ch 40

With my assent Ellison turned walked over to a small group of deer people—including the big one, and began speaking in his native tongue.

Oddly enough, his translator ability toggled off. Smart. Couldn’t have me eavesdropping.

I stood there waiting as they talked—and talked. And talked. It must’ve been an hour or longer that they left me standing waiting with Mischief. I killed time by running through sword forms in my mind. 

I was getting restless when Ellison finally turned back to me.

“We are torn.” His voice was even, but his eyes carried weight. “I will admit you have convinced me. I have, in turn, convinced a few others. But there are still some—foolish ones—who believe we should fight.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “They believe our numbers give us the advantage.”

I exhaled. “I assume you tried explaining how wrong they are?”

“I did. They remain unconvinced.” He hesitated. “So I proposed a compromise.”

My interest piqued. “A show of strength.”

I almost laughed. Of course. Classic.

“Alright,” I said, intrigued. “What’s the deal?”

“One-on-one. Your best fighter against ours.” His eyes flicked toward Mischief again.

I really needed to stop bringing him to these things. He’s always stealing my thunder. 

“No spells. No skills. Non-lethal.”

I sighed and began rolling my shoulders. “Fair enough. Who am I fighting?”

Ellison raised an eyebrow. “You?” You’re wearing healer’s robes, are you not?”

I looked down at my simple gray cloak.

Ellison chose his words thoughtfully, likely hoping not to offend me. “It is important that you demonstrate strength.” He glanced up at the hill. “Perhaps the large one? Or better yet…”

His eyes landed on Mischief. 

“…Your monstrous friend?”

“No, it's fine. I’ll fight your best.” I didn’t hesitate in the slightest. 

Ellison raised an eyebrow—he hadn’t expected me to be the one to accept the challenge. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, studying me carefully. 

I nod. “That’s right. Who did you have in mind?” Not that I needed to ask. I already knew who it would be. The seven-foot brute who had been a wrecking ball during the raid stepped forward.

I’d watched him fight—raw power, overwhelming force, not really much in the form of technique.

He looked between Ellison and me, clearly confused. He muttered something in his native tongue.

Ellison shrugged and simply pointed at me.

The brute’s confusion deepened. His brow furrowed as he gave me a once-over—like he didn’t understand why a ‘healer’ was volunteering. I sighed internally. 

I guess I’d just have to show him.

-

Durkil had listened as Ellison recounted his conversation with the newcomers.

He spoke of the man’s strange honesty—his naïve but oddly compelling offer to merge factions despite knowing nothing about them.

He described the small leader’s confidence, his belief that if it came to a fight, the Guildians would lose.

Durkil had already felt the weight of that claim, especially after sizing up the monstrous feline prowling at the man’s side.

Not everyone was convinced. Daevon, the spellcaster, was the most vocal skeptic.

“It’s too convenient,” he had argued. “Why would he invite us in so easily? It could be a trap—a way to enslave us.”

Daevon also scoffed at the idea that a handful of fighters could overpower their entire force.

“They’re bluffing,” he insisted. “If we strike first—eliminate the beast—then we can crush them before they react.”

Ellison, however, had shut that down immediately.

“Even if we win,” he countered, “we’d be making enemies of this world’s people. You want to trade our only chance at freedom for another war?”

The debate dragged on until they reached a compromise.

If the newcomers could prove their strength—show that their confidence wasn’t a bluff—then they’d discuss an alliance.

And so, a contest of champions was decided.

Durkil was chosen.

It was a close vote—Daevon had wanted the spot—but ultimately, Durkil was the strongest among them.

Durkil stepped forward. He had fought monsters before—survived against creatures twice his size.

But something about this feline unnerved him. He steadied himself, reminding himself this wasn’t a lethal fight. 

Then came the first surprise. Ellison pointed to his challenger. It wasn’t the massive feline. Not even the giant fighter from the ridge.

But the healer. Durkil frowned. The healer barely reached his chest. Was this a joke?

Durkil knew appearances could be deceiving—the universe was full of strange and powerful beings—but a healer?

How much of his growth was dedicated to Intelligence and Wisdom rather than Strength or Agility? This was meant to be a test of strength, what did this man intend to do? Heal me into submission. 

Durkil hesitated. This was a non-lethal fight, so he’d have to be careful. One wrong swing could end the human. He decided on a controlled strategy—targeting the legs.

If this man was truly a healer, his best defense would be regeneration. He could destroy the legs without causing a lethal blow. Simple enough. 

He charged.

With a thunderous step, he raised his club high above his head and brought it crashing down in a sweeping arc aimed low. 

Already, his first mistake. The strike met nothing but air. The man wasn’t there. Durkil’s momentum carried him forward, almost pulling him off balance.

He stumbled, correcting his stance quickly—but his target was already behind him. Durkil’s eyes widened.

Huh?

That swing had a massive radius. How had the small man avoided it? 

Now on guard, Durkil adjusted. He tightened his swings—keeping his club close, testing his opponent’s reflexes.

But each time he struck, the man was gone just before the blow could land.

It was maddening. It was infuriating. Durkil could tell—his opponent wasn’t even trying to counterattack. His swings grew wilder. He tossed away the initial thought of aiming solely for the legs. He would take whatever he could get. 

The human? He kept dodging. Effortlessly. Was he toying with me? Durkil gritted his teeth. Nothing. Not one strike connected.

He’d had enough. He threw caution to the wind and let loose. He swung wildly—abandoning his careful targeting—determined to land a single hit.

The robed man didn’t dodge like a fighter, or even a warrior. He moved like the wind. Durkil felt his frustration peak. What was the point of this? If he won’t strike—then this fight is a stalemate.

Durkil wasn’t fast enough to hit him, but at the same time, a ‘healer’ couldn’t possibly hit hard enough to take him down.

…Right?

That’s when everything changed. Durkil swung—a wide, heavy blow aimed at the man’s ribs.

This time, the man didn’t dodge. He moved forward. Durkil’s swing was perfect. Heavy. Fast. Unstoppable.

Then—shhk!

The impact never came. The weight in his hands vanished. But the strike hadn’t missed. Durkil’s club—his weapon—was in two pieces.

The larger chunk spun through the air, flipping end over end. He barely saw it before it clattered to the ground.

Silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Durkil barely had time to process what happened—When he felt cold steel at his throat.

His body locked up. He looked down.

The robed man stood before him, sword outstretched, blade pressed lightly against Durkil’s furred skin. His heart thudded in his ears. 

And then… Durkil met his eyes. 

In that instant, he understood. This man wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t making idle claims or boasts of his own strength. He was simply stating the truth. This wasn’t a healer.

As Durkli stood frozen, the press of cold steel against his throat he searched the small mans eyes. And what he found? In those eyes he caught a glimpse of something unstoppable. 

Durkil had never felt small before. But in this moment standing before this small man? He was staring at a ripple. A ripple that Durkil knew–with his very soul–would one day become a tidal wave. 

The man smiled.

He pulled back his sword, turned to Ellison, and spoke words Durkil couldn’t understand. But he didn’t need to. His hand touched his throat where the sword had rested. 

Just who was this small unassuming boy they were tying their fate to?