The capital rose before us like a dream carved from marble and terracotta.
Freegior sprawled along both banks of the Argent River, its white clay buildings glowing amber in the late afternoon sun, their rooftops a sea of burnt-orange tiles. A dozen massive bridges—each wide enough for five carriages abreast—connected the city's halves, their stone arches reflected in the water below. But the true marvel was the royal castle: a mountain of pale stone with eleven slender towers orbiting its central spire, which pierced the clouds at a hundred meters.
*"Two million souls call this home,"* Gerald said, stroking his mustache. *"During the Grand Tourney? Seven million. Pray we're gone before then."*
I barely heard him. My eyes tracked the river barges laden with goods, the distant shouts of merchants in the guild quarter, the—
A scream tore through the air.
Not human. Not even close.
Three hundred paces ahead, where the cobbled road met the first outlying farms, chaos erupted. A caravan of two dozen had been ambushed. At its center stood the source of that unearthly roar—a **Forest King**, its grizzly bulk the size of a war elephant, claws like scimitars tearing ruts in the stone road. Two **coal wolves** circled nearby, their pelts smoldering, while nine **meth poultry**—four-foot-tall, red-eyed, razor-beaked monstrosities—darted between the panicked horses.
*"Rank 6 Grand-class,"* Gerald muttered. *"Odd for one to stray so close to the city."*
Five knights in unmarked armor—wandering knights—fought a desperate retreat near the wagons. But my gaze locked onto the ornate carriage at the rear—white lacquered wood with silver filigree. Three protectors in purple-and-white plate stood guard, their glaives gleaming. Each stood two meters tall, their maroon capes billowing with the crest of two clashing narwhals—the symbol of Count Phillip.
A flashback from my studies with Gerald surfaced: *"A wealthy family,"* he had said, *"one that keeps only a small number of knights, but each is trained to the peak. For three to be deployed means someone of direct relation to the count is inside."*
*"Should we help?"* I asked.
*"Of course, young'un! Do you not crave to be a knight? Now's your chance to prove yourself in battle!"*
With a leap, the old battle-hardened conjurer soared ten meters into the air and bellowed, *"Young Alex, for your rudeness earlier, you must slay one of those wild poultry! Fail, and I'll make sure your first journey in the capital is from the Grand River to the Grand Sewer! Bwahahaha!"*
*"Tch—crazy old man!"*
---
### **The Battle Joined**
With a sharp horizontal slash, Gerald beheaded one of the crazed chickens.
*"One chicken down, boy!"* he bellowed. *"Don't let an old man show you up!"*
I barely had time to draw my sword before a coal wolf lunged. Still unawakened, fighting one of those frenzied chickens was my limit—but I didn't shy away, even knowing the wolf would kill me.
Then, a mellifluous voice cut through the chaos: *"Interesting."*
Before I knew it, one of the three purple-and-white knights stood before me, his glaive flashing downward, cleaving the wolf in two. He turned, his eyes crinkling with amusement. *"Did your master not give you a task, boy? Go and complete it."*
The Forest King noticed one of its minions fall. Enraged, it swiped a massive paw, sending a knight flying like a child's doll. The beast reared up, its eight-meter frame blotting out the sun—then **charged straight for the noble's carriage.**
The two remaining house knights crossed their glaives. With a thunderous clash, the Forest King slammed into them—yet, to my shock, they were merely pushed back a dozen meters, their armor barely scuffed.
I had no time to marvel. A stray attack from the beast came flying toward me—until a glacial blade arced from behind, redirecting the blow that could've leveled a wagon into a nearby starfruit cart.
The knight laughed boisterously before grabbing me by the collar. *"Pup, leave this one to us old fellows. Go finish your mission! Hahahaha!"*
A bad feeling crept over me. *"Wait—don't—"*
Just as I feared, he hurled me straight at one of the feral chickens.
Did that damn bird just *snarl* at me?
*"Damn you, old bastard! AHHHH!"
### **The Chicken Battle of Freegior**
I stared down the meth poultry—this four-foot-tall, red-eyed, razor-beaked demon chicken from the depths of hell. It clucked, a sound that was somehow both mocking and homicidal.
*"Alright, you overgrown nugget,"* I muttered, tightening my grip on my sword. *"Let's do this."*
The chicken lunged.
I screamed.
Not a battle cry—no, this was pure, undignified terror. I swung my sword wildly, missing entirely as the chicken dodged with unnatural grace. Its beak snapped shut an inch from my nose, and I stumbled back, tripping over a rock.
*"OH COME ON!"*
The chicken pounced. I rolled, barely avoiding a beak strike that left a gash in the cobblestones.
*"SWEET MOTHER OF—"* I scrambled to my feet, swinging again. This time, my blade connected—but instead of cleaving through, it just pissed the chicken off.
*"CLUCK-CLUCK-CLUCK-CLUCK—"*
*"STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"*
I abandoned all dignity and punched it.
My fist connected with its feathered skull. The chicken staggered, shook its head, then glared at me like I'd just insulted its entire bloodline.
*"Oh, you did *not* just take that,"* I wheezed.
It charged.
What followed was the most undignified brawl in the history of Freegior. I kicked. It pecked. I grabbed a nearby bucket and bashed it over the head. The bucket shattered. The chicken did not.
*"WHAT ARE YOU MADE OF?!"*
I resorted to wrestling the monstrosity, wrapping my arms around its neck in a desperate chokehold. The chicken thrashed, wings flapping wildly, kicking up dust and feathers.
*"DIE! JUST DIE ALREADY!"*
With one final, desperate twist, I *yanked*.
**SNAP.**
The chicken went limp.
Panting, covered in sweat, feathers, and what I *hoped* was mud, I dropped the corpse and wiped my brow.
*"Ha… ha… take that, you feathered bastard—"*
Then I turned around.
Silence.
Every single person—Gerald, the wandering knights, the noble's guards, even the damn Forest King—had stopped fighting.
They were all staring at me.
Gerald stroked his mustache, eyes twinkling. *"Well. That was… something."*
One of the purple-and-white knights cleared his throat. *"I've seen men duel dragons with more grace."*
The noble's carriage window slid open slightly, and a delicate, gloved hand emerged—giving me a slow, sarcastic clap.
My face burned.
*"IT WAS A LIFE-OR-DEATH SITUATION!"* I yelled.
The Forest King snorted—actually *snorted*—before resuming its rampage, as if deciding I wasn't worth the effort.
Gerald burst out laughing. *"Oh, lad. You're never living this down."*
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
The chicken, at least, had the decency to stay dead.