Low-Fantasy Occultist

Nick left the hidden cellar before dawn, the chill air a welcome contrast to the phantom heat still clinging to his ribs.

It would fade with time, but for now, it was a constant reminder that he wasn’t all-powerful. It wasn’t something he’d have thought he’d need to be taught, given that he’d already spent a whole lifetime with very little magic, but now that it had been done, he wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

The southern ward was a maze of reinforced barricades and makeshift watchtowers, firmly under the Black Hounds’ control. Their camp was his current target, but before walking into their den, Nick needed to understand the mercenaries better.

He moved through the upper rafters of the adjacent tenement buildings, cloaked in the subtle obscuration of the [Mire]. The camp below sprawled with tents, roaring cookfires, and laughing men.

As he’d come to learn from his observations, the Black Hounds were not a uniform army but a collection of hardened veterans from every corner of Berea and beyond.

Nick watched a squad of heavily tattooed men from an eastern island practicing with curved, serrated blades. Near the smithy, a trio of pale, towering northerners—likely tribesmen from the icy wastes beyond Toneburg’s influence—argued loudly over a game of dice, their breath pluming in the cold morning air.

Not that they seemed bothered by the cold, since they all wore bearfur cloaks left open to reveal their muscular, furry chests.

All of these people were seasoned warriors, dangerous in more than just battle, and surprisingly diverse. Holding such a volatile mix of traditions and egos together required a leader of immense skill, something the picture he’d put together of this Varg shouldn’t allow for.

Nick shifted his focus toward the center of the camp, where a large stone manor house had been taken as the command post. The walls were heavily guarded, but it was the signature radiating from the top floor that held his attention.

To a casual observer, it would seem little more than a mighty warrior. It was thick, aggressive, and undeniably powerful, yet nothing special in the grand scheme of things. Many skilled people stalled there, unable to complete the Feats required to cross the Prestige threshold.

But Nick possessed [Empyrean Intuition] and had long since learned to look underneath the underneath.

A more thorough study revealed that the power he sensed wasn’t a natural emanation but a carefully constructed mask. Beneath the aggressive exterior, true power was coiled, dense, and languid, like a great beast waiting for something to catch its attention and reveal its fangs.

In essence, it was a Prestige-tier soul, obscured by an artifact he couldn’t make heads or tails of—likely something from the foreign lands, far beyond the reach of standard Berean Artifice.

Nick had to suppress a chuckle. It seems this Commander Varg is not the brash, stunted brute everyone believes him to be.

Done with his scouting, he decided it was time to get to work and dropped the [Mire].

It was a big risk he was taking, but he had some cards to play if things got dicey, and from what he’d seen, he should be able to reap great rewards from the gamble.

He landed softly on the cobblestones, just outside the camp's main barricade. Suppressing the urge to summon the Shard of Human Ambition, he walked forward, his dark coat billowing slightly in the morning wind.

Two mercenaries in full plate armor, which he was pretty sure had been taken from some poor noble, stepped out from the barricade, crossing their halberds.

"Halt. This ward belongs to the Hounds," the guard on the left grunted, eyeing Nick’s lack of a visible weapon. "Turn around, kid, lest we leave you in nothing but your underclothes.”

Nick didn't break stride as he projected an invisible thread of [Stream of Consciousness] directly into the guards' minds. The attack was far subtler than those he used against the Ultimer Knights, designed to temporarily overload the nervous system without causing permanent damage.

The two guards’ eyes rolled back. They crumpled to the cobblestones, their armor clattering and drawing immediate attention from the camp.

A dozen mercenaries surged forward, shouting alarms. Nick kept walking. He flicked his fingers, unleashing pinpoint bursts of spiritual energy, and the men dropped one by one, slumping over barrels or collapsing mid-stride as if struck by sudden exhaustion.

To the untrained eye, it looked as though the men were simply fainting at his presence.

A woman with a burned cheek and a repeating crossbow stepped from the shadow of the manor's archway, raising her weapon. He knew this one would not go down to such simple spells, but fortunately, he wouldn’t need to show off any more.

His little show had attracted the right attention.

"Hold your fire, Berna," a deep voice echoed from the balcony on the second floor.

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The woman lowered the crossbow, though she still watched him warily.

"Let him up," the voice commanded. It sounded amused and intrigued, and not at all worried, which likely meant it knew the mercenaries were simply sleeping.

Berna stepped aside, gesturing toward the doors with a sharp jerk of her chin. Nick walked past the unconscious guards, gave her a brief nod, and entered the manor while she followed closely behind, keeping her crossbow ready but not pointed.

The interior was stripped of its noble finery and replaced with weapon racks and large tables covered in tactical maps of the north, though he had no time to study them. Berna escorted Nick up the sweeping staircase to the master study.

Commander Varg sat behind a massive oak desk. He was a mountain of a man, shorter only than Marthas, and his skin was crisscrossed with old, silvered scars. He wore simple leather armor, and a massive double-bladed battleaxe rested against the desk. An intricate chain of dark metal encircled his thick neck, and Nick knew it was the artifact masking his true power, though it didn’t look out of place, given that every mercenary of renown wore spoils of battle like that.

"Leave us," the man who had to be Varg rumbled, eyeing Nick with a glint in his eyes. It was little more than interest now, but he knew it could change at any moment.

Berna nodded, stepped out, and closed the double doors behind her without a word. Her presence in the ether told him she thought him incredibly foolish for coming here as he had, but she didn’t care about his fate.

Varg studied Nick, his pale eyes clear and free of the berserker rage he was known for. “Though not everyone is powerful, my men are disciplined. They don't faint. And a boy without a weapon doesn't walk through my front gate unless he is either supremely foolish or supremely dangerous. So tell me, which one are you?”

“Probably a bit of both," Nick replied, taking a seat in the high-backed chair opposite the desk. “It takes some foolishness to enter the den of a Prestige warrior, after all. I am Nick, Commander Varg.”

Varg’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. The silence in the room stretched, and the air grew thick and oppressive as the mercenary commander weighed his words.

"The artifact is a clever piece of work," Nick continued, pointing a finger at his own neck. "But hiding such power from someone who deals in souls is difficult.”

Again, this was a risk, if a calculated one. He needed to show Varg he was more than just a kid with some power, and admitting he dealt with the esoteric arts would go a long way toward that.

And something tells me it’s not the first time he’s had to deal with people with such skills.

Varg let out a slow, rumbling chuckle and leaned back in his chair. "A soul-mage. That explains the sleeping guards. You are a long way from any Tower, boy. What brings such a prized caster into a street war?”

"A common enemy," Nick said. "Ephor Ultimer.”

Surprisingly, Varg snorted in dismissal. "Ultimer is a problem, yes. He is powerful and dangerous and would have eventually betrayed me, but he’s not the one taking most of my attention, with the Shadows murdering my lieutenants and framing the Duke's men.”

Nick hid his surprise. He’d expected Varg to be intelligent, but he’d still underestimated him. “If you know that much, why go along with it?”

“Knowing that doesn't solve my problem. My men are out for blood, and I am using the chaos to purge rival companies and consolidate the southern ward before the Crown sends a real force to put us down.”

"Then why stay?" Nick asked, testing the waters. "You are Prestige. You could break through the siege lines tonight and lead your core fighters out of the city. Letting the Shadows and the Duke deal with Ephor would make far more sense.”

“I am not leaving empty-handed," Varg growled, his massive hands flat on the desk. "We bled for this city far too much to be content with a pittance. The nobles pulled back from the dwarven front, leaving us to bleed in their stead, and then they tried to execute us in the streets when we came to collect our pay. I am taking my due, mage. I will strip this city to the bedrock before I leave. Also, the Shadows would be on me the moment I left Toneburg.”

“I’m sure you’re gaining a lot by raiding trading houses and minor nobles, but you must know they hold coppers compared to the true prize," Nick said quietly.

Varg raised an eyebrow. “If I could have marched through the noble district and taken it all, I would have already. Don’t tell me you came all this way just to tell me that?”

This was it. He needed the man’s help if he wanted to win, and now it was time to lay down his cards.

"Ephor plans to anchor a Greater Demon to the physical plane," Nick stated plainly.

Varg froze. The calculated pragmatism vanished, replaced by genuine shock. "A Greater Demon? Here? That is insanity! The residual corruption from such a summoning alone will turn Toneburg into a dead zone for a century, and that is only if it is repelled!”

It was clear he didn’t fully believe him, but he wasn’t dismissing it either, which meant he had to have some suspicions of his own.

“That’s why he’s funneling so many resources to the Elpen Forge," Nick explained. "He has hoarded an incredible amount of Null-glass, Bleeding Chalk, and other valuables to fund the ritual. The wealth in that estate alone could buy a small kingdom.”

Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"I need access to the lower vaults to stop him, which is in your interest as well,” he proposed. “But Ephor has locked the estate down with a Prestige-tier dome that I can’t break on my own without losing the power I need afterward. Point your army at his gates. Break the dome. Your men will take the hoarded wealth of the northern nobility while I deal with the basement.”

Varg remained silent for a while, considering a map on his desk, then tapped a thick finger against the Elpen estate. "An assault on a fortified position held by an Artificer Lord will cost me hundreds of men. Even for that much gold, it is a steep price. Especially when the Crown will brand us traitors the moment the dwarven war ends. We will be hunted from here to the southern mountains.”

Ah, so he already realized my affiliation, or at least has an idea.

Whether Varg believed he was the scion of High Nobility sent here on a mission or in cahoots with the Shadows, it didn’t really matter.

He wouldn’t have brought up the matter if he thought Nick couldn’t do anything about it, especially since he’d already said he was willing to take his chances looting the city, even if it meant risking the Kingdom’s wrath.

"Not if you have a royal pardon," Nick countered.

Varg looked up, his pale eyes locking onto Nick's. "Only the King can grant pardons, or the Marshal of the Armies in wartime.”

"My name is Nicholas Crowley," Nick said. "My father commands much of the northern front. When the war with the dwarves ends, he will be in a position to dictate terms. If you break Ephor Ultimer and stop a demonic incursion, I will personally guarantee your men a full pardon. You will get to keep the gold, and, more importantly, your heads.”

Varg stared at him, calculating the odds, weighing the risk of trusting a noble heir against the promise of unprecedented wealth and freedom.

"The entire hoard," Varg finally rumbled. "Every coin, every resource.”

"No," Nick replied, his voice just as firm. "A portion of the wealth must be returned to Toneburg's citizens to rebuild what Ephor destroyed. The rest, which will still be much, is yours.”

Varg pushed his chair back, standing at his full, imposing height.

The air visibly distorted as the sheer might of his presence pressed down on Nick. The wood of his chair groaned in protest.

Yet Nick didn't flinch. He sat perfectly still, meeting the giant's gaze. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his scorched ribs throbbed under the strain, but his expression remained a mask of indifference.

Varg held the staredown for ten agonizing seconds. Then the pressure vanished, and he barked a loud, genuine laugh.

"A Crowley, indeed," Varg grinned, sitting back down. “From what I hear, your father has balls of steel, and it seems the apple didn't fall far from the tree. You have a deal, kid. Give me a couple of days. I will rally the companies, and we will storm the estate.”

Nick stood up with the aid of telekinesis to steady his legs, then extended a hand. “Two days, then, Commander.”

Varg shook it, his grip like a vice.

It was only the first piece of the puzzle, but a most important one.

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