Chapter 15: Path to a Battle

The sun was still shy, a bright circle rising behind the mountains. The morning chill blew across the dirt road, making a wagon creak with every rock or uneven surface. Damon sat outside, on the bench beside the coachman, feeling the rocking sound and the smell of wood and leather mixed with the hay stored in the hold.

The man holding the reins was a veteran horseman—a robust body, a beard already flecked with gray, and intense green eyes that were always half-closed, as if assessing everything. His name was Sir Garrick Thorne, although from the first minute of conversation, he had insisted that Damon call him simply Garrick.

A talker like few others, Garrick had spent the first half hour describing the worst trips they would take in the region, the most suspicious taverns in Yindhar, and even an incident involving a drunken goat (according to him, “don’t ask how it happened”).

“But what about you, young man?” He said suddenly, pointing with his chin at the object leaning against Damon’s leg. “Why the hell are you carrying that rusty old spear?”

Damon looked down. The wooden press was scarred with chips, and the metal tip had a reddish rust that looked impossible to polish.

“It’s the only one I have,” he replied, his tone simple, almost indifferent.

Garrick frowned, as if he’d just heard a personal insult. “The only one you have? But why didn’t you say anything? We have decent weapons back at the knights’ quarters. Ash spears, tempered steel points… things that wouldn’t give you tetanus just by touching them.”

Damon let out a half sigh.

“It doesn’t make much difference,” he said, leaning back slightly. “I don’t know how to handle one well anyway.”

Garrick looked at him as if he’d just heard a blasphemy.

“So you mean…” he shook his head in disbelief, “you’re walking around with a lance and don’t even know how to use it?”

“Not exactly,” Damon corrected calmly. “I train… but I can’t say I’m good.”

The knight let go of the wheels, guiding the horses’ pace just enough to turn closer to him.

“Listen, if you really want to learn…” he said, lowering his tone a bit, “you should ask Ester.”

The name hung heavy in the air. Damon didn’t look up immediately. “Why her?”

“Because,” Garrick said, as if it were obvious, “the girl is a Master Master lancer. And I’m not exaggerating. I’ve seen her break the posture of three veteran knights at once. Elite training, iron discipline… If you want to learn, there’s no one better.”

Damon turned his head, staring at the horizon for a few seconds before answering. A wry smile curved his lips.

“I don’t have that privilege.”

Garrick’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say… she doesn’t like me much.” The answer came dryly, but not bitterly. Damon spoke like someone who had already accepted this barrier as part of the game.

The knight laughed, a deep sound that echoed through the cold air. “Don’t like it? Bah! That’s just seasoning. I’ve seen many a soldier who swore to hate his instructor and, in the end, learned more from him than from anyone else.”

Damon didn’t answer immediately. He simply ran his finger along the rough wood of the spear, feeling every mark, every humus.

“Perhaps,” he murmured finally. “But she’s not the type to accept simple approaches.”

Garrick let go of one of the wheels, guiding the horses through a narrow curve.

“Then, boy, you’ll have to find another way. Because you trained alone with that old thing…” He slapped his hand on the spear’s haste, making it vibrate, “…it won’t get you far.”

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of wet earth from the forest ahead. In the background, the distant sound of a crow echoed, like a veiled warning.

Damon looked back at the road, but inside, Garrick’s words echoed. Mastery, Master. It was no small feat. He knew Esther was strong… but hearing it from someone else, with that truth, gave the information a different weight.

“And another thing,” Garrick said, breaking the silence. “If you ever get her to teach you, don’t waste the chance. The woman is… demanding. Don’t repeat a lesson twice.”

“Sounds like her,” Damon replied, still smiling, but his eyes alert.

The carriage rocked as it passed over another pothole, and the steady rhythm of the horses’ trot once again filled the silence. Garrick, pleased to have given his advice, began to talk about the time he had to cross the Whispering Winds Wood in the middle of a blizzard, describing every detail as if it were a heroic saga.

Damon only heard half the story. His mind was occupied, despite what Garrick had here. Ester. Master Mastery. The kind of strength Elizabeth had specified. It wasn’t just physical power… it was refined skill, honed by years of discipline.

And if he wanted to earn her respect… perhaps he would have to swallow his pride and find a way to make her teach him.

But to do that, first, I would have to find a loophole.

The steady rocking of the wagon was interrupted by the hurried sound of hooves cutting across the road. Damon glanced up and saw, emerging from the bend ahead, the other knight Elizabeth had sent—Sir Caelan Veylor, a man with hard features, sun-tanned skin, and a never-endingly serious expression. Unlike Garrick, Caelan wasn’t one to waste words.

The black horse beneath him snorted, taking short, rapid breaths, a sign that it had been asked to gallop for a good distance. The metal of his light armor clinked with each step.

“He wouldn’t be coming back like this for no reason…” Garrick muttered, trying to slow the train down.

Caelan didn’t say anything until he stopped beside the wagon. His eyes flicked to Garrick, then to Damon, and finally settled on the closed rear window.

“We have an obstacle ahead.” His voice was firm, dry. “Fallen trees blocking the road. Too much to be an accident… probably the ’Hounds’.”

It looks like you’re going to get colder.” Damon felt a weight settle in the atmosphere, as if even the birds had stopped singing.

Caelan jumped off his horse and walked to the side of the wagon, tapping lightly on the wood beside the window.

“Mistress Ester.” His voice was more measured now, almost a warning call.

There were a few seconds of silence before he heard the soft click of the latch. A small window opened, revealing Ester’s pale eyes, which stared at him intently. “What’s wrong?”

“Roadblock, less than a kilometer away. Typical ambush pattern.”

Ester didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed, assessing. “Any sign of a lookout?”

“I didn’t see one. But it’s too early to tell. They could be hiding, waiting for us to stop and investigate.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of the horses’ manes in the wind. Garrick, on the bench, remained silent, awaiting her decision. Damon, for his part, watched intently, analyzing Ester’s every move.

She finally took a deep breath and said, “Let’s continue.”

Caelan raised an eyebrow, as if awaiting another order. “Do you want Garrick and I to flank?”

“Not yet.” Ester closed the window with a firm movement. “If they want to attack us, let them come head-on.”

Caelan gave a soft grunt, but didn’t argue. He remounted his horse, twisted the reins, and began to position himself beside the wagon, ready to react. Garrick let out a low whistle.

“She’s not one to back down, is she?”

Damon just kept his gaze fixed on the road, feeling a slight tingling in his hands. After all… this is his first time in battle…

[Status]

[Name: Damon (No Last Name)]

[Age: 19]

[Cultivation: None]

[Race: Incubus]

[Talent: None]

[Level: 3]

[HP: 100/100]

[PARA: 16]

[AGL: 14]

[VIT: 16]

[STM: 13]

[INT: 15]

[DEF: 13]

[Blank Points: 0]

[Skills: Touch of Asmodeus]

[Martial Skill (Spears): Novice]

[Martial Skill (Swords): Novice]

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