely that our battle’s legend spreads across the Isle. A fight to the death is worth the songs.”

The carriage went quiet again.

Ben frowned. “You’re joking… again, right?”But Grimor only smiled, the expression failing to reach his eyes.

Instead of answering, he reached into a satchel.“Anyway, I’m starving. Anyone want some ground jerky?” He pulled out a bundle of tied meat. “A delicacy of the Blood Sun tribe.”

Ben’s nose wrinkled. The pungent, greasy smell nearly made him gag—the beastmen of the Isle always liked their food raw. “I’m good,” he said quickly.

Lukero beamed. “One of my favorites. Don’t mind if I do.”Rukas grunted and accepted a strip. “Thanks.”

As they ate, Grimor turned toward the back seats.“You two elves want to try some? A real treat here.”

The silver-haired elf wrinkled his nose. “Keep that stinking thing away. The carriage already reeks because of it—throw it out if you must.”Clad fully in polished armor, he carried himself with an effortless arrogance, like royalty forced to sit among peasants.

“Now, don’t be rude, Heilfem,” said the blonde elf beside him, dressed in lighter armor with a staff resting against her shoulder. She spoke with a delicate smile that somehow made the insult sting more. “Even if it’s garbage, they mean well.”

Grimor chuckled, unbothered.“Your loss then. More for me. No wonder you elves are so weak—you’ve got rotted taste and no stomach for real food.”

Heilfem’s pale eyes flared.“Watch your mouth. We elves are refined, disciplined, and far superior in mana control. I could erase your tribe before you drew your sword.”

Grimor grinned sideways.“Why don’t you step outside and prove it?”

Lukero threw his hands up.“What happened to working together?”

“They’re just trying to rile you up,” Rukas muttered.

“I don’t mind,” Heilfem snapped, half rising from his seat. “Let’s see if the brute can stand by his bark—”

“Sit down,” the blonde elf cut in, voice like a blade. “Right now, you sound like a barbarian.”

Heilfem froze, then sank back into his seat, arms crossed, lips pressed in a sulk. The carriage rattled on, tension humming through the cramped air.

Grimor only smiled, tossing a slice of jerky into his mouth with a satisfied crunch.

Lukero exhaled in relief. “Thank you, Lady Eliguen.”

The blonde elf—Eliguen—offered a serene smile. Her light armor was tailored over a flowing dress, a witch’s hat resting at her side. She had the graceful poise and luminous beauty typical of her kind, though her eyes held a spark of curiosity as they lingered on Benjamin.

“I couldn’t help but notice your healing earlier,” she said, voice deceptively soft. “Such mana—so pure, yet so... tainted. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. It makes me wonder… are you sure you’re even human?”