Chapter 7: An Unlikely Mentor
The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as Greg trudged through the dense forest, the familiar sound of crunching leaves beneath his boots accompanying his every step. His beasts—his uninvited companions—moved in tow, an assortment of creatures that now felt like a permanent part of his life whether he wanted them to be or not.
The griffin, his ever-loyal shoulder companion, perched on a branch ahead, its keen eyes scanning the forest. The giant bear lumbered behind him, its heavy steps almost shaking the ground. The small fox darted between trees, its mystical glow faintly lighting the path.
Greg's thoughts were occupied with one thing: escape. His initial decision to go with the refined man and his group had turned out to be nothing more than another layer of chains in his new life. He was still trapped in this world of beasts and impossible expectations. And now, of all things, he was being followed.
The trees began to thin, and a small clearing opened up before him. Greg stopped, sensing something was off. His beasts, too, seemed to grow still, as if they could feel it too.
An old figure stepped from the shadow of the trees—a man bent with age, his skin wrinkled, his long white beard flowing like the snowy waters of a river. His weathered clothing seemed to be a patchwork of various furs, almost as if he'd lived in the wild his entire life. There was a certain steadiness in the way he moved, despite his age, and an aura of wisdom that immediately made Greg wary.
Greg froze, his heart skipping a beat. He had no intention of interacting with anyone, especially not someone who seemed so clearly connected to the life he was trying to escape.
The old man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gazed at Greg. "Ah, I see. Another one with the gift," the man said, his voice low and gravelly. "You have the power of the beast-tamer, don't you?"
Greg's stomach churned. He had hoped, with all his heart, that this was some sort of mirage. But the creatures at his side—particularly the griffin, which was watching the old man with a mixture of curiosity and wariness—told him otherwise.
"I don't want any part of it," Greg muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I didn't ask for this."
The old man's smile widened, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, but that doesn't matter, does it? You have it, whether you want it or not. And the world," he paused, letting the weight of the statement sink in, "well, the world doesn't care much for what we want, does it?"
Greg narrowed his eyes. "I'm just trying to live a quiet life, away from all the chaos."
The old man chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Quiet? In a world like this?" He waved a hand toward the forest around them, the trees that seemed to pulse with an unnatural life. "There's no such thing as quiet here, lad. Not when you're a beast-tamer. Not when you're the kind of person who has the ability to change the world."
Greg felt a surge of irritation. "I don't want to change the world. I just want to be left alone. I'm not here to save anyone or do anything heroic."
The old man stepped closer, his gaze intense. "That's exactly why you need me. Because whether you like it or not, Greg, your abilities are far more powerful than you realize. And one day, you'll be forced to choose—whether to use that power to shape the world or let the world shape you."
Greg recoiled at the thought. "I don't want any of this." His voice was sharp now, an edge of panic rising in him. "You don't understand! I didn't ask for this. I don't want a destiny. I don't want to be a hero or a leader or anything!"
The old man regarded him with a calmness that Greg could never hope to match. "And yet here you are. With beasts that follow you, with power you cannot ignore. What you choose to do with it, Greg, will define not just your life—but the lives of countless others."
Greg turned his back on the man, pacing away in frustration. His mind was a storm of anger and confusion. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He never asked for this power. He never asked to be someone's tool.
As he walked, he tried to push the thought of it all out of his mind. But the weight of it—the responsibility, the nagging sense that he couldn't simply escape—pressed in on him from all sides.
The old man's voice rang out behind him, calm and unwavering: "You cannot run from destiny, Greg. You'll come to learn that soon enough."
Greg clenched his fists. "I don't care about destiny! I care about peace!"
"And you'll find peace, one way or another," the old man said cryptically. "But peace is something earned, not granted. It's something you'll have to fight for, with all that you are. And that's where your true journey begins."
Greg turned back toward the old man, his heart thundering in his chest. "You're telling me that I'm stuck in some kind of destiny?"
The old man nodded, his eyes heavy with experience. "A destiny shaped by the beasts you tame. The power you hold is too great to simply let go. It's a force that can change the world—or destroy it. The choice is yours."
Greg didn't know whether to scream or laugh. This wasn't some grand storybook tale. He wasn't some heroic figure destined to change the world. He was just a regular guy who wanted to be left alone, who wanted to find a place where he could sleep without worrying about whether some dangerous creature would be on his tail the next day.
But as he stood there, staring at the old man, something shifted deep inside him. Despite his reluctance, despite his fear, Greg knew that the old man was right. Whether he liked it or not, he couldn't just run forever.
"Why should I trust you?" Greg asked quietly.
The old man's smile softened. "Because, Greg, you'll come to realize that there are far worse things in this world than the beasts you tame. And that, perhaps, they're the key to your freedom. But first, you must understand them. And that's where I come in."
Greg's mind was reeling. The old man had handed him more questions than answers, but one thing was clear: his life wasn't just about running anymore. It was about to change. Again.
The old man stood before Greg, his weathered face inscrutable, his words still echoing in the air around them. Greg wanted to protest, to shout that he wasn't meant for anything heroic, but he felt an odd, deep-rooted unease. The old man's words lingered, not as a burden but as an inevitability. Whether Greg liked it or not, his life was spiraling into something he couldn't control.
The griffin perched nervously on a nearby rock, its golden feathers gleaming in the sunlight, eyes fixed on the old man with something like wariness, as though it sensed the weight of the conversation. The large bear—Greg had begun calling him "Grizzle"—growled low, its massive body tensing at the stranger's approach. The small fox, a blur of ethereal glow, darted in and out of the shadows, watching the old man with curious, shifting eyes.
"Who are you, really?" Greg found his voice again, his suspicion growing. "Why are you here?"
The old man sighed, the weight of his years pulling his shoulders down. "Ah, I see. You want to know my name, my story. But that's not what matters now. What matters is yours."
Greg frowned. "I never asked for this."
"I know you didn't," the old man replied, his voice softening with a touch of sympathy. "But sometimes life chooses us, Greg. And when it does, it's better to embrace it, to learn how to wield what you've been given, than to fight it. Fighting, in the end, will only wear you down."
Greg clenched his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. He was tired of this conversation. "I don't want to wield it. I don't want to change the world. I want a nap, I want peace. I don't want to be a part of this mess."
The old man's gaze softened. "You're not alone in feeling that way, lad. Many tamers have started just like you—resistant, unwilling, uncertain. But in the end, they found that their greatest strength was their understanding of the beasts they controlled."
Greg scoffed. "I don't want to understand them. I just want to be left alone."
The old man's eyes narrowed as he considered Greg for a moment, before speaking again, his voice low and measured. "Then let me ask you this—what happens when you stop running?"
Greg blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"
"Running from your power. From your responsibility. From your beasts." The old man stepped forward, his steps slow but deliberate. "What happens when they catch up to you? When they won't leave? When the world won't let you rest?"
Greg looked down at the creatures surrounding him, each of them with a sense of attachment, a strange loyalty he couldn't shake off. The griffin hopped closer, brushing its wing against his arm. Grizzle's massive head bent down, eyes searching Greg with an unspoken trust. The fox curled around his feet, glowing softly.
"No," Greg muttered, shaking his head. "I never asked for this. This isn't my life."
The old man's voice softened, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. "You might not have asked for it, but it's your life now. The creatures feel it—your hesitation. They know you're their tamer, whether you like it or not. And that bond, Greg, it's not something you can just break."
Greg looked back at the beasts, seeing their eyes locked on him with that familiar, unwavering trust. It made his stomach twist. "I didn't choose this."
The old man smiled faintly, his gaze glinting with knowledge. "No one ever chooses it. But those who learn to understand their power—who accept their path—become more than what they were before. They change the world."
"Not me." Greg shook his head stubbornly. "I don't want to change anything. I don't want to be anyone's hero. I just want to take a nap without worrying about creatures following me around."
The old man's smile faded, and he let out a long breath. "That's your problem, Greg. You don't see the bigger picture. You don't see how this can help you, not just the beasts, but yourself."
Greg sighed, his frustration mounting. "You're just another old fool who thinks everything is some kind of grand destiny. Well, I'm not buying into it. I don't care about taming beasts, or changing the world. All I care about is a peaceful, quiet life."
The old man shook his head, not in disappointment but in quiet understanding. "You may think you care about peace, but in reality, it's not the quiet that you're craving. It's freedom. And freedom, lad, comes not from hiding away from your responsibilities, but from facing them head-on."
Greg couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt, though he fought to suppress it. "I don't need anyone telling me how to live my life."
The old man raised a hand, his gesture peaceful. "I'm not telling you how to live, Greg. I'm telling you that you already are living it, whether you like it or not. It's the kind of life that requires you to be more than just an unwilling participant."
Greg bit his lip. The weight of the old man's words hung over him like a dark cloud, a constant reminder of what he was trying to avoid. This wasn't just some random stranger in the woods. This was someone who had seen the consequences of running, of rejecting his destiny. Greg wasn't sure if he was ready to accept that truth.
He looked back at the creatures again—the griffin, the fox, and Grizzle—each of them waiting for his next move, hoping for his guidance. He could feel their trust in him, and that made his heart tighten with both guilt and anger. It wasn't fair. They didn't deserve him. They deserved someone who would take charge, someone who knew how to handle them.
But Greg wasn't that person.
"You're right," Greg said after a long silence, his voice softer now. "I can't keep running forever."
The old man's expression softened, his eyes flickering with what could only be described as relief. "No. You can't. But the path you take from here—it's still yours to choose. Just remember that it's not about controlling them. It's about understanding them. And in the end, understanding yourself."
Greg stood there for a long moment, the weight of the old man's words sinking in like stones in his chest. He wasn't sure what to do with this new knowledge, but one thing was for certain: He was no longer the same person who had wandered into this world a few days ago.