Morning came early to the frost-dusted city of Blackridge.
The cold air swept through the open window of the tavern room, carrying the metallic scent of iron forges and sea salt.
Justus was already awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
In his hands, he held a crumpled sheet of parchment torn fresh from the guild’s notice board, his crimson eyes scanning the black ink for the third time.
A few feet away, Daemon was still fast asleep, snoring softly beneath a heavy wool blanket.
Justus looked at the paper.
Then at Daemon.
Then back at the paper.
A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face.
Perfect.
He stood up, carefully keeping his footsteps silent as he reached for the brass door handle.
“Where are you going?”
Justus froze mid-stride, his hand hovering an inch over the metal.
He slowly turned his head.
Daemon was still lying on his back, eyes completely closed, looking like a corpse—except for his mouth moving.
“Bathroom,” Justus lied smoothly.
“You’ve been clutching that piece of paper since we checked in last night,” Daemon said calmly, still not opening his eyes.
Justus glanced down at his hand, forcing a blank look.
“…I forgot I had it.”
Daemon cracked open one eye, casting a severe, unimpressed glare at the younger boy.
“Put it back on the desk.”
“No.”
“Justus.”
“We need money,” Justus argued, taking a step back toward the center of the room.
“Unless you plan on paying for our next ship with sea stones, we’re flat broke.”
“We’ll find another way.
A normal way.”
“This is the fastest way!”
“That is verbatim what you said before taking us through the Abyssal Route,” Daemon grunted, sitting up slowly while rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Remind me how that ended again?”
Justus scowled, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why does everyone keep bringing that up?!
It’s like a daily routine at this point.”
“Because you sank your ship and nearly got us swallowed whole by an Abyssal Leviathan!”
“Key word: almost,” Justus insisted, puffing out his chest.
“Did we die?
No.
Did we beat Ragnar?
Yes.
So technically, my track record is flawless.”
Daemon stared at him with profound exhaustion.
“That’s not how track records work.
That’s how suicide statistics work.”
Ignoring the warning completely, Justus folded the quest paper and tapped it against his palm.
“Look, it’s simple.
We take the job, get paid, buy a decent vessel, and continue heading north.
Simple math.”
Daemon let out a heavy sigh, tossing his blanket aside.
“Fine.
What does the contract actually say?”
Justus’s grin returned instantly.
“Nothing difficult.”
“That is not a structural answer.
Read the job description.”
Justus cleared his throat, holding up the parchment with grand theatrical flair.
“It says: Escort Mission through the Blackridge Ravine.
See?
Easy.”
Daemon walked over, snatched the paper right out of his hand, and squinted at the fine print near the bottom.
His expression instantly darkened.
“…You said this was easy.”
“It says easy!” Justus pointed at the bold text at the top.
“There’s a massive, red-ink warning printed underneath, Justus.”
Justus leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the tiny writing.
“What does it say?”
Daemon read aloud, his voice dropping an octave: “‘Note: The last three merchant escorts assigned to this route have vanished without a trace.'”
A brief, awkward silence filled the room.
Justus stared at the warning, his mind processing the information.
“Well,” Justus finally said, brushing his black hair back with a breezy laugh.
“They probably just took a wrong turn.”
“No,” Daemon said firmly, handing the paper back.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on, Daemon!”
“No.”
“Daemon!”
“No.”
“The reward is three hundred thousand Northern pieces!”
“This is an execution sentence.”
Justus snatched his black coat from the chair, swinging it over his shoulders and slinging Gryphon onto his hip.
“You’re coming anyway.”
Daemon pinched his forehead, staring at the ceiling as if asking the heavens why he had abandoned Ragnar only to follow a teenager who actively sought out life-threatening scenarios.
“I genuinely hate traveling with you,” Daemon muttered, grabbing his heavy rifle.
The Blackridge Guild Hall was already packed to the brim with rough-looking mercenaries, bounty hunters, and local adventurers when they arrived.
Justus marched straight past a group of hulking mercenaries and slapped the stamped contract onto the front counter.
The receptionist—a tired-looking woman with thin spectacles—looked up from her ledger.
Her eyes darted from the paper, to Justus’s sharp face, and then to Daemon’s looming form behind him.
“You’re taking this request?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.
“Yep,” Justus said brightly.
“Both of us.”
She looked past them, scanning the crowded room.
“Where’s the rest of your strike force?”
Justus casually jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Daemon.
“That’s him.
We’re a party of two.”
He looked like he wanted to slip into the floorboards and vanish into thin air.
The receptionist stared at Justus, waiting for the punchline.
When none came, she slowly pushed the parchment back across the desk.
“Are you two having a laugh?
This isn’t a beginner’s training module, kid.”
Justus beamed, resting his hand on the hilt of his purple-bladed katana.
“We’re not beginners.”
Daemon leaned in, whispering through gritted teeth, “We literally formed this crew yesterday.”
THUMP!
Justus kicked Daemon’s shin under the wooden counter with practiced precision.
Daemon winced, swallowing a curse, while Justus maintained his dazzling, unbothered smile.
The receptionist let out a long, weary sigh, slamming a heavy brass seal onto the document.
“Fine.
It’s your funeral.
Your client is waiting outside near the east stables.”
Parked near the guild exit was an ornate, iron-plated carriage surrounded by two burly guards wearing reinforced chainmail.
Standing beside the driver’s seat was a middle-aged merchant dressed in fine furs, nervously pacing back and forth.
As Justus and Daemon approached, the man stopped, his eyes lighting up with brief hope—which rapidly withered into sheer disappointment the moment he realized Justus was barely out of his teens.
“You…
you’re the escorts sent by the guild?” the merchant asked, looking back and forth between them.
“That’s us,” Justus said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets.
“…Just you two?”
“Quality over quantity,” Justus replied smoothly.
The merchant sighed, rubbing his temples.
“You’re extremely young.
Are you sure you’re equipped for the Northern Ravine?”
Daemon muttered quietly under his breath, “He doesn’t even know how to use a compass.”
ELBOW!
Justus jabbed his elbow cleanly into Daemon’s ribs before flashing the merchant a broad smile.
“Don’t worry about a thing.
We’re professionals.”
The merchant clearly didn’t believe a word, but with the sun rising, he had no choice.
He climbed into the carriage, calling out, “We move now.
Try to keep up.”
The paved roads of Blackridge gradually gave way to jagged stone paths as they entered the mouth of the ravine.
Giant cliffs of black basalt towered over them on both sides, blocking out the morning sunlight and leaving the path shrouded in deep, chilly shadows.
Justus walked at the front of the carriage, his eyes scanning the rocky walls with casual curiosity, while Daemon kept his heavy rifle resting across his shoulder, his eyes darting left and right with high alert.
One of the hired carriage guards leaned off his horse, looking down at Justus.
“You kids really took a missing-person route by yourselves?
No backup?”
“We needed the money,” Justus admitted plainly.
The guard let out a rough laugh.
“Ha!
At least you’re honest about your greed.”
“Is the ravine really that dangerous?” Justus asked, tilting his head.
The guard’s cheerful expression vanished, replaced by a dark grimace.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the shadows decide to swallow you today.”
Daemon let out a tired groan behind them.
“Fantastic.
Glad we brought extra optimism.”
They marched deeper into the canyon for another twenty minutes.
The path grew dangerously narrow, the cliffs above pinching together to form a suffocating natural tunnel.
Suddenly, Justus stopped dead in his tracks.
Daemon, who had been carefully watching the higher ledges, almost walked straight into his back.
“What is it?”
Justus didn’t answer.
He held up a single hand, his crimson eyes narrowing as his casual demeanor vanished.
The horses behind them suddenly neighed in panic, rearing back as the temperature dropped rapidly.
The merchant popped his head out of the carriage window, sweating despite the freezing cold.
“What’s going on?!
Why did we stop?!”
Silence fell over the gorge.
No wind.
No birds.
No crickets.
Absolute, deafening silence.
CRACK!
A massive pine tree snapped at its base high above, tumbling down the cliff face and smashing into the path directly ahead of them, blocking their exit!
“Draw your weapons!” the head guard roared, pulling his broadsword.
High along the rim of the canyon walls, shadowy silhouettes began to step into view.
One.
Two.
Five.
Ten…
Fifteen men clad in dark tactical leather, their faces hidden behind metallic masks.
“Bandits!” the merchant shrieked, ducking back into the safety of the carriage.
Justus looked at the figures, and then…
a broad, dangerous smirk slowly spread across his face.
Daemon looked down at him, utterly bewildered.
“Why on earth are you smiling right now?”
Justus reached down, his fingers curling around the hilt of Gryphon.
“Because now I know why the pay was three hundred thousand.”
One of the masked men on the ledge stepped forward, drawing a wicked, curved saber.
“Leave the cargo and throw down your arms!
Resist, and your blood waters the ravine!”
Justus casually looked back at Daemon.
“Count ’em.”
Daemon squinted up at the ledges.
“Fifteen.
High ground advantage, armored, organized.”
“Only fifteen?” Justus chuckled, the purple blade of Gryphon unsheathing with a hum of pure, lethal energy that vibrated through the air.
Daemon released a heavy sigh, shifting his rifle into a firing position.
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“Kill them!” the bandit leader ordered.
The fifteen masked attackers plummeted from the cliffs like birds of prey, their blades glinting in the dim light!
Justus moved instantly.
He burst forward, his speed leaving a blur of motion in the snow.
CLANG!
Gryphon flashed, its purple aura cleaving through the air as Justus parried the first attacker’s leap, sending the man flying backward into a rock face with a single counter-strike!
“Left!” Daemon yelled, raising his rifle.
BANG!
A heavy round echoed through the canyon, striking the armor of a bandit who was sneaking toward Justus’s blind spot and throwing him off balance.
Justus spun on his heel, using the momentum to sweep his leg, knocking the bandit flat onto his back before delivering a swift kick to his chin.
“Nice shot!” Justus called out, a confident spark in his crimson eyes.
“Don’t get used to it!
Pay attention!” Daemon barked, shooting down another incoming enemy.
Three more attackers rushed Justus at once, their swords forming an interlocking wall of steel.
Justus didn’t dodge.
He tightened his grip on Gryphon’s four-clover hilt, his eyes glowing with a sharp, dangerous focus.
“Let’s go!”
He vanished into a burst of speed, charging straight into the fray.
The entire battle lasted less than three minutes.
When the dust finally settled, the narrow road was littered with fifteen groaning, unconscious assailants.
Not a single scratch had touched the carriage.
Justus stood in the center of the road, resting Gryphon lightly over his shoulder, his breath rising in faint white plumes in the cold air.
Daemon lowered his smoking rifle, looking around at the sea of downed enemies with an raised eyebrow.
“Well…
that was shockingly quick.”
“I told you it was easy money,” Justus said, grinning.
The merchant slowly opened the carriage door, staring at the defeated force with wide, disbelieving eyes.
He looked at the fallen men, then at the teenager standing casually amidst the wreckage.
“Who…
who are you?” the merchant whispered.
Justus offered a relaxed smile.
“Justus.”
The merchant gasped slightly, his gaze shifting downward to the distinctive purple glow fading from Gryphon’s edge and the four-clover guard.
“Justus…” the man repeated under his breath.
A shadow of profound recognition crossed his face—a look that was far too specific for a random trade merchant.
Daemon’s sharp eyes caught the shift instantly.
“You know that name?”
The merchant panicked for a second, quickly waving his hands and shaking his head.
“No!
No, of course not!
Just…
surprised by such power!”
He ducked back inside the carriage, but his eyes had betrayed him.
Justus, completely oblivious to the merchant’s reaction, was already walking toward the unconscious bandit captain.
“Where’s our payment?
I want to make sure we get our cut before we head back.”
“Wait,” Daemon said, catching Justus by the shoulder.
“What now?”
Daemon pointed toward the captain’s exposed collar.
“Look.”
Justus leaned down.
Resting around the captain’s neck wasn’t a crude piece of leather or a bandit gang mark.
It was a finely crafted, dark metallic emblem attached to a steel chain.
Daemon crouched down, using his gloved hand to lift the crest.
His expression instantly turned deadly serious.
“This isn’t a bandit symbol,” Daemon said, his voice dropping low.
Justus frowned, crouching beside him.
“What is it then?”
Daemon flipped the heavy emblem over.
Engraved cleanly into the back of the dark metal was an intricate design: A crown encircled by four sharp, radiant points.
Daemon’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“I’ve seen this mark before…”
“Where?”
“On classified Guardian intelligence reports when I was working under Ragnar,” Daemon murmured, his grip on the chain tightening.
“This belongs to high-ranking Northern covert units.”
Justus’s relaxed smirk began to fade, replaced by a cold, calculating look.
“So these weren’t random highwaymen trying to rob a carriage.”
“No,” Daemon said, shaking his head.
He unclipped the chain and tossed the emblem to Justus.
“They weren’t here for the merchant.
They set up this hit, waiting for whoever took the guild contract.
They were looking for someone.”
Justus caught the heavy metal emblem, tracing the sharp lines of the four-pointed crown with his thumb.
“Who?” Justus asked quietly.
Daemon looked directly into Justus’s crimson eyes, his voice flat and grave.
“I think…
they were looking for you.”
Silence settled over the ravine once more, heavier and colder than before.
For the first time since stepping foot into Blackridge, the playful, arrogant humor vanished from Justus’s face.
He stared at the emblem, the realization dawning on him that his arrival in the North had not gone unnoticed.
Slowly, his fingers closed tightly around the metal, crushing it slightly in his hand.
“Then let them look,” Justus said softly.
Daemon let out a tired, defeated sigh.
“Justus…
this means the Guardians—or someone worse—are tracking your every move.”
A second passed.
Then, the sharp, confident smirk returned to Justus’s face, his eyes gleaming with unyielding spirit.
“Come on,” Justus said, tossing the ruined emblem over his shoulder and turning back toward the road.
“We still have a contract to finish, and I intend to get paid.”
As the two began walking alongside the carriage once more, one of the supposedly unconscious men lying in the snow slowly opened a single, bloodshot eye.
He watched Justus’s retreating back, coughing up a fine mist of blood into the snow, and whispered weakly to the freezing wind:
“…Tempest…”