Grix, the former captain of the Bloodfang raid squad, was raking in achievements on the battlefield. He was young, proud, and broader than most of his fellow beastkin. Continued success had built up his confidence, his pride, and most of all, expectation. Raiding the caravans of Iron Helm, Crimson Theocracy, and Ashland Guild. He even had a successful run during one of the expeditions to the south of Morterrus. He was destined for greatness—until destiny turned its back on him.

  Many of his fellow beastkin, particularly from within the Panthera clan, envied his success and his power. Warchief Kanos had taken great interest in the young blood, whose ferocity equaled that of veterans far above his rank. The warchief was already planning to make him one of the chieftains leading the Panthera. This was what they hated the most. They didn’t want someone who couldn’t be controlled. They didn’t want a blade they couldn’t grip. They didn’t want Grix.

  Grix received a mission—an urgent one—given by the council of chieftains themselves. They gave him a target: an Iron Helm caravan transporting mined mana stones from within the Frozen Peaks. The information entailed many dangers. It was explicitly mentioned that the caravan would be heavily guarded. It was also mentioned that this would be an utmost important raid.

  Arrogance and complacency played a major part in narrowing his vision. He knew this was a borderline suicide mission, but he slowly and deliberately ignored it. He fixed himself on the reward. A reward from the warchief, they said.

  Grix was a battlefield prodigy. His innate racial aggression and ferocity, partnered with great field vision and adaptive instinct, made him one of a kind. He charged and swung like the rest, but he accompanied it with thought.

  Grix prepared his fellow beastkin and orcs for the raid. They had less than two days to do so before the caravan entered a well-secured part of the mountain. His vice-captain approached him.

  “Grix, are you sure about this mission? This is death,” Amarok said. The Lupine vice-captain’s gray fur and athletic, lean body contrasted well with Grix’s black mane, brown skin, and muscular frame. Two daggers made of sharpened bone rested on his lower back.

  “Yes, I know that, Amarok,” Grix replied. “Death accompanies us anytime and anywhere. You of all people should know this. But the glory will pay us well—here and in the after. Think of it, my friend.” Grix continued, laughing.

  Amarok just gazed straight at his Pantheran friend and shook his head. He knew Grix well. He may have seemed like a fool, but he knew how to set up a battle plan very well. He always did. Amarok smiled, then turned around to prepare himself for what was to come.

  The squad prepared for an ambush. They studied the map well and picked several spots for a faint attack that would lure the guards and make them lower their guard—between the mountains, along the narrow and steep cliffs. Because that was where they expected an ambush.

  “That place will let them see us from afar while we climb up. We mig—” Amarok started to object, but he was cut off by Grix.

  “We won’t be attacking on the same level. We drop from above,” Grix said with a grin.

  Amarok chuckled. Classic Grix. He gazed at Grix far longer than normal, a knowing smile on his face.

  The day of the ambush came. They scaled higher into the mountains and observed the oncoming Iron Helm caravan—elite guards poised and ready. Their formation was not spread out. But Grix chose to ignore it. His mind was always on what came after.

  Grix gave the signal to descend right into the middle of the caravan, then he leaped. He heard a familiar Bloodfang horn—then it changed into something that sounded both familiar and yet not. An Iron Helm war horn.

  He watched the Iron Helm forces get into position while they were still mid-air. He watched soldiers with mana-imbued crossbows emerge from the caravan that was supposed to be carrying mana stones. He watched his men get sniped to death.

  The enemy trap sprung right in his face, but Grix didn’t falter. He used his massive double-bladed battle axe to land with a shockwave, his green mana flaring as he charged—boosting his strength and power along with his regeneration. He sliced through three Iron Helm soldiers at once, ignoring the arrows that struck him. The wounds would regenerate anyway.

  He roared ferociously, boosting the morale of the remaining squad members. They charged—to their deaths.

  More and more soldiers appeared. The word betrayal crossed his mind, but he refused to entertain it. Then he saw the figure that shattered his focus and pride—Amarok, along with the few remaining members of his squad. Their eyes showed no emotion, just flat, empty gazes. They had been bought or promised something. They hadn’t leaped. They had watched.

  Amarok was the one who sounded the horn and gave the signal.

  Grix’s confidence slowly dried up as more and more of his squad—those who followed him—died. They tried to form a defensive formation, but Iron Helm mana attacks prevented them. The others had already escaped through what was supposed to be the ambush point.

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  Grix’s mind ran through all possible scenarios—the shame, the deaths of his squad, his shattered dreams of glory, and the consequences of being defeated by the Bloodfang Nomads’ greatest rival, the Iron Helm faction.

  He glanced one last time at Amarok as hopelessness and despair gripped his mind and heart tighter. Almost instinctively, he committed the one thing the Bloodfang were not known for.

  He escaped.

  His footsteps were heavy with shame and dishonor. He would be remembered as a stain in Bloodfang history—a loser who didn’t even have the courage to die in battle after a failed raid. He didn’t care. He just wanted to live long enough to kill Amarok and everyone who conspired with him.

  He ran without direction. His breath, despite the natural stamina of green mana users, was heavy and panting—not from exhaustion, but from grudge, hate, and survival.

  He didn’t look back. He would bear the faces of all the warriors who died in that battle for the rest of his life as living scars.

  He had already accepted the fact that his clan wanted him dead. But he would live. Live long enough to make them pay.

  He would make Amarok beg for his death.

  ******

  Grix sees the sunshine again after many months of staying in a dungeon cell. He observes the surroundings—it’s an island this time. He can smell rusty metal corroded by the sea air. He waits for his next jailer, his captors. But no one comes for him. This is nothing he expected. He looks around while still standing on the slaver’s deck.

  Two elven girls jump off the deck—awkward timing.

  A goblin stays behind, checking whatever is inside the chests of the dead slavers, greedy as ever.

  A human girl remains seated on the wooden floor, eyes vacant. Pathetic. Weak.

  And finally, he gazes at a man wearing a black shirt and a dark hooded cloak. Deadly. He can still smell the blood on his dagger and the lingering black mana, and something else—particularly in his chest, where a faint purple glow shines underneath his shirt. The man walks back inside the boat again. Grix doesn’t follow. No one tells him to.

  Freedom. The word crosses his mind as he looks at his hand. A weird feeling, totally foreign. He spent half a year as a slave combatant in an arena owned by the Ashland Guild. He expected to be sold after he beat a chunk of meat out of his previous handler. But instead, he finds himself alone on this island, where several races roam around. He looks at the port city. It’s a poor one, or just poorly maintained.

  Days pass, and Grix finds paying work along the docks. Sometimes he’s a guard, sometimes a laborer, in exchange for a few coins and food. He trains his body at night, along with mana circulation. His green mana is the reason his body remains intact despite days of hunger, alongside the fact that he’s a Beastkin. He sleeps on the floor without complaints. The feeling of being alone with freedom doesn’t sit right with him.

  He remembers Amarok. He remembers his warriors dying as he closes his eyes. The rage within boils, resurfacing and keeping him wide awake.

  He wants to kill Amarok slowly, watch him bleed, heal him back just so he can watch more. But the reality of his current situation denies him any possible chance. He doesn’t even know where he is. There are boats traveling in and out of the port, and he thinks of traveling too. But what comes next makes him question that thought.

  One day, news starts spreading through the port. Significant people are being assassinated one by one. Out of fear, one of the slavers hires Grix to be his bodyguard. He gives him twenty copper coins as starting payment. Grix accepts. He isn’t afraid. He still has the confidence that he’s the strongest in the port.

  He accompanies the slaver back to his mansion in the middle of the port city. At first glance, it looks more like a warehouse than a mansion. He looks around and sees several cages, some empty, some with people imprisoned inside. He’s seeing things from a different perspective—not as a raider, but more like a jailer. The slaver goes upstairs as Grix stands guard at the entrance.

  He sees a familiar face: the silent human girl with greasy, long black hair. She’s caught again, shackled in the corner of the warehouse along with several other slaves of all ages, from a weak human child to an old, grumpy orc. It’s because they’re weak. That’s why. That’s what Grix thinks before turning his head. He feels no compassion for the weak. This is their fate.

  Grix feels his mind starting to go numb, flashes of his past rushing back. Amarok. His warriors dying. It feels like he’s reliving it second by second at a rapid pace. His knees buckle and he hits the floor. This isn’t his first time.

  He channels his green mana, circulating it through his whole body, and it shatters a mirror in his mind. The shattered mirror doesn’t disappear. It remains as he charges out of the glass prison.

  His senses return. He can feel his body again, strength starting to seep into his muscles. A black mana user. He feels the eerie, dreaded presence of someone nearby, hidden from his sight.

  He rushes inside the slaver’s chamber, only to find him dead, an ominous blade stuck in his chest—too long to be a dagger, too short to be a sword. Beside the corpse stands the same man he saw on the ship.

  Their gazes lock. Subtle movement. Then the man breaks the silence with words, more of a warning than a threat.

  “Do you really want this?” the hooded man asksin a flat voice, not curious, not in a threatening manner. "Your employer is dead. Nothing left to protect."

  “That man gave me money,” Grix replies, tightening his grip on the axe, preparing to pounce while studying the man.

  “I’ll hire you instead. I need someone like you. And I can pay better, longer.” the man counters. He lowers his guard, but not fully. He shows no intention of attacking, yet his lethality remains.

  “Like me? You don’t know me, human!” Grix growls.

  “Grix,” the man says, his voice devoid of emotion, no hesitation, no emphasis, just a name. “You’re pretty famous in the arena. Your story—whether it’s true or not—is quite infamous. The raid. The betrayal. The handlers.” He walks slowly toward him with confidence. “You want payback. I’ll help you. If you agree.”

  “Agree to what?” Grix asks, calming down as he considers the man’s words while subtly maintaining distance. Experience tells him this is a dangerous man.

  The rage within him reignites. The vengeance that once seemed impossible is now being offered.

  “Noir Darkwing,” the man replies, he mentioned his name with no pride, like it didn't matter at all. “But before that, I need to see if you’re still capable, like your reputation says. Bring me a team. Small, obedient and effective. Start with those orcs. I want to see if you can still lead a pack. Then we’ll talk.” Noir points at the chained, broken orcs.

  A test. Grix looks Noir in the eye, testing him, feeling him. He doesn’t sense a predator in the man’s deep violet eyes. He senses a void—something that will consume anyone or anything in its way.

  “Five days. Give me five days.” Grix straightens his posture, still gripping his axe, not breaking eye contact as he backs away without turning his back.

  "Don't be late." Noir nods in return.

  ? The Noble Reincanarted Demon King ?

  by BookRusher98