“Hey,” the man asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness inside the carriage cabin.

  “What do you lot think is the most wicked kind of magic?”

  He wore an odd mix of tribal beads and shamanic robes, his arms marked with inked patterns that seemed more ritual than decorative.

  But the most out-of-place detail was the green bandana wrapped tight across his forehead—too modern for his otherwise archaic outfit. The silence in the carriage had lasted long enough to become dull, and he, clearly the talkative sort, had grown restless with the stillness.

  His question stirred something in the cramped space. Opposite him sat three others. One, on the far right was the leader of the squad sheen, he looked to be nobility not just by birth, but by wealth and polish.

  The armor he wore was regal, pristine, and far beyond the reach of a common mercenary. He didn’t even turn his head. If he had an opinion, it wasn’t worth sharing.

  On the far left was a different sort entirely. A warrior, plain to see. Broad shoulders, solid frame, scarred knuckles. He sat alert, one foot planted, as if expecting trouble to walk through the door any minute. He didn’t speak, but he looked like he was considering the question.

  It was the one in the center who jumped in first. Young, unweathered, still carrying that clean look of someone who’d seen little but was eager to talk. Capable enough to sit with the others, though clearly not on their level.

  “Wouldn’t it be black magic? Or those techniques used by pagans and heretics?”

  The warrior on the left answered before anyone else could.

  “You’re getting it wrong, Majshi. Black magic isn’t a type of magic, it’s a category. A spectrum. Different schools fall into it, but it isn’t a discipline of its own.”

  Majshi snorted. “When did you become an expert? Still, if we’re talking about evil, then it obviously falls under that. Heretic magic, pagan rituals, all that forbidden stuff. Seems obvious to me.”

  The warrior, clearly fed up, rolled his eyes. “I can’t deal with you.”

  The man with the bandana, Shalkas tilted his head.

  “You’re not completely wrong, Majshi. But the thing is, none of those labels, black magic, heretic arts, paganism, even the holy magic which is nothing more than school of magic created to copy true divinity or divine energy which they don't have. At their core, the spells, the energy, the results—they’re often the same.

  It’s just branding. Fancy titles given by people in power, usually to the things they fear, can’t control, or don’t understand. That’s how black magic gets its name. Not because it’s inherently evil, but because it doesn’t fit the mold of what’s ‘acceptable.’ And when something can’t be controlled or neatly boxed in, it’s branded as dangerous. Condemned. It’s ignorance, dressed up as wisdom.”

  Sheen, who had remained silent all this time, finally turned his head and spoke.

  “So that’s why you wasted your life chasing magic you couldn’t find within proper circles? That why you stayed with those tribal so long? Studying their ways? And then turned on them the moment it suited you?”

  His voice was sharp, arrogant, dripping with contempt.

  Shalkas didn’t flinch. “More or less. I’m a student. I study magic—especially the twisted kinds. The ones you can’t find in books or academies. Hidden art, buried rituals, dead languages, forgotten symbols. That’s the good stuff.” His voice had a strange warmth to it, a real excitement. “It’s not betrayal. It’s learning.”

  Sheen leaned back, unimpressed. “Seems like a waste of time. What’s the point of knowledge you’re not going to use? Unless you plan to do something with it.”

  Shalkas waved the comment away like smoke. “Back to the question. What do you all think is the most evil kind of magic?”

  Majshi answered quickly. “Necromancy.”

  Shalkas nodded slowly. “Good guess. That’s in the top ten.”

  Majshi leaned forward, visibly confused. “Seriously? What’s more evil than dragging souls out of death and enslaving them for eternity?”

  Shalkas laughed. Not mocking, but genuinely amused.

  “See, necromancy is nasty, no doubt about it. It desecrates bodies, tampers with souls when done wrong, and fills battlefields with puppets of the dead. But most of the time, the victims are already dead. Corpses don’t cry out. Spirits, if they’re lucky, are long gone. Sure, some necromancers bind souls, trap them screaming in their shells, but most don’t bother. They just need tools.”

  The warrior spoke next. “Magic that spreads disease. Death curses. Plagues.”

  Shalkas tilted his head, clearly weighing the answer, then gave a small shake of it.

  Now all three looked at Sheen.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Possession.”

  Shalkas’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re getting close. That’s number three.”

  Sheen looked away again, unfazed.

  Majshi threw his hands up. “Alright then. What is it? What’s the most wicked magic in your twisted little list?”

  Shalkas leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

  “Enchantment.”

  The word landed like a slap.

  Even Sheen looked at him now.

  The warrior frowned. “Enchantment? That’s the most evil?”

  Shalkas nodded, his voice low and measured.

  “Think about it. Enchantment isn’t about brute force or death. It’s about influence. Subtlety. Shaping minds and choices. You want a fine blade made of mithril. You can’t afford it. Use enchantment, make the merchant drop the price without knowing why. That’s theft—but the victim smiles while it happens.

  “You love someone maybe she’s married, maybe she doesn’t even know you exist. Doesn’t matter. Use enchantment. Forget about one, you can take ten. A hundred. None of them will ever question it. Not like charm magic, which is crude and obvious. Enchantment is quiet. Precise. It makes people believe they’re choosing freely, when they’re not choosing at all.

  “That’s the horror. Necromancy—necromancy tampers with the dead, who’ve already lost everything. Enchantment strips the living of their will, and leaves them alive enough to feel the violation. And worse, they won’t even know it happened. A necromancer raises a corpse; an enchanter raises a puppet that still thinks it’s free.”

  The carriage grew colder.

  “Enchantment can ruin a life in moments. It can twist a hero into a butcher, a saint into a demon, a demon into something revered. And that’s just surface-level. You can take someone's power and give it to someone else. Drive them to madness. Replace pieces of their soul. Bind the heart of a dragon into a human vessel. It all comes down to skill, intent, and control. That’s the horror. The more refined it is, the less it looks like magic at all.” He smiled—small, calm, disturbing.

  Sheen narrowed his eyes. “And who made this list, exactly?”

  Shalkas leaned back, chuckling. “I did, obviously.”

  No one laughed with him.

  The other three just stared. And now, even the ones who had tolerated his presence seemed just a little more unsettled.

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  Without warning, the carriage stopped. No signal. No slowing. Just the sudden stop. Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The air went stiff. Confused glances passed between the men.

  The warrior raised his voice. “Hey. What happened? Why the stop? Hey!” He called out again, louder this time. No reply came from the driver.

  Tension began to build. The warrior leaned forward, reaching for the small window. He slid it open to look outside.

  And the roof tore away.

  Not splintered, not cracked, but , like a toy taken apart by a child who had lost all patience. The metal screamed, bent, and was flung into the woods behind them.

  Perched on one of the wheels, crouched low and perfectly balanced, stood Ryan. White hair whipped behind him in the wind. A wide smile was painted across his face, stretched in amusement, bordering on joy. “How you guys doing, nice weather right”

  The aura spilling off him was dangerous, heavy, unnatural. Lethal. It pushed down on the men in the carriage like a wave of stone.

  He held Majshi in one hand by the collar, plucked straight out of the carriage’s center seat like a doll then dropped him in the dirt. Shalkas was already gone, having jumped out in a blur the moment the roof tore open, as if he had expected it.

  The three who landed, Majshi, the warrior, and Shalkas stood on scorched grass, staring at the surrounding scene. What had once been an escort force was now a graveyard.

  The soldiers were dead.

  Slumped, twisted, piled. Some had their heads bashed in, others cleaved straight through. The knights meant to guard the carriage were broken at the joints, their armor shredded. The driver had fallen off the front bench, slumped like a dropped puppet. The scouts ahead on the trail were the same. Not a single one had cried out. Not one had drawn a blade.

  The warrior’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward slowly, eyes darting across the ground. Blood pooled beneath a nearby horse. Its rider had been turned to pulp.

  Shalkas, however, only smiled. His eyes scanned the carnage with appreciation, not fear. He didn’t even look at the boy, not directly. The others couldn’t take their eyes off him.

  Their thoughts spiraled in unison.

  But those questions would have to wait. A decision hovered between fight and flight.

  The warrior chose to fight.

  He launched toward Ryan, blade drawn, fast and sharp. Majshi followed close behind him, forming symbols in the air with his fingers as his boots kicked up dirt.

  This was what Ryan had been waiting for.

  From the moment he’d arrived, this was the encounter he’d wanted. Not survival. Not negotiation. But confrontation.

  The warrior slashed downward. Majshi swept left. Both moved with intent fast, trained, coordinated. Ryan didn’t move from where he stood. He slipped through the blades like he was dodging swings from children, weaving between them, light on his feet.

  “Is this it?” Ryan asked, grinning. “This is the best you mercenaries can do?”

  His tone was teasing, but every word stung.

  It drove them harder.

  The warrior surged again, the rune on his chest plate flashing red as he activated a flame-dash spell. The air behind him caught fire as he closed the gap. Beside him, Majshi vanished and reappeared in flickers, casting afterimages made from illusion.

  Ryan didn’t flinch.

  He launched into the air with zero wind-up, twisting mid-flight. His claws glinted, tucked at his sides, as he rotated overhead. He flipped over them, and as he came down, his eyes locked onto the warrior’s shield—flaming, solid, already raised.

  Too slow.

  Ryan’s claws struck the shield and shattered it on impact, breaking through the magic with raw force. The flame washed over his skin. Burns bloomed instantly, but he pushed through. He dropped both feet into the warrior’s chest. The sound of metal giving way under pressure filled the air, followed by the unmistakable crunch of ribs collapsing.

  Majshi tried to recover, forming another sign with one hand, but Ryan had already torn through his shoulder, the bone ripped out from the inside. Blood sprayed across the dirt. Majshi screamed, fell back, gasping.

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed, glowing crimson, pupils thin and sharp as razors. He looked down at the two broken men, studying them like he was choosing between toys.

  “I’ll leave you,” Ryan muttered. “Need one of you for interrogation, after all.” His tone tried to sound official, like a child pretending to be a captain.

  Sheen had already chosen the other option. Flight. He was halfway through turning, calculating his path to escape, but the fight had ended before he could finish a step.

  He froze.

  He watched his best men fall with barely a fight. Watched a child, untouched by magic, radiating nothing—and yet, he felt it. A pressure. A sensation of something immense pressing against his chest. And not a single spell had been cast.

  Ryan turned to him with gleaming eyes.

  “You two,” he called out. “Don’t you want to fight me too?”

  Sheen whispered through grit teeth. “Shalkas. I need you to create a diversion. Cover me. If you’re lucky, we both might make it out.”

  Shalkas didn’t move.

  “Why would I leave now?” he asked. “Something this fascinating is unfolding right in front of us. And didn’t you say we were heading to the Devil Forest? Why stop here?”

  Sheen’s voice cracked. “Can’t you see what’s happening? Are you blind? Follow my order, peasant. I’ll compensate you.”

  Shalkas shrugged. “I doubt you have anything I’d find valuable. And besides… you might not even be able to run.”

  Ryan shouted across the ruined trail, voice sharp and eager, echoing off the cliffs. “Hey! What are you two doing? You are fighting or just standing there like cowards?”

  Shalkas glanced at Sheen beside him, then called back, voice calm. “We are. Give us a moment, will you? Might be our last conversation.”

  Ryan beamed, pacing in place, full of restless energy. “Alright, alright. Talk all you want. I’m very merciful so I will let that happen.”

  Sheen leaned in close, voice hushed and trembling. “You’re really planning to fight him?”

  Shalkas didn’t look at him. Instead, his eyes wandered to the corpses scattered across the battleground.

  “Look again,” he whispered. “See the ones torn apart, cut clean, mangled. That’s him. That’s all him. His style, his claws, his speed. But now look closer—look at the driver’s body, the knight beside him, and those soldiers on the outer perimeter. The ones ahead, too. None of them have wounds. Not a scratch.”

  Sheen’s breath caught.

  Shalkas continued, voice low and steady. “Their bodies are dried out. Like the life was drained from them in an instant. Some look like they died mid-scream. Painful. Natural. But all too fast.”

  Sheen’s throat tightened. “You’re saying… there’s another?”

  “Most likely,” Shalkas answered. “Which is why you need to listen to me now. Do what I do. Say what I say. You might just walk away from this.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Shalkas stepped forward, a few paces closer to Ryan.

  “We’re ready, young master of the wood.”

  Ryan struck a pose, copying the stance of some long-dead hero from one of his books. “Bring it on.”

  He launched. No magic. No fanfare. Just raw, terrifying speed.

  Claws slashed for Shalkas’ throat.

  The shaman moved his hand. The mountain answered.

  A wall of rock shot upward. Ryan hit it, claws dragging stone as sparks flew. Roots burst from beneath and wrapped his legs. He tore through them mid-fall, leapt again, and landed a scratch on Shalkas’ arm.

  The shaman whispered something in a language no longer spoken. Then tapped Ryan’s chest with one finger.

  A pulse rippled through the boy’s body.

  Something went wrong.

  Heat flooded Ryan’s back. His limbs began to shake. Vision swam. His body moved slower than his thoughts.

  “Lose all control and fall into the madness,” Shalkas whispered.

  Ryan screamed.

  His bones twisted. Fur exploded from his skin. He grew. Six feet. Ten. His snout elongated. Ivory claws extended. A white wolf, regal and radiant, stood in his place.

  The howl it released made the trees bow.

  Shalkas didn’t flinch. “How impressive, A great white wolf. But You burn with mana far beyond any beastman I’ve met, weird. Just … what are you?”

  Shalkas raised both hands. The ground shattered beneath his feet, floating as he rose. He hovered as Ryan struck the mountain, breaking rock like glass. Pine trees tumbled down into the valley below.

  Fire gathered in Shalkas’ hands. He cast it downward.

  A pillar of flame engulfed the wolf. But Ryan tore through it, skin blackened, eyes wild.

  And then something inside him buckled.

  He stumbled. Blinked. Looked lost.

  “What, You’re changing again,” Shalkas muttered, thrilled. “There’s more. But how and why”

  Ryan’s fur darkened. Blood-red. Nine tails exploded from his spine, long and sleek, each one moving like a living weapon.

  The fox leapt, vanished, and reappeared above Shalkas.

  A burst of vines intercepted him midair. Ryan tore through three, dodged another, then landed on the fifth and used it to spring again.

  Mountainside cracked. Trees shattered.

  Fox tails lashed in every direction. Shalkas answered with spells, flames, thorns, stone spears but Ryan moved faster than the attacks could land.

  Shalkas, panting now, fired another volley. “A nine-tailed fox, I only heard about them from legends? After A white wolf of pure mana? What else are you hiding, kid?”

  Ryan stumbled again.

  His body convulsed. His tails struck randomly. One hit the ground. One scraped his back. His own limbs began to betray him.

  He tried to howl. Choked.

  Shalkas grinned. “There’s still more.”

  The form came suddenly.

  It was wrong. Hideous.

  The change was not like the others.

  Where the white wolf had been majestic and the fox otherworldly, this was something that should never have existed. Ryan’s body twisted violently, bones bulging in the wrong directions. His limbs thickened, bloated with unnatural muscle. His face split outward — tusks growing from the ruin of his jaw, curling like blades dragged from a battlefield.

  The Carrion Boar.

  It roared, the sound of something ancient and dying, something dragged from the grave.

  Shalkas stopped smiling.

  “Is that… a ghoul?”

  The boar charged. The earth cracked.

  Shalkas summoned a wall of spears. The beast ran through them.

  Each step broke the land beneath it. Rocks collapsed. Trees fell. It kept coming.

  And then it began to feed.

  “Amazing, just amazing ” Shalkas shouting

  Corpses. Rotting animals. Bones. Everything in the field pulled toward it by invisible force. It devoured all of it—whole.

  Each bite made it larger. Worse.

  Shalkas stood surrounded by fire and crumbling earth. His spells were no longer for killing. They were containment.

  Ryan kept coming.

  Then, finally, his body gave out. The magic collapsed.

  He fell, gasping, back into the body of a child.

  Shalkas approached. He reached for him, ready to take him alive.

  “Such a wonderful creature… I can't wait to unravel your secrets, had you were little smarter and knew how to use your powers you would have given me lots of trouble”

  Sheen standing far away, sword in his hand, exhaled in relief. "Finally…"

  But nothing was over yet.