After the old man kicked me out of his house with the excuse that I was “too handsome to be wasting time learning magic,” I started walking.
A lot. A lot.
Finally, Bruno reached the kingdom’s capital — feet swollen, pockets empty, stomach growling.
He sat down to rest.
“What would a mage do…?”
Bruno muttered.
“Not sit around waiting for an opportunity,” Kearlin said, hovering above him.
“That too, but I’m not in the mood to stand on the street begging for coins.”
“Then what’s your next brilliant idea?”
Bruno looked toward another tavern, eyes narrowing with that familiar idiotic smile of impending trouble.
“Starting trouble is my main skill.”
“Of course it is.”
He walked inside and sat at a table.
“Damn it… he really said I was too handsome to be studying magic. I know that was just an excuse to get me out of that dusty room.”
“Boy… did you just say magic?”
The deep voice came from an orc dressed in temple robes. He approached slowly, trying to seem friendly. Behind him, an elf, a human, and a dwarf followed — moving like a strange little procession that looked anything but hostile.
Bruno raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah?”
The orc nodded slowly, choosing each word with care.
“You know… a lot of people are looking for strong teams. Groups capable of facing dangers no one would dare face alone.”
The elf stepped forward, his soft voice contrasting with the orc’s imposing presence:
“And when someone mentions magic… well, it always draws attention.”
The human smiled, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“No need to tense up, kid. We didn’t come to fight. Actually… we’re hunting for talent.”
The dwarf, arms crossed, snorted in disdain but didn’t disagree.
“And this brat looks more confused than talented.”
Bruno frowned, unsure whether to laugh or pull out his sword.
“And if I’m not interested?”
The orc stepped closer.
“Then maybe… it’s because you don’t yet know what you’re saying no to.”
Bruno looked at the group — the orc priest, the elf archer, the human swordsman, the grumpy dwarf.
Something about them was strange.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that felt… too good to be true.
Gnor exhaled and said:
“Kid… we’re not mercenaries. We’re not gold hunters. We’re just people trying to protect those who can’t protect themselves.”
Vanir nodded with that calm, ancient air elves have:
“We travel between attacked villages, abandoned borders, dangerous roads.
We help where we can… and where nobody else wants to help.”
Mortin added:
“Ungrateful work. Poorly paid. Sometimes… not paid at all.”
Drogmar grunted.
“And this idiot keeps trying to recruit more people to suffer with us.”
“Idiot? No,” Gnor said. “Idealist.”
The dwarf rolled his eyes.
Bruno raised a brow.
“So… you’re not a guild?”
Mortin laughed.
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“A guild? No, kid. Guilds are full of rules, seals, taxes, and corrupt leaders.”
Vanir murmured:
“And some are worse than corrupt…”
A heavy silence followed.
Bruno noticed, for the first time, the fear hidden beneath their voices.
Someone they didn’t want to name.
Gnor cut in:
“We’re just a group that helps. And we want you with us. Simple as that.”
Bruno folded his arms.
“And… why?”
Gnor smiled.
“Because you’re strong. But without direction.
Talented. But without a path.
And… because you’re alone.
We were alone once too.”
Those words hit differently.
Kearlin circled above Bruno’s head.
“Be careful.
This sounds way too good…”
But Bruno smiled.
Finally… someone who wasn’t treating him with superiority or disdain.
“Fine. I’m in… for now.”
The whole group relaxed.
Vanir placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Welcome, Bruno.”
Mortin lifted his mug.
“You’re part of our troupe now.”
Drogmar muttered:
“Worst decision of your life.”
They laughed.
But the narrator — the future — did not laugh.
Because this was the day Bruno met his first and only true companions.
And also the beginning of the road toward tragedy.
The real Iron Wolf Guild was already watching.
Already marking.
Already approaching.
And one day… they would kill Gnor, Vanir, Mortin, and Drogmar.
And Bruno — only Bruno — would survive to hunt down every one of their killers.
“I just want something simple,” Bruno said.
The entire group stared as if he had just asked for a golden castle.
Mortin scratched his head.
“Simple… like what?”
Bruno took a breath, trying to sound casual:
“I want to learn more from you all.
I know how to use a sword, a bow… but I want more.”
He looked directly at Gnor.
“Buffs that make me faster and stronger. Support magic. Priest stuff.”
The orc’s huge smile nearly split his face.
“That’s something big, kid.
And I like that.”
Vanir crossed his arms, watching Bruno with renewed interest.
“Few ask for buffs. Most want destruction.”
Mortin laughed.
“True. Everyone wants to blow things up, not survive.”
Drogmar snorted.
“And you want to strengthen yourself without being a mage? Smart.
Or cowardly. Haven’t decided yet.”
Bruno shrugged.
“I just want to live more than five seconds when a big monster looks at me.
Is that too much?”
Gnor gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder — strong enough to nearly snap his spine.
“You’ve come to the right master.
If it’s blessings you want… blessings you’ll get.”
He knelt, placing his staff on the ground. The others stood around him like it was a sacred ritual.
White light rose like a calm flame.
“I’ll teach you the Basics of the Path of Light. Simple buffs. Strength. Resilience. Focus.
But a warning…”
He looked straight into Bruno’s eyes.
“These blessings only work well on trained bodies. Yours…”
Vanir finished:
“It has zero sensitivity.”
Mortin added, amused:
“It’s like trying to heal a rock.”
Drogmar completed:
“Or scolding a tree trunk.”
Bruno sighed.
“I noticed. I’m basically allergic to that type of energy.”
Gnor grinned.
“Great. That means you’ll be the hardest and most interesting student I’ve ever had.”
He lifted the staff.
Light expanded outward.
“First buff: Vigor Minoris.
To endure monster hits… and mine.”
The light touched Bruno.
Nothing happened.
Not a spark.
Not a tingle.
Not even a theatrical poof.
Mortin burst out laughing.
“HA! He really is a rock!”
Drogmar laughed too.
But Gnor didn’t give up.
“Again. You’ll learn even if I have to beat it into you.”
Bruno folded his arms.
“That your method?”
“The only one.”
Vanir sighed.
“Welcome to the group.”
Bruno smiled, sitting down.
“I’m screwed, huh?”
They all nodded at once.
“Very.”
“So you want to be more than a mage?” Kearlin asked, looping around him like a philosophical mosquito.
Bruno cracked his neck, still feeling the failure of the previous buff.
“Being just one thing isn’t worth much.
I’m great at magic — well, great for someone who learned fast — so I’ll be great at everything.”
Kearlin perched on his shoulder, arms crossed.
“Sure… sure… ‘great at everything.’
But experience? Nah, you don’t need that.
You’re fully prepared already.”
Bruno lifted his chin with false pride.
“Exactly.”
Then he slumped with a groan.
“My body… I’m a stick, Kearlin.
A stick that only knows how to set things on fire.”
Kearlin threw his arms wide.
“A MAGICAL stick. Congratulations — you’re literally a matchstick.”
Bruno sighed.
“Thanks. That helps a lot.”
“But look on the bright side!” Kearlin twirled.
“With this new group, you might become an enchanted stick! A stick with spiritual armor! A reinforced stick!”
Bruno stared at him in despair.
“I don’t want to be a reinforced stick.
I want muscles. Endurance. Strength — like Gnor, but without being three meters tall or smelling like sweaty temple robes.”
Kearlin laughed so hard he nearly dissipated.
“Well, good luck. Because with this training… you’ll either get strong, or die trying.”
Bruno cracked his knuckles.
“I prefer getting strong.”
“And if it hurts?”
“It’ll hurt a lot.”
“And if no one believes in you?”
“I’ll make them believe.”
“And if you fail?”
Bruno smiled — small but real.
“Then I’ll try again.
I’ve felt things… seen things… failing a bit more won’t change anything.”
Kearlin stared, surprised.
That wasn’t just strength.
That was conviction.
“Wow… you’re getting dangerous.”
Bruno stood, stretching his back.
“Not dangerous.
Just… determined.”
He looked ahead. The group walked with excitement.
“Very determined.”
Next day
Bruno walked slightly hunched, eyes heavy, hair messier than usual. Vanir raised a brow.
“You look terrible… almost like Mortin.”
He pointed his thumb at the swordsman sharpening his blade for the thousandth time.
Mortin grunted without looking up.
“I heard that. And yeah, he looks like me. Except I don’t sleep because I don’t want to. Sleeping is a waste of time.”
Gnor laughed.
“Mortin thinks napping is a betrayal of his own body.”
Drogmar crossed his arms.
“Great. Our mage has sleep problems.”
Bruno blinked slowly.
“I’ve never slept well… honestly, it’s been like this my whole life.”
Vanir patted his shoulder.
“You’ll get used to the rhythm.”
Bruno sighed.
“Enough about me. Where are we heading?”
Gnor adjusted his staff and started walking, his huge body rumbling with each step.
“A village asked for help. They’re being attacked by minimal chimeras.”
Bruno frowned.
“Minimal chimeras? Like… small chimeras?”
“Not small,” Gnor corrected.
“Just weaker versions. Fewer parts, less chaos. But still dangerous. To farmers, they’re death.”
Vanir added:
“They usually appear because of magical imbalance. If there are many, something is wrong nearby.”
Mortin sheathed his sword.
“That means fighting. Finally.”
Bruno rolled his neck, feeling mana circulate more easily than months before.
“Then let’s go before they destroy everything.”
Drogmar chuckled.
“That’s what I like: direct work. No nonsense.”
Kearlin floated beside Bruno.
“Minimal chimeras… careful. Some are too fast for trained eyes.
Imagine for you, sleeping like that…”
Bruno clenched his fist.
“Shut up.”
The spirit laughed.
Bruno breathed carefully.
“I can’t use all my power… I don’t even know how much mana I have, so… I’ll hold back as much as I can.”
Kearlin folded his arms dramatically.
“Talking to yourself now? Weird…”
Bruno sighed mentally.
“I just… can’t ignore you when you comment like that.”
He pulled out a small thick-covered diary tied with cord.
Vanir tilted his head.
“A diary? For what?”
“Minimal chimeras… that’s good diary material.”
Bruno opened it halfway, pulled out a pencil, and began sketching quickly.
Mortin peeked over and widened his eyes.
He saw a detailed drawing of himself in a combat stance — precise, anatomical, expressive.
“You draw well…” Mortin said, impressed.
Bruno shrugged.
“Thanks. It’s a hobby.”
Mortin cleared his throat, pretending he wasn’t impressed.
“Ahem… listen, kid…”
He tapped his sword.
“Hold your sword firmly. Not like a wet stick. When we fight, pay attention.”
Bruno closed the diary, bowed lightly.
“Thanks. That’s good advice.”
Drogmar laughed.
“You’re welcome. And don’t drop the sword when a chimera jumps at your face.”
Gnor slapped Bruno’s shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground.
“You’ll be fine. Just don’t die.”
Bruno breathed deep, adjusting his sword, mana burning low in his chest like a newly lit engine.
Kearlin floated above.
“Oh, this’ll be fun.”
The dry wind carried the smell of wet dirt and ashes — clear signs s
omething had already happened near the village.
Bruno adjusted his cloak.
Kearlin floated beside him — expression ironic, but eyes… worried.
“No fear, Bruno… I don’t want that pretty face disintegrated.”
He tried to sound mocking, but his voice trembled just a bit — enough for Bruno to notice.
Bruno stopped.
Something twisted inside his chest.
Not fear — the lack of it.
“Fear…”
He touched his own face, searching for an old emotion.
“How long has it been since I felt that?”
