A few days ago, Harold had set out to a quiet village on a routine mission. But fate had other plans. At a dimly lit tavern, he unexpectedly encountered a high Elf—a rare and imposing figure from the mystical Whispering Forest. The elf's purpose was clear: she sought to recruit a strong warrior.
The very notion of an elf, let alone a high Elf, seeking the aid of a human was absurd—a laughable notion in Midragon. Elves were a proud, solitary race, known for their wisdom, beauty, and near-immortal lifespans. Asking for help? That was beneath them.
Harold's instincts told him this wasn't an ordinary request. If the elves needed outside help, something dangerous—something beyond their power—lurked in the forest. Despite the gravity of the situation, Harold decided to play dumb, letting the elf believe her charade of a casual encounter had worked. Yet Harold wasn't the only one playing games; the elf's stiff demeanor betrayed how awkward her approach truly was.
The high Elf stepped into the tavern, her silver hair glinting in the dim light, and strode directly to Harold's table. Without a word, she poured herself a drink and sat down.
Harold didn't react immediately. He shot the elf a sidelong glance, then rose abruptly, leaving his drink untouched.
"You're not much for conversation, are you?" the elf said, the faintest edge of annoyance in her voice.
Harold ignored her and walked out.
The elf hesitated, clearly unused to being dismissed so casually. With a sigh, she followed Harold, stepping into the cool night air just in time to see the knight mounting his horse.
"Where are you headed?" the elf called.
Harold smirked as he nudged his horse forward. "If you're so keen on following me, keep up."
The path Harold chose led toward the Cursed Swamp—a place whispered about in every corner of the village. Few dared venture there, and fewer still returned. But Harold wasn't deterred. He had business to settle, and the elf tagging along didn't change his plans.
From the treetops, the elf trailed him effortlessly, leaping from branch to branch with grace. It wasn't long before the stench of decay signaled their approach to the swamp. The air grew heavier, the trees more withered, draped in moss and rot.
Harold dismounted, tying his horse to a safe distance. He retrieved his bow, enchanting the tip of an arrow with a fiery spell. With a practiced pull, he loosed the arrow into the heart of the swamp. The arrow's fiery arc cut through the gloom, igniting a violent explosion that echoed through the forest.
Boom!
The ground trembled, and a deep, guttural growl emanated from the fog. Harold drew his silver sword and cast a spell to enhance his vision, the mist sharpening into clarity.
Haaa!
A massive tentacle lashed out of the darkness. Harold sidestepped, deflecting it with the flat of his blade, then summoned a fireball with his free hand. The explosion lit up the swamp, revealing the shadow of a grotesque creature.
The elf, perched silently above, watched with growing intrigue.
[The Swamp Monster…]
Harold kept moving, deflecting two more tentacles and burning another with fire magic. But just as he created a safe path using wind magic, the severed tentacle regenerated and struck at him from behind.
[It healed? Damn.]
The high Elf, who had been observing intently, frowned. Harold wasn't fighting like someone with his rumored power.
[Level-six magic… yet he fights like a common hunter. Why not finish it quickly with a high-level spell?]
But Harold had no intention of using brute force. For him, this was a test of skill, not just strength. A true knight, he believed, didn't boast about one-sided victories.
Luthien smirked from the treetops. "Interesting," she muttered. "This one's got a spine."
With a wave of her hand, the elf cast a powerful spell, clearing the dense mist. "This duel is observed by me, Luthien of the Whispering Forest, between the Holy Knight and the Swamp Monster. May nature's mercy embrace you both!"
As the mist dissipated, the creature stood fully revealed. It was far worse than any monster Harold had ever seen.
The monster resembled a giant slime, but its skin was dull, wrinkled, and grotesque, a testament to its unchecked consumption of the swamp's life. Its tiny, malformed hands dangled uselessly, while its stubby legs only allowed it to slither like a snake. Tentacles sprouted unnaturally from its bloated form, and its gaping mouth, filled with rotting black teeth, reeked of death.
Harold glanced at Luthien, who sat calmly atop a branch, clearly waiting for something.
[She wants me to prove myself. Typical elf arrogance. Fine, let's see what game she's playing.]
The swamp monster struck again, five tentacles whipping toward Harold. In one fluid motion, Harold conjured a magical shield, dodged two tentacles, parried another two, and neutralized the fifth with a swift spin.
Luthien's sharp eyes tracked every move, her expression unreadable.
[Those forest spiders… Something's not right. I can't risk sending more elves into danger. Even if I have to trust someone like him, it's necessary.]
Harold seized his opening. With a roar, he drove his silver sword deep into the monster's head. Purple blood gushed out, staining the swamp floor as the creature thrashed and wailed. Its tentacles flailed wildly before falling limp.
Finally, silence fell over the swamp. The elf landed behind Harold, her boots squelching in the muck.
"Mutated human," she said, her tone cool, "you will come with me to the Whispering Forest. I helped you slay this beast; now you will repay your debt."
Harold froze at the word "mutated." The memories came rushing back—a whirlwind of pain, fear, and rejection.
The elf woman in the brothel. She screamed: "Abomination! How dost thou dare set foot within mine abode?"
Harold clenched his fists. He had heard those words too many times before, seen the hatred in too many eyes.
But he forced himself to steady his breathing. He turned to Luthien, his expression unreadable. "Fine. Lead the way, elf. But don't expect me to play nice."
Luthien smirked. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."