Chapter 473: A Spar With Soldiers

Seliah swallowed after hearing what Damien had replied with.

“But you’re going alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s something only I can do.”

She didn’t argue.

Instead she straightened her shoulders and said, “Then… I hope Galandra can at least help you prepare for that.”

Damien glanced at her, gave a smirk, and nodded. “I hope so too.”

They turned back toward the barracks.

Fenrir walked closer, as if sensing Damien’s sinking thoughts.

Luton nudged the side of his face.

Damien remained silent, gaze locked on the road ahead.

A single day.

One day to rest.

One day before he set foot toward the place he had once fled from, the place he now needed to return to.

The Forest of Twin Disasters.

And this time, he didn’t have any plans to run.

By the time Damien and Seliah finished gathering the last of the items on his list, the sun sat high above the city, bathing Galandra’s marketplace in warm, bustling light. It was exactly noon. The peakest time of day.

Street vendors shouted prices, haggling with customers who wanted to buy too. There were also mercenaries haggling for better deals, and the scent of roasted bread and metalwork filled the air.

They had bought everything he needed.

But Damien wasn’t done yet.

He stood outside a large storefront with towering shelves inside, lined with scrolls, books, and elaborate charts. Perhaps the most prestigious map shop in the kingdom. It was the size of a small mansion.

Seliah folded her arms nervously. “This is the best place for maps. The scholars who run it cooperate directly with the kingdom’s navy and cartographers.”

“Perfect,” Damien said.

Fenrir remained at his heel, silent but alert. Luton, perched on Damien’s shoulder, jiggled with excitement, perhaps sensing the density of information inside the shop, or the smell of old paper, which it suspiciously liked.

As Damien approached the entrance, the guards stationed outside stiffened.

“Tamer approaching,” one whispered under his breath.

“He has a wolf with him,” the other added, as if Damien didn’t already know.

When Damien entered, conversation inside the shop halted instantly. Scholars froze. Clerks stopped writing. Ink dripped from quills onto half-finished letters.

Luton quivered happily.

Fenrir’s presence was… commanding.

Damien ignored the stares and walked straight to a wall of maps, scanning each layer with a calculating gaze.

The shopkeeper, a thin old man with trembling hands, approached cautiously. “Honored guest… is there something specific you seek? We—ah—we have charts of every region on the Northern continent…”

“I need a large-scale world map,” Damien said. “One that covers the entire Northern continent, surrounding seas, and the major islands.”

The man’s face paled, then brightened. “A-ah… yes, yes, of course. We have one. Rarely purchased due to its price—and size—but it is accurate.”

He hurried to the back and returned with a wide scroll tied with deep blue ribbon.

Damien untied it.

And there it was.

A complete, detailed depiction of the Northern continent. Every kingdom labeled. Every terrain sketched in crisp detail. Every coast traced with precision.

Islands dotted the surrounding sea—some small, some large.

And one in particular…

A vast mass of land, sitting hundreds of miles away from the nearest island.

The Forest of Twin Disasters.

His destination.

Damien traced the symbol marking the island.

Seliah glanced at the map. “That place… no one goes there. It’s considered a death zone.”

Damien said nothing.

He rolled the map up and paid the steep price without hesitation.

The shopkeeper watched with wide eyes, stunned at how casually Damien produced the gold.

Then Luton struggled forward, extending itself toward a pile of ink jars.

“No,” Damien said firmly. “We’re not buying those.”

Luton drooped sadly.

The scholars shrank backward in alarm.

Fenrir’s gaze swept the room, ensuring no one came too close.

Seliah cleared her throat. “We should head back before the commander sends a patrol looking for us.”

Damien nodded. “Agreed.”

One by one, he placed every purchased item—bandages, vials, tools, and supplies—into Luton’s Universal Space. Each object vanished into the slime with a soft plop, leaving no trace behind.

Everything except the map.

That, Damien rolled tightly and carried himself. He didn’t trust anything, not even Luton’s dimensional space, with this map.

They made their way back to the city streets.

The further they walked, the more attention Fenrir and Luton attracted.

Children hid behind their parents’ legs. Vendors whispered. Mercenaries stared openly.

Some even approached.

The first was a burly man with two axes strapped to his back. He looked Fenrir up and down with greedy interest.

“That wolf…” he said, licking his lips. “You selling it?”

Seliah choked. “W-what kind of idiot—!?”

But the man wasn’t done.

“I’ll pay well. A beast like that—”

Fenrir moved in a blur.

One second it stood beside Damien.

The next, it was inches from the man’s face, its low, furious rumble vibrating the very air.

Grrrrr…

The mercenary’s skin drained of color.

His knees nearly buckled.

“Ah—my mistake! My mistake!” the man squealed, stumbling back. “Not for sale! Understood!”

Fenrir pulled back, still rumbling.

Another mercenary tried a similar question.

And received a similar answer.

The rest of the street wisely stayed silent.

Seliah laughed nervously. “I think your wolf just made enemies of half the mercenaries in Galandra.”

“They’ll get over it,” Damien said calmly. “It was their fault for asking something like that.”

Fenrir seemed pleased with itself.

Luton bounced smugly.

With no more interruptions, they returned to the military district.

The guards posted at the gate saluted immediately upon seeing Damien.

“General Haldric said to let you in without inspection,” one said. “Welcome back.”

Seliah led Damien through the inner training grounds, weaving past soldiers practicing formation maneuvers and instructors barking orders.

Everything here was disciplined. Structured.

A stark contrast to the chaos Damien had just witnessed on the battlefield.

He found the familiarity comforting in its own way.

When they reached the barracks, Seliah excused herself with a respectful bow.

“Thank you for letting me accompany you,” she said. “And again… thank you for saving us.”

Damien nodded. “Stay alive. That’s enough.”

A small smile crossed her face before she turned away.

Damien returned to his room, dropped onto the bed, and let his muscles relax.

He hadn’t realized how tired he was.

Even without fighting, walking among crowds exhausted him more than facing beasts ever did.

Fenrir lay down beside him.

Luton rolled onto the pillow.

Damien closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

When he woke again, sunlight had shifted—late afternoon now, warm and golden.

Damien exhaled slowly and rose from the bed.

Fenrir followed, stretching like a massive predator waking from hibernation.

Luton hopped to his shoulder.

He stepped out into the hallway.

The moment he entered the courtyard, the sound of clashing weapons, shouts, and training drills filled the air.

Soldiers sparred against each other in groups. Some trained with wooden weapons. Others with real blades.

They were good.

Disciplined.

But they weren’t used to real bloodshed, not the kind Damien had lived through.

As he walked by, several heads turned.

Whispers spread instantly.

“That’s him…”

“The tamer who saved Haldric’s unit…”

“He looks so young…”

“Are those really his summons?”

Damien ignored them and continued toward the exit of the training yard—

Until someone stepped in his path.

A tall soldier, face dripping with sweat and a confident grin plastered across his face.

“Sir Damien,” he said, tone polite but eager. “Could I request a spar with you?”

A small crowd formed almost immediately, murmuring with excitement.

Damien raised an eyebrow. “No.”

The soldier blinked. “Ah—well—I wouldn’t dare insist, but—”

Another soldier cut in. “Please! We just want to see how strong you really are!”

A third added, “You saved our comrades. We mean no disrespect.”

Damien studied their faces.

There was hope.

Curiosity.

Challenge.

He could practically feel their desire to measure him, because they didn’t understand what kind of man he was. They had been soldiers all their lives. But Damien was something else entirely.

And they knew it.

He sighed.

He could refuse.

But then they would keep asking. Whispering. Wondering.

And Damien would leave tomorrow with their imaginations running wild.

Best to settle it now.

He stepped forward, and the courtyard fell silent.

“You want a spar?”

A dozen soldiers nodded.

“Fine,” Damien said, voice calm and cold. “But let’s make it fair.”

Murmurs spread.

“Fair?”

“What does he mean?”

Damien raised one finger.

“Any one of you who lands even a single strike on me, just one, will receive twelve Grade Five essence cores.”

The effect was immediate.

Gasps.

Shouts.

Disbelief.

Grade Five essence cores were rare, expensive, and powerful enough to push a Bronze rank warrior’s mana essence core forward by an entire boundary.

Offering twelve… for one hit…

The soldiers almost fainted.

The one who had challenged Damien first swallowed hard. “A-are you serious?”

Damien nodded once.

“Yes.”

He stepped into the center of the sparring ring.

Fenrir lay at the edge of the circle, watching with amusement.

Luton bounced lightly, as if betting on how quickly Damien would win.

Damien rolled his shoulders and relaxed his stance.

“Anyone who wants to try,” he said quietly, “step forward.”

A dozen soldiers stepped into the ring.

Weapons raised.

Eyes blazing.

He could feel their battle spirits burning.

Damien smiled faintly.

Good.

This kingdom would need strong warriors soon.

Very soon.

He lifted one hand and beckoned them closer.

“Come.”

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