First Contact

On the peak of a relatively short mountain, four campfires burned and chased away the numbing cold that accompanied the night in the Great Greenland Forest.

Amidst the crackling of burning branches and the subtle clangs of armor being removed and cleaned, the murmur of multiple conversations and an atmosphere of joy filled the camp.

The giant boar that had been skinned, prepared, and was currently being rotated over one of the fires in a delicate roast certainly contributed to this joy.

But it was largely due to the success of the camp's inhabitants' expedition into the forest.

Even though four of their comrades had died, the mercenaries were all smiles as they bustled about and prepared for the slowly cooking feast and a night of ample rest.

No matter what, all of them had prepared for the eventuality of death. None of them were here because of bravery or righteousness or whatever nonsense the witcher knights espoused.

They were here for the money, and dying in pursuit of it had never frightened men of their calibre. In fact, it emboldened them, as the riskier the job, the more money there was to be had.

As four of them had fallen to the heretics in this case, the promised reward would be distributed among less people, increasing their individual paydays by no small amount.

Images of bright gold coins, mugs of alcohol, and flowery wenches pervading their minds, the mercenaries went about their tasks completely oblivious of—or more likely—ignoring the disdain the witcher knights regarded them with.

The knights had separated themselves from the lowly heathen who put money before duty, leaving a clear divide between both of their sides of the camp.

Unlike the rowdy and undisciplined mercenaries, they were hard at work helping each other out of their armor, cleaning their weapons, and tending to their wounds.

With their physiques, these wounds only required basic treatment, the heretics they'd just eradicated failing to harm them beyond a few deep cuts, some first degree burns, and multiple light bruises.

Just thinking of their valiant battle days ago filled the knights with fervor and pride. 

After they discovered the den, they executed a trap that cornered the heretics into a cave and proceeded to bombard them with attacks.

The surprised heretics reacted quickly and put up shields, countering with attacks of their own, but their evil attacks couldn't do much to their finely crafted knight's armor and energy shields. 

Cognizant of this, the knights advanced boldly, using their superior numbers and equipment to overwhelm the group, cutting down six of the evil casters and capturing the last.

This lucky, or unlucky—depends on how you see it—heretic had been bound, hands and feet, a rock shoved into his mouth and a rope tied over it in makeshift gag.

Discarded at the edge of the camp like a piece of filth, the youth's gray robe was tattered and soiled in many places. He was as thin as a reed, extended periods of malnutrition having taken its toll on him.

To make matters worse, the parts of his skin visible to the naked eye were pockmarked with black and green bruises, his abuse at the hand of his captors evident.

Wracked with all kinds of pain, both physical and emotional, the unfortunate youth eyed his captors with so much hate his eyes should have erupted in flame. 

How could he not?

Because of these people, he had run away from home at a young age despite having a family, turning into a vagrant and a destitute member of society.

He drifted from place to place, city to city, town to town, village to village, always running, always hiding, because some bastards said he was evil because he awakened some powers.

After escaping into the Greenland Forest when he was caught using his powers to obtain food in a nearby village, he'd resigned himself to die. The forest had a reputation, and everyone knew it.

Yet, by some twist of fate, his misfortunes ended when a kind and caring "heretic" like him appeared and saved him from a beast before inviting him to join their little group.

Somehow, they'd built a house deep within the forest and lived happily, free from any persecution and free to explore and train with their abilities to their heart's content.

He lived with them for half a year, growing close enough to them that they were now his family. Nothing could take that away, he believed.

Unfortunately for him, the witcher knights were nothing if not persistent.

With the single minded doggedness trained into them, the destroyers of "evil" had tracked them down, travelled dozens of kilometers of treacherous forest terrain to their home and slaughtered his family, leaving him alive so they could execute him in the capital.

Cold despair gripped his soul like a vise, the hate in his eyes mellowing as despondence took their place.

But then he remembered something, a gathering of elementium he'd sensed following them some time after his captors started the journey back.

Ignoring the protests of his body, he forced himself to sit up and reclined against the tree, his eyes piercing through the darkness and accurately deducing where Greem's wind critter was perched on one of the trees.

When he first detected the elemental creature with his innate awakened ability, some measure of joy and hope wormed its way past the despair draping over him.

He waited and waited for something to happen or anyone to appear and do something, but his hopes were dashed as even after a full day, the elementium mass just followed them and did nothing.

As the days went by, the little hope and joy ignited by the thing's presence dimmed little by little, and he could feel it. It made him ask himself if this is all his life would amount to.

Is this why he was born? To simply suffer and then die? And if he died, who was going to avenge his family? 

Gazing at the excited mercenaries moving about without a care in the world and the knights prancing about with their heads and shoulders held high, the flame within him was rekindled.

He tore his gaze away from his enemies and looked at where he could sense the gathering of elementium, offering a passionate prayer to whoever and whatever it was.

Silently and with all the fervor he could muster, he vowed to give up his life and soul in exchange to the mysterious entity if he got the chance to take his revenge.

Like all the other times he looked to the strange thing for help, nothing happened this time as well. 

One minute, two minutes, three minutes… the seconds dragged on as the cheers and excitement of his enemies was the only thing he could sense apart from the unusual thing.

This time, he was ready to give. He had no fight left in him. 

Tears pooled at the edge of his eyes and threatened to spill over. Inwardly, he continued to beg and pray, dejected and fearful of the kind of end that awaited him. 

All of a sudden, his magical senses lit up as more of the thing he'd been banking his survival on popped up at various points around and in the camp.

When he looked up and saw a large number of the small wind critters circling the night sky, he released the hold he had on his tears and let them flow, his loud, or would have been, laughter muffled by the rough gag.

☀☀☀ 

Of the twenty four men in the camp, thirteen were witcher knights and eleven were mercenaries.

The knights were further divided into the leader with the strength of a pseudo adept, three on par with advanced apprentices, and the remaining ones all beginners.

With no one here being close to a match for him, Greem simply strolled into the camp, casting a glance at the crying youth leaning against the tree and narrowing his eyes at the near fanaticism in the boy's eyes when the latter saw him.

'You're happy because I'm saving you, I get it. But why are you making it weird?'

Dismissing whatever that look the youth was currently burning into him meant, he fixed his gaze on the camp members reacting to his presence in their own, unique ways.

The mercenaries picked up their wooden shields, quivers, unsheathed their shortswords, and unslung their bows. 

Their employers on the other hand, demonstrated better reactions and discipline as they ignored their armors, and grabbed their weapons.

Some grabbed their enchanted longbows, others grabbed their energy shields, and the rest equipped their swords, all of them standing in a formation that maximized their efficiency.

Throughout all this, Greem simply kept walking until he was less than five meters away from both groups and then stopped.

His gaze fixed on the knights and pushing the mercenaries out of mind temporarily, he stared down the men appraising him warily and waited for them to attack since that's what they did upon seeing "heretics" like him.

Contrary to what he expected, the formation they'd formed opened up, the shield bearers at the front stepping aside to let their leader pass through, his grip tight on his longsword.

"Who ar—"

"Attack. Or you'll all die."

Quickly backpedaling into the safety of the formation, the leader commanded the rookies to ready their bows and fire. 

A motley of twangs disrupted the unnatural silence Greem's mere presence generated as a group of arrows shot towards him.

Before every eye in the camp, his tall and gigantic form twitched for a moment before he looked down at the arrows in his grip, his movements too fast for any of the brains in the vicinity to process.

"Fire! Keep firing!" the knight captain shouted and seized a bow from one of the rookies, lining up a shot himself.

His left hand still behind him, Greem swiped a few more arrows out of the air until he held eleven of them. 

He floated them above his palm and observed the elemental projectiles for a few more seconds before raising his head and turning to the mercenaries.

"Attack!" the knight captain ordered upon seeing Greem ignore them.

Grabbing two of the arrows out of the air, the curious body refiner flung his arm forward and sent one of them towards the mercenaries, causing some to duck and others to raise their shields in defense.

To their surprise, none of them felt anything, they themselves aware of what the arrows could do. 

Before they could even begin wondering what was happening, the forest behind them lit up as a figure trying to escape suddenly caught fire and ran into its depths while howling in agony.

'Sneaky rat.' 

While they were distracted, Greem flung the rest of the arrows towards them, their pointless defenses and attempts to escape not helping them in the slightest.

A series of agonised howls erupted in the camp as five of them caught fire and ran around or rolled on the ground in a futile attempt to douse the flames.

As for the rest, the arrows that found purchase in their bodies turned them into blocks of ice, their expressions locked in various fearful and frenzied states.

Clang!

A longsword covered in orange flames bounced off of Greem's neck harmlessly. He turned around and found the knight captain poised to attack again, his sword raised above his head and his face locked in snarl.

Too fast for the undeterred assailant to react, a meaty hand slapped him in the face and sent him headfirst into the ground, his whole body bending awkwardly as unconsciousness overtook him.

Demoralized by the impossible scene of their leader's rebuffed attack and the ease at which he was dealt with, the knights obviously felt like giving up and running. 

However, having been trained to fight to the very end, to give their very lives in service of the "weak" and "innocent," the remaining witcher knights grabbed a sword and shield each and charged Greem with shouts.

Already tired of the "fight," the body refining adept simply activated the Sleep ring and designated the idiots as the targets, stopping their suicide charge in instant and dropping them like sacks.

'Boring…'

****

Author's note:

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