Chapter 2: Journey Through a War-Torn Land
The wheels of the merchant's caravan creaked against the uneven dirt road, their rhythmic groaning blending with the heavy footfalls of armored boots. Dust swirled in the air, carried by the bitter wind that howled across the desolate plains of Brawlmanica.
Seated at the back of one of the wagons, a hooded figure remained still, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Elton Solman exhaled softly, his breath barely visible in the cool morning air. The weight of memory pressed against his mind like an iron shackle. Three years had passed since the war that had taken everything from him.
The images were still vivid—his mother's broken body, the sky ablaze with golden fire, his father's valiant last stand against the Brawlman Sect's monstrous cultivators. That war had shaped the country, shattering its balance of power, but none of it mattered to Elton. His world had already been destroyed before the final battle even ended.
"Still brooding over the past? You'll never move forward if you keep clinging to ghosts."
The voice rang in his head—a voice that wasn't his, yet it had been with him for as long as he could remember. His inner voice. It was stronger now than before, more confident, more certain than he could ever be.
"Shut up," Elton thought back, shifting his gaze to the mercenaries traveling alongside him.
They were a rough lot, hardened men and women hired to protect a merchant and his wares. Elton had joined their group two weeks ago when they passed through a ruined settlement. He wasn't hired—just a quiet traveler, one who kept to himself.
The merchant leading the caravan was Goran Feld, a short, rotund man with a sharp tongue but a cautious nature. He traded in whatever he could scavenge from the ruins of Brawlmanica, moving supplies across the still-unstable borders.
"Keep your eyes open," growled Brenner, the leader of the mercenaries, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. He was a burly man with a scar across his chin, his weathered features betraying years of battle experience. "Bandits love picking off caravans like this, especially near the border."
His words proved prophetic.
The attack came suddenly. From the craggy hills ahead, arrows whistled through the air. The lead horse reared in panic as a bolt struck its side, sending one of the wagons careening to the side. A cacophony of shouts erupted as masked figures emerged from the brush, swords and clubs in hand.
"Bandits!" Brenner roared. "Defensive formation!"
The mercenaries reacted quickly, raising their weapons as the attackers swarmed. Elton, still seated at the back of the wagon, sighed. He had sensed the ambush long before it happened—these bandits were weak, but they were desperate.
"What now, oh brooding one? Gonna sit here and watch, or do you actually plan to fight?"
He stood, pulling his hood lower over his face. The mercenaries were struggling—outnumbered, caught off guard. Elton could see Brenner cutting down one opponent with brutal efficiency, but another was closing in from his blind spot.
With a flicker of movement, Elton vanished from his spot.
The next moment, a bandit found his sword arm twisted at an unnatural angle before a quick, decisive palm strike sent him crashing into a tree.
Elton moved through the battlefield like a shadow. He wasn't flashy, nor did he use extravagant techniques—only precise, controlled movements that wasted no energy. Each strike disabled his enemies swiftly.
The bandits quickly realized something was wrong. Who was this boy? He looked no older than eleven or twelve, yet his combat skills were terrifying.
It was over in minutes.
The remaining bandits fled, leaving behind the groaning bodies of their fallen comrades.
Brenner wiped blood from his chin, giving Elton a long, calculating look. "You're more than you seem, kid."
Elton shrugged. "I just defended myself."
Goran the merchant emerged from his hiding spot behind a wagon. "Bah! Filthy bandits! Good work, boy! You may not be hired, but you've certainly earned a meal tonight."
Elton didn't care for the praise. He simply nodded and returned to his seat.
"You're holding back," the inner voice commented.
"Of course I am," Elton thought. "There's no need to show everything."
The journey continued, and by nightfall, the caravan finally arrived at New Brawl City.
The city was a shadow of its former glory. Before the war, it had been a prosperous trade hub. Now, it was a city of refugees and survivors, half-rebuilt with wooden fortifications and hastily assembled buildings. The streets were filled with merchants, mercenaries, and desperate common folk trying to make a new life.
Elton stepped off the wagon, stretching slightly. Brenner approached him. "You've got skill, kid. If you're looking for work, I could use someone like you."
Elton shook his head. "I have other plans."
Brenner didn't push. "Suit yourself. But be careful—this city isn't as safe as it looks."
With that, Elton left, vanishing into the city streets. He had no intention of staying.
His true destination lay beyond the city—the Beastlands, a wild forest home to mindless creatures twisted by residual cultivation energy. It was dangerous, but it was also the perfect place to train.
The forest loomed before him, dark and foreboding. The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere changed. The air was thick with an oppressive energy, and distant howls echoed through the trees.
Elton navigated through the dense foliage until he reached a familiar landmark—a small cave hidden between jagged rocks. His home.
The next three days were spent in complete isolation.
• Training his body through rigorous exercises.
• Honing his techniques, perfecting his "Star Lightning Speed Steps" to move faster in combat.
• Fighting the mindless beasts, using them to sharpen his instincts.
The beasts here were vicious, but they lacked intelligence. With each battle, Elton felt himself growing stronger. He was close to breaking through.
On the dawn of the fourth day, he finally reached it.
Silver Rank 1.
A surge of energy flooded his body, refining his muscles, reinforcing his bones, sharpening his mind. He could feel the difference—his movements were smoother, his strikes deadlier.
But he knew better than to flaunt his advancement.
So, he activated a newly learned technique, Concealment Veil, suppressing his aura to make it seem like he was still at Bronze Rank 5.
"Smart," the inner voice mused. "No need to attract unnecessary trouble."
Elton exhaled, steadying himself. He wasn't ready yet. Not for the larger world.
But soon.
Very soon.
And when that time came… the world would remember the name Elton Solman.