Chapter 40 : The Road Eastward

Curtis reached into his cloak slowly and drew out a crumpled, wind-worn map. He shook it open gently, letting the breeze catch its corners.

The man approached, cautious.

“I left from here,” Curtis said, pointing to a spot inked in black. “And followed the ridge this way.”

“You should’ve gone left,” the man said flatly. “The village lies beyond that rise. Not the other way.”

Curtis followed the direction the mercenary pointed—toward a long, winding ridge now caught in the dying gold of twilight.

“You mean that mountain?”

The man nodded.

Curtis exhaled through his teeth, low and dark.

“Damn it.”

His voice was quiet, but edged like a drawn blade. So this was the work of the so-called cartographer. They’d sold him this for a silver coin? May the bastard choke on his own ink.

The sun was nearly gone. Turning back was out of the question, and the ridge was no place for a horse at night. No choice remained but to camp.

He tried diplomacy.

“In that case… would you permit me to share your fire? Just for the night.”

The man’s expression darkened.

“That… would be difficult.”

The words were as clean and sudden as a sword strike.

“Night falls fast,” Curtis said. “Surely some arrangement can be made? I can pay.”

The mercenary hesitated.

“It’s not coin,” he muttered. “Wait here. I’ll ask.”

Curtis inclined his head.

The man returned minutes later, face grim.

“No?”

“You may camp nearby. But not within our circle.”

Curtis sighed, part frustration, part weariness.

“Of course.”

The mercenary stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Forgive me. It’s not you. The master is… cautious. And honestly? So am I.”

“Of me?” Curtis asked mildly.

“Of bandits.”

Curtis’s eyes sharpened.

“There’ve been raids recently,” the man explained. “Caravans. Peddlers. Out here, some folk would rather take than trade.”

It was a truth Curtis knew all too well.

Desperate men took to the forests. But the forests were not empty. Monsters lurked in the places where law dared not go. Only those strong enough to best the beasts survived there—and those men had no need to become bandits.

The rest? They were culled like wheat.

Yet for every group of raiders slain, another would rise. Like rot beneath the bark.

“So,” the mercenary continued, “when someone rides alone, well-armed, mounted, dressed like you… the master gets suspicious.”

Curtis chuckled dryly.

“If I were a scout for bandits, they’d be the richest in the realm. What sort of gang hands out horses to spies?”

The man smirked faintly, then shrugged.

“I’m not saying you’re a threat. Just that you’re… not ordinary.”

No. Not ordinary at all.

He was a mage.

And if these mercenaries feared him, then perhaps he could turn that fear into safety. All he needed was to reveal what he was, and they’d treat him differently.

He opened his mouth to speak—

“Bandits!”

The cry shattered the dusk like a thunderclap.

All heads turned as one.

From the darkened wood beyond the ridge, shadows burst into motion—dozens of them, wild-eyed and steel-clad, blades catching the firelight. They roared as they ran, feet churning dirt and leaves beneath them.

Curtis reached for the waters of the world, and his fingers began to rise.

– The mercenaries had not camped flush against the trees—they were no fools. They knew well the perils of obscured sightlines. A clearing lay between the forest’s edge and their firelit circle, granting them precious seconds when the hidden danger finally burst forth.

From the shadows of the woods came the roar of feet—bandits, surging like a tide from the tree line.

“Hold your ground! Form up—defend together!”
A man’s voice cut through the chaos, stern and commanding. Judging by the tone

 he was likely their captain—and if not by title, then by spirit. Even in panic, he barked orders. That alone was worth respect.

He had no time for Curtis now. As the mercenaries scrambled into formation, trained reflex rising over fear, Curtis stood apart—calm, unhurried.

His eyes swept across the incoming wave of enemies.

“Hmph…”

Twice now, in recent memory, Curtis had witnessed battlefields of hundreds locked in deadly dance. His senses—honed in blood and magic—read the tide like a general reading the stars.

“Fifty at least… and well-armed. No starved stragglers among them. Are these truly mere bandits?”

He knew: to steal, one must still eat. Some gangs had secret ties to nearby villages—but in this remote region, how could they sustain such numbers?

Perhaps they had preyed on caravans. That would explain survival—but not their formation. Not their gear. Still, whatever their origin, they came now with steel in hand and death in their eyes.

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever they are, they’re not allies.”

Curtis extended his left hand, the one unburdened by reins. A glint of silver peeked beneath his sleeve—the bracelet of the water spirit.

[Spiritcraft Lv. 20]
[Progress to next level: 40%]

Twelve days had passed since he left Nizerte. He had focused his training not on Water Manipulation, which grew sluggish without natural flows to shape, but on Spiritcraft—summoning and commanding his elemental ally.

Like his early days with magic, practice brought progress. With each level, the spirit’s strength surged: it could store more water, release greater torrents, and respond with swifter obedience.

Where once it had been a trickle from a tap, now it was a basin overturned. The water cannonballs he had favored before? He could summon those in the blink of an eye now.

With but a thought, water surged from the bracelet, encircling his hand. In a heartbeat, it hardened into a sphere—and shot forward.

CRACK!

The first bandit, leading the charge, took the blast full in the face. His skull crushed like rotten fruit, the sound echoing across the field. A sickening silence followed—just long enough for horror to settle in.

But Curtis ’s mind remained cold, precise. Even before the corpse hit the earth, another sphere was forming.

THUD! THWACK!

Two more blasts. Two more bodies. Three headless corpses now lay in the dust.

It all happened before anyone had drawn a breath.

Mercenaries and bandits alike stood frozen. Their minds struggled to grasp what their eyes had seen.

SPLAT!

By the time they caught up, two more were dead.

Then came the cries.

“M-mage!”
“A mage is with them!”