Chapter 14 : A Man From No Where

Elliot’s footsteps echoed like war drums against the cold stone floor, each one burdened by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The truth he’d learned weighed heavy on his heart—yet somewhere within the turmoil stirred a spark of hope. Serena was not broken, not cursed. The fear, the doubt she carried for so long… was never hers to bear. That alone was enough to keep his legs moving.

At the base of the grand staircase, he found the towering portrait of Lord Barrenworth himself—stoic, grim, and glaring through centuries of dust. Just as Roderick had described, a loose wooden panel hid the way. Elliot pressed against it, and with a reluctant creak, the hidden passage revealed itself: a narrow staircase spiraling downward into the dark.

He descended without hesitation.

The stairwell gave way to a long, winding corridor that felt more like a forgotten artery carved through the belly of the earth. Damp stone pressed in from every side, lit only by flickering torches wedged into natural crevices in the rock. After what felt like a descent into the world’s heart, the passage opened into a vast subterranean chamber.

The cave was immense, its walls still rugged with untouched stone, but touched here and there by human effort—sconces carved into the walls, silken drapes lining some of the colder crags, a circular dais of obsidian in the center, and dozens of candles arranged in sacred patterns across the floor. Despite the effort to civilize it, the chamber still breathed like something primal. Elliot couldn’t shake the feeling he had stepped into a sanctum, not a hospital.

This looks more like a ritual chamber than a healing room… he thought.

But the thought was short-lived.

In the very heart of the cavern, atop a bed draped in deep crimson cloth, lay Serena—her breathing calm, her expression serene, as if she were merely dreaming. Beside her stood someone Elliot hadn’t expected—Corrin, the bespectacled half-orc scholar, muttering incantations under his breath, hands aglow with faint blue light.

Adrenaline surged through Elliot’s limbs.

Before reason could catch up to instinct, he charged forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. With a sharp cry, he slammed into Corrin, tackling him to the cold, unyielding ground.

“Augh! What the hell, man?!” Corrin cried, limbs flailing wildly as he tried to break free from the sudden assault.

“What did you do to her?!” Elliot roared, his hands gripping Corrin’s collar, eyes burning with a mix of panic and fury.

Corrin blinked up at him, thoroughly bewildered. “What—? Im using mind spells to contact her trough dreams so I can ask her what she wants for dinner! What is it looks like im doing?? I’m healing her, you lunatic!”

“Yeah right,” Elliot growled, drawing back his fist, knuckles tightening with every heartbeat. “You better start talking—fast.”

“Hold your horses, young man—that’s quite enough.”

A firm grip clutched both of Elliot’s shoulders, not strong enough to hurt, but steady enough to halt him mid-swing. The voice, however, stopped him more than the hands did. It was oddly familiar.

Elliot turned, still panting, and scanned the figure before him. A halfling man, canine-like in his features, dressed in a patchwork of fine linen and leather, stared back at him with calm, discerning eyes.

“You?” Elliot blinked. “The tavern keeper?”

The halfling gave a courteous bow, one hand over his chest. “Yes, indeed. Gerald, at your service. And might I say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you—under slightly less… violent circumstances, I hope.”

Elliot’s mind reeled, trying to stitch together all the pieces. “What’s going on here?”

“We were in the middle of her daily recovery session,” Corrin snapped, standing and brushing dust from his moss-green leather coat, “until you came charging in like a feral boar.” His tone dripped with irritation. “Truly, you mountain folk have no sense of manners. Don’t you agree, Bobby?”

At that, a squat, wart-covered boulder frog sprang up onto Corrin’s shoulder, croaking in what could only be described as theatrical mockery.

Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say—?”

“Okay!” Gerald interjected swiftly, sliding between them with the ease of someone well-practiced in diffusing tension. He gently placed both palms against Elliot’s torso, steering him back with cheerful insistence. “Let’s all take a deep breath, yes? Inside voices, please. No need to make the cave echo with your tempers.”

Corrin folded his arms and gave a smug glance to Bobby, who croaked again, smugger still.

“Mr. Frog Lord,” Gerald addressed with exaggerated courtesy, “if you would be so kind, please continue your noble and entirely nonjudgmental incantations.” Then he turned to Elliot, smiling wide. “And you, sir—gorgeous young man with those unsettlingly intense blue eyes—why don’t you join me over here in the corner, where we can talk like civilized folk who don't resolve every misunderstanding with a tackle?”

A long, tense silence followed.

Elliot locked eyes with Corrin. A glare passed between them, electric and unspoken.

Then, finally, Elliot exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine.”

They stepped into a side chamber—what appeared, quite astonishingly, to be a pantry. Elliot paused at the threshold, blinking in disbelief.

A pantry. In a cave.

Warm-toned wood cabinets, polished to a gleam; bar stools crafted with delicate scrollwork along the legs; a sturdy counter of polished stone; and even a small iron furnace set snugly against the wall, quietly humming with residual heat. A silver sink gleamed beneath a trickle of water pouring from a crystal spout enchanted with endless flow.

“Go on, sit. Make yourself comfortable,” Gerald said warmly, sweeping an arm toward one of the stools. “We’ll talk after a warm meal. That always helps.”

Elliot settled onto the stool, still taking in the sight. His voice came out as a murmur of awe. “Giant floating metal vessels, long-range weapons that don’t use animus… and now a bar tucked into a cave. What’s next? A bed that magically massages your muscles?”

“Oh!” Gerald perked up, wagging a finger. “There’s rumor they’ve already got something like that in the capital. Uses tiny vibrating enchantments and goose feather matrices—very cozy.”

He moved to a nearby cupboard and opened it to reveal rows of eggs cradled in straw-lined compartments. “Eggs? Scrambled? Yes?” he asked, already cracking a few against the edge of a ceramic bowl. “With a dash of pepper? Perhaps some onions?”

“Yes, please,” Elliot said, then caught himself. “Wait—no onions. Sorry.”

“Not a fan?”

“Never have been. Something about the smell…”

“Ah, then you and my daughter would get along splendidly. She’s declared a lifelong war on onions. That, and you both share a talent for leaping headfirst into conclusions.” Gerald chuckled softly as he stirred the eggs with practiced ease, the skillet already hissing with melted butter.

“Wait—daughter?” Elliot blinked, voice spiking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude, I just—”

“Surprised?” Gerald grinned as he poured the eggs into the pan. “Yes, yes, I’m well aware I look too youthful to be anyone’s father. But for your information, Mr. Hargrove, we halflings—especially the canine-blooded ones like myself—have quite the condensed lifespans compared to you long-lived humans. We grow up fast, love fast, and, well... breed fast. Nature’s way of keeping the hearth warm, I suppose.”

“Well… I can’t wait to meet her,” Elliot said with a hopeful smile, his voice light with an earnest kind of cheer.

Gerald, standing at the stove with a plate in hand, turned to him with a small, solemn smile. “Ah… but you can’t,” he said simply. “She’s dead.”

The words fell like a quiet stone into still water.

Elliot blinked. “I—I’m sorry—”

“No need.” Gerald waved the apology away, his expression calm, almost too calm. “It was a long, long time ago. Painful, yes, but pain ages differently for our kind.”

He set the plate in front of Elliot with care, then leaned back on the counter, eyes drifting for a moment. “For us halflings who fled from broken nations and blood-soaked borders, loss was a risk we all accepted. Casualties were a cost… sometimes a certainty.” His voice dipped into something quieter, older. “Better to die fighting for freedom than live another day as a slave of war.”

The flickering torches cast long shadows across the stone walls, and for a beat, there was only the quiet hiss of the skillet cooling.

Then Gerald clapped his hands softly, as if brushing the past from his fingers. “Ah, dear me. I’ve gone and plunged the mood straight into the abyss, haven’t I?” He gave a half-laugh, gentle but hollow. “Well, let’s hope the eggs can lift it back up.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Elliot stared at the plate—fluffy scrambled eggs, steaming softly, peppered just right. He glanced from it to Gerald, then back again. The halfling's face was composed, even cheerful, as if he hadn’t just peeled back a scarred chapter of his life without flinching.

“Go on, eat,” Gerald urged, pointing a finger toward the plate. “Not another word from me until you finish the entire thing. That’s the price.”

There was warmth in his firmness, a nurturing insistence that struck Elliot strangely deep. It reminded him of home. Of the way his mother would force him to eat something—anything—after a bruising day of training. That same quiet care, cloaked beneath a stern voice and kind eyes.

Elliot picked up the fork. “Alright,” he muttered, managing a small smile. “But only because it smells amazing.”

One delicious egg later, Elliot leaned back in his stool and returned the empty plate with a nod of gratitude, a faint smile curving his lips in appreciation.

“That was… incredible,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

Gerald gave a satisfied little bow. “A well-fed mind listens better, or so they say.”

With a full stomach settling his nerves, Elliot’s tone turned more serious. “So… what exactly is going on down here? What happened to Serena? And more importantly, why is that toad-faced half-orc the one healing her?”

“I heard that!” Corrin’s voice rang out from the distance, indignant and piercing. “Say that again and I’ll enchant your bedroom to smell like the inside of a swamp hag’s boot!”

Gerald sighed and held up a hand to cut off any further retaliation. “Ignore him,” he said wearily, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Now, back to your question. What happened? Quite the tale, actually.”

Elliot leaned in, listening intently.

Gerald clasped his hands together, eyes gleaming with theatrical flair. “So… an undead orc, born out of forbidden black magic, feral and rotting, stronger than anything we were prepared for. First, he floored Roderick—sent him flying like a broken doll. Then he came for you, lad. You fought hard, but he crushed you like a pine branch underfoot. Nearly killed you.”

Elliot’s brow furrowed as memories flashed—blurred, fragmented pain.

“The beast would’ve finished off you off too,” Gerald went on, “if Corrin hadn’t sent his little minion to drag your body to safety. That frog may look like pond scum, but it saved your life. Might want to keep your insults on a leash.”

From the distance, Corrin added with a theatrical sniff, “A thank-you wouldn’t hurt!”

Gerald pressed on, ignoring the interruption. “With you down, and Roderick out cold, the beast went for Maggie next. But it was Corrin—again—who distracted the orc just long enough to get her to safety.”

He paused for effect, lowering his voice like a storyteller around a campfire. “We were finished. All of us. I swear I could smell the gates of death opening. And then—she rose.”

“Serena,” Elliot whispered.

“Aye,” Gerald nodded. “Like a light in the dark. She stepped forward and cast a spell unlike any I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t just magic—it was art, power, and sacrifice all woven into one.”

His hands described the motion, fingers sweeping through the air. “There was this surge, this shimmer of light—like stardust erupting from her hands. Then—BOOM! A blast of radiant force. The orc didn’t scream. It didn’t even fall. It just… turned to ash. Gone. Carried away like smoke on a breeze.”

Elliot’s eyes widened, a mix of awe and confusion. “She… did that?”

Gerald’s tone softened. “But at a cost. As the light faded, so did she. Collapsed right where she stood. Something about her… using her animus too much?”

“She overloaded the chant ring!” Corrin corrected loudly, from across the cavern. “Not just her animus—she supercharged the conduit beyond safe threshold!”

“Yes yes, precisely what he said,” Gerald agreed with a flippant wave. “Burned her core near dry doing it, I reckon.”

There was a beat of silence between them, the gravity of it all finally settling in.

“She saved us all,” Gerald said, more quietly now. “If it weren’t for her, none of us would be standing here. Not even Corrin, swamp-scented hero that he is.”

Elliot looked away, toward the dim flicker of torchlight seeping in from the main chamber. Somewhere in that dark, Serena lay unmoving—fought for, healed, and not forgotten.

“…Then I owe her more than I realized,” he murmured.

“Anyway…” Gerald continued, sliding a steaming mug of herbal brew across the counter, “once the battle was over, we found ourselves tangled in yet another lovely predicament.”

Elliot took the mug, raising a brow as Gerald launched into his tale with a flair for melodrama.

“The city guard was already moving in our direction—swords drawn, armor gleaming. Another wave of those Horn Raider devils had been alerted, no doubt by the commotion. And then, as if summoned by fate itself, the good citizens of Rutterslide began to stir. Protests. Panic. Pitchforks and torches. They didn’t care who the villain was. To them, all magic was the enemy.”

He took a sip of his own drink and sighed. “So what did we do? We ran, of course. Fled the scene like bats from a burning bell tower. With Roderick’s deep pockets and web of connections, we managed to escape Alaric City and smuggle ourselves out under cover of night.”

He gestured around them with both arms, sweeping toward the cave ceiling and its hanging lanterns. “And now here we are—in the charming town of Barrenworth. Named after Roderick himself, or rather, his ancestors. Apparently, his great-great-whatever founded the first trade route that bridged the capital to the southern wilds. Quite the tale of ambition and legacy, but alas… I haven’t the energy to indulge you in all the glorious details.”

Elliot gave a slow, blinking stare. “Right… But you still haven’t answered the part about why that toad-faced half-orc is tagging along.”

Right on cue, Corrin entered the chamber, his robes sweat-soaked and clinging to him, his spectacles fogged over with exertion.

“Because,” he huffed, dragging himself to the nearest stool and collapsing onto it, “if I return to my guild, my master will flay me alive.”

Elliot raised a brow, unimpressed.

Corrin continued between gulps of air. “You see, failure—especially public, embarrassing failure—is not exactly tolerated in my… shall we say, famously uncompromising guild. If I return without results, I’d be lucky if death came quick. So, I made the logical choice. I defected. Refuge among you lot seemed the safer option compared to slow, agonizing retribution via ceremonial blade or cursed parasite.”

“You don’t say…” Elliot muttered, his tone flat, his eyes narrowing with continued suspicion.

Corrin wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I may not like you, and you may be an emotionally stunted mountain man, but at least you don’t harvest spines as a warning to others. So, here I am.”

Elliot leaned back, folding his arms. “Well, isn’t that comforting.”

Gerald let out a long, diplomatic sigh. “The joys of found family, hm?”

“So… how is she?” Elliot finally asked—the real question, the one that had been lingering beneath every breath.

Corrin exhaled through his nose, long and heavy, as if bracing himself for a lecture. “First of all, let’s be very clear—I’m not a cleric. Never claimed to be. I didn’t study under some high-temple priest or chant hymns under moonlight. Healing isn’t exactly my calling.”

He paused, adjusted his glasses, and leaned back against the stone wall. “That said… I’d call myself fairly competent. Adept, even.”

Elliot waited, arms crossed, brow tight with concern.

Corrin rubbed the back of his neck. “From what I can tell, her animus flow has become… erratic. Wild. The internal circuits that regulate it—some of them have been destabilized. Likely a result of that chanting ring of hers being overloaded. When she pushed it beyond its limit, a backlash surged through her body. A volatile recoil of animus, striking her core like a hammer.”

He gestured vaguely toward the chamber beyond, where Serena lay resting.

“That’s why I can only work on her once a day. Her mana is—well, it’s rejecting outside interference. My spells get halfway in before the flow starts to shudder and resist. If I tried to force it, I’d risk causing damage I don’t fully understand. So for now, I treat her gently. One focused session a day. Any more than that, and we risk turning a sprain into a break.”

He scratched his head, looking unusually serious. “The good news is, she’s stable. But it’s going to take time—time, and a damn delicate hand.”

Elliot reached out and placed a hand gently atop Corrin’s.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice low and sincere. “For doing everything you could.”

Corrin blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. Those weren’t the wild, reckless eyes that had tackled him minutes ago—these were… warm. Grateful.

“…Say that again when you actually mean it,” Corrin muttered, quickly retracting his hand and turning his gaze away, clearly uncomfortable. “Seriously, what is with those eyes?”

Elliot gave a small sigh, but didn’t press.

At the sink, Gerald scrubbed the last of Elliot’s plate and chimed in, his voice casual but carrying a note of quiet hope. “And when exactly are we expecting her to wake up? Surely a week of daily sessions has done something, yes?”

Elliot turned to Corrin as well, concern returning to his features.

Corrin nodded slowly. “She’s stable. That much is certain. The damage to her animus circuits is healing—bit by bit. Every day I get less resistance when I apply the spellwork. The rejection’s easing off. Her flow is slowly aligning again.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “If things continue like this… then yes. When her animus fully stabilizes, she’ll likely wake on her own.”

A soft smile touched Elliot’s lips. He exhaled, more relief than breath. “That’s good enough for me,” he murmured.

Corrin leaned back in his seat and tilted his head. “Alright, enough about Serena. Let’s talk about you.”

“Me?” Elliot blinked.

“Yes, you. You’re walking, talking, yelling, throwing punches—how in the name of all ten hells are you even alive? That strike you took should’ve splattered you across the floor like jam on toast.”

“A fair question,” Gerald added, folding a cloth neatly beside the sink.

Elliot gave a nervous chuckle. “Haha… I guess I’m just lucky? Right place, right time?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Corrin didn’t laugh. He just stared at him—serious, unmoving, as if trying to peer through Elliot’s skin and read his soul. Then, slowly, he stood.

“Come with me. There’s something I need to talk to you about. In private.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Just the two of us? Alone?”

Corrin rolled his eyes. “No, you, me, and the entire population of the mythical floating island. Yes, just the two of us, genius.”

Elliot let out yet another sigh, heavier this time.

“This can’t be good,” he muttered under his breath, trailing after Corrin as the halforc led him deeper into the cave. With every step, the warmth of Gerald’s makeshift kitchen faded behind them. The light dwindled, the air grew cooler, and the signs of habitation—smooth stone flooring, worn stools, the faint scent of firewood—were slowly replaced by damp air and the crumbling silence of a forgotten hollow.

They stopped in a shadowy corridor, far from the glow of hearth or lamp. The walls here dripped with condensation, the stone veins like forgotten scars. It was the kind of place secrets liked to linger.

“Look, man,” Elliot started quickly, trying to get ahead of what he assumed was coming. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Really. I didn’t know all the things you did—for me, for Serena. I—”

“Who are you, really?”

Corrin’s voice cut like a blade. Clean. Sharp. Demanding.

Elliot froze mid-sentence. “W-What?”

“And don’t feed me that Stonegard nonsense again,” Corrin continued coldly. “I already know it’s a lie.”

Elliot’s heartbeat spiked, and it showed—his stance, his eyes, the subtle flinch at the word lie. Corrin, of course, noticed.

“In the Horn Raiders,” the halforc began, slowly pacing, “I wasn’t just a commander. I was also a seeker. A spy, if you want to be blunt about it. And I wasn’t half-bad at it, either. My boulder frogs—they aren’t just good at biting ankles. They’re trained for information retrieval. If it exists, we find it. One of the reason why Horn Raiders strong grow is due to how fast we require information in short notice”

He paused to let that sink in. “I even knew about Serena’s real identity before you did—assuming Roderick has caught you up. Breaking in to Orias Academy for answer was not an easy task… but my minion was proven victorious in the end.”

“Okay…” Elliot replied, uncertain, wary.

“So imagine my surprise,” Corrin went on, stepping closer, “when nothing came up about you.”

Elliot’s face shifted—just slightly—but it was enough. The carefully buried panic beneath his calm cracked through, and Corrin saw it.

“Oh, I looked,” Corrin pressed. “There’s no Elliot Hargrove in Stonegard. None in Aberforth. None in Lake Andels or Rangrid. Not even in the backwater mining towns near the borders. No one by your name, not in any record I could find. You simply… didn’t exist”

Corrin narrowed his eyes.

“But there was one mention. Just one.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a thin, faded slip of parchment, yellowed by age. “A withered scroll buried in the ruins of Heisphera’s Grand Library. It spoke of a forgotten burrow settlement, nestled in the roots of the Renoa Mountains. Its name? Hargrove’s Hollow. Vanished. Submerged under water for over a thousand years”

The silence grew heavy between them.

Corrin stepped closer, nose to nose now.

“So tell me, Elliot—if that’s even your real name—who are you?”