Ch 4.1 - The Righteous Woman of the Cloth

Morning came before the sun crested the horizon. The camp was already busy, the party packing their gear to ride with the first light of dawn.

Ben helped where he could. He hadn’t slept a wink—having kept watch through the night for a danger that never came. Still, two of their ambassadors, Heilfem and Grimor, had yet to return from their hunt.

Lukero, Rukas, and Lady Eliguen held a brief, tense discussion before deciding the convoy couldn’t delay any longer. The carriage would depart as scheduled. After breakfast, Lukero volunteered to stay behind and search for the missing pair. With a sweep of his wings, he lifted into the early mist and vanished above the trees.

Meanwhile, the carriage carrying Rukas, Eliguen, and Ben rolled toward Barville Port.

As they broke from the forest, a salt breeze washed over them, carrying the sharp scent of the sea and the distant rhythm of crashing waves. Ahead, the cliffs opened to reveal a sprawling port city—its piers crowded with docked ships, its streets alive with movement and shouting voices.

The carriage halted at the forest’s edge. Ben stepped down into the grassy pave.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you further,” Lady Eliguen said, offering a gentle smile.

“It’s alright,” Ben replied. “I’m grateful you brought me this far. Alone, it’d have taken me days to reach here. You’re already running late for the coalition meeting—and with three ambassadors missing, I don’t want to keep you any longer. Thank you for everything. Praise Zarnok!”

Rukas nodded once, “Praise Zarnok.”

Eliguen returned the gesture with a serene smile.
“Until we meet again. Praise Zarnok.”

The carriage turned back, its wheels crunching over gravel until it disappeared into the trees, leaving Ben alone by the shore road.

He faced the city and began walking.

Barville rose along the cliffside, terraced down toward the sea where the docks sprawled across the sand. The air smelled of salt, tar, and damp wood. Merchant ships from distant continents filled the harbor, drawing a bustling mix of dwarven traders, elves, and beastmen.

The port city of Barville was run not by any Tribe or Elven house but by the Adventurers’ Guild itself, making it one of the few cities on the Isle free of discrimination—strictly governed to prevent fights between races. Although discrimination was illegal, more residents didn’t seem to care enough.

At the outer gates, Ben joined the steady stream of wagons and travelers. Dust rose with the clatter of hooves and the shouts of merchants. Most of the adventurers he passed were beastmen armed to the teeth, a few elves moving silently among them.

Ben caught the occasional curious glance, but no one spoke—and that suited him just fine.

He was nearly at the city gate when a panicked voice sliced through the city's din. “Somebody, please help us!”

He turned to see a line of wagons. One carried a barred cage packed with people—men, women, even children—all in chains and torn rags, their faces streaked with dirt and dried blood. A gaunt man at the edge of the cage waved a frantic, shackled hand, the iron cuff rattling with each desperate jerk. Ben froze. They were all human. Slaves.

“They killed my father and my brother!” the man cried, his voice raw. “Someone, please! We were dragged from our homes… from our own country!”

A hulking beastman stormed over, baton raised, and smashed it down on the man’s outstretched arm. “You again, you worthless dog!” the beastman snarled. “Back inside before I beat you dead!” The man flinched back, cradling his arm as blood welled from a gash and dripped down his wrist.

A knot of pity tightened in Ben’s chest, but he forced it down. This was the norm on the Isle continent. To interfere was suicide. Jaw set, he turned away and melted into the flow of traffic entering the city.

For centuries, humans and beastmen had traded hate in equal measure. In the human kingdoms, beastmen had been hunted and enslaved; here on the Isle, the roles had simply reversed. Now humans filled the cages, and this—Ben thought bitterly—was the fruit of their mutual cruelty.

He felt pity, but no surprise. Those captives were as good as dead, and he knew it.

At least he wasn’t among them. Being the Old Demon’s disciple still carried weight enough to keep him free.

Ben approached the gate where two elven guards stood in polished armor emblazoned with the Adventurers’ Guild seal. They regarded him warily.

“Identification.”

He handed them a folded parchment stamped with his master’s scarlet sigil.

The moment their eyes caught the mark, their posture straightened. One stepped aside at once.

“My apologies, sir. You may enter.”

Ben nodded once and walked through the gates into Barville, the sounds of the harbor swallowing the memory of the man’s plea behind him.

The city of Barville was one of the great ports linking the Wild Isle to the rest of the world.

The Isle Continent itself was a land of untamed wilderness—most of it unexplored beneath the dense canopy of tropical forests. The habitable regions were divided among the beastmen tribes, who governed through fragile alliances, while the elves occupied the few forested stretches they deemed livable.

Beyond those borders stretched an endless, perilous jungle, infested with mana beasts and treacherous terrain that defied exploration. Torrential rains often brought floods that swallowed entire settlements, forcing the survivors onto higher ground and shrinking what little safe land remained.

The tribes struggled not only against each other but against the beasts and the elements themselves. To survive, they forged a pact with the greatest guild alliance in the world—the Bastion of Rugged Adventurers and Vanguards of Eldoria, known simply as BRAVE. Their purpose was clear: to reclaim the land from monsters and wrest it back for civilization.

Barville itself operated under BRAVE’s authority, making it one of the safest cities on the continent. Discrimination was forbidden within its walls, though human slavery still existed—tolerated so long as no one was captured within the city limits.

As Ben stepped through the gates, the city surged around him like a living machine—voices shouting deals, metal clanging, smoke and salt tangled in the air. Dwarves hauled gleaming suits of armor still warm from the forge, their stalls crowded with adventurers arguing for the best price.

Across the street, market tables spilled over with trophies from beasts brought across the sea: heavy shells made into shields, talons and hides, sacks of herbs with sharp, sweet smells. Alchemists bickered loudest of all, waving flasks and scales as they haggled over ingredients.

Ben lingered a while, eyes tracing the wares; with his knowledge of alchemy, he could see half a dozen rare components ripe for use. But his purse was empty, and the stall‑keepers had no patience for dreamers without coin. He sighed and turned away.

“Please—help!” a voice cried.

He turned. A wagon stood in the roadway, its cage rattling with movement. Inside were humans—filthy, bruised, shackled together. A girl, hardly more than twelve, stretched a thin arm through the bars toward him. In her other arm, she clutched a small boy who buried his face against her. Brother and sister, by the look of it.

There were many like them on the Isle: captives from raids, debtors sold to cover what they owed, stragglers taken as spoils. These two were just more cargo in the trade. Their eyes met his for a heartbeat—pleading, desperate, human.

Ben exhaled slowly. There was nothing he could do. Even if he had the coin, freeing them would take force, and he had no room for noble distractions now. Survival required a colder heart.

Ben turned his head and kept walking, ignoring the children’s pleas.

Behind him, the girl’s tearful eyes followed until hope drained from her face. Their sobs grew louder, drawing the slaver’s irritation. He slammed a baton against the cage bars with a roar.

“Quit your crying! I’d rather not bruise the goods, but you’re testing my patience!”

Ben didn’t look back. Then, the sharp tap-tap of hurried footsteps caught his ear as a woman in black swept past him, skirts snapping against the street.

He barely gave her a glance, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Now, where the hell am I supposed to find my point of contact? he wondered, scratching his chin.

A moment later, a voice rang out—clear, indignant, and human.

“How dare you treat these people like animals! This is barbaric! Some of them are children! Don’t you have any heart? Release them at once!”

The marketplace froze, then erupted into noise. Ben turned, mouth falling open.

In front of the slave wagon, a young woman stood squarely in the road, blocking the path with her body. Brown curls framed a face flushed with outrage, blue eyes blazing beneath a black veil. She wore a long tunic cinched with a belt, unmistakably the garb of the Church of Virtues—and unmistakably human.

The crowd began to murmur.

“Is that a woman from the church?”

“What’s she doing?”

“She outta her damn mind, shouting like that here.”

The slavers looked stunned; the locals less so—they were angry. But the woman held her ground, defiant, pointing at the cage.

“In the name of the Holy Light of the Virtues, I command you—free these souls at once!”

Ben froze, blood draining from his face. The woman they were supposed to escort was publicly picking a fight that could get them all lynched.

Oh, hell no, Ben thought, dread settling in his gut.
I’m about to lose my license stamp all over again.