“It was our first day in Huntsman’s Copse.

“We were there for a quest assigned by the Guild. Excited, we left the walls of Sateya as soon as we were prepared. The exhaustion from our journey getting here vanished as anticipation took its place.

“It did not take long to get to Huntsman’s Copse as it was close by. We arrived at the outskirts, under the eaves of the trees. It was noon at the time, and what I saw stunned me.

“The trees were massive.

“The ones back at home were only the height of four healthy men. But the ones here were five times that height. Their shadows were casted down as sunlight flitted by the gaps. It made me realized how small I truly was.

“I considered a thought. If the trees alone were of this size, what then, of the beasts that resided within?

“Steeling ourselves, we headed in, our excitement gone from doing our first quest. We were fearful and cautious of what lurked in the dark. The only relief we had was that we were armed and prepared for a fight.

“We crawled along, trying to retain our formation as indistinct figures darted around us whenever a breeze came by. Howls echoed about, and signs of beasts prowling in the shadows were aplenty. We gripped tightly onto our swords, bows, and shields.

“We pushed on, an hour away from the outskirts. Deep we were in Huntsman’s Copse, and a perfect opportunity for the beasts we sighted nearby. They were near. I could hear them, growling out of sight…

“We have reached what we were here for, and the quest was almost done. We hastily gathered the items and stuffed them into our bags. We searched for a place to rest, and found a nearby tree that fell. It had numerous gashes on its trunk, with each one two inches wide.

“I wonder what caused them.

“We treated the wounded from the recent fights, and rested by the tree’s side. We needed to, for the long trek back.

“I could hear them howl in the distant. It sounded like they were mourning.

“They deserved it.

“We huddled back into formation, resolved to return back alive. We were determined to—“

The words stopped. A dash of ink covered the remaining page, as if the pen was jolted aside. Discal furrowed his brows.

He turned the page over and saw that it continued there. He remarked they were written in haste, as if they were nothing more but the scribbling of a deranged man. But before his eyes flew by, something had caught his sight.

It was a spanning plaza with a rudimentary fountain in the center.

He closed the journal, attached the string-latch back, kept it in his chest pocket and strolled over. On his way, he began to notice something peculiar about the place. From time to time, he could see glints and shimmering objects at the edge of his sight. He looked over and to his surprise, he saw steel and blade.

This was the fourth and last part of the marketplace; the part where they sold weapons of war. From simple swords to lethal magic items, they could be found here. And set on the path of becoming a warrior himself, Discal’s eyes gleamed at the field of weaponry.

He went to the shops and stores, and perused their wares. There, he studied swords, maces and staves. Then, he made mental notes of the craftsmanship and the workings of the weapon at hand. And whenever his own understanding was lacking, he would find assistance nearby.

While he could not best a seasoned soldier, his own knowledge of weaponry broadened over time.

Standing by the door of the last store, he swept his gaze and noticed the number of people around had decreased. He looked to the sky and discovered the sun had started to set.

“It’s getting dark,” he said as he prepared to leave. He checked himself if he had lost something, and spoke, “Everything seems to be in order.”

He nodded as he began to walk and tapped the pocket where the journal was. He pondered, “I wonder what caused that mess at the end.”

As he walked, he began to ruminate over the things he had just learned. Thoughts and recent conversations bounced about in his mind, and one by one, he considered their worth.

One prominent memory he recalled was when he grabbed a sword for a test. He gripped it by the handle to familiarize himself with the weapon that almost took his life.

He rotated the sword in his hands to acclimate to the weight. It was light. He slashed at the air and he felt satisfied. He smiled. Then, something in him changed and he began to lose himself in a fog as his eyes dimmed. He felt strange… and that same urge swelled once more.

Unconsciously, he began to move. His grip on the sword tightened with strength, and the handle cracked. His footing became even and well-placed as his body centered itself in accord to the sword. He went into a stance.

He struck out and cleaved the air as it whistled by. The sudden movement caused his mantle to flutter about. A crunch was heard.

“Too light,” he said in a regal but dull voice. His consciousness returned

Discal regained control and saw the human-height wooden post was almost shattered in half. His memory of what just happened cleared up and he was astonished at what he did to the post. But his astonishment diminished as it turned into concern. He frowned as he realized that when he took the sword, something took him.

Discal almost decided to let it be as it seemed to be harmless. But after consideration, it was only petty comfort. There was no guarantee that it would remain safe as time went on. It was an uncertainty that might take his life.

He heaved a sigh, unwilling to let him be consumed by the dispiriting thoughts. He looked once more at the broken post. At least it made me strong, he thought and made an uncomfortable smile.

He put the sword back, and left the dumbfounded owner without saying a word.

Discal recalled another dreadful memory.

It was when he was introduced to a peculiar weapon called the magic staff. It was apparently the weapon of choice for mages, and is used as an aid and a catalyst for their spells.

He was fascinated, and was quite attracted to the glowing orb at the end of the staff. It was a mana core, and it differed in sizes. The larger it was, the better it could help in materializing spells. But more importantly, it sold for more coin.

He lingered for awhile, admiring the mages’ paraphernalia which were considered pricey even for the people of Sateya. It was, after all, a noble profession, and seemed quite fitting for a scholar like him. Though, he found it odd that only few came by, as if they were avoiding the place.

But as he deliberated in becoming a mage himself, alarmed cries could be heard nearby. People were shouting and screaming.

Swept along by the masses, Discal followed along, intending to check what had happened. He ran with the others, and soon, hot air buffeted against his face. A few meters more, the smell of burned flesh wafted by.

He arrived where the people were, and everything was scorched. Debris and burned bodies littered the ground. It was a disaster.

Fortunately, the damage was quickly isolated as the flames were hastily put out. But for the ones on the ground, writhing in pain, their situation was grim. They cried and shrieked, asking for help.

Discal was shocked.

”What happened!?” Discal asked a person nearby.

The person looked furious as he turned to Discal. He said, “Another idiot tried casting a spell.” He paused with clenched teeth and looked back at the carnage. “The backlash… He wasn’t able to control it, and took everyone with him,” he spat. “Those bastards.” His voice tinged with rage.

Discal was clueless on what he meant by backlash, and it did little in giving him an answer. He asked a few persons more and soon found out what had happened.

A mage had just arrived in Sateya.

Newly-inducted to the outpost, he was confident in his skill as a mage. Filled with boundless youth and enthusiasm, he searched Sateya for a new magic staff to celebrate.

Having found one, he tried casting a spell but discovered he was unable to control it. Lacking in power, he panicked as the injected mana flow was disturbed. The resulting backlash caused the mana core to explode in a blaze and incinerated anything in its way.

It was an accident that took the lives of few. And the presumed death of the young mage did little in soothing the people’s hatred. Hearing this, Discal’s genial impression of a mage also faltered.

He left feeling sympathetic for the ones who lost their lives. It wasn’t their choice! he thought. They didn’t do anything that warranted their deaths. Indignant, he bided his time in the stores to regain his composure.

Discal was brought back from his reflection as he heard a whimper by his side. The recent event of something possessing him, and the accident were casted aside.

He looked at where he heard the sound, and saw a ruined stall. He moved towards it, and sighted a hooded figure slumped by its side.

Is he dead? he unintentionally thought as he saw the figure’s listless form. But his whimpering belied that he was still alive.

The figure sat there as he sobbed, while the people who passed by took no heed of him. He was ignored as if people like him were common in this world. Discal was baffled at the treatment of the person.

Discal approached the whimpering man, and tried to make contact.

“Hey…” he said softly as if consoling someone. The figure continued to whimper in response. Discal took a step forward, and inched closer.

“You okay, friend?” he asked and the figure turned to look. Under his hood, Discal saw a terrible sight.

Discal recoiled back with a yelp.

The figure’s eyes were drooped and swollen. He looked weary and in pain. His mouth was misaligned expressing that his jaw was fractured. But what offset Discal the most was the discharged pus and charred skin flaking off from the burned face.

It was not left untreated as someone had tried to treat the festering wound. Though, in the end, it was all for naught as the damage was too severe for just a simple layer of gauze. A healer was needed here, not cloth as it was now damped from the combination of pus and blood.

Discal was averse at the sight.

Oblivious to Discal’s disgust, the figure tried to speak. But Discal heard no intelligible words save the shriveled gasping voice of a man. Looking closer, he found the person devoid of a proper tongue as it too was mangled from the same incident that did his face. Discal’s expression twisted in realization at the reason of the figure’s unseemly state.

The figure clumsily moved to reach out and fell to his side. Crying softly, he extended an arm out as if asking for help. His signature robe gave way and revealed a reddened stump.

When the figure’s eyes flitted by what remained of his arm, he paused as his eyes widened in despair. His whimper transformed into an agonizing wail as he began to crawl back to the stall.

Discal took a step back, unnerved at the scene. He decided to speak.

“I’m sorry… I can’t help you.” Discal gritted his teeth, and walked away.

As he did, the wailing pursued him. Discal stopped. He hesitated. Guilt gnawed at him as he was set at an impasse: should he help or not?

The man was the same as he was back then; left alone to die. And Discal had the opportunity to help him, something he had hoped for when he himself almost died. The fact that people were close by, but no one seemed willing, also made Discal incensed

However, Discal was also conflicted. He believed that every man should be made responsible for what he did. And this man had made a grave one that took the lives of many. What was sacred to Discal, this man had taken it with ease. It earned the man his ire.

He contemplated, and what felt like a long time, Discal had decided. He gritted his teeth with more force and started to move. As the wailing became faint, he increased his pace. Not once did he turn back, nor did he slow down his pace.