The One Who Forgot The Beginning Chapter 10

[ … words ]

The Underground Black Market bid them farewell with a stifling mix of smells: the acrid smoke of cheap manalite cigarettes, damp decay, meat of unearthly creatures fried in spent oil, and the ineradicable, metallic tang of old blood.

Altamira walked without minding the path. Her oak staff rhythmically tapped against the damp, littered slabs of the underpass, and her right hand still felt the icy surface of the glass display case. Inside her chest — where a shattered, cracked core had recently pulsed hopelessly — a steady, soft warmth now spread. It was invisible to those around her, but for Altamira, this new, elven spark burned brighter than all the neon signs of the alien metropolis.

Vaelin scurried alongside her, not letting go of the edge of her green cloak. The boy was terrified to his limit: the noisy, garishly bright world of the Hunters’ underground overwhelmed his small demonic essence. Every few meters, he cast wild, wary glances at the flickering neon advertisements, at the giant screens hanging above the underground intersections, and at the armed people bustling past.

“Altamira…” he called softly, almost soundlessly, burying his nose in the thick fabric of her cloak. “We… where are we going?”

The Commander within her forced herself to emerge from the abyss of heavy thoughts.

“We’re looking for shelter,” she replied quietly but firmly. “We can’t stay in the open corridors. We’ll attract attention.”

They passed the market stalls where mercenaries sold the fangs of low-ranking goblins and murky energy crystals, and headed into the darkest, most abandoned branches of the underground complex. The further they moved from the Black Market’s central gallery, the rarer the neon lamps became, and the noise of traders was replaced only by the quiet drip of groundwater and the dull, vibrating hum of the underground subway, passing several levels above somewhere.

Altamira was looking for a place that met the basic requirements of military tactics: with one narrow entrance, protected from casual glances, and the ability to quickly assess a threat.

At the end of a semi-flooded utility tunnel, whose rusted grate had long since been knocked out by a heavy blow, she found what she was looking for. A small technical room — probably a former pump station or cable collector. Inside, it smelled of damp concrete and stale dust, but it was dry, dark, and most importantly, quiet.

“Come in,” Altamira pushed Vaelin inside and with effort propped a heavy piece of rusted channel steel against the doorway, leaving only a narrow slit for observation.

The boy sank helplessly onto the dry concrete floor in the corner of the room, drawing his knees to his chest. The long journey, the spatial transition, and constant fear had completely exhausted his small strength. After a couple of minutes, his eyelids grew heavy, and the horned child fell into a restless, light sleep.

Altamira remained standing, leaning her back against the cold concrete wall.

Only now, in the absolute darkness of the abandoned utility room, did she allow herself to relax. Her right hand gripped the hilt of her short sword, and her single right eye closed.

“El…” she called mentally.

In response to this call, something trembled in the deep darkness of her chest.

A soft, emerald-silver light seeped through the folds of her green cloak. From her chest, smoothly passing through the fabric of her cuirass, a tiny, glowing cluster of mana slipped out. It hovered in the air directly in front of Altamira’s face, shimmering with thousands of microscopic sparks, and slowly unfolded into elegant, translucent wings, reminiscent of a forest dragonfly’s.

It was the spirit of El.

“Altamira…” she heard a quiet, crystalline voice in her head. It wasn’t like Eldrin’s voice, but it carried the same familiar and deep elven harmony. “I hear you… I felt your pain by the display case.”

“You… you can speak?” Altamira asked mentally, looking at the hovering spirit.

“I am a part of Eldrin’s soul and memory, passed on to you,” El replied softly, settling onto the hilt of the short sword clutched in Altamira’s hand. “My task is to save your life, heal the wounds of your core, and convey what my master did not have time to say in life.”

Altamira took a deep breath. The warrior within her demanded answers. Her entire previous life, all her perceptions of the world, and even the ancient elf’s last sacrifice were woven into one tight, bloody knot.

“What happened in the past?” she asked. “Why did Eldrin call out to some Keylor? Why did he speak of atonement for sins and the salvation of demons?”

The spirit of El quietly fluttered its wings. Silvery sparks of mana showered onto Altamira’s pale face, and in her consciousness, bypassing words, alien, ancient memories began to unfold.

These were Eldrin’s own memories.

Before Altamira’s eyes, scenes of the past flashed — bright, vivid, saturated with the smell of burnt dry grass and ash.

Hundreds of years ago. The Great Wastes of the demonic lands.

Elves in dazzling white and silver armor marched across the scorched red sands. There was no compassion in their eyes — only a cold, arrogant conviction of their own superiority. In the society of High Elves of that time, demons were considered not just enemies, but “a mistake of creation,” cursed creatures whose existence defiled the mana flows.

Eldrin was then a young vanguard commander. He devoutly believed in the orders of the Council of Elders. He believed he was cleansing the world of evil.

The vision changed. Altamira saw a destroyed demonic settlement. Simple clay houses burned everywhere, and the air was filled with screams and moans. Elven swordsmen methodically cleared the streets, making no distinction between warriors and the defenseless. Elders, women, demonic infants fell to the blades of the punishers…

Eldrin stood in the midst of this hell, and for the first time, a terrible, chilling doubt arose in his soul. He saw a demonic mother covering a small horned child with her body — exactly like Vaelin — while an elven spear mercilessly pierced them both through.

And it was then that He appeared on the battlefield.

Keylor. Leader of the Wastes army.

He was not the bloodthirsty monster described in elven chronicles. He was a tall, mighty demon in heavy scarlet armor, with a giant two-handed sword in his hands. But in his eyes burned not senseless rage, but a boundless, crushing sorrow for his dying people.

The battle between Eldrin and Keylor was terrible and magnificent. Ancient elven magic of air and light clashed with scorching, dense demonic plasma. Steel rang, rocks crumbled around them.

But Eldrin was younger, faster, and behind him stood the full might of the elven army. At one point, taking advantage of Keylor’s distraction while defending a group of surviving demonic children from a flying arrow, Eldrin pierced his chest with his runic blade.

The demon’s two-handed sword fell from his bloody hands. Keylor sank to his knees on the hot sand.

Eldrin stood over him, breathing heavily, ready to deliver the decisive blow to his head. And it was at this moment that the demon raised his gaze.

There was no hatred in his eyes. There was no desire for revenge.

“Why…?” Keylor asked softly then, with deep pain, pouring out his fading soul. “We just wanted to live on these dry sands… We didn’t encroach on your forests… Why do you kill our children…?”

Eldrin froze. The demon leader’s words, spoken without a trace of fury, but with immense human love for his people, burned through elven pride. Eldrin understood. All his life he had served false ideas, blind hatred, and the prejudices of his people.

But the Council’s order was unyielding. Other elven officers already stood behind him.

Stolen from NovelPhoenix, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Eldrin plunged the blade deeper, ending the demon leader’s torment.

And just before death, Keylor looked at his killer, whispering with a meek, unearthly smile:

“I hold no grudge against you, elf… You are merely fulfilling the will of your masters… I forgive you, friend…”

With these words, the great demon leader took his last breath.

The vision faded.

Altamira stood in the complete darkness of the utility room, breathing heavily. A single, hot tear again rolled down her pale cheek.

Now everything fell into place.

Eldrin, crushed by the realization of his terrible sin, that same day renounced his rank as commander, abandoned the army, and went into exile. He swore before Keylor’s memory that from then on, he would dedicate the remainder of his long life to saving any demonic creature he encountered on his path. That is why he saved the survivors in the Wastes, that is why he took in the wounded Altamira and little Vaelin.

He atoned for his sin. Until his last breath.

“Eldrin gave his life saving you,” the spirit of El said softly, hovering over Altamira’s shoulder. “His soul has found peace, Altamira. He fulfilled his oath.”

Altamira slowly clenched her bloody right fist.

“Now it’s my turn,” she whispered. “I will not let his sacrifice be in vain.”

“Your core is still very weak,” El’s speech continued, sounding drier and more pragmatic. “But I can stabilize your mana channels. Furthermore… I can help you adapt to this world.”

“Adapt?” Altamira frowned. “Do you understand their language?”

“When Eldrin observed the attackers through the barriers and when the mercenaries passed by his tank, I absorbed the structure of their speech,” El replied. “This world is called Earth. The locals do not use the nature magic or demonic plasma you are accustomed to. They use system ranks.”

The spirit floated a little closer to her single eye, and faint, green translucent symbols flashed before Altamira’s gaze.

“I will translate their speech and writings for you,” El explained. “But you need to be very careful. In this world, you and Vaelin are not just strangers. To the local Hunters, you are resources. Monsters from the Gates. If you are exposed, hundreds of S and A-rank mercenaries will hunt for your head.”

Altamira nodded. The cold pragmatism of a warrior once again completely took hold of her mind.

“We need three things,” she articulated each word. “Food and water for the child. Local currency, so we don’t stand out. And information about how power is structured here.”

Several hours passed.

Vaelin was still asleep in the corner, curled up under the folds of the elven jacket. Altamira sat by the slit in the door, observing the empty tunnel. The pain in her chest had finally subsided thanks to El’s magic, replaced by a steady, cool flow of elven energy. She still couldn’t cast spells fully, but her reaction, endurance, and body control had noticeably improved.

Suddenly, heavy, uneven footsteps and drunken laughter echoed from deep within the tunnel.

Altamira instantly pressed herself to the slit.

Two men were approaching their utility room. They wore worn leather jackets with metal shoulder pads, and short army machetes hung from their belts. Judging by their disheveled appearance, reeking of stale alcohol, and brazen sneers, these were petty bandits from the lower levels of the Black Market — so-called “scavengers” or F-rank Hunters, who made a living by robbing weakened colleagues and vagrants.

“…I’m telling you, that Korean guy from the shop has pockets full of crystals!” one of them boomed, a broad-shouldered man with an unshaven face and a scar across his cheek. “We’ll break in tonight and take a couple of cans. He doesn’t pay Association taxes anyway!”

“Quiet, Sam!” the second, taller and skinnier man, nervously looked around. “If they catch us, they’ll cut us into strips. Oh, look…”

The skinny man stopped directly opposite the blocked door to the utility room.

“Someone just propped this channel steel here,” he kicked the metal piece with his foot. “Let’s see… What if some snitch is hiding from security in there? Or a petty manalite deserter?”

The channel steel fell aside with a clang.

The skinny man pulled a strange, flat metal bar from his pocket, which suddenly flashed with a dazzlingly bright, white beam of light — an electric flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness of the room and landed directly on Vaelin’s frightened, flashing yellow eyes, who instantly woke up and cowered in the corner.

“Well, well!” the broad-shouldered Sam roared, peering into the opening. “Look, Jimmy! What kind of little freak is that? Does he have horns?! It’s a demon-spawn from some minor rift!”

“Demon-spawn?” The skinny Jimmy’s eyes lit up with greedy fire. “No way! They’ll give a million won for a live horned one on the Black Market! Exotic fare for the rich!”

The skinny man took a step into the room, drawing his machete from its sheath:

“Hey, you little bastard, come with us…”

He didn’t get to finish.

From the deep shadow to the left of the doorway, a slender figure wrapped in a green cloak silently slipped out.

Altamira acted without a sound, with the cold, surgical precision of a combat officer. She didn’t need aura. She didn’t need full strength. All her years of experience surviving hundreds of bloody battles were etched into her muscle memory.

The heavy oak staff in her right hand described a short, devastating arc.

CRACK!

The wooden end of the staff slammed directly into the skinny Jimmy’s kneecap. The bone cracked like a dry branch. The bandit howled wildly and instantly collapsed onto the concrete.

Giving him no time to recover, Altamira spun on her right foot, using her body’s inertia, and delivered a second blow — the end of the staff struck the skinny man directly in the Adam’s apple with incredible force. The robber’s scream caught in his throat, he choked on his own breath and fell to the floor, convulsively kicking his legs.

“You bitch!” the broad-shouldered Sam roared, raising his machete and lunging into the narrow opening.

He was larger, stronger, and apparently possessed F-rank physical strength. His strike was powerful, but incredibly hasty and clumsy. To Altamira, accustomed to dodging blows from fencing masters, his movements seemed slow, as if moving through jelly.

Altamira slightly shifted her center of gravity to the right, allowing the bandit’s blade to screech against the concrete wall barely a millimeter from her shoulder.

In the same second, her right hand threw the staff and instantly drew her elven short sword from its sheath.

The silver blade flashed in the beam of the fallen flashlight.

Altamira did not chop — there wasn’t enough mass or a second hand for that. She made a precise, calculated downward thrust.

PIERCE!

The narrow point of elven steel easily pierced Sam’s leather jacket and entered directly under his chin, piercing his larynx and entering the base of his skull from below.

The bandit froze. His eyes bulged from their sockets, a gurgle escaped his bloody mouth. He slowly sank to his knees, then fell face down directly at Vaelin’s feet.

The entire skirmish took no more than four seconds.

Silence once again settled in the room, broken only by Altamira’s heavy breathing and the convulsive sobs of the skinny Jimmy dying on the floor.

Altamira approached the skinny bandit writhing on the floor, placed her knee, clad in a heavy boot, onto his chest, and pressed the bloody tip of her sword to his eye.

“El,” she said quietly. “Translate.”

The spirit of El flared above her shoulder, making the dying robber’s eyes widen wildly in terror.

“Don’t… don’t kill me…” Jimmy hoarsely gasped in Korean, choking on blood.

In Altamira’s ears, his barking sounds instantly transformed into understandable words thanks to the spirit: “Don’t kill me… spare me…”

“Where is your money?” Altamira asked dryly. “Where is the food?”

“In… in my pockets…” the bandit croaked, pointing a trembling finger at his jacket. “There’s a wallet… three hundred thousand won… and a card… Just don’t… don’t cut me…”

Altamira didn’t listen further. With a precise, short movement, she plunged the blade into his throat, ending his senseless pleas. In battle with an enemy, there was no mercy — a living enemy always remained a source of betrayal.

She calmly wiped the blade on the dead man’s jacket and returned the sword to its sheath.

Then began the usual work, familiar to any soldier — looting.

In five minutes, Altamira methodically searched the corpses. Her spoils included:

A thick leather wallet, stuffed with paper banknotes bearing portraits of unfamiliar people and strange numbers (El prompted: there were 380,000 won).

Two small plastic bottles of clean drinking water and several sealed packages of dried meat and nutritional bars.

A switched-on electric flashlight — an extremely valuable light source.

A small leather shoulder bag, which perfectly held all the supplies.

And most importantly — a small, flat transparent rectangle of glass and metal (the skinny Jimmy’s smartphone), on whose screen time symbols glowed dimly and a map of the underground sector vibrated faintly.

“Take the food, Vaelin,” Altamira offered the child a meat bar and a bottle of water.

The boy, still slightly trembling at the sight of the two fresh corpses, began to eat and drink greedily. For a demonic child, the sight of blood was familiar — in the Wastes, death stalked everyone.

Altamira, meanwhile, examined the paper banknotes and unfamiliar objects.

“El,” she addressed the spirit. “Is this enough to buy food and clothes?”

“For the first few days — more than enough,” El replied, hovering over the wallet. “With this money, you can buy food for a couple of weeks and simple clothes for both of you. But most importantly — they had this electronic device. I was able to extract information from its memory.”

Green icons flashed on the smartphone screen thanks to El’s magic.

“We are in the Gangnam district, underground,” the spirit conveyed the information. “Above is the main metropolis of this world — Seoul. The laws of the Hunter Association are in effect here. You can exit to the surface through hundreds of utility hatches, but to live among people, you need registration or a disguise.”

Altamira approached the body of the broad-shouldered Sam and tore a strange metal tag on a steel chain from his neck. Letters and a number were stamped on the tag: [F-Rank Hunter: Samuel Vance].

“So, they divide warriors by ranks,” Altamira stated, tucking the tag into her pocket. “F-rank… The lowest scum. Weak, clumsy, and greedy.”

“But above them are E, D, C, B, A, and S ranks,” El reminded her. “Those who killed Eldrin were S-rank.”

Altamira picked up her oak staff and pulled her hood deeper over her face.

Her single right eye burned with a cold, calculating fire. She no longer had tears. No despair. Only the pure, crystallized mind of a Commander remained, having accepted the new balance of power.

She was at the very bottom of an alien world. She had no arm, her core was shattered, and her companion was a small child.

But now she had the enemy’s name — the Association and S-rank Hunters. She had an understanding of the local currency. She had an elven spirit guide and the invaluable experience of hundreds of battles fought.

“We’re going up, Vaelin,” she said softly, offering the boy her hand. “It’s time to learn how this city lives.”

They exited the utility room, leaving two corpses in the darkness of the tunnel, and headed up a long stone staircase — towards the lights and noise of the great human metropolis.