Small groans drifted through the haze of smoke and dust, faint and ragged.

  “Ugh…”

  Tiny footsteps splashed in the mud, puddles rippling under hurried weight.

  “Heavy!”

  A group of children hauled an unconscious Arion across a ruined camp—like dwarfs carrying a felled giant. They lugged him over arm and shoulder, his robe dragged, torn and bloodied.

  The clearing hung in unnatural stillness, embers glowing like dying eyes within the chaotic aftermath.

  Then wood groaned and shifted. Something clawed its way free from the debris beside them.

  A heavy grunt tore the air.

  “Grah!”

  Battered, blood-smeared, the figure rose—hand clamped to his throbbing skull. Vision blurring, then sharpening, he spotted them: the children, fleeing with their savior in tow.

  “You little shits!” he snarled. Green sparks crackled around his fists, coiling like venomous serpents. A sharp coiled sword shimmered into existence, its edge hungry.

  “Hyjal!” a girl cried.

  The man flinched, staggering back, eyes darting for the threat. Seconds stretched—nothing came.

  “…Nice bluff, girl. Now let’s turn you into—”

  A whistle pierced the air.

  SHLINK!

  “Guh—!”

  A bolt slammed into his chest. He reeled, knees buckling, collapsing backward in a spray of mud.

  The girl whipped around.

  “Hyjal! What took you so long?” she snapped, still gripping Arion’s leg like a lifeline.

  Hyjal stood paces back, crossbow trembling in his small hands. He fumbled to reload, a glowing filament snapping taut under his fingers.

  “Sorry! It’s not easy to aim this thing! Lightstring helps, but I can’t just fling it around.”

  Before the bolt locked, a shadow erupted from the underbrush—lunging for the boy with feral speed.

  Except the figure never made the distance. A concussive blast boomed out, throwing the attacker back several paces.

  “Who—!?” the man roared, scrambling to his feet.

  A blur exploded into view, blade flashing in a vicious arc across his torso.

  He crumpled, chest rent open, blood pooling dark and final beneath him.

  The victorious figure straightened, turned, and smiled at the children like he’d simply stepped out for groceries.

  He whistled, “So this is the guy who stole my kill,” Draven said, eyeing Arion’s limp body.

  TWANG!

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  A bolt rang off metal—deflected by a flick of Draven’s blade.

  “Kid,” Draven sighed, “do you mind not trying to kill Uncle Draven?”

  Hyjal’s grip faltered, the crossbow dipping. Powerless. A green hue flickered around his hands as his newly acquired weapon dissolved back into its shard form.

  Draven sauntered forward, boots squelching in the muck.

  “What? Let’s get out of this decrepit den of rats,” he said, chuckling lightly, the sound laced with something darker.

  “That’s funny,” the older girl muttered, unflinching. “Pretty sure we saw you with those ‘rats’ not long ago. Why should we trust you?”

  Draven halted, pivoted on his heel, and crouched to her level. His ember-red eyes bored into hers—a demon's gaze, unblinking, a silent promise of fire.

  “Because if I was one of them, your little sentry with the crossbow would already be dead.” He jerked a thumb at Hyjal. “And I had my own reasons for being here. But now that everything’s gone to shit and Karlon’s dead? No point staying, is there?”

  She held his stare, fear warring with defiance in her chest. He chuckled again, rising, and seized Arion by the robe.

  “Hey—” she protested, voice rising.

  “You’re all too slow with your tiny legs,” Draven said, hoisting Arion like a sack of grain, dragging him toward the trees.

  The children exchanged glances—hesitant, terrified—then followed, shadows swallowing their steps.

  …

  Minutes later, under the canopy's gloom, Draven dumped Arion onto the leaf-strewn ground with a thud.

  Draven swore he heard a slight moan escape the unconscious man.

  A rustle erupted nearby. A creature burst from the foliage, eyes wild, locking onto Draven—then recoiling as if burned.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” Draven purred, his voice a velvet threat.

  His eyes ignited deeper crimson.

  “Abyssal's Grasp.”

  Shadows writhed from the earth like living chains, lashing into the brush. A frantic rustle—a guttural shriek—then silence.

  The tendrils retracted, coiled around the creature’s limp corpse.

  “Shelter. Food. Well, my job’s done here.” Draven turned, melting into the forest's embrace.

  “I suggest treating him if you don’t want him bleeding out.”

  He raised a lazy hand in farewell, his form dissolving into the murk.

  The children stared after him, hearts pounding, the air thick with unspoken dread.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Birdsong pulled him from the void.

  For a hazy instant, Arion imagined his old bed in that cramped flat—until agony yanked him back. His body screamed, every nerve alight.

  He groaned, blinking against the blur.

  Bark arched overhead, sunlight seeping through cracks like molten gold. Dust motes danced in the beams, warm on his skin. He was inside a hollowed trunk, the scent of damp wood and earth grounding him.

  Consciousness sharpened. He lifted a hand—fire lanced through it. The other arm revealed crude bandages, cloth wrapped tight around wounds, stained but holding.

  “Huh…”

  Not the best job, but it's at least keeping me together…

  His body protested again, drawing another guttural groan.

  …for now.

  Then a voice overtook his thoughts.

  “—He’s awake!”

  Leaves crunched under small feet. Arion tensed—instinct screaming threat—his pulse spiking despite the pain.

  “…um, sir Freeblade. How are you feeling?” A soft voice, familiar, from the young girl.

  The children clustered around, faces smudged with dirt and worry, eyes wide in the dim light.

  “Well… I’ll live, I suppose,” he rasped, unsure of the damage tallying in his bones.

  He turned his head slightly as he raised his less painful arm, “This is your handiwork?”

  The girl nodded, “Mmh, Selene taught me, I used Mend Flesh and Healing Thread to treat you to the best of my abilities. I haven't fully mastered them…yet.”

  A boy chimed in. “Yeah! Wiela nearly passed out! She spent all night patch—”

  Duff!

  “Ow!” The boy yelped, clutching his side from her elbow jab.

  “Ahem! I-I did what I could,” she said quickly, cheeks flushing. “You saved us. It’s the least I could do.”

  “Thank you, Wiela. You seem to have saved me in return.” Arion offered a faint, genuine smile, pain etching lines around his eyes.

  But before her flush deepened, he pressed on. “This Freeblade you mentioned… what is that?”

  Wiela blinked. “Huh? You’re not from the guild? You weren’t assigned a contract for our rescue?”

  “Nope. I’m not some fancy Freeblade. Just a quiet hermit who lives in a tree.”

  Silence thickened—small eyes stared, processing.

  “So you just stumbled across the camp,” she said slowly, “decided to free us… and wiped out all the bandits?”

  Arion’s head tilted, eyes narrowing in thought. He shrugged, wincing. “Haha. Well, when you say it like that, it does sound ridiculous.”

  The children blinked, exchanging uneasy glances.

  They may have stumbled upon a slightly insane man.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Mend Flesh

  Tier 1 — Support / Healing

  Description:

  A foundational healing technique used to stabilise minor injuries. The caster directs their Vitalis outward, shaping nearby Luminary Essence into a thin regenerative field over torn skin. The woven Luminary acts as an external scaffold—seeking points of disruption and guiding tissue to realign and encouraging natural repair pathways. Effective for cuts, grazes, and bruises—insufficient for deep wounds or structural damage.

  Essence Principle:

  Vitalis does not heal by itself; it coaxes the environment. When channelled correctly, it shapes Luminary into a stabilising pattern over the wound—a magic blueprint the body responds to. Luminary Essence presses close to the surface, sometimes seeping inside, aligning the fibres beneath it, helping strands of the body to reform and restore local order. Too much Luminary disrupts the pattern; too little fails to imprint it. The body does the work—the Essence only reminds it how. Never force it.

  Practitioner’s Note:

  A steady hand and a calm pulse, let Vitalis weave evenly. Look for the skin’s subtle response—warmth spreading gently under the surface means that the spell has taken. Yet If the skin prickles hot, retract to avoid overloading the wound. Never attempt to mend what the spell cannot support; complete torn muscle or heavy bleeding belongs to higher arts. This tier is for stabilising and buying time, not saving.

  Maxim:

  “Guide the Essence, and the body will follow.”