Novel Full Chapter 482: Leaving The Kingdom
Chapter 482: Leaving The Kingdom
Lord Merith swallowed. “Damien… after everything you’ve done… I hope you stay awhile. We could use your strength.”
Damien shook his head gently.
“I can’t. I still have something I need to do.”
His own path. His own demons.
Q
His own truth.
The lord nodded slowly, resignation settling into his features.
“You saved us,” he said quietly. “And you terrify us. Both can be true.”
Damien didn’t respond. He simply patted Fenrir and motioned toward the doors.
The night air was cold as Damien left the castle. Fenrir’s glowing eyes swept the shadows, ever protective. Luton hummed softly on his shoulder.
Damien paused under the torch-lit archway and stared toward the distant northern hills.
His thoughts drifted unbidden, back to the people he’d left behind.
Apnoch, Lyone, and Arielle.
Were they okay? Had they made it to Eastern Shirefort safely? Had they even started moving toward Shirefort? Were they training? Eating? Healing?
Arielle’s face surfaced in his mind, her sad smile when he’d told her he was leaving.
Damien exhaled long and slow.
“I’ll catch up soon,” he whispered.
Fenrir nudged his arm.
Luton bubbled warmly.
Damien looked up at the stars.
“Until then,” he murmured, “I can’t afford to slow down.”
Tomorrow, he would leave the kingdom.
And now with a terrifying confirmation, he’d confirmed this.
The enemy wasn’t sleeping.
Far from it.
They were already moving.
~~~~~
Morning sunlight filtered over the city’s rooftops in a pale gold wash when Damien stepped out of the barracks with Fenrir padding at his side and Luton perched happily on his shoulder like some oversized gelatinous bird.
He rubbed the place between his brows as he walked, feeling a familiar throb of annoyance buzz in the back of his skull.
He had planned his morning perfectly.
Wake up. Check his map. Repack his gear and leave.
Simple.
Except when he opened Luton’s (Universal Space) last night, he realized something horrifying.
Nothing was there.
More accurately, Luton had eaten everything.
Rations? Gone.
Potions? Gone.
Pills? Gone.
Dried meat? Gone.
Extra shirts? Somehow also gone.
The slime burbled cutely when caught, as if that excused it.
Damien sighed again at the memory. “You’re lucky you’re adorable,” he muttered.
Luton gurgled smugly.
Fenrir snorted.
Damien ignored them both and strode toward the market district. Today was his last day in the kingdom—no more delays.
The islands to the north weren’t getting any closer, and the Forest of Twin Disasters wasn’t going to wait politely for him to arrive.
If anything, he half-expected the entire island to rise out of the sea purely to mock his lateness.
He entered the marketplace, which was already bustling. Stall owners shouted, coins clanged, and the smell of roasting meat rolled through the streets.
Seliah had mentioned that this place had everything. She wasn’t lying.
Damien moved quickly, focused.
He needed supplies.
He needed tools.
He needed a refill!! And maybe some extra pairs.
“Welcome back, white-haired mercenary!” called a merchant. “More potions today?”
Damien stopped. Turned. Squinted.
The man looked familiar.
“You’re the guy who tried selling me counterfeit shock talismans,” Damien said blandly.
The merchant stiffened. “N-No! They were not counterfeit! Just… selectively functional.”
“Meaning they explode in your hands?”
The man coughed forcing Damien to sigh and walk away.
He stocked up on travel rations again, twice as much this time, because Luton hovered too close to the bags like a starved child eyeing dessert. Damien glared at the slime.
“You eat any of this before we reach the island, I swear I’m selling you to a bakery.”
Luton vibrated in distress.
Fenrir made a sound suspiciously like laughter.
Next, Damien entered a specialized outfitter’s shop where cloaks, gear, and enchanted accessories hung from walls like war trophies. The clerk perked up immediately.
“Aha! The famed White Wolf Rider! What brings you—”
“I need two elemental cloaks,” Damien said, cutting him off before the man could bow, kneel, or throw confetti. “One for heat. One for cold.”
The clerk nodded rapidly. “Excellent choices, sir! Traveling into extreme environments?”
Damien gave him a look so flat it could iron shirts. “Something like that.”
When he tried on the cold-resistant cloak, a faint icy shimmer rippled across his shoulders. The heat-resistant one radiated a gentle warmth.
Both were high-quality. Both were expensive.
Damien bought them without blinking.
Strength was expensive. Preparation even more so.
He stopped at a runic equipment store next. A silver-haired woman behind the counter raised her brow when he approached.
“A rune compass?” she repeated. “Planning a long journey?”
“Yes,” Damien said simply.
“To where?”
“A remote place.”
“That narrows it down.”
Damien stared at her.
She stared back.
Finally, she caved. “Fine, fine—here.”
The compass clicked softly when he held it. Perfect for sailing, flying, or traveling across magically distorted terrain. The Twin Disasters Island definitely qualified.
He pocketed it.
This is where Damien spent the longest time.
The traps were simple but effective: bronze cylinders, half a foot long, capped with a runic plate. Insert an essence core and they activated. When they sensed another core nearby, they shot out binding runes like invisible chains.
Perfect for demons.
Even better for the journey.
And extremely cheap.
Damien bought dozens.
The shopkeeper watched him with wide eyes. “Sir… do you plan on hunting an army?”
Damien shrugged. “Maybe.”
“D-Do you want a bulk discount?”
“No.”
The man looked confused but didn’t argue.
And finally, a backup map because he wasn’t risking Luton eating his map again.
He bought three.
Luton drooped in shame on his shoulder.
Damien tapped the slime once. “Just don’t eat these.”
Luton wobbled solemnly as if swearing an oath.
Damien doubted it.
By late afternoon, Damien had everything he needed. His pack was full. Luton’s Universal Space held enough supplies to outfit a small expedition force (after Damien threatened the slime repeatedly not to eat anything until told).
He walked toward the gate leading out of the kingdom, keeping his hood up, hoping to avoid attention.
He almost succeeded.
Almost.
“Damien?” a familiar voice called.
Damien closed his eyes.
He shouldn’t have hoped.
Of course they found him.
Haldric approached with several soldiers. Seliah moved quickly to join them, relief and surprise mixing in her expression.
“You’re leaving?” Haldric asked. His voice was casual, but his eyes said something else. Respect. Gratitude. A hint of disappointment.
Damien sighed. “I wanted to slip out quietly.”
Seliah frowned. “Why?”
“Because goodbyes take too long.”
Haldric barked a laugh. “That’s exactly why we’re not letting you disappear without one.”
Fenrir huffed in agreement.
Traitor.
The soldiers formed up around him—not as guards, but as honor escort. People along the street whispered.
“That’s him!”
“The White Wolf Rider.”
“The Devourer’s Tamer…”
“And the Knight of the North Wind…”
Damien ignored all of it.
Haldric walked beside him. “You left an impression here, Damien. Soldiers respect you. The people talk about you. Even the commander admitted you were… unnerving.”
“Good,” Damien muttered.
Haldric blinked. “Good?”
“If people fear me, they’re less likely to ask if Fenrir is for sale.”
Seliah choked on a laugh.
When they reached the outer gate, soldiers on duty straightened immediately. Some even saluted.
Damien felt an uncomfortable tug of responsibility.
He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a protector of kingdoms. He was a man on a mission — one he still didn’t fully understand, but one he couldn’t walk away from.
Haldric stepped forward.
“You’ve done more for us in three days than some mercenary companies do in a year. If you ever return, you’ll be welcomed as an ally.”
Seliah nodded firmly. “And if you need help—send word. We owe you.”
Damien paused.
He wasn’t used to this. Being valued. Being seen. Being trusted.
A strange feeling settled in his chest—not warmth exactly, but a quiet recognition.
He inclined his head once. “Thank you.”
Haldric grinned. “Stay alive out there.”
“Always the plan,” Damien said.
Fenrir growled a goodbye, low and deep.
Luton gave a bubbly wave.
Damien stepped through the gate and into open land, the sky wide and endless before him.
But behind him, he heard Seliah’s voice one last time.
“Come back alive, Damien!”
He didn’t turn around.
He simply raised one hand in acknowledgment and continued walking, footsteps steady.
A hundred paces away from the walls, Damien stopped.
The landscape stretched far and open. A perfect launching ground.
He turned to Fenrir. “Time for you to rest.”
The wolf bowed his head as Damien cancelled the summon.
Next, he looked at Luton. “Don’t eat anything.”
Luton gurgled in reluctant agreement, then shrank into a tiny orb and slipped into Damien’s cloak.
Damien reached for his magic and summoned his next beast.
Skylar.
The Shadowfang Wyvern emerged with a rumble, enormous wings unfolding like sheets of darkness.
Damien climbed onto its back and secured his pack.
He had the map. He had the tools. He had the supplies. And he had a destination.
The Forest of Twin Disasters.
His very own trial ground.
His beginning and his return.
“Let’s go,” Damien said quietly.
Skylar beat its wings once, twice, and launched into the northern sky.
Damien didn’t look back again.