Rise of Tyrus

As quiet as a cat, Tyrus crouched behind a rock.

Now that he had stepped into the bandits' territory, his heart was pounding like crazy. Entering was easier than he thought. By taking the long route, he could easily come across the dry land teeming with cages and carriages. The fog did a well enough job in masking his figure while the buzzing and distant beast noises masked his footsteps.

Upon his arrival, he quickly spotted three bandits attending to the buffalo nibbling on grass and plants. These beasts were tame and not as hostile as the red bison that lived in the Emerald Hills. It was clear why the bandits had no trouble moving through these areas.

Wetlands posed a problem for horses as the mud would harm their hooves. They opted for buffalo, since they were more adept at navigating swampy terrain. Despite their large bodies, they were just as light as horses on land. Even better, their four sturdy legs gave them more grip, so falling into muddy holes was less of a possibility.

Tyrus spied around the edge of the rock, checking the carriages spread out in the clearing. Among the six carriages, one was noticeably smaller, giving it a comical appearance compared to the others. Sitting inside were a couple of empty cages.

Every part of them was metal; they appeared heavy and tough, unusual for cages made by bandits. Either the bandits weren’t your typical ruffians, or they hired an expensive blacksmith. Their appearance suggested neither; these men were not dressed to appear rich nor extremely dangerous. Not to mention, these cages had bars. From the looks of it, the bandits were more of a prison patrol.

Now why that was Tyrus couldn’t figure out. Were the cages meant to imprison people? Not entirely likely when they’re posted in a place void of human inhabitants. Trapping lizardmen didn’t seem that all bright or useful as well. What use would they serve, anyway? Perhaps for the sake of entertainment. Either way, the cages served some purpose, but for what?

Tyrus gaze lingered on the bandits, his key problem. Each one of them had a bow strapped to their back with a quiver filled with arrows. Added on to their arsenal were scabbards with a hilt sticking out. Their lack of armor told him they were confident enough to not wear it, or they were just stupid. But when it came down to it, Tyrus didn’t know the first thing about bandit behavior.

One by one, they were checking each buffalo; the headcount ranging from at least five. Their movements were methodical as they circled around, inspecting their heads and horns. When one of them patted a buffalo, the creature snorted and stomped its hoof, glaring at the man with a look that said, ‘Touch me again and I’ll gore you.’

Across from them was a bridge as wide as three people. It was old, with the wood chipped and decaying, just like the rest. Not only that, but it led directly to the central platform. As long as he took that bridge, arriving at the other applicants would be quick.

“How am I going to get past them? Even if I do sneak past the three in front, what's the plan for the rest? I can’t imagine us escaping quietly or not alerting the twenty-something guards posted around.”

There was also that man Jericho to be worried about. During the eavesdropping, they made it sound as if Jericho was in the middle of interrogating them. If he becomes weary of them, he might even take their lives. If so, then the time was winding down at an alarming rate.

It was surprising that the applicants were stubborn enough to risk death, all the while shackled to a pole. It was no wonder Igneal wasn’t concerned about their choices and outcome. Then again, he was a bit of a weirdo for not caring.

Tyrus took a peak at Tracer—the silver ring worn by each applicant. If the situation turned dire, then he would have no choice but to shout yield. Both he and the prisoners would be saved. That also meant forfeiting the exam...

Suddenly, a flash of pain struck his heart. Tyrus bit his tongue as he clutched his chest. “It’s getting worse as time passes. Just what is going on? Maybe Tracer will tell me.”

Quickly, he tapped the ring, and the same translucent square with a human figure appeared. What he saw made him raise an eyebrow.

Where his chest was on the device was a patch of black similar to his foot. Though the foot injury he sustained was nearly back to normal, the chest had replaced that injury.

Before Tyrus could digest the news, a man shouting, making him shut off Tracer and turn. Peeking over once more, he noticed that the three bandits had huddled together and were talking amongst themselves.

“The buffalo should be fed well enough. Let’s go an’ check in with Jericho.” The one who appeared to be the leader of the three turned and made his way over to the bridge.

When the three crossed the bridge, Tyrus’ mind scrambled. His eyes drifted over to the nearby huts that had a clear view of his location. The archers had their eyes set in the other direction, but when the three bandits caught their eye, they gave them a brief nod before returning their gazes outward.

No one was looking at him, so he breathed a small sigh of relief. Tyrus waited a bit more for good measure and then made his move.

Now was the time to proceed before the bandits returned.

Tyrus stepped away from the rock and crept along the perimeter. The buffalo spared him a single glance and resumed chomping down on their meals. They must have grown tired of human interaction to be ignoring him this well.

Tyrus arrived at the first carriage and glanced over it, observing the empty cages. There were scratch marks within the interior, a few straw mats that gave off the pungent odor of urine, and a few red specks that resembled blood.

His nose curled. “Yuck, it stinks! Almost smells like the rampaging beast.”

Disregarding the horrible smell, Tyrus crawled along the turf like an ant. To avoid alarming the buffalo, he lowered his head and refrained from making any sudden motions. The last thing he needed was for them to go crazy and make noise. Or stomp on him as if he were a pest.

As fortune would have it, he made it past them with relatively no issues. From there, he arrived at the foot of the bridge. The archers still weren’t looking his way and the buffalo caretakers had already entered the building on the central platform. Now all he had to do was get across quickly and quietly.

In a single thought, Beast Transformation overtook his body. Nails had grown into claws, and his tongue flickered over to fangs that appeared. Without a sound, Tyrus hoisted himself down to where his feet could scrape the water. His hand extended, digging his claws into the wooden boards.

The bridge was so old that it took little for it to creek and rattle from the increased weight, but luckily, the sound was faint enough to not warrant the bandit’s attention. If they were to see Tyrus, they would think that a huge spider was crawling underneath the bridge.

Halfway through and his head already began to heat up, but he tried his best to keep quiet. Sweat dribbled into his eyes, stinging them as it progressed. Yet as persistent as a hungry wolf, he willed himself to press on.

After half a minute of grueling crawling, his eyes spotted his prize. Relief came as his hands landed on the last board of the bridge. With one hand propped up, he drew himself up and poked his head over the edge.

There was no one nearby waiting for him to pop up and whack him in the head or lodge a sword right through his skull. Tyrus stayed there and remained as still as a statue, listening.

His heightened hearing tuned in to the distance. Inside the dome-roof building, a conversation was going on through closed doors. It was hard to pinpoint the subject or words being said as it returned as a jumbled mess of muffles, so Tyrus ignored it for the time being.

Everything seems good here.

Without wasting another second, Tyrus drew himself onto the solid ground and crept forward. When he confirmed nothing as suspicious, he clung to the walls and scanned the outside vicinity.

The huts were so packed together that they formed tight crevices that an adult male would have trouble squeezing through. People could also overhear the activities happening in their neighbors' huts judging by the walls. Although there was a significant lack of privacy, it probably wasn’t a bother since they willingly lived in that location. A place more secluded and bigger was more Tyrus style.

The small huts looked decayed, with wooden foundations full of holes and roofs that were tilted, with broken tiles scattered around. Mold grew on most surfaces, with ferns rising from the roof as if they had sprouted out of it naturally.

Fish-filled barrels were strewn about the footpath, emitting an extremely unpleasant odor that would knock out a buffalo in seconds. Rags and clothes hung over walls and caved-in roofs while trash littered the floor. There were even a few cigars with black powder lying about.

Tyrus scooted over to the nearest hut, pressing himself against a wall of chipped wood that had a faint blue color. His nose twitched as his eyes scanned the adjacent walkway and a hut in front. So far he spotted an archer and two posted at the front.

Thanks to how cramped the place was, no one had a view of him unless a bandit was with the bison. All he had to watch out for was not making a sound and to dismiss his presence as much as possible, mana included.

Jumping on top of the dome building was out of the question of how open it was. It wouldn’t take even a second for someone to see him perched on top. The only remaining option was to stick with the tight crevices and to listen for any disturbances and chances to act.

Tyrus wormed his way through the crevice, stopping just a foot away from the corner. He breathed and waited. With no signs of activity or alert, he proceeded to the next one. Again, he stopped and listened. Still, there was nothing but scattered conversations and the muffled voices growing louder.

Before long, he came to a halt near the entrance, cloaked by some fog and sandwiched buildings. Suddenly, the voices grew louder and the clinking of chains became as clear as day.

With just a peak, the other applicants came to view. Not long after, a door bursted open, and a man strutted forward—the spitting image of a bandit.

His hair, which was dark and sleek, had a fresh, damp look as if recently washed. He had a broad back and scarred arms buffed by over years of dedication, giving the impression that he lived for battle. A cloak was hanging off his back, half-strapped by a brown belt tied around his waist. Fastened were two small sheathes.

Compared to the rest of the bandits, this one lacked bandages across his face. What replaced it was a long scar running down his cheek. Eyes that forever seemed to scowl landed at the pole near the entrance.

Tyrus knew instantly who he was. It had to be no one else other than Jericho. And if he had his eyes set on the applicants, then the time had come for him to decide; whether to keep interrogating them or to snuff out their lives.

Tyrus would not let that happen on his watch.