Chapter 38: The Slaver Crisis
Armored Dragon Calendar Year 417 – Claude, Age 12
[Claude POV]
The Great Forest was quieter than I expected.
Two weeks since leaving the elven village. Two weeks of traveling through terrain that seemed designed to swallow travelers whole.
The canopy blocked most of the sunlight, leaving me to navigate through perpetual twilight.
The stealth training hadn't made me invisible. The elves had been clear about that, but I moved more carefully now, thinking about each step.
Tried to belong to the forest rather than force my way through it.
I was making progress toward Dedoldia when I heard the screams.
The sound cut through the forest like a blade. Human voices.
Beast-tribe voices. The unmistakable chaos of violence.
I climbed a ridge to get a better view. Below me, smoke rose in thick columns from a clearing.
Orange flames flickered through the canopy. The beast-tribe village was burning.
The combat presence sharpened.
My body moved before my mind finished processing what I was seeing.
I ran.
The village was chaos.
Warriors fought in scattered groups, overwhelmed by superior numbers. Buildings burned.
Children screamed as men in armor dragged them toward waiting carts.
Slavers. Over a hundred of them.
They had surrounded the village with practiced efficiency.
But someone was fighting back.
A flash of red hair caught my attention first. Eris.
She moved through the slavers like a storm given human form, her sword carving paths through anyone who got close.
Months of hardship had stripped away whatever softness remained from our meeting in Roa.
She fought like someone who had learned that hesitation meant death.
Near her, I spotted something else. Magic.
Massive spells erupting across the battlefield, earth bullets punching through armor, water blades cutting down slavers in groups. The mage was burning through mana at an unsustainable rate.
Desperate. Reckless.
Rudeus.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, staff raised, face pale with exertion. Spell after spell launched from his position.
Protecting the fleeing villagers. Trying to hold back the tide.
And at the carts,
A green-haired warrior was tearing them apart. Ruijerd Superdia.
His spear flashed as he cut through the locks, broke open the cages, freed the children inside. Slavers rushed to stop him.
They died before they got close.
The analytical presence catalogued the scene in an instant. Three fighters.
All pushing their limits. All losing ground.
Because at the center of the attack stood a man I recognized from fragmentary memories.
Garus. The North Saint.
A slaver king who had built his fortune on human misery.
He hadn't drawn his sword yet. He was watching.
Waiting. Letting his men wear down the defenders before he stepped in to finish things.
Smart. Patient.
Dangerous.
Rudeus launched another barrage of spells. The magic was weaker now.
Flickering. His reserves were nearly empty.
"Keep pushing!" Garus shouted to his men.
"The mage is almost done!"
A slaver broke through Eris's guard. She cut him down, but three more took his place.
She was being overwhelmed.
Ruijerd freed another group of children, but slavers were converging on his position. Even he couldn't protect them and fight at the same time.
And Rudeus,
Rudeus collapsed.
His staff clattered to the ground. His legs gave out beneath him.
He fell face-first into the dirt, completely spent.
"RUDEUS!" Eris screamed. She tried to reach him.
Slavers blocked her path.
Garus smiled.
"Finally." He drew his sword.
"The mage was the only real threat. Now we can—"
He stopped.
Because I was standing in front of him.
"What?" Garus blinked. His eyes swept over me.
A human child. Thirteen years old.
Covered in travel dust. A sword at my hip that looked too big for my frame.
"Where did you come from?"
"Let them go."
He laughed. Not cruelly.
Just amused. Like a man watching a mouse challenge a cat.
"Bold words from someone your size." He studied me more carefully. Took in the scars visible on my arms.
The calluses on my hands. The way I held my body, weight balanced, ready to move.
"You have the look of a fighter. Trained by someone competent, I'd say."
"I won't ask again."
"You won't need to." His hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"We always have room for one more in the carts. A human boy with combat training?"
"You'll fetch a fine price."
Behind me, I heard his men moving. Surrounding me.
Cutting off retreat.
I didn't care about retreat.
The combat presence recognized the threat in Garus's stance. North God style.
Power and precision combined.
A worthy opponent.
"Your funeral," I said.
And then I moved.
The guards around me died first.
Three of them. They expected a frightened child.
They got a blade through the throat before they could raise their weapons.
Garus was faster. He had his sword drawn by the time I reached him.
Steel met steel with a sound like thunder. Clang.
"Not bad," he admitted, deflecting my opening strike. His eyes had gone sharp.
Calculating.
"Not bad at all."
He counterattacked. A combination that would have killed most swordsmen.
Three strikes in rapid succession, throat, chest, leg. North God style.
Power channeled through precise angles.
I parried the first strike. Redirected the second.
Ducked under the third.
His eyes widened. Just slightly.
"Who taught you Water God techniques?" he demanded, pressing the attack.
"Answer me!"
I didn't answer. I was too busy surviving.
The combat presence guided my movements with instinctive certainty. My body knew what to do.
Months of training in the dungeon had burned these patterns into my muscles. But Garus was different from the monsters I had fought.
He adapted. Learned.
Adjusted his style with each exchange.
His blade whistled past my ear. Close.
Too close.
I retaliated with a combination of my own. Sword God aggression.
Fast. Direct.
Aiming to end things before he could adjust.
Garus blocked. Countered.
His sword carved a line across my arm. Blood welled.
"Good," he said. There was genuine appreciation in his voice.
"Very good. It's been years since someone made me work this hard."
We circled each other. Both breathing hard.
Both bleeding. The fight had lasted thirty seconds.
And neither of us had landed a killing blow.
Around us, the battle continued. Ruijerd was carving through slavers to reach the remaining carts.
Eris was fighting toward Rudeus's unconscious form. Beast-tribe warriors were rallying now that Garus was occupied.
But I couldn't spare attention for any of it.
Garus came at me again. Faster this time.
A technique I didn't recognize, something between North God power and a style I couldn't name.
His sword blurred.
I blocked the first strike. The second.
The third drove me backward. The fourth nearly took my head.
The combat presence stopped performing and started reacting.
Muscle memory from the dungeon. From endless fights against monsters that didn't care about sword schools or proper form.
I stopped trying to match his style. Started fighting like the dungeon had taught me.
Garus's eyes went wide.
My next attack came from an angle that made no sense. Not Sword God.
Not Water God. Something between them.
A fusion that shouldn't have worked but did.
He barely blocked it. His guard was forced open.
I pressed the advantage. Faster.
Harder. Mixing techniques with reckless abandon.
The analytical presence tracked his responses. The combat presence exploited them.
Garus began to give ground.
"What is this?" he demanded, blocking another strike. Sweat dripped down his face.
"What style is this?"
"Mine."
Fear crossed his face.
He threw everything into his next attack. A desperate combination.
All power, no finesse.
I redirected it. Let his momentum carry him past me.
And found the opening I needed.
My blade punched through his back. I felt it scrape against bone.
Felt his body go rigid with shock.
He turned. Slowly.
His sword fell from nerveless fingers.
"Impossible," he whispered. Blood bubbled at his lips.
"You were just... a child..."
I withdrew my sword. Garus crumpled to the ground.
The clearing went silent.
The fight had lasted sixty seconds. It felt like hours.
I stood over Garus's body, breathing hard. Blood dripped from my arm, from a dozen minor cuts I hadn't noticed during the fight.
My hands were shaking.
The slavers didn't know what to do. Their leader was dead.
The child who had killed him stood over the body, sword still raised.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Ruijerd's spear took a slaver through the chest.
The Superd warrior had finished freeing the children. All of them.
Forty-three beast-tribe young, huddled in a group behind him, protected by his ancient fury. He moved into the remaining slavers like a scythe through wheat.
The beast-tribe warriors rallied. With Garus dead and their children freed, they fought with renewed ferocity.
Eris reached Rudeus. Stood over his unconscious form.
Cut down anyone who came near.
What followed wasn't a battle. It was a rout.
The slavers broke and ran. Some were cut down by Dedoldia fighters and Ruijerd's relentless spear.
Others escaped into the forest. Most surrendered, throwing down weapons and begging for mercy they had never shown their victims.
I didn't participate in the cleanup. My part was done.
I stood in the center of the clearing, breathing hard, trying to process what had just happened. The adrenaline was fading.
Garus's blood was still warm on my sword.
"You." A voice behind me. Harsh.
Commanding.
"Human child. Who are you?"
I turned to find a beast-tribe warrior approaching. Wolf features.
Scarred face. He held a spear leveled at my chest.
"My name is Claude." I didn't raise my weapon.
"I came because I heard screaming."
He stared at me. Then he lowered his spear.
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