Chapter 494: You’ll Make It Back In Time

A low, vibrating bellow rolled through the trees.

Branches snapped.

The ground shook.

Garrick’s hand went to his weapon instantly. “That’s not a demon,” he muttered. “Too… solid.”

From between the trees burst a massive shape—muscle, horn, and fury.

A Trihorned Buffalo.

The beast stood taller than a warhorse, its body thick with corded muscle, hide like layered stone. Three massive horns jutted from its skull, the central one longer and jagged, etched with natural mana channels that glowed faintly as it snorted.

“Grade Five,” Garrick said, eyes narrowing. “I can handle one.”

The buffalo charged.

Garrick met it head-on.

He moved with the confidence of a veteran, dodging the initial charge by inches and slashing deep along the beast’s flank. Blood sprayed, dark and hot. The buffalo bellowed in pain, skidding to a halt before turning again.

Then another emerged.

And another.

Three Trihorned Buffalo now thundered through the undergrowth.

Garrick cursed. “Alright—still manageable!”

He shifted tactics, using the terrain, baiting one into crashing into a tree, then driving his blade into its neck. Fenrir stayed back, watching. Damien didn’t move.

Two more fell.

Garrick was breathing hard but grinning. “See? Fair fight.”

The forest answered him.

Three more buffalo charged out from the right.

Then three more from the left.

Then six more poured in from behind, the earth shaking as a full herd descended on them.

Garrick’s grin vanished.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… that’s not fair anymore.”

He fought desperately, cutting down one, then another, but the numbers overwhelmed him. A horn caught his side, hurling him through the air. He crashed into a tree, ribs screaming in protest.

Another buffalo lowered its head, charging straight for him.

Damien raised a hand.

“Luton.”

The slime surged forward instantly, stretching unnaturally as it engulfed two of the charging beasts mid-run. Their roars cut off abruptly as they vanished into its body, essence and flesh dissolving rapidly.

The pressure on Garrick eased.

Panting, bloodied, Garrick forced himself upright. “I… I had it under control,” he lied weakly.

Damien didn’t respond.

With fewer enemies, Garrick refocused, killing the remaining buffalo one by one, movements slower now, more cautious, but precise. When the last beast finally fell, the forest grew quiet once more.

Garrick leaned heavily on his weapon, chest heaving. “Next time,” he muttered, “you’re not waiting that long.”

Luton bubbled happily, noticeably larger than before.

Damien looked deeper into the forest. ’This was only the beginning.’

Damien didn’t say it outright, but Garrick felt the shift almost immediately.

The forest hadn’t changed. Its oppressive silence, the ancient weight pressing down from the canopy, the sense of being watched by things too old to care, but Damien had.

After the Trihorned Buffalo massacre, Damien stopped wandering aimlessly. His steps became deliberate. Purposeful. Each direction chosen carried intent rather than curiosity.

Garrick noticed it as they moved deeper into the forest, away from the relatively forgiving outskirts and into regions where the trees grew thicker, their trunks scarred by claw marks and old battles.

Mana saturation increased subtly, making the air heavier, harder to breathe for ordinary men.

Even though he hadn’t been here, he could already feel it.

“I think this area,” Garrick said quietly, wiping dried blood from his blade, “is where Grade Fours start showing up.”

“I know,” Damien replied.

Garrick glanced at him. “You planning to fight?”

Damien shook his head. “You are.”

That earned a short, humorless laugh. “Trying to kill me faster?”

“No,” Damien said calmly. “Trying to save your family faster.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

Garrick swallowed, nodded once, and tightened his grip on his weapon. “Then don’t blink.”

They found the first Grade Four not long after.

The ground trembled faintly as they approached a rocky clearing where massive boulders lay scattered like discarded bones. At the center stood a hulking beast—part reptile, part mammal—its hide layered in overlapping plates of stone-gray armor.

A Stoneback Ravager.

It lifted its head slowly, eyes glowing amber as it sensed them. Its tail dragged behind it, ending in a jagged, mace-like formation of hardened rock.

Garrick inhaled deeply. “Grade Four… pure mana beast. Core should fetch a fortune.”

The Ravager charged without warning.

Garrick met it head-on.

His movements were sharper now, more focused than during the buffalo fight. He rolled beneath the initial swipe of its tail, blade scraping sparks as it struck the stone armor. The beast roared, slamming its forelimbs down hard enough to fracture the ground.

Damien remained still, arms crossed.

Fenrir sat beside him, eyes tracking every motion.

The Ravager adapted quickly, shifting tactics—short bursts of speed followed by devastating body checks. Garrick took a hit to the shoulder, armor cracking, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he pressed closer, targeting the joints between the armor plates.

After a brutal exchange that left Garrick bleeding from half a dozen shallow wounds, he baited the Ravager into slamming its head into a boulder. The impact stunned it long enough.

Garrick leapt.

His blade drove down through the gap at the base of the skull.

The Ravager collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Garrick stood there, breathing heavily, then laughed weakly. “One down.”

Damien nodded. “Good.”

The essence core was large, dense, and pulsing steadily.

Worth days of hunting at lower grades.

They didn’t travel far before the air changed again.

This time, the mana felt sharper. Hostile.

A demon.

From the shadows emerged a lean, horned figure with charred-black skin and glowing veins of ember-red light. Its claws steamed faintly, heat warping the air around it.

Ashfang Demon which was also a Grade Four.

Garrick cursed under his breath. “Demons are always worse.”

The demon grinned, revealing rows of serrated teeth, and spoke in a guttural tongue Garrick didn’t understand.

Then it lunged.

Fire exploded outward as the demon slammed its claws into the ground, sending a wave of searing heat across the forest floor. Garrick barely managed to dive aside, rolling as flames licked at his armor.

Damien didn’t move.

Luton wobbled slightly, eager, but Damien didn’t give the command.

This was Garrick’s fight.

Garrick rose, eyes narrowed, and began circling. He avoided direct engagement, forcing the demon to waste energy on wide, destructive attacks. Every time the demon overextended, Garrick struck—small cuts, precise wounds, forcing it to bleed mana with every movement.

The demon roared in fury and unleashed a concentrated blast of fire.

Garrick didn’t dodge.

He charged straight through it.

His armor scorched, skin blistering, but his blade pierced the demon’s chest. The creature shrieked, claws raking Garrick’s back as it tried to retreat.

It didn’t get the chance.

Garrick twisted the blade and ripped the core free.

The demon collapsed into ash.

Garrick dropped to one knee, panting, smoke rising from his armor. “I hate demons,” he muttered.

Damien stepped closer and handed him a potion without a word.

Garrick drank it gratefully.

The third fight came at dusk.

The forest grew quieter as shadows lengthened, and the wind began to swirl unnaturally through the trees. Leaves lifted from the ground, spiraling upward.

Damien stopped. “Above.”

Garrick barely had time to react before something descended.

A massive avian beast with curved horns and wings sharp enough to cut stone swooped down from the canopy. Its feathers were steel-blue, crackling faintly with compressed air.

Galehorn Stalker.

It screamed, unleashing a slicing gust that tore through trees and sent Garrick skidding backward.

“Flying bastard,” Garrick growled.

The Stalker didn’t land.

It harassed Garrick from above, launching wind blades, forcing him to dodge constantly. Each evasion drained stamina, each misstep threatened death.

Damien watched carefully.

Fenrir shifted, ready.

Still no command.

Garrick adapted.

He stopped chasing.

Instead, he let the beast come to him.

When the Galehorn dove again, Garrick threw his weapon—not at the beast, but at a tree behind it. The blade struck the trunk, embedding deep.

The sudden obstruction disrupted the airflow.

The Galehorn faltered for half a second.

That was enough.

Garrick leapt, grabbed the embedded weapon, and launched himself upward with a roar, driving the blade through the creature’s chest as it passed.

They crashed together.

The Galehorn twitched once, then went still.

Garrick lay on his back, staring at the sky, laughing breathlessly. “Three Grade Fours… in one day.”

Damien finally spoke. “Two more like that, and your debt disappears.”

Garrick slowly sat up, eyes burning with renewed determination. “Then let’s not waste time.”

The last fight of the day was the hardest.

They found it near a massive, ancient tree whose roots spread like a web across the ground. The Bloodroot Tyrant rose from beneath those roots—a towering plant-beast hybrid with thick, vine-wrapped limbs and a core glowing sickly green at its center.

Grade Four.

But closer to the upper limit.

It attacked with overwhelming force, roots snapping up from the ground, attempting to impale Garrick from every direction. Poison seeped into the air, burning his lungs.

Garrick struggled.

For the first time that day, he was truly losing.

Damien took one step forward.

Fenrir growled.

Then Garrick roared and forced himself onward, pushing past the pain. He cut, burned, and hacked his way closer, ignoring wounds that would’ve dropped lesser men.

When he finally reached the core, he plunged his blade in with both hands.

The Bloodroot Tyrant collapsed in a heap of withered vines.

Garrick fell to his knees, exhausted beyond words.

Damien approached and looked down at the gathered cores.

“This should be enough,” he said quietly. “You’ll make it back in time.”

Garrick looked up at him, eyes wet but fierce. “I will.”

The forest remained silent.

For now.

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