Narrator POV:

  Above the shadowy depths of the earth lay the overworld, a vibrant expanse adorned with lush greens and deep blues that painted the land and oceans of this realm. Signs of civilization—both primitive and perhaps advanced—dotted the landscape. In one particular settlement, neither large nor small, the air was thick with the earthy scent of freshly harvested wheat mingling with the unpleasant odor of refuse that littered the streets.

  In this town, the well-being of its people was of little concern. Prostitution, slavery, and a host of other unsavory activities thrived in the shadows. As a traveler, one would be fortunate to avoid the detritus carelessly discarded from the windows of the ramshackle homes, constructed from straw, wood, and stone.

  The settlement's health standards were dismal, even by the worst of towns’ measures. A few decent houses stood out, inhabited by a handful of nobles, but these dwellings were unremarkable. The nobles, not of high status, were eager to escape this forsaken place. Any fortune amassed here would serve as a ticket to greener pastures.

  Yet, there were those who appreciated the town’s obscurity. It was a haven for the shady, the cutthroats, the assassins, and the bandits who thrived in the cover of night.

  At the bar known as “A Hogfly’s Life,” a dubious group of six men huddled in a shadowy corner, deep in whispered conversation.

  “Have you heard? That loner mage, Maleck, has shown up in town!” said one of them, his voice laced with excitement.

  “What? Are you pulling our leg? He never leaves his hidden laboratory!” another replied skeptically.

  “Don’t offend me! Who do you think you’re talking to?” snapped the first man, named Benedict—a cunning broker of information. He had an uncanny knack for knowing even the most intimate secrets before they were fully realized by others.

  Despite his brutish appearance, with bulging muscles barely concealed by his tight clothing, Benedict was no warrior. His strength was a fa?ade; he lacked real battle experience. He fancied himself quite handsome, with flowing blond hair reminiscent of a god’s mane, though it was marred by a rugged face bearing a scar down his chin—one that he spun elaborate tales about whenever questioned.

  “I swear, I heard it from a friend in the slaver’s district,” Benedict continued, leaning in conspiratorially. “He came to buy a goblin slave to assist with his research and the moving of goods. I even had one of my men tail him. Just think of the riches hidden in his secret lab! Rumor has it he dabbles in alchemy, and we all know what the pinnacle of alchemy is, don’t we?”

  Greed flickered in the eyes of his companions, but one of them hesitated. “But has any alchemist ever created gold? I’ve heard the kingdom has banned research on it,” he pointed out.

  “Pish posh! Derek,” Benedict replied dismissively. “Even if there’s no gold, imagine the value of that old man’s research! Do you know what any mage or the mage guild would pay for those documents?”

  A collective gasp echoed around the table. Young Derek, his voice trembling, asked, “How… how much?”

  Benedict leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Enough silver and gold for three lifetimes!”

  The group gasped in awe, one member choking on his beer in excitement. The buzz of conversation erupted among them, and Benedict observed the chaos he had orchestrated. The five members, known as the “Five Fingers” for their thievery, were infamous throughout the town.

  The first Finger, the leader known only as “Boss,” was a slender figure cloaked in shadows, their face concealed behind a mask. Even their comrades had no clue as to their identity, and Benedict harbored a suspicion but could not act on it yet.

  The second Finger, the hulking second-in-command, was a man named Janis Lovegood—better known as “Brute.” A figure of formidable size, he was not a man to cross, and his nickname reflected the fear he instilled in others after delivering many brutal beatings to anyone who mocked his true name.

  The third Finger was Enrik Bones, a tall, gaunt figure who appeared almost ghost-like in his movements. His pale complexion earned him the moniker “The White Reaper,” a name whispered in fear by those who knew of his silent approach to his victims. When Enrik’s gaze fell on Benedict, a chill ran down his spine, prompting him to quickly avert his eyes.

  The fourth Finger was a rarity in a human settlement—a dwarf named Jenkins Stormhammer, renowned for his legendary beard. He was a specialist in traps and locks, a valuable asset for any burglar, despite his notorious fondness for ale. As he downed his tenth (or perhaps eleventh) beer, Benedict internally cursed his own decision to pick up the tab for the meeting.

  The fifth and final member was young Derek, only fourteen summers old. Aspiring to be a royal knight, he found himself drawn into the criminal underbelly, forced to team up with the very rogues he had once sworn to apprehend.

  Benedict felt a twinge of pity for the boy, knowing full well that the life expectancy of such youth in this world was grim. If the “Boss” had any inclination of Derek’s noble aspirations, he would undoubtedly seek to exploit them, keeping the boy under his thumb.

  As the group reached a consensus, Derek was the most eager to take on the job, silenced only by the Boss's raised hand. The Boss exchanged a knowing glance with Brute, who soon turned to Benedict.

  “Let’s talk business and shares!” Brute demanded.

  Benedict maintained a sweet facade, aware that premature negotiations could prove financially damaging. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. We’re all friends here, right? If you need anything for this mission, just let me know. Let’s discuss business after your success, shall we?”

  Brute looked to the Boss, who nodded slightly, and then returned his gaze to Benedict.

  “Alright, but first—”

  Before Brute could finish, a hand clapped down on Benedict’s shoulder, startling him. Turning around, he was relieved to see one of his own underlings, Mat.

  “Mat! You startled me,” Benedict said, exhaling in relief.

  “Sorry, B, but your message said to meet you urgently. Did I misunderstand?” Mat replied, settling into a chair.

  “A! Yes, yes, sit down. Give us your report!” Benedict said, eager to shift the focus away from the impending negotiation.

  Mat was utterly unremarkable—plain face, brown hair, and no distinguishing features. His lack of charisma had its advantages; few bothered to notice him, making him an excellent spy.

  Mat took a seat next to Benedict and cleared his throat. “Well, before that, I could use a drink,” he said with a sheepish smile.

  Benedict’s annoyance flared, but Jenkins was already sliding Mat a jug of beer. “Here you go, lad.”

  “My deepest thanks, dwarf,” Mat said, lifting the mug with appreciation.

  After downing a hearty gulp, Mat launched into his report. He had tracked Maleck and his newly acquired goblin slave as they loaded goods onto a wagon and set off westward for three days. On the third night, he witnessed the wagon disappear into a dense forest.

  Cautiously, he had followed, eventually stumbling upon a concealed path obscured by an illusion. It led him to a cliffside where the wagon lay abandoned, with no trace of its cargo or occupants. After a thorough search, he discovered tracks leading deeper into the woods, which he followed until they vanished at a cave entrance.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Did you enter the cave?” Brute asked, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

  “I’m a tracker, not a cave diver, thank you very much!” Mat replied defensively.

  “It would have been helpful to know what’s inside,” Enrik said, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “Then you do my job if you’re so good at it!” Mat shot back, tension crackling in the air as Enrik licked his knife blade menacingly.

  Benedict clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. “Now, now, no need for violence. We have our guide right here, don’t we?”

  The Boss nodded, glaring at Enrik until he reluctantly sheathed his knife.

  “Since we seem to have an agreement, let’s prepare for the profits ahead. Mat, you know what to do?” Benedict asked, handing his underling a sack of coins.

  “I’d like this purse lighter, but not empty. Understand?” Benedict added, his tone firm yet calm.

  “B… but the price for—” Mat stammered.

  “Do you understand me?” Benedict interrupted sharply.

  “Y… yes,” Mat replied, chastened.

  “Good. If you need anything, ask my associate. With that, I bid you farewell,” Benedict declared, bowing slightly before turning to leave.

  Just before he could exit, a formidable figure stepped into his path—Big Burta, the bar owner, and a force to be reckoned with when it came to money. She gestured expectantly, and with a resigned sigh, Benedict surrendered a bag of coins almost as hefty as the one he had given Mat, cursing the beer-loving dwarf under his breath.

  Some hours later, Mat stood impatiently beside a Circa wagon—a four-wheeled vehicle designed for transporting goods, its white fabric cover shielding it from wind and rain. The wagon had open ends at both the front and back for easy access. Inside, a few supplies and provisions awaited the journey ahead, though the spacious interior could accommodate up to ten people comfortably, albeit a bit crowded.

  The Fingers were late, and Mat's irritation grew. He just wanted to finish this job and get back for his payday. His mood lightened slightly when Jenkins, the dwarf, appeared, gulping his beer and humming a tune as he approached. A mug in one hand and a large keg over his shoulder, Jenkins was a sight to behold.

  “’Ow ye doin'? Hic” Jenkins slurred cheerfully.

  “I could be better; your colleagues are late!” Mat snapped, crossing his arms.

  Suddenly, a dagger pressed against Mat's throat.

  “Who are you calling late? I'm always on time! Trying to hurt my reputation?” Enrik sneered, his face twisted with mockery.

  Mat swallowed hard, unable to speak as the blade pressed against his Adam's apple.

  “Nay, Enrik, ease off. The lad be our guide,” Jenkins interjected.

  Enrik shot Jenkins a glare but slowly withdrew the dagger, leaning in close to whisper in Mat's ear. “You’re never safe~” His words sent chills down Mat's spine, and he felt cold sweat bead on his forehead. Enrik resumed his normal voice, grinning. “And look, the rest of the group is here!”

  As Enrik's voice sliced through the air, their boss, perched atop Brute's broad shoulder, surveyed the rugged road below. Brute's heavy boots thudded with authority, each step echoing as he trudged forward. Beside him, Derek—a slight boy nearly buried beneath an avalanche of mismatched luggage—struggled to keep up. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his face was a mask of determination as he fought against the oppressive weight threatening to topple him.

  Above this scene, Boss lounged confidently, his legs dangling like a king on his throne. With a swager and a glint of mischief danced in his eyes as he took in the world beneath him, exuding an air of superiority. His commanding presence declared he was not merely a leader, but a formidable force, casting a long shadow over the beleaguered boy laboring beside him.

  As they arrived at the wagon, Brute’s powerful hands gripped their boss’s waist, lifting him effortlessly to the roof with a flourish. The half-giant’s muscles rippled beneath his skin, showcasing his sheer strength. The boss settled himself atop the canvas-covered wagon, surveying the surroundings like a king inspecting his realm.

  With a smirk, Brute turned his attention to Derek, who stood hesitantly at his feet, burdened by a chaotic pile of bags that threatened to topple him over. Without a hint of hesitation, Brute bent down slightly and scooped up the boy, lifting him as easily as one would a sack of flour. With a swift, playful toss, he sent Derek flying into the wagon, the sound of bags thudding against wood echoing in the air. The boy landed in a heap, a surprised expression plastered across his face, as his luggage tumbled around him like an avalanche of cloth and gear.

  Mat observed the scene wich was a mix of authority and camaraderie, with Brute’s robust laughter ringing out as he prepared for the next leg of their journey, while Derek groaned, surrounded by the chaos of his own belongings.

  “What are you standing around for? Let’s get going!” Brute barked, his commanding presence whiping everyone into action.

  It didn’t take long before they reached the town’s inadequate gate, where two bored guards lounged. The gate was a patchwork of wooden planks, a poor defense that had nonetheless managed to ward off some attackers.

  One guard, clad in glinting chainmail that shimmered in the fading light, stood alert at the town's gate. His hard hat was slightly askew, and he nudged his partner, who was stifling a yawn, to bring attention to the approaching wagon. The two exchanged weary glances before springing into action, their armor clinking as they moved. Together, they heaved the heavy log that secured the gate, muscles straining against the weight, before pushing open the creaking doors that groaned in protest.

  As the wagon rumbled out into the open air, the gate clanged shut behind them with a resounding thud, the echo of the log sliding into place breaking the stillness of the moment. Instantly, a wave of fresh, untainted air enveloped them, a stark contrast to the staleness that lingered within the town’s confines. The scent of newly harvested wheat mingled with the earthy aroma of damp soil and the musk of laborers’ sweat, filling their lungs with the essence of the harvest season.

  Before them, golden fields unfurled like a shimmering ocean, dotted with men and women of all ages who moved rhythmically, wielding scythes and ropes with practiced ease. They worked tirelessly, laughter mingling with the sound of blades slicing through the tall grasses, as they gathered the last remnants of the season’s bounty. The sun cast a warm glow over the landscape, illuminating the scene with a sense of abundance and life, as the workers bent to their tasks, their silhouettes framed against the vibrant tapestry of the fields.

  The group ambled down the road toward their destination: the Forest of Urr.

  Silence hung heavily in the air as they traveled, a thick blanket that stifled any spark of conversation. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of the wagon as it jostled along the uneven path. Enrik, his face twisted with malice, sharpened his blades with deliberate strokes, each rasp of metal sharpening the tension that crackled between him and Mat. Mat did his best to ignore the ominous presence beside him, forcing his attention onto Jenkins, whose jovial spirit seemed a fragile beacon of light in the oppressive atmosphere. With a wide grin, Jenkins filled his handmade mug from his ever-present keg, his hearty voice rising in merry song, a stark contrast to the unease surrounding them.

  In a corner of the wagon, Derek sat curled up, his pale face a mask of anxiety. The boy trembled slightly, his youthful frame betraying him under the weight of the journey’s toll. Jenkins, ever perceptive, noticed the boy's distress and leaned over with a comforting grin. “Motion sickness? Drink some ale and let yer sorrows be gone!” he urged, pouring a frothy mug and handing it to Derek with a flourish.

  Derek took the drink, desperation mingling with hope, but it wasn’t long before he leaned over the railing, retching violently. The laughter of the others was stark against his misery. Brute, seemingly oblivious and resting with one eye closed, cracked open the other, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “I think that only applies to dwarfs,” he drawled lazily, amusement dancing in his voice.

  “Ye humans are so fragile!” Jenkins laughed, the sound ringing out like an alarm, causing Derek to wince as he doubled over. Their laughter echoed through the wagon, a temporary reprieve from the tension, but it did little to lighten the air, thick with unspoken fears and the uncertainty of their journey.

  High above them, their boss surveyed the landscape from atop the wagon's roof, a self-assured figure wrapped in shadows. He was the watchful eye, scanning for threats while exuding an aura of authority, oblivious to the emotional turmoil brewing below him.

  As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that whispered secrets of the wilderness, their path led them deeper into untamed lands. Civilization faded into memory, and the only witnesses to their passage were the unseen beasts of the plains. The haunting howls of wolves echoed in the distance, a chilling reminder of the wild that surrounded them. As dusk fell, the moon and stars emerged, casting a silvery glow that illuminated their way, yet only served to deepen the darkness within the wagon.

  “This will be a good place to stop for the night,” Mat suggested, his voice barely breaking the heavy silence as he pulled on the reins to slow the horse.

  But before he could settle into the thought of rest, a hand landed on his shoulder, firm and unyielding. Brute took the reins with a practiced ease, his presence commanding. “No, we’ve got enough light to continue a bit longer. You can rest in the back,” he said, settling beside Mat with an air of finality.

  Exhausted and worn thin by the day’s weight, Mat didn’t protest. He laid his cloak down like a makeshift pillow, the fabric offering little comfort against the hard wood beneath. Too tired to care about the simmering tension—especially Enrik’s predatory gaze, which had grown tiresome—he tucked a dagger beneath his cloak, a silent promise of safety. As the world outside blurred into darkness, he finally drifted off to sleep, the night swallowing him in a tentative embrace.