Smoke was drifting lazily through the branches, doing that slow, elegant dance that only smoke knows how to do. I crept forward, silent and cautious. Dry leaves crunched under my feet, and I kept low, alert — if this was a trap, now was the perfect time to turn me into barbecue.
I stepped into a small clearing. There was a makeshift campfire, built from twigs and... thin bones? Yep. Lovely.
But my attention wandered to what was on the other side of the fire: an old, crooked cart, painted in faded reds, golds, and purples. On top of it, barely visible letters read:
THE GRAND CIRCUS OF MAGIC AND MIRACLES OF MORDREK
And that's when I got caught completely off guard — something moved near the fire.
"AAAAARGHHH!" screamed a man, chucking a pot at my face with enough force to kill a small horse.
I ducked by pure reflex. The pot flew over my head with a sad clang as it bounced off a tree.
"DAMNED MONSTER! I HAVE NO FOOD! ONLY BROKEN DREAMS!" he yelled, swinging a twisted cane like it was a holy sword of vengeance.
"Chill! I'm not a monster!"
"BUT YOU'RE UGLY ENOUGH TO BE ONE!"
"I'M NOT A MONSTER! I'M JUST HUNGRY!" I yelled back, now hiding behind a tree, no idea why I was also yelling.
Silence.
Now that I could see him clearly, the man looked like a drunken birthday-party magician: spiky white hair, a lightning-shaped mustache, and clothes that were once fancy but now covered in colorful patches and missing most of the buttons. He was shaking more from nerves than anger.
"You... are you a goblin in disguise?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, gripping another pot like it was about to save his life.
"No, I'm a half-orc," I said.
"Hm... half-orc, half-human?" He stared at me with weird interest and visibly relaxed. Then he plopped down on a stool next to the fire, still eyeing me. "Good. Thought you were an inspector from the Entertainment Guild."
"Excuse me, what?"
"Never mind. Now tell me, why would a scrawny half-orc-half-human think he could rob me?"
I raised my hands and stepped closer.
"I wasn't trying to rob anyone. And you don't even have anything worth stealing. I just saw the smoke and thought… danger."
"And you were right!" he said, proudly pointing at himself with a dramatic tremble. "I am Mordrek! The greatest illusionist to ever walk these lands! Known as the Conjuror of Comedic Flames! The Hypnotist of Hyenas! The—"
"You alone?" I cut in, scanning the area.
"Eh... let's just say the troupe dissolved." He said it while looking away, and yeah, the man practically screamed "abandoned."
He stared at me. I stared at him. The fire crackled between us like it was trying to be the only sane thing in the scene. Which made the silence that followed deeply awkward.
"Want some 'root soup of nothing'?" he grumbled, already pouring a clay mug full of warm liquid that looked like rainy gutter water with emotional baggage.
"If it tastes like anything at all, I'm in."
We sat down. Him stirring the "soup," me trying to look civil with a pickaxe over my shoulder and my clothes in post-apocalyptic condition.
He gave me a side glance.
"You look like trouble, kid."
"And you look like you've gone bankrupt three times."
He burst out laughing.
"Four."
The Root Soup of Nothing was exactly that: nothing. Mordrek sipped his like it was a luxury dish, blowing on it gently like he still had sensitive teeth — which, judging by his face, was completely possible.
He blew into his mug like it was the royal stew of the century.
"So… you're not from around here, huh?" he asked, not bothering to look me in the eye.
"Where exactly would 'here' be?" I replied, keeping my tone neutral but curious.
He let out a nasal chuckle.
"You talk like a fallen noble. That tells me two things: one, you've got no clue where you are, and two, you're probably more trouble than you look." He took a sip and stared at me with a bit more interest. "We're in the Nerual Forest. Border territory of the Lower Province of Kerdall."
"Any towns nearby?" I asked, casually — or at least I hoped it sounded casual.
"Village, not town. Small, but kicking. It's called Ashveil. You'll find everything there: a tavern full of washed-up drunks, a library that smells like mold, and a newspaper that only prints what the mayor tells it to."
"A library?" I asked, feigning disinterest.
"Yep. And the old man who runs it is a walking encyclopedia. If there's something he doesn't know, he probably just forgot it." He smiled. "If you're lucky, you might get something out of him. Just be careful: he hates half-orcs."
"Oh, great."
"It's not personal. He also hates goblins, nobles, market vendors, kids, the weather, noise, and probably his own shadow."
I sighed, mentally adding grumpy librarian to my growing list of local hazards.
Mordrek scratched his chin.
"You know," he said, stirring something that was bubbling in a dented cup, "I once traveled with scholars. Big names. Folks from the Academy of Magic. Fancy place. All high and mighty. Even the books act like they're better than you."
"A magic school?" I asked, trying to sound bored — but my brain had already highlighted the info with a glowing mental marker.
"A real ego factory," he snorted. "But... that's where you learn real power. Not these village tricks — firecrackers, glowing bugs, and anti-mildew runes."
He laughed at his own joke, like a man convinced he was the last sane wizard in a world of enchanted idiots.
"And you learned magic there?" I asked.
"No," he said. "But I picked things up. Learned to watch. To steal bits and pieces."
Then, with all the drama of revealing a battle scar, he pulled out a tightly folded piece of parchment from the lining of his cane.
"Take a look at this."
He unfolded it — just long enough for me to see.
No longer.
But two seconds were enough.
It was a jagged sketch, full of symbols that looked like they'd been scribbled by a drunk professor, but the pattern — I recognized it.
Runes. Channels. Mana lines. It was a spell structure.
And not just any spell.
It was forced combustion magic. Forbidden — according to him — because it had been used during a magical uprising and "deep-fried a bishop inside his armor."
I had no idea if that was true.
But the way his eyes lit up said the story, at least, was entertaining.
He folded the parchment back up and stuffed it inside his cane like it was a loaded weapon.
"Forbidden," he said. "That's why I keep it. Just to remind myself the world used to be more fun."
I just nodded.
But inside, I was reviewing every single line of that scroll in my head like it was an exam I forgot to study for.
"You've got the face of someone who wants to understand magic. Am I right?"
"Let's say I'm open to possibilities."
He gave a smug little chuckle.
"You think magic is power? Energy, sparks, boom-boom fireballs? That's what carnival tricks make it look like. But magic, my dear lad... is language."
"Come again?"
"Magic is writing in the air. Symbols on the ground. It's gesture, intent… and rhythm. Even someone with zero talent can do something—if they figure out the rules."
I adjusted myself on the log I was using as a chair.
"You're saying someone without talent can learn magic?"
"I'm saying talent is just the first filter. Persistence is the second. Understanding is the third. And the final one is… consequence." He looked at me seriously for the first time. "True magic takes payment. It's not about looking flashy. It's about doing the impossible—and paying the price."
"Where do I learn this?"
"You either steal books, convince someone smarter than you to teach, or… survive long enough to figure it out." He shrugged. "In your case, maybe a little of all three."
The fire crackled. A comfortable silence settled between us.
The night thickened slowly around us. The forest whispered, branches snapped softly in the wind, and I realized I was closer than ever to something that had always felt out of reach.
The fire had dwindled to a bed of glowing coals when Mordrek leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously like he was about to flirt with destiny.
"Kid," he said, snapping his fingers like he was summoning a comedy demon. "You've got presence. Raw, sure. Ugly, absolutely. But presence!"
"Thanks, but I'm into women," I replied, brow furrowed.
"Not like that, you dolt. What I'm saying is—have you ever considered a career in the performing arts?" He spread his arms as if unveiling an empire. "My circus needs a strongman. Half-orc, scarred, mysterious trauma aura—you'd sell tickets!"
"You have a 'circus'?" I looked skeptically at the barely-standing cart he called home.
"Of course I do! That's just... just... Anyway!" he barked, visibly offended. "We've got a dwarf unicorn, a magician who only spits glitter, and a snake that... well, died last week, but it's still on ice!"
"Wow, truly irresistible."
"And it gets better! I offer housing, a cart that barely leaks, three hot meals a week, and 1% of net profit—subject to increase if you're not replaced before winter."
"Thanks, but I'm going to go with a hard no."
Mordrek froze. Blinked. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean: no."
He processed that answer like it was undercooked iron. And then, like a trap door to hell opened in his soul, his eyes lit up with very suspicious energy. And before I could react—
"HIYAAAA!"
Didn't even have time to turn. Something—some unholy mix of rope, net, and poor decisions—wrapped around my legs like fate itself tripped me. I hit the ground, now trapped under a tarp that smelled like mildew, garlic, and possibly a mild felony.
"GOT YOU, STARBOY!" Mordrek yelled, basking in his imaginary glory.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!" I thrashed like a landlocked fish.
"No, I'm a visionary!" he said, already yanking cords and rolling me up like a sentient burrito. "This show's gonna kill. Half-orc, half-human, all panic—that's money! I'll put you next to Glitter Guy and the beatboxing cat!"
"I'LL RIP OUT YOUR KIDNEY, YOU DELUSIONAL GOBLIN!"
"Perfect! You've already got catchphrases! Beautiful!" He was dragging me down the trail with surprising strength for someone whose spine bent like a question mark. "Picture it: The Beast of the Mines! Autumn sensation!"
Every rock on the path was a chiropractic tragedy. I kicked. I yelled. I bit air. I threatened. The tarp was thick and his knots were insultingly secure.
"WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE, I'M SHOVING THAT STUFFED SNAKE DOWN YOUR THROAT!"
"Ventriloquist snake! That's gold, kid!"
And then, I heard the unmistakable creak of old wood: his cart.
"No. No, no, no—You're not putting me in there!"
"We're almost there!" That lunatic was humming.
The cart's wheels moaned like even they regretted being a part of this. It smelled like wet straw, goat sweat, and artistic failure.
I thrashed like a possessed scarecrow.
"You'll thank me when we're on stage in the Capital! You and the cat—stars of the show!"
While he tied one last rope to the back of the cart, I looked around, desperate for an escape route, any hope.
And then the world went dark. The tarp covered my face.
And in that moment, lying in the back of a hay cart, wrapped like a sack of turnips and smelling like a forgotten tavern sock…
I had only one question:
How the hell do I escape this lunatic?