Gerik did not have the best childhood. He grew up in a farm area on the outskirts of a small settlement called Harrowfield, where the soil was stubborn and the winters bit deep. His father Drell was a notorious kingpin in the underworld of petty theft and highway robbery. Drell had a reputation that stretched across three villages: he stole livestock, grain, coin purses, even the occasional child if the ransom promised enough silver. He never killed unless cornered, but he hurt people without hesitation. One night, after Gerik botched a simple operation to lift a merchant's coin sack, Drell dragged him into the barn. The belt came down again and again across Gerik's back until the skin split and blood soaked his shirt. Drell leaned close, breath sour with cheap ale.
"I steal to survive," he said. "You steal because you're weak."
Drell was an abuser in every way. He struck Sara, Gerik's mother, for the slightest perceived failure: a meal too cold, a floor not swept clean enough, a word spoken out of turn. Sara bore the bruises quietly at first, then with growing resignation. One spring evening during a raid on a guarded caravan, Drell did not return. No body was ever found. No witnesses spoke. Gerik and Sara never learned how he met his end, but they both knew one thing: the world was a better place without him. They held no funeral. No grave marker. Just silence.
The silence did not last. Drell's absence removed the shield he had once provided. The townsfolk, who had feared him enough to keep their distance, now turned their resentment on the family he left behind. Stones flew over fences at night. Windows shattered. Children spat at Gerik in the lanes. Adults beat him when no one watched. Sara tried to protect him at first, but the weight of it all broke her. One day when Gerik was five she snapped. The first slap came without warning. Then the pinches, the hair-pulling, the nights locked in the root cellar with nothing but darkness and her voice hissing through the door that he was just like his father. The abuse grew worse until one gray morning Gerik found her hanging from the rafter in the barn. Rope creaked softly in the draft. Her feet dangled inches above the straw. He stood there, too small to reach, too stunned to cry. He could not understand why life had treated him this way. The darkness swallowed him whole.
After so much darkness, he eventually found light. After a long search through years of scraping by on odd jobs, petty bounties, and nights sleeping under hedges, peace came into his life in the form of Remia. He met her when he was twenty-three, tracking a deserter through the back alleys of a border town. She was cornered in a narrow passage by three men who thought a lone pickpocket was easy prey. Gerik could have walked past. He did not need to save her. Something in him resonated with her defiance, the way she clutched a stolen purse like a shield and spat in their faces. He stepped in. The fight was short. One man lost teeth. Another lost consciousness. The third fled. Remia looked at him with wary eyes.
"I had it handled," she said.
"I know," he replied.
They had a lot of bad moments. Arguments that ended with slammed doors. Nights when she disappeared for days on jobs that went wrong. A time when she came home with a broken wrist and refused to tell him who did it. A night when he drank too much and called her a thief in anger, then spent the next week sleeping on the floor in apology. Trust built slowly. Love followed. They settled in Thornvale, a quiet place far from the border troubles. For three years it was all peace. Until it was not.
Back at the arena, the crowd rose. Gerik's second knee trembled, inches from the dirt. His first knee had already given up, grinding into the packed earth. Pain radiated through every joint. Badeur looked bored. He spoke again.
"Thou shalt not stand in vain."
A wooden chair appeared from nothing, simple and sturdy. Badeur sat. He drew a small book the size of a pocket note from inside his robe and opened it. He began to read in silence, lips moving slightly, eyes calm.
Tears began to drop from Gerik's eyes. They cut clean paths through the blood and dust on his cheeks.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The audience noticed. Shock rippled through the stands.
"The Huntsman is in so much pain," a woman whispered.
"I will stand with you, Huntsman, to the very end!" a man shouted from the upper tier.
Comments flew in every direction. Some supported Gerik with raw cheers. Others mocked him, calling him broken, finished, a fraud. The noise swelled.
Suddenly Gerik's right fist rose of its own accord. It punched his own face. The impact snapped his head sideways. Blood sprayed.
The audience gasped.
"What?"
"What's happening?"
The fist struck again. Then the left joined, slamming into his cheek. Blood dripped steadily from split skin.
Badeur closed his book. He watched with mild interest.
"Give it up," he said. "You cannot escape my laws."
Gerik struggled to speak. His voice came out in a low murmur.
"I am not bound by laws."
All of a sudden his right foot, after immense effort, began to straighten. The left leg still fought to obey Badeur, knee locked toward the ground. Gerik opened his eyes wide. Veins bulged in his neck. He punched his left leg repeatedly with both fists. Knuckles split against muscle. Blood dripped onto the dirt. Each blow felt like lifting a mountain. But with every strike the invisible weight lessened. The crowd's cheers grew louder. Excitement reached an all-time high.
After much effort he was free. His body was his to command once more.
Badeur stood in silence.
Gerik picked up his longsword. The blade felt heavy in his trembling hands. He took a battle stance, feet wide, sword angled low. His eyes, reddened and bloodshot, now held hints of something crazy.
Badeur stared into those eyes. He sighed. Then he turned toward the announcer's platform.
"I quit."
The arena erupted. They could not believe such a formidable opponent would quit. No one understood why he would walk away when victory seemed certain. Countless insults rained down. "Coward!" "Clown!" "Run home to your god!"
Badeur had joined the tournament to win. He believed victory would bring his faith more believers, more souls drawn to the Lord through displays of divine power. But after seeing Gerik's will and determination in full display, he was reminded how far one could go for one's goals. Although Gerik could in no way defeat him in open combat, Badeur decided to quit and find other ways to carry out his goals.
"Gerik, right?" he said. "That's what they call you. I hope you know I could win if I wanted to. But from your actions a moment ago, I could see we are the same in fighting for our beliefs. May we never meet again."
He waved his hand once, a small gesture of farewell, and walked toward the exit.
The audience could not believe it. For the first time in this tournament's edition, a powerful fighter quit against one who had his back against the wall, bloodied and broken yet unbowed.
Comments like "goodbye and good riddance" and "crawl back to your prayers" followed Badeur. Then he vanished through the tunnel.
The announcer's voice cracked with disbelief before steadying.
"The winner of this bout is Gerik Grimholt, the Huntsman!"
The crowd went ballistic. Cheers shook the timbers. Feet stomped. Mugs rose and spilled.
Emperor City, renamed from its previous name Lavendale by imperial decree, no one wanted to test such might. This city hosted the tournament yearly, but prizes changed. For the first time the Emperor had direct involvement, using it as a forum to fill Pestilence's army. It was also the first time a powerful weapon was up for grabs alongside the cash prize. Normally only silver changed hands. This year exciting prizes were on display. This edition had been the toughest so far. No one knew who would claim the top two spots.
Gerik stood still. The announcer had called him the victor. His name echoed from every corner of the stadium. This victory confirmed he was the underdog of the tournament.
His body could not move from where he stood. He could only weakly look on as his name was hailed. The internal bleeding had taken a toll. His wounds had not been kind. Vision blurred at the edges. The young man with the star tattoo got up quietly and left the stands.
The following day news of the top eight fighters had spread across the land. The underdog without magic resonated heavily with the common folk. They wanted him to win.
Gerik awoke. His eyes faced the wooden ceiling of the healer's small room. He turned his head left. An old woman in a healer's robe stood with her back to him, mixing herbs in a mortar. Gerik had made it here yesterday after the fight and spent the night.
She turned, catching him staring.
"How do you feel?" she asked. "The gods of life must cherish you greatly."
"I feel better than yesterday."
"Of course you do."
"How much do I owe for this treatment?"
"Thirty-five silver."
Gerik got up slowly. He rummaged through his clothing folded on a chair. He counted out the coins and placed them on the table.
He was about to leave when she spoke again.
"Piece of advice. Try not to move around too much when you have internal bleeding. It's extremely dangerous."
"Noted."
He left.
Elsewhere in the Rose District of Emperor City, a giant projectile landed from the sky. It crashed into the manicured green beauty of the plants and environment. Soil erupted. Bushes flattened. The smoke cleared, revealing a huge creature with bulging muscles, leather boots, and leather pants. It was red in color. A blood orc. A-class rank. It held its axe in anticipation of something, nostrils flaring.
In the blink of an eye a smaller projectile landed before the orc.
"I see," Pestilence spoke.
"You are a stubborn one."
Was Badeur a tough opponent?
