Chapter Sixteen — What Could Go Wrong…?
The forest was a riot of sound.
Birdsong echoed from above—sharp and piercing—while from deeper within came growls, roars, and low, rumbling calls that didn't belong to anything Azeroth wanted to meet.
The moment he stepped beneath the canopy, the world behind him vanished.
Sunlight fractured into thin, pale threads that barely reached the forest floor. The air cooled instantly—thickened—laden with damp earth, old decay, and something sharper beneath it.
Danger.
Leaves crunched softly beneath his boots.
Garet walked ahead without slowing, his pace steady and unhurried, as though the forest were a paved road instead of wild, unclaimed land teeming with creatures that could tear a man apart and forget him moments later.
Azeroth stayed alert.
This wasn't a training hall in the castle. There were no limits, no instructors watching from the sidelines, no enchanted mechanisms designed to halt a blow before it became lethal.
Out here lived things that killed to eat—and things that killed simply because they could.
He loosened his shoulders, subtly adjusting his balance, each of his enhanced senses stretched thin.
They went deeper.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The forest changed.
Trees grew thicker, their trunks wider, bark rough and scarred. Roots burst from the ground like skeletal fingers, twisting over one another as if the earth itself were trying to crawl free. Strange markings—natural, yet deeply unsettling—ran along stone and wood alike, grooves and spirals worn by time… or something far less innocent.
Azeroth frowned.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Sir Garet," he said carefully, "we're well beyond the estate's boundaries now."
"I'm aware," Garet replied, nodding once, never breaking stride.
That was all.
They continued.
The sounds of the forest shifted—subtle at first. Birdsong thinned. Insects fell quiet. Even the wind seemed to hesitate between the trees.
Azeroth noticed.
He didn't like it.
Finally Garet stopped.
The sudden halt nearly made Azeroth collide with him.
They stood at the edge of a clearing roughly fifty feet across.
The ground within was bare—no grass, no undergrowth. Just dark soil packed hard, scarred with shallow grooves and fractured stone, as though something heavy had been dragged across it again and again.
The air here felt… cool. Refreshing.
Probably because they were surrounded by trees.
Azeroth's gaze swept the clearing, confusion creeping in as he wondered why they were here.
He opened his mouth to ask—
A low growl rolled out from beyond the tree line to the right.
The words died in his throat, his breath hitching as he nearly choked on his own saliva.
It began as a slow twitch, but soon he was trembling all over. His fight or flight instincts were triggered uncontrollably.
So much so that his body became locked in the two states.
Slowly, stiffly, Azeroth turned toward the sound.
A black-furred beast emerged from the shadows.
Panther-like in shape, yet the size of a wolf. Muscles coiled beneath sleek fur, bright yellow eyes fixed on them with predatory focus. Its fangs gleamed as its lips curled back, refusing to stay hidden, and its claws—long, hooked, and cruel—looked more like weapons than natural growths.
As if that weren't enough, fire danced along its tail and claws—burning, roaring, alive. Scorched twigs and blackened earth marked its path, yet the flames never harmed the beast itself.
It was an evolved beast, alright—but certainly not a common-ranked one.
…Uncommon.
Cold sweat slid down Azeroth's spine at that thought.
His legs trembled.
"U-umm… Sir Garet," he squeaked. "I-it's… a beast."
Garet sighed.
Disappointed.
"Did you only just notice?" he asked calmly.
The beast didn't wait.
With a violent snarl, it launched itself into the air, claws extended, jaws wide enough to crush bone.
Azeroth's mind went blank.
Too fast.
Too close—
He instinctively clenched his fists—then realized his training sword was missing.
Of course it was.
He hadn't brought it to his father's study.
Suddenly—
Steel flashed.
Garet's sword left its sheath in a single smooth motion, the blade whispering through the air.
There was no clash.
No struggle.
Just a clean, decisive arc.
The airborne beast split apart mid-leap.
Two halves crashed into the ground with wet, final thuds.
Silence reclaimed the clearing.
Azeroth stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
The corpse twitched once.
Then went still.
"…Huh?" escaped him weakly.
Garet flicked the blood from his blade and slid it back into its sheath.
"Tch… so weak," he muttered, gaze drifting deeper into the forest. "I'll need to find a proper warm-up."
Then he glanced back.
"And then maybe one for you too."
Azeroth didn't hear the last part.
He was still staring.
At the body.
At the fact that something that had nearly made him soil himself had been killed.
—like it was nothing.
With a wave of his hand, Garet's ring flashed.
Several items appeared midair and dropped to the ground with dull thuds—folded canvas, poles, ropes, packed supplies.
"…Sir," Azeroth asked carefully, "why do we need tents?" His voice now a touch more respectful.
Garet finally smiled.
"This is where we'll be staying for the next month."
The smile widened.
"Don't you like it?"
Azeroth's blood ran cold.
"The next month…?" he repeated slowly. "Sir—what exactly do you mean by that?"
Garet exhaled through his nose, eyes lingering on the darkened treeline.
"…Do you always ask this many questions?"
Azeroth stiffened. "I—"
"For the next month," Garet cut in flatly, "we live here. We train here. You eat what you kill—and pray not to be on the menu next."
He finally turned to face Azeroth.
"I don't know how you were taught under Sir Bran," he said after a brief pause, "but I'm not here to coddle you."
"For the next week, we'll fix your completely nonexistent swordsmanship." Another pause. "At least enough that you never forget your weapon again."
With that, he turned back to setting up the tent.
Azeroth stood there, mouth hanging open.
He didn't know whether to cry—or cry harder.
When he'd woken up today—barely an hour ago—he'd thought today would be perfect.
No alarms in nightmare form.
The expected cores from his father.
He could already begin to dream of how much stronger he would grow.
Instead he found—Bran was injured.
And now this.
Finally, he asked quietly, "Do I have a choice?"
He looked up at Garet with a hopeful gaze.
"Of course you do," Garet replied.
Hope flickered.
"You just have to make it back alone."
The hope died.
"Just so you know without my aura," Garet added calmly, "you won't make it more than a hundred feet."
Azeroth, already half-turned, froze.
Shit. I knew it was too easy.
He turned back, whistling awkwardly as he returned to his spot.
Azeroth swallowed and forced himself to nod.
Fine. I'll just go with it, he thought grimly.
What could go wrong?
The forest answered him.
ROAR—
Something massive tore through the trees.
Steel screamed from its sheath.
SHING—
A heavy body hit the ground.
THUD.
Azeroth stumbled back, heart hammering.
"…Fuck."