Marc followed Silas through the dense undergrowth. The midday sun had already passed, but its scorching fury felt increasingly intense, filtering through the treetops like spears of fire. Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to his skin—a constant reminder that he had never liked hot days, much less in this fantasy world that lacked the blessed gift of air conditioning.
To combat the heat, Marc usually kept a comfort spell active back at the cabin: a subtle combination of Wind Magic and a fine elemental frost that created a bubble of chilled air around him. However, Silas had strictly forbidden him from using that magic during the trek. He also used to dampen the swelter with cold beer, but his stash was now dangerously low. That, combined with the sweat stinging his eyes, put him in a frankly terrible mood.
It was the month of Solstia, named after the solstice and known as the peak of the annual heat. Exactly six months had passed since Marc began his "Hellish Training" under Silas's tutelage. After half a year of broken ribs, gravity lessons, and mandatory reading nights, the old man had finally ordered him to prepare for a two-day hike.
It was his first real test. The forest was no longer just his playground; now, it was the stage for his exam.
"You brought the sword, as I told you," Silas's voice drifted back from the front, without the old man even turning to look.
"That's the second time you've asked me, old man," Marc replied grumpily, adjusting the heavy strap on his shoulder. "You should start studying some magic for dementia; you're starting to forget far too many things."
"'Old man'... there you go again. Didn't parents in your world teach you to respect your elders?" Silas let out a chuckle that echoed through the trees. "Besides, if there were a magic to remember everything, it would be my favorite. I'm not senile; I've always been forgetful. Though... perhaps I forgot the magic for not forgetting."
He always laughs at his own jokes, Marc thought with a sigh. And he keeps insisting on the sword, even though I'm a thousand times better at magic.
"You still haven't told me where we're heading, or what we're going to do there," Marc insisted, trying to pin down a clear answer.
"All in good time, young demon," Silas said, once again evading the question with that lingering pace that irritated his student so much.
"Maybe you should tell me now, lest you forget it on the way," Marc joked with a hint of venom.
"Maybe you should shut up and stop questioning every lesson your master gives you," Silas replied with a dryness that cut through the air.
He's always holding back information, Marc grumbled internally. He thinks keeping me in the dark is a superior teaching method, but he's wrong. I'd progress twice as fast if he'd just explain things instead of playing the man of mystery.
"Fine. I won't ask you again where we're going," Marc conceded, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But before I shut up, I'd like to express my total discontent with your teaching methods," he added, deliberately seeking to provoke Silas.
"As you said once before..." Silas replied, biting Marc's bait with a prickle of irritation. "Let me just jot that down on my list of things I don't give a damn about."
Marc felt a spark of satisfaction. He occasionally enjoyed making Silas angry to vent his own frustration. He knew that criticizing his pedagogy was the fastest way to make the old man lose his composed, sage-like demeanor.
"As always, your disdain kills me, old man," Marc said, wearing a victorious smirk as he kept walking.
They kept walking for the rest of the day, crossing streams from time to time and taking minimal breaks only when hunger became imperious. They ate the simple sandwiches Marc had prepared, consuming them quickly before resuming the march under the Solstia sun.
The trek only ceased when the darkness of night became impenetrable. Silas, without breaking his stride, ordered Marc to prepare the campfire and the shelter for the night. Marc was fully aware that this was a vital part of his training—he would need to know how to set up a minimalist camp when he began his mission—yet that didn't stop him from tossing out a biting complaint, seeking to irritate Silas once again.
Marc chose a small clearing sheltered by ancient oaks. He spread his travel cloak as a bed and unpacked the supplies. He quickly gathered dry branches for the bonfire. Instead of lighting the fire by rubbing stones or using primitive methods, Marc extended a finger toward the woodpile. From the tip, he summoned a small, controlled sphere of fire, no larger than his thumb, and released it onto the branches.
The fire grew instantly, crackling loudly. The orange light spread through the clearing, offering a brief but welcome refuge against the oppressive darkness of the forest. Marc let himself fall heavily, feeling the exhaustion accumulate in every muscle of his body.
"Don't you think making a campfire in the middle of summer is a bad idea? It's only going to make us hotter," Marc said, continuing his streak of complaints.
"It's not to keep us warm, you moron. It's to keep the beasts away. I don't think you're in the mood to face another pack of wolves," Silas replied, visibly weary of Marc's constant bickering.
"At this point, I'm ready to take on a pack twice that size," Marc retorted. As he spoke, he summoned a stream of water to refill his canteen and, with a fluid motion, wrapped it in a layer of frost to chill it.
"And that is thanks to the very training you complain so much about," Silas remarked, snatching the canteen from Marc's hands to take a long swig.
"I simply have my disagreements with your explanations—or to be more precise, the lack of them," Marc said, taking the canteen back and draining the rest of the water in one go.
"Everything will explain itself when the time comes. You know full well that what I teach you will serve you, with or without explanations. But fine, I'll give you a preview for tomorrow: we are heading to the far west of the forest. There is a settlement of certain creatures there that you must eliminate. That is the true purpose of this trip."
Without further ado, Silas settled onto the bed Marc had prepared for him and closed his eyes.
A settlement of creatures? Marc thought, staring at the embers. Now that I think about it, so far I haven't seen anything truly different from the animals in my world. The wolves were bigger, sure, but they were still wolves. Nothing I would classify as truly "new."
Marc felt the urge to press for more, but seeing Silas's back, he understood the information tap had been shut off. Resigned, he settled for that small hint and, heavy with doubt, tucked into his own travel bed by the dim light of the campfire.
That night he lost himself in his thoughts, forcing himself to scavenge the sparse information he had absorbed from the books. He mentally reviewed the social structure of Goblins, the regenerative weaknesses of Trolls, and the legends of Wyvern flight. Exhaustion, finally, dragged him into a heavy sleep.
The following morning, Marc's wake-up call wasn't birdsong, but a sharp, forceful blow from Silas's staff directly to his stomach. The pain caught his breath and sparked an instant flash of rage, but he smothered it with resignation as he got up to pack the camp.
Starting the day on the right foot—as if there were any other way with Silas, he thought with a grunt.
They pressed on toward the far west, maintaining the same grueling pace as the previous day. Silas still wouldn't reveal the mystery, but he had now transformed the trek into a "moving exam," tossing out random questions about the creatures from the books to test his student's memory under the fatigue of the trail.
"Your lack of knowledge never ceases to amaze me. You've been reading for months and you retain nothing," Silas rebuked, without breaking his steady pace.
"It's too much information," Marc defended himself grumpily. "I just read it once and move on; it's not like I'm studying for an exam. Besides, you can't learn everything from books, old man. You know so much because of your own experience... and I suspect you have a whole lot of experience," he added, tossing the last part out as a direct jab at Silas's advanced age.
"It should be exactly as if you were studying for an exam!" Silas snapped. "I've told you countless times: you must take notes on what's important as you read. Knowing history, races, and creatures is the difference between life and death."
"I can't keep up with your training, read, and take notes on top of that. I'd never finish in a year," Marc made his excuses. The truth was simpler: laziness kept him from sacrificing his precious hours of sleep to write.
"Those notes would serve you right now and when you set out from here," Silas insisted. "Some things will stick, but many others you will forget, and you'll need help remembering them. I'm telling you this from my 'vast experience,' as you put it. Honestly, sometimes it feels like I'm dealing with a teenager," the old man grumbled in disapproval.
He's right about that, Marc admitted to himself. I've always been forgetful, and a notebook would be a lifesaver.
"Fine, I'll start taking notes from now on, 'Mr. Experience,'" Marc conceded, trying to lighten the mood and appease the old man.
Silas didn't respond. Suddenly, he raised a hand in a swift, authoritative gesture, stopping Marc dead in his tracks. Next, he signaled with his palm for them to hide behind a nearby line of bushes. Marc, sensing the urgency, obeyed instantly and in silence.
The two crouched low, parallel to a clearly well-used dirt path. Silas pointed to the left with a gnarled finger: about a hundred yards away, in the middle of the road, two small, greenish figures stood guard, one on each side, watching the entrance to the forest. Marc had finally encountered his first "creatures."
"Goblins?" Marc whispered, the word hanging like an echo. He couldn't tear his eyes away, genuinely startled by the grotesque form of the beings.
"Your test," Silas answered, his voice barely audible.
"You want me to kill those goblins?" Marc was still stunned; it took him a few seconds to process the order to take a life that, while monstrous, seemed intelligent.
"Those goblins are just the vanguard. They are guarding a large settlement of their kind, but that's all the information I'll give you. From here on, you're on your own," Silas declared, leaning back against the ground to signal he would wait there patiently.
"A 'large settlement'... exactly how large are we talking about?" Marc asked, his voice tight with nerves.
Silas only shrugged, unmoved, closing his eyes and leaving Marc to face his fate.
"Fine, you just sit tight here, old man. I wouldn't want you overexerting yourself and having your blood sugar spike," Marc snapped; sarcasm was his only way of coping with the anxiety crawling up his chest.
"Just one more thing I almost forgot," Silas added, with a skin-crawling calmness. "I want you to use the sword as your primary method of attack. Only use magic if it is strictly necessary and you have no other choice."
Only if I have no other choice? Marc thought, indignant. It would be so easy with a couple of spells... He loves making my life difficult.
Without responding, Marc moved with extreme care, crouching low through the bushes, heading toward the two small, greenish figures.
I've improved with the sword these past months, sure, but I'm still light-years away from someone with real combat experience, he admitted to himself.
Upon reaching a few yards from the creatures, Marc peered over the foliage. He could see them clearly now: they were short, with leathery, sickly green skin. They wore old rags and were crudely armed; one held a rough stone mace and the other a rusted sword. Both had small bone horns hanging from their necks.
Do I really have to kill them? Marc wondered, a knot forming in his stomach. I know it's part of the training, but they seem to be minding their own business. I'm the invader here. But if I chicken out, Silas will kick me to the other side of the continent in a heartbeat. I don't know whether to go head-on or take them out silently.
In that moment of doubt, Marc's foot betrayed his stealth as he stepped on a dry branch. The snap, violent in the forest's silence, alerted the creatures. One of the goblins broke rank to investigate, moving dangerously close to Marc's hiding spot.
Maybe I should strike now, Marc thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. First the one approaching, then the other. But the problem is those horns; if one sounds, the whole village will be on us. Better to wait until they're together; if I drop on both at once, it'll be easier to silence them before they raise the alarm.
The goblin approached, sniffing the ground and searching through the brush just a few feet from Marc. He remained petrified, holding his breath, his right hand numb from gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly.
"Probably just a rabbit, don't mind it," the other goblin called out in a raspy, guttural voice.
They talk? Marc went cold, completely thrown off by the discovery.
"Last time, that wolf pack caught us off guard because of you," the goblin near Marc grumbled, ceasing his search. "If it happens again, I'm putting all the blame on the chief."
Don't let the fact that they talk get to you, Marc, he commanded himself, trying to regain his focus. Your objective hasn't changed. Concentrate.
Marc crawled inch by inch, keeping his body pressed to the ground behind the line of bushes until he was level with the first sentry. The smell of dampness and rancid skin enveloped him. Slowly, with agonizing stealth, he unsheathed his steel.
This would be so much easier with ice spikes, Marc thought, frustration competing with adrenaline. Or with those rock stakes... one spell and it's over. But no, I have to use the damn sword just because the old man says so. Fine, I'll take it as a challenge; with magic, it would be so fast it'd be boring.
Marc closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing his heart rate to slow down. He sought that mental void Silas had demanded of him for months. When he opened his eyes, doubt had evaporated, replaced by cold determination.
He lunged from the bushes with an upward slash aimed at his prey's neck. But at the critical moment, fate played a trick on him: the hilt of his sword snagged on a stubborn branch. The strike lost both speed and trajectory; the blade whistled harmlessly over the goblin's head. He had failed the element of surprise.
The first goblin tried to draw its weapon, but Marc was faster. He threw all his body weight into a front kick that landed squarely on the creature's chest. The goblin was sent flying several yards, slamming into the ground with a dry crunch that left both sides stunned for a second.
However, the second sentry reacted with unexpected ferocity. It roared and hurled its heavy stone mace with brutal force. Marc's survival instinct was faster than his discipline: breaking Silas's rule, he flung up a magic barrier. The mace collided with solid air with a dull thud, causing the goblin to lose its balance and fall backward.
Marc didn't waste the miracle. He stepped forward, gripped the hilt with both hands, and drove the steel into the fallen goblin's chest. The creature emitted a series of guttural sounds, a stifled cry that extinguished along with the light in its eyes.
I killed a creature... I did it. This is the first time I've killed. Marc stood frozen, trapped in a state of icy shock, unable to look away from the first body.
Faint, desperate noises a few yards away jolted him out of his trance. It was the goblin he had kicked; the creature was trying, with trembling fingers, to bring the bone horn to its lips.
Marc reacted on pure instinct. Shaking off the shock, he ran toward it, sword raised and ready to deliver the finishing blow, but he skidded to a halt at its feet. The goblin's face was contorted in sheer agony; its chest was visibly sunken, crushed by the impact. Thick blue blood bubbled from its mouth between spasms. After a few seconds of futile struggling, the effort ceased. The light vanished from its eyes. Marc's kick had killed it long before his steel could ever touch it.
I did that? Marc thought, taking a step back. I have so much more strength than I realized. Dammit... I feel dizzy.
The emotional impact hit him like a sledgehammer. Marc doubled over, panting and leaning heavily on his knees, trying to stop the world from spinning. His legs gave out, and he ended up kneeling on the dirt to keep from falling face-first.
Calm down. Remember the training, he commanded himself, noticing the cold sweat drenching the back of his neck. You knew this would happen. You knew you would have to kill... God. With a desperate motion, he delivered a sharp slap to his own cheek. The physical sting forced a chemical reaction in his brain, allowing him, at least, to force himself up and sheath his sword with trembling hands.
He looked up. At the end of the road, only a few hundred yards away, stood a rustic and dismal village. It was protected by a palisade of irregular stakes and reinforced planks, with a main entrance guarded by two rudimentary gates that, luckily for him, remained open. Marc could make out several straw and mud huts, and what appeared to be a colossal bonfire roaring in the center of the town.
He forced himself to move before the shock could overwhelm him again. He abandoned the clear path and ducked into the dense foliage, skirting the village through the protection of the forest.
Upon reaching the edge of the trees, he hid behind the trunk of a centuries-old oak. From there, he monitored the inhabitants' movements: he counted approximately twenty goblins immersed in various daily tasks. However, his attention drifted toward the central bonfire. It burned with a strange and intense glow, a combustion much more powerful than normal firewood would allow, though he couldn't distinguish what was fueling those flames.
I'll have to slip in through the main entrance, Marc calculated. There's no other viable point without resorting to magic. I'll wait for the right moment to slide in.
After a few minutes of tense waiting, the goblins gathered at the opposite end of the village, granting Marc a crucial window. He ran hunched over, muffling his footsteps, and agilely slipped behind the first hut to the right of the entrance. He was in.
He made sure to stay out of sight before venturing into the heart of the village, moving like a shadow between the huts. The air there was thick, heavy with a stench of rot and filth that made his stomach churn, but Marc forced himself to ignore it so as not to lose his focus. He stopped behind a mud-and-straw wall, his attention caught by a conversation coming from inside:
"I got out of guard duty today; I was supposed to have it this week, but that idiot Mug pissed off the chief again. I don't know how he's still alive," a raspy, slurring voice muttered.
Lucky. You have no idea how much, Marc thought with a cynical grimace.
"Well, I'd rather have guard duty than go to the forest for food. It tires me out way more," another voice replied, even harsher than the first.
That's exactly what I'd think, Marc admitted. He's almost one of my own.
Sudden footsteps cut through his train of thought. He spun around to find himself face-to-face with a goblin carrying a pile of firewood. For an eternal second, they stared at each other in pure shock. The silence broke when the goblin dropped the wood and began to bellow at the top of its lungs:
"A demon! There's an intruder here!"
The screams were choked off by Marc's steel. He drew with desperate speed, but instead of a clean strike, the blade traced an erratic path, opening a deep, jagged wound in the goblin's abdomen. The creature let out a wail of agony as its entrails spilled onto the dirt. Marc hadn't planned for such butchery; the sight of raw, messy death sent an icy terror through his veins.
The entire village went on alert instantly. Like seasoned soldiers, the goblins seized their weapons with electric speed—stone maces, notched axes, and rusted swords—and ran frantically toward the source of the scream. By the time the enraged mass reached the spot, Marc had already slipped away to the next hut, moving with a speed that was nearly invisible to their eyes.
They swarmed around the bloodied corpse. A chaotic, fierce shouting match erupted among them; they didn't stop letting out shrieks of shock and guttural insults against the intruder.
I can't attack them while they're grouped together, Marc calculated, pressed against the mud wall. I wouldn't be able to repel attacks coming from every direction. This damn limitation on magic is getting more absurd by the second. But I can still thin their ranks before I have to play my trump card.
The goblins fanned out in all directions to begin the search, leaving the center of the settlement exposed. Marc waited with icy patience for a lone target to approach. His plan was clear: take advantage of their dispersion to pick off the stragglers with his steel, and only when he found himself surrounded or overwhelmed would he invoke his magic to clear the area and end Silas's test.
Three figures headed toward his hiding spot. Marc crouched behind a pile of lumber next to the hut and waited, turned into an absolute shadow, until they were a breath away.
He let the first two pass, and just as the third flanked his position, he lunged like an exhalation. He swung his sword with surgical precision, decapitating the goblin. While the head was still rolling, the other two let out a cry of pure terror, but Marc was faster: he spun on his axis, slashing the throat of the second and, in one fluid motion, drove his blade into the skull of the third, splitting it down the middle.
A nearby group of four goblins heard the brief, brutal scuffle. Marc didn't wait to be found; he stepped out from the shadows and his steel tore through the chest of the first to arrive.
The next two managed to swing their weapons, but Marc dodged them with the lightness of lightning, stepping back. Using that same momentum, he coiled forward like a spring, plunging his sword into the chest of one of them. He jerked the blade back and, with a lateral slash, cut the other in half at the waist.
The fourth goblin stood petrified at the carnage, but Marc couldn't afford to hesitate; the rest of the village would soon surround him. Without losing a second, he caught the goblin with a diagonal cut that tore upward from stomach to face.
I'm doing well, Marc urged himself, feeling the adrenaline searing through his veins. I can't let the intensity drop. I have to exploit this chaos before they manage to organize.
Suddenly, the blast of a horn, powerful and harsh, ripped through the air with overwhelming intensity. It came from the largest and sturdiest hut at the back of the village, cutting through the chaotic shouting of the remaining goblins.
Standing before the structure was a goblin visibly larger, with an imposing and fierce appearance. He wore rudimentary armor made of hardened leather and stitched bones, and in his fist, he gripped a thick-bladed battle-axe, light-years ahead of his minions' notched weapons. His face, a map of scars from old battles, held a gaze of pure hostility.
At the sound of the horn, the remaining goblins rushed toward their leader, responding to the call with unexpected speed and discipline.
I guess that's the boss, Marc calculated, readjusting his grip on his sword. He definitely looks like he's going to give me more trouble than the others.
"So, you're the one they sent to liquidate us, demon," the chieftain thundered. His voice wasn't the raspy grunt of the others; it was a deep, grave tone that resonated with authority and defiance throughout the village. "It's curious... I never thought my eyes would see a demon seeking vengeance on behalf of the humans."
Vengeance? Marc wondered, feeling a pang of doubt. What the hell is he talking about?
"I think you're mistaken. I'm not here seeking vengeance for any human," Marc countered, forcing an air of authority into his voice to avoid giving an inch of ground to the leader.
A flicker of confusion, a fleeting spark of incredulity, crossed the chieftain's face.
"Then what is the real purpose behind your decision to slaughter my people?" he demanded, tightening his grip on his axe hilt.
The purpose is that Silas ordered me to, Marc thought. But the explanation sounded ridiculous even to him. There was no noble cause, no declared war; they were simply collateral damage in his learning process.
"Well... how do I put it? Let's just say you're something like my... test of courage," Marc blurted out, sounding unconvinced even by his own words.
"Test of courage!?" You come to our village with the intent to massacre us for a damn test?" The chieftain's face distorted with blind rage, and he let out a deafening roar. "You son of a bitch! I'll make you beg before I grant you death! I'll rip out your entrails and wear them as a necklace while you're still breathing!"
Okay, I've definitely pissed him off, Marc admitted, feeling the pressure in the air. And I get why. But it doesn't matter; I'm in this up to my neck now. It's kill or be killed.
"Attack! All at once!" the Chief commanded, raising his battle-axe. Metal struck the leather of his armor with a sharp, strident clang that echoed through the clearing. "Whoever brings me that demon's head shall be my right hand! They shall feast on that fool's flesh!" His voice cracked in one final, rabid scream that ignited the remaining goblins' bloodlust.
This is where I play my trump card, Marc decided. There's no way to hold off the entire village with just steel.
The goblins didn't charge erratically; they lunged at him with a discipline and firmness that turned the blood cold. Guttural war cries and the thundering of dozens of footsteps on the dirt saturated the air, closing the gap in a heartbeat. They advanced in a tight formation, a tide of green fury with faces distorted by hatred and weapons raised high.
It's over, Marc thought with a pang of pity. I'm sorry for them, but this is where their story ends.
Marc crouched with a chilling calmness and certainty. He already knew the ending to this script. Deliberately, he placed both palms on the ground; a subtle emerald glow—the signature of Earth Magic—emanated from his hands and seeped into the cracks of the terrain.
Silas's technique manifested with seismic violence. The ground shuddered beneath the goblins' charge, and instantly, dozens of thick stakes of sharpened rock erupted from the bowels of the world like the fangs of a colossal beast.
The stakes tore through the attackers' bodies with surgical precision, hoisting them into the air as they were cleanly impaled. The war cries were replaced by a dry chorus of tearing flesh and snapping bones. Within seconds, a deathly silence, broken only by the dripping of blood, fell over the village.
Marc stood up slowly, his eyes scanning the gruesome landscape of stakes and impaled bodies. He stared at the aftermath of his magic. The magnitude of his power hit him with the force of a lightning bolt: he had truly become a being capable of wiping out an entire village in the blink of an eye.
If there had ever been a shred of doubt within him, it vanished in that instant, replaced by a cold and absolute certainty. He was a demon.
Beyond the massacre, Marc spotted the village chief. The face that once overflowed with hostility was now contorted in dread. The leader dropped his battle-axe—its metallic clang piercing the deathly silence—and fell to his knees. The defeat had been brutal. His eyes, flooded with terror, met Marc's.
"You are a monster," the chief croaked, his voice trembling, the last spark of defiance extinguished in his gaze.
"I know," Marc replied, with dispassionate coldness.
Marc raised his right hand. From his palm emerged an ice projectile, sharp as a scalpel, which shot out with devastating speed, striking the chief's face dead center. The leader's life was extinguished in a heartbeat.
The future Demon King. A true monster of this world. That is what I am.
As he headed for the exit, the central bonfire caught his eye. Its flames, now dying, no longer burned with that supernatural glow, finally revealing its horrific secret. As he drew closer, Marc could make out what was slowly being consumed: several bodies, four of them clearly human—two adults and two small children. Beside them lay a pile of bleached goblin skeletons serving as fuel.
"A human family that had the misfortune of crossing paths with them," Silas's voice rose from his left. Marc barely flinched; the old man moved through the village's deathly silence like a ghost.
"They just burned them... why? Didn't they kill them for food?" Marc asked, his voice tight and strained.
"No. They killed them because that is their nature, their sport," Silas replied with a cutting dryness.
"And the skeletons? They look like their own kind," Marc questioned, pointing to the charred pile.
"They are. The chief executed everyone he deemed weak or unfit. That included their own females and young; as you might have noticed, there were none in this village. They may seem rational because they communicate, Marc, but they are not. They remain savage creatures," the old man explained.
My moral conflict was misplaced, Marc concluded, clenching his fists. I was right to eliminate them. If we had crossed paths in the woods, they would have killed me without a word. And if I had let them live, they would have kept slaughtering innocents. But still... seeing this... it sickens my soul.
On the journey back to the cabin, Marc didn't utter a single word. His sharp humor and constant jabs at Silas vanished completely. During those days, the weight of the butchery and his new certainty were reflected in a somber silence that the old man, out of respect or caution, did not dare to break.