Chapter 488: Boarding Grimhorn

Damien’s fingers tightened slightly around his mug as he moved to take another sip of his beer.

“What kind of creatures?” someone asked when the place seemed to be getting too quiet.

The woman shrugged. “No one knows. Big. Too big. Shapes under the water that blot out the moonlight. Sounds like the sea screaming when they move.”

A hush followed.

“Almost every ship that gets close vanishes,” she continued. “Ninety-nine out of a hundred. Maybe more.”

“Ninety-nine point nine,” someone corrected bitterly.

Damien exhaled quietly through his nose.

That explained a great deal.

The Forest of Twin Disasters wasn’t just isolated by land—it was actively guarded by the sea itself.

Storms above.

Monsters below.

A perfect cage. No wonder the last people had entered the forest through Teleportation Scrolls and not water or air. They’d die before reaching. To be put in simple terms, the Forest itself was a nightmare but the waters surrounding it were even worse than nightmares.

And yet…

Damien drained his mug.

Where there was danger, there were always exceptions.

He found him near the end of the night.

Not in a pub, but just outside one.

A crowd had gathered—some jeering, some whispering, some watching with thinly veiled curiosity. At the center stood a man leaning casually against a stack of cargo crates, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that spoke of absolute confidence.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat bore the marks of countless repairs, reinforced at the joints with runic stitching. His presence was… dense. Not overwhelming, but solid, like a mountain that had learned how to move.

A mercenary captain. And a strong one at that.

Platinum rank, if Damien had to place him. Possibly higher, depending on how much of his power he was concealing.

“You’re insane,” someone was saying to the man’s face. “No ship comes back from there.”

The captain grinned. “That’s why there’s no competition.”

“You’ll get everyone killed.”

“Only if they’re slow,” the man replied easily.

“And you think anyone’s stupid enough to go with you?”

The captain shrugged. “I only need a few that are stupid enough.”

Damien stopped at the edge of the crowd.

He listened.

The man was talking openly, too openly for someone bluffing.

He needed to reach the island. He needed something there.

And he was willing to die trying.

Interesting.

“What’s your name, Captain?” someone called.

The man pushed off the crates and bowed slightly. “Call me Garrick.”

A ripple went through the crowd.

Some recognition. Some disbelief.

“That Garrick?” someone whispered. “The one who led the Iron Wake?”

“No way,” another muttered. “That fleet was wiped out.”

Garrick’s grin widened. “Not wiped out. Dispersed.”

The crowd didn’t look convinced.

“And you’re recruiting?” a mercenary scoffed. “For that cursed island?”

“Recruiting brave men,” Garrick corrected. “Or desperate ones. Either works.”

Laughter followed—uneasy, mocking.

Then the crowd shifted.

Someone stepped forward.

Young.

Too young, at first glance.

Late teens, maybe. Dark cloak. Calm blue eyes. No visible weapon drawn. Just a quiet presence that didn’t match the madness of what was being discussed.

Damien.

Luton pulsed once on his shoulder.

Garrick noticed immediately.

His gaze sharpened—not predatory, but assessing. He took in Damien’s stance, his balance, the way he moved without hesitation.

“Kid,” Garrick said, not unkindly. “This isn’t a tavern dare.”

“I know,” Damien replied.

A few people snickered.

“You even know where I’m headed?” Garrick asked.

“Yes.”

“And you still walked up here?”

“Yes. Because I need to get there by any means possible.”

The captain studied him for a long moment.

Then his eyes flicked to Luton.

“…Interesting familiar.”

“It eats demons, beasts, and even humans,” Damien said flatly.

Silence fell.

A few people laughed uncertainly, then stopped when Damien didn’t join them.

Garrick’s grin returned—this time sharper.

“You a mercenary?”

“Yes.”

“Rank?”

“I’d rather not say but a fairly high ranking one.”

That earned a few raised brows.

Garrick chuckled. “You realize ninety-nine point nine percent of ships vanish on that route.”

Damien met his gaze evenly.

“Then you only need to worry about being the exception.”

The words hung in the air.

The crowd went quiet.

Garrick stared at him for several seconds. Then he laughed—deep and genuine.

“I like you, kid.”

He extended a hand.

“Name’s Garrick. And if you’re serious, you’ll want to understand this isn’t hero work. It’s survival.”

Damien clasped the offered hand.

His grip was firm. Steady.

“I don’t plan on being a hero,” Damien said.

He released the handshake and stepped closer, voice calm, unwavering.

“I’ll go with you.”

And for the first time since he’d arrived at the port city, the roaring sea beyond the docks seemed to grow just a little louder—

as though something far away had heard him agree.

The captain wasted no time once Damien gave his answer.

Garrick clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and decisive, as though sealing an agreement the sea itself might later contest. “All right then,” he said, turning toward the dock. “If anyone else is joining, now’s the moment. Once we cast off, there’s no turning back.”

No one stepped forward.

Some averted their gazes. Others muttered curses under their breath. A few watched Damien with a mixture of disbelief and pity, as though they were witnessing a young man walk willingly toward his own grave.

Garrick snorted. “Figures.”

He turned back to Damien, studying him anew—not as a curiosity now, but as an asset. “You’ll want to meet the crew. If we’re dying together, names are useful.”

Damien nodded. “Lead the way.”

The ship was docked a short distance away, larger than Damien had expected. Not a massive galleon, but no simple merchant vessel either. Its hull was reinforced with iron bands etched with runes dulled by age and salt. The sails were furled, dark fabric layered thick enough to withstand brutal winds.

Painted along the bow was a name that had been partially scratched and repainted several times.

Grimhorn.

A fitting name.

As they approached, several crew members looked up from their work. Conversations slowed. Tools paused mid-motion. One by one, eyes turned toward Damien.

Garrick strode up the gangplank and raised his voice. “Listen up! We’ve got a new hand.”

Murmurs rippled through the deck.

“This,” Garrick continued, gesturing toward Damien, “is a mercenary who’s either brave—or stupid—enough to head toward Twin Disasters with us.”

That earned a few chuckles.

“He’s not replacing anyone,” Garrick added dryly. “We don’t have the luxury.”

He then began pointing people out one by one.

“First mate’s Lysa,” he said, indicating a woman tightening a rope near the mast. She had cropped silver hair, sharp scarlet eyes, and a posture that suggested she slept with a knife within reach.

Lysa nodded once at Damien. “Hope you don’t scream when things get bad.”

“I don’t,” Damien replied.

That seemed to amuse her.

“That’s Torren,” Garrick went on, pointing to a broad man with tattooed arms hauling a crate. “Our navigator. Best damn eye for currents I’ve ever seen.”

Torren grunted in acknowledgment.

“Jessa,” Garrick said, nodding toward a lean woman perched on the railing, crossbow resting across her knees. “Long-range support. Don’t stand in front of her when she’s bored.”

Jessa smiled lazily. “Or behind me either.”

A few more introductions followed—engineers, deckhands, two other mercenaries whose names Damien filed away without comment.

They were… relaxed.

Too relaxed, considering where they were going.

High morale. Dark humor. A crew that laughed loudly and worked efficiently.

A dangerous combination born from people who had already accepted the worst.

Damien listened, nodded when appropriate, and committed faces to memory.

When the introductions ended, Garrick clasped his hands together. “We’ll cast off in less than an hour. Get yourself settled.”

Damien hesitated. “Before that—I need to take a moment.”

Garrick raised a brow. “Nerves?”

“No,” Damien said. “My beasts.”

That drew attention.

Garrick glanced at Damien’s shoulder where Luton sat quietly. “That thing?”

“And another,” Damien replied.

Interest sparked.

“Go on then,” Garrick said. “Just don’t vanish.”

Damien left the ship and slipped into a narrow alley between two warehouses where the salt air barely reached. The noise of the docks dulled, replaced by quiet shadows and the distant cry of sea gulls.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he summoned Fenrir.

White fur shimmered into existence, massive paws settling against the stone with a low thud. Fenrir’s form coalesced fully, eyes immediately narrowing as he sniffed the air.

The wolf’s ears flattened.

A deep, displeased growl rolled from its chest.

“Yes,” Damien muttered. “I know.”

Fenrir hated the ocean.

Not feared it—hated it. The endless water, the absence of solid ground, the strange scents and unseen depths. It offended every instinct the beast possessed.

Luton slid from Damien’s shoulder and bobbed around Fenrir with excited pulses, clearly delighted by the moisture in the air and the distant presence of the sea.

Fenrir bared his teeth at the slime.

Damien rested a hand against the wolf’s neck. “Easy. You’re coming for now.”

Fenrir didn’t look convinced.

When Damien returned, the effect was immediate.

Conversations halted. Tools clattered. Several crew members openly stared.

Fenrir took measured steps up the gangplank beside Damien, each step heavy, deliberate. His presence dominated the deck, white fur stark against dark planks. His eyes scanned the ship with open hostility.

Luton bounced happily after them, leaving faint traces of condensed mana that evaporated almost instantly.

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