Episode 4: Healing and Growing

  Chapter 010 - Wandering Curiosity

  ~ Ten Years Later ~

  No one knew why the wilderness behaved in such a way. Only political and human conflict roared within the kingdom walls. But outside? No one could return from a journey without believing their lives would get swept up by vines. It was called the wilderness for a reason. The trees never grew the same way twice.

  Every time Jorrin walked this path, the forest felt wrong. He’d heard of strange moments, like one time two drunk men stood on the rooftops shouting at each other for an hour. That kind of behavior he wouldn’t find anywhere. But this was something else. The trail was familiar, but the trails seemed to shift every day. Branches bent at an angle where they should snap. Roots curled upward like grasping hands.

  Birdcalls came in unfamiliar rhythms. New pitches rose as if new species were being born every time he took this road. Old birds returned to sing yesterday’s tune. Insects droned in perfect harmony, only to fall silent all at once. And then they’d continue with their nonstop calls.

  “I swear there was a riverbend before, right here,” called Vask, wiping his brow with the edge of his coat. A red-faced man, perpetually sweating, Vask looked better suited to a tavern than the trail. His friends sometimes mistook his name with the “flask” drunkards used, though they were convinced Vask and flask were meant for each other.

  “There was,” Jorrin said, frowning. He paused beside a wide tree, its trunk shimmering faintly and the bark curling inward. “That tree though… It looks new. Or—wait… was it smaller? Shoot, maybe we’re lost. Guys…?”

  “How about we shut up and keep walking?” muttered Alrik, the quietest of them all, right to the point. He lingered at the rear, staff in hand, one eye always on the woods like he expected them to harass him.

  Jorrin sighed, knowing this was only half the journey. “All this just for some extra coin to buy fish. Not like we’re going to get lost, but still…”

  Temperament Slate — 1/8 Awakened

  Trailmind ? Lv. 12: You have to rely on memory. The trees don’t help.

  “Lame, lame, lame,” he muttered, glancing at his Trailmind and what it had to say. “Didn’t think I’d get this temper when I took the job. This was supposed to be easy if it had not been these trees.” He paused, then added, “Well, better than getting lost. Hopefully, we’re not lost.”

  The fourth traveler, Denrick, the most unserious man out of the four, laughed. “Alright, who’s the one who forgot to bring a map?”

  Vask huffed a haughty laugh. “Forgot? Mister forgot-to-bring-a-brain, there is no map for the wilderness.”

  “Seriously? I thought I walked by a booth with a chunk handing out a map for a Laana.”

  Vask side-kicked Denrick. “You were going to waste a Laana for a scam– A scam! You idiot!”

  “And here we are, three years in and still surviving,” Jorrin shot back, voice cracking. “They should replace us. Screw the wilderness. What’ll my wife and kids say if I never come back?”

  “Say that when you actually have them,” Vask muttered.

  “Quiet. I shouldn’t be hearing anything from someone who divorced his wife.”

  “A girlfriend,” Vask corrected. “I didn’t leave; she left me. Big difference, bud.”

  “Oh, s–same thing,” Jorrin cleared his throat and fell silent for the rest of the walk.

  All four took their time walking, always mesmerized by what the wilderness had to present. They watched the moss growing backward along the bark of a fallen log. It moved in reverse, like time was tracing back to the past. A mushroom shrank, slipping back into a crevice. A few steps away, another mushroom emerged, fully formed and blooming. The forest’s strange performance had a way of sweeping up those unprepared. Even these men who knew what to expect would always be left breathless.

  Then the trees lessened, the thick forest diminishing across some distance later. The hush of the trees gave way to the hand-placed stone beneath their boots. They stepped onto a winding road paved in weathered bricks. And there ahead, rising from the horizon, stood the city of PortThorioh.

  The throne tower was the pride of the kingdom, piercing the skies with a height unmatched. A spear of whitestone and steel soared above all other buildings. At its top, high beyond the clouds, a radiant light burned. It didn’t flicker like flames behaved. It glowed steadily, glowing day and night like a second sun. A watchful eye.

  They said the king’s throne sat at the very top, lit from all sides, overseeing the world in silence.

  “Damn,” Jorrin breathed. “That’s taller than I remember.”

  “You don’t remember much after your first drink,” Denrick replied.

  But for the travelers from RrodKa, the tower was none of their business. Perhaps this would be a story for another time.

  The marketplace unfurled beneath liveliness and motion and noise. Dozens of banners flapped in the wind. Carts clattered with cattle trying to make through the crowd. Voices barked, bartered, and laughed. And through it all, the four men trudged forward, mud on their boots, and with vague knowledge of where everything was.

  Jorrin cast one last glance over his shoulder at the forest. The trail was still visible, but only barely. He could already tell the path back would be different. The pebbles along the road shifted as if pushed by some invisible breeze. One rolled away. Then a random log just rolled into place as a cherry on top. Sometimes things simply emerged from nowhere.

  Every commission came with risk, especially if higher-grade weapons were made outside of RrodKa, which was quite ironic. Jorrin often wondered if life in PortThorioh would be easier than in RrodKa. He never truly knew if one of these journeys would end with him in some far-off land, unable to find his way home. His Trailmind would sometimes convince him he was going in the right direction, but in reality, Trailmind was just his arrogance manifested as a voice.

  “Never bothered asking,” he murmured, “but we should probably find out what’s going on with the forest before the next tournament. And maybe some blades that don’t bend like twigs. We lost a lot of backing from the commissioners.”

  “Uh, isn’t that the commissioners’ fault for not clarifying?” Alrik asked, his quiet voice reaching deaf ears.

  And with that, they stepped through the open gates and into the city of light.

  The air in the markets was filled with the scent of sweat, spice, and smoke.

  Crowds moved endlessly, vendors shouting over one another as if they had been doing this two days straight without rest. Their stalls glittered with all kinds of things on display. There were bronze trinkets, steel blades, vibrant fabrics, anything a wanderer would find interesting. On every corner, someone was haggling. Walking in this place, you would at least get approached by one, asking whether you could afford their unaffordable whatevs.

  Jorrin adjusted the rope that held a bundle of hammers slung over his shoulder. Across from him, Vask wheezed under the weight of a crate filled with iron bracers. They had been gathering items, surprisingly. Their pace was slow, dragged down by the crowds moving like a current.

  “Left,” Alrik muttered, steering them toward a weapons stall. They recognized the poles and the blue canvas covering the man beneath. The smell of steel hung in the air, a blend of hot metal and oiled leather. This was the go-to for all they needed—spears, blunt weapons, and curved blades lining the racks.

  “Get your buckles checked before your own steel splits your ribs,” grunted the vendor, tossing a set of shoulder straps to Vask. “Tournament’s coming. Don’t be the fool now. Come and get your luck.”

  Denrick gave a polished smile and held out a stamped parchment, showing it to the vendor. “For House Remel of RrodKa,” he said. “Bulk commission.”

  The merchant’s eyes widened. “Goodness. From RrodKa? I’ve been seeing more of your folk lately. Figured you were still clawing your way out of the aftermath.”

  Vask grunted, dropping a few silver coins into the man’s hand. “Ten years. Honestly, I’m surprised. Thought the slaves would need longer to get it together.”

  “Can’t blame them,” the vendor said, spitting to the side. “Losing your children… that kind of thing doesn’t heal quickly.”

  “Like I’d know,” Vask snorted. “Never had one to lose. At least the economy’s moving again.”

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  The vendor narrowed his eyes. “Are all of you just chasing coins? Show a little sympathy, will you? I’m from here, the nation of Wisdom, but even we know gold’s not the only thing worth digging for.”

  “It’s called survival,” Alrik said flatly. “We’re not like the rich.”

  Jorrin ran his fingers along the edge of a blade, inspecting its sheen. “Well, everything’s been different since the Matron was killed.”

  The vendor kept sorting through bundles of straps and bronze-scaled bracers, half-listening as he tossed gear onto the counter. “That shook our people too,” he said quietly. “Aye. Tell me more.”

  Jorrin set the blade on the table and looked at the vendor. “I don’t know. She did a lot, especially for the health of the slaves. Her past was complicated. But she was a good woman. No idea why they killed her.”

  “And her child, too,” Vask added, leaning against the counter and idly studying a ring-shaped gadget he’d randomly picked from the counter. Half of these things, none of them knew what they were used for.

  “Damn. Poor child,” Denrick said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Would’ve had a wonderful mother. People forget the father, too. Underrated man. If the Matron chose a man like him, he had to be special.”

  “Yeah, unfortunate…” the vendor murmured, taking the blade from Jorrin and inspecting its edge. “Weapons like these... I can see how they could be used for the wrong things.”

  Jorrin exchanged a glance with Alrik. “And with Marshal Thallion gone, I feel like there’s finally a chance for healing.”

  Vask grunted. “Why issue that decree in the first place?”

  “No idea,” Jorrin said with a sigh. “Maybe they figured a little short-term, uh, ‘control’ was better than a full uprising. The slave population was growing fast.”

  The vendor hesitated slightly.

  “It’s strange, alright,” Jorrin continued, like tasting the word. “I don’t know what’s coming anymore. Luminar’s gone, so the soldiers have gone passive. The Matron’s dead. So many people died… Yeah.”

  Just as he leaned in to say more, a shadow crossed the stall.

  A man stood nearby, standing to their right, wearing brown cloth. His sleeves were creased. His black boots were dried with old mud he’d never cleaned. He stood loose and relaxed, like someone more at home on a tavern bench than in a noble court.

  Denrick spotted him and had to comment. “Oh, look, it’s Vask.”

  Vask shrugged. “Oh, look, it’s you after spending a Laana on booze.”

  But a gold-inlaid flask gleamed in the man’s hand, polished and fine. That contrast—gold against brown—threw Jorrin off. Denrick and Vask were in their worlds about to throw fists.

  Two guards flanked the man with sharp eyes. Their coats bore the insignia of PortThorioh. That detail alone betrayed the truth: this man held rank, no matter how he dressed.

  He took a slow sip from his flask. “I always enjoy hearing how RrodKa talks when—hic—it thinks no one’s listening,” he said. His voice was calm, disturbed occasionally by a hiccup. “Sounds like your nation could use a little wisdom… hic—seeing how it’s run by incompetent men.”

  Vask and the others turned, fully focused on him now. The vendor didn’t move.

  “Lord Frieda,” the vendor said evenly, nodding once in quiet recognition.

  He smirked. “No need for titles, friend. Just call me Harrick. Harrick Frieda.” He turned to the group of travelers. “But I do enjoy a good market conversation. Plenty of coin—hic—wasted here… and plenty of things spoken when people think no one’s listening.”

  His gaze lingered on the four men, eyes scanning.

  “You handsome ones from RrodKa,” he said with a lazy grin, “you’re easy on the eyes. Had any girls lately?”

  Jorrin raised his brows. “Oh, not really,” he began, “but I’m open to—”

  Alrik jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Jorrin doubled over and glanced at Alrik’s face, almost about to throw some words at him. But he finally caught on after Denrick and Vask also gave him a face. He cleared his throat, cheeks warming. “Y–yeah… not really.”

  Harrick chuckled and gestured at the path from where they’d come.

  “You know,” he said, as if tossing out a stray thought, “I’ve always wondered how you guys make it through that forest. Moss growing up instead of down. Rivers sliding sideways. Trees blooming upside down. Makes a man think the ground’s got something to say.” He giggled. “Maybe it wants to eat you.”

  Denrick raised an eyebrow, half-amused. “Interesting way to put it. I’ll do you one better. Give it some… wee-wee.”

  “Wee-wee? Piss?”

  “Straight from the source. Organic as it gets. Nature calls, you answer.”

  “Woah, you're a nasty one!”

  "I got all day."

  Harrick laughed loudly, and Denrick joined him. Jorrin blinked, unsure how this had become the conversation. Vask threw a glance at the vendor, silently pleading for him to finish preparing the weapons. Alrik just placed a palm over his face.

  “Speaking of the wilderness,” Jorrin said, trying not to make Denrick go on with his antics, “do you know why it’s acting this way?”

  Harrick took another sip and glanced toward the throne tower. His voice dropped.

  “I admire our lord,” he said. “He saw something many of us only hoped to see. Like you, he asked questions. There’s a distant kingdom, they say—one that understands the wilds and magic far better than we do.”

  He turned his head to Jorrin.

  “I can’t answer your question. But you asked something important, friend. Why kill the Matron? Maybe there’s something we haven’t seen clearly yet.”

  The group stood silent, watching him. Then, just as quickly, he grinned and turned away, flask swaying at his hip.

  “Well,” he muttered, “it is interesting… hic!”

  He wandered off, half-calling to another vendor about sweetbread, clearly making her uncomfortable. His guards followed, their eyes still sweeping the crowd.

  Jorrin blinked. “That man didn’t look like a noble.”

  “Makes me wonder if this really is the nation of wisdom,” Alrik muttered, still processing what he’d seen.

  The vendor sighed. “That’s ‘cause he’s smart. I’ve seen him wander around like that plenty of times. Fools a lot of people. Misleading, sure, but don’t let the hiccups fool you. That one’s sharp when he’s sober.”

  Denrick scratched his beard, eyes still on the man’s retreating form. “He mentioned the Matron like he knew her.”

  Jorrin murmured, “He might know more than he lets on.”

  The vendor, now tying a bundle of weapons with a thick leather strap, spoke without looking up. “More than likely. It’s been ten years since the storm… and that strange system interruption. Could’ve awakened something in him, same as it did for a lot of others. I’ve seen it before. There was this boy who used to walk by my stall, hand in his mother’s. Just one glance, and you know he is a shy one. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Then, five years later, he comes back asking for a silver-rounded blade. The mother said the system alert stirred something in him.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Marshal Thallion was affected too,” Vask said.

  “And yet,” Jorrin added, “the wilderness hasn’t changed. Not really. No one’s given a clear answer.”

  Alrik nodded. “Might as well keep moving. None of us knows. And we’ve got no idea where RathNah even is to ask for help.”

  Vask grimaced. “The Matron visited RathNah, I think. Still doesn’t make sense why they killed her. Marshal Thallion (Luminar) was born there… but now she’s gone. Commander Thallion says nothing. So what’s going on?”

  The vendor finally looked up. “Well, you know how it is out there. Politics isn’t my thing. Maybe some truths aren’t meant for the public.”

  He tossed the tied bundle toward Denrick, who caught it one-handed before it dropped by its full weight. He sighed. “Man, I have to carry this?”

  “Yes,” Vask blurted.

  “Whatever the case,” Jorrin said, “our condolences go to the ones affected by the decree. And to the Matron and her child. There was a future for them.”

  The group fell silent. A light breeze passed through the market and brushed against them. As it lifted bits of dust through the countertops and the canvas, Jorrin turned and looked back toward the gates… and the trees beyond.

  A trail cut into the wilderness, shifting again and again. And whenever it did, it shoved through the thick mist and tangled trunks. Trees brushed against one another randomly. The roots stirred, gaining momentum. They twisted and turned, drilling into the soil like spider legs swimming through sand. They crawled beneath the surface, cracking the earth as the whole trunk moved.

  The wind passed over the roaming trees, swept across hills and rivers. Peculiar creatures, those with three legs, mossy skin, or six wings, scavenged through the wild like it was their home.

  And in that same wilderness, deep in an unmapped territory, away from every path, another life form stirred. A small figure stood by a riverbed. He watched the water flow in silence, and then he raised a hand.

  Adaptation Path — 1/5 Activated

  Telekinetic Magic ? Lv. 26

  With a steady palm aimed toward the river, magic pulsed from his skin. Golden threads of energy burst forth, shooting into the water and soil. Dozens of strands embedded into the earth like webs, wrapping around every rock they could touch.

  The child twisted their wrist inward, and the river twisted with it. Where once the current ran straight, it now began to bend. His fingers clenched the air and twisted, curling as if trying to open a lid.

  As the curve deepened, the water shifted course. The stream washed into a patch of trees, splashing into trunks and invading the grass that had never been flooded before. Mist curled into the air. The child licked his lips, brushing hair from his face, and repositioned his arm. This time, his palm pointed toward the ground.

  With a push, the earth near the flooded grove sank. Water dropped with it, lowering the surge and halting the overflow. The disruption stilled. Whirlpools spun briefly. Bubbles rose. Then, slowly, a steady current was formed, flowing gently along its new path with new patterns made by the boy.

  He let out a sigh and wiped sweat from his brow. The light in his palm faded. He stepped back, examining the work like a dad observing his handicraft. He gave a small nod of approval.

  There was a wooden basket next to him that occasionally shook because of four fish thrashing around inside. He watched them, wondering how long it’d take until they grew still. It was only minutes, but he kept an eye out that, in his concentration on reshaping the landscape, he might ignore them at an unlucky time. If the bucket tips over when he wasn’t looking, the fish would fall back into the water. Then he’d have to catch them again.

  Fortunately, that hadn’t happened.

  After another minute of memoizing the final product he made, he picked up the basket and turned away. He headed back toward his campsite, where someone was waiting for him.