THE ANTI-HEALERS ODESSY

The forest had always been a place of secrets, but now it had become Arthur's proving ground—a crucible of survival, pain, and resolve.

Days had passed since his moonlit oath over his mother's pendant. The sun rose and fell over the Wild Woods, each cycle bringing new dangers and, unexpectedly, new truths. During a rare moment of quiet, Arthur sat beside the dying coals of his campfire, the grimoire resting on his knees. He thumbed through pages inked with ancient runes and recent notes, trying to piece together fragments of a puzzle bigger than he had imagined.

The first clue had come by accident.

While tracking a boar for food, Arthur stumbled upon the corpse of a bandit half-buried under leaves and moss. The body had rotted, but on what remained of the belt was a rusted insignia: a crest—a silver serpent biting its own tail, coiled around a black rose.

Arthur had seen it once before. Years ago, as a toddler, peeking from behind his mother's skirts when a traveling merchant passed through their village. Cecilia had stiffened at the sight of that same crest on a crate, her eyes darkening with a fear she'd never explained.

It wasn't just any noble family. It was from Caledonia itself.

The realization burned through him like wildfire.

His mother hadn't been killed by random thieves.

She had been silenced.

By order—or ambition—of a noble from the kingdom she fled.

Arthur clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Fenrix let out a low growl, sensing his master's turmoil. Umbra curled beside him, a shadowy comfort.

"I'll find them," Arthur whispered, his voice cold as iron. "I'll find out who gave the order."

---

At dawn, Arthur rose to train. The power he held—the Anti-Heal that had horrified him—needed mastering, not denial. He found a secluded clearing where ancient stones jutted like broken teeth from the soil.

Drawing a deep breath, Arthur summoned mana to his core. The grimoire floated beside him, its pages turning at unseen command. He visualized the matrix of the Anti-Heal spell, carefully focusing on restraint rather than destruction.

Fenrix stood at the edge, watching. Umbra perched atop a rock, tail swishing silently.

"Let it flow," Arthur murmured to himself. "But don't let it consume."

A flicker of violet energy danced around his palm, wraith-like. Sweat beaded on his brow. The first attempt fizzled, leaving only scorched grass. The second attempt erupted too violently, cracking a nearby boulder.

Arthur knelt, gasping.

"This power isn't meant to be safe," he realized. "But it can be controlled."

Hours stretched into days. Each failure taught him balance: how to channel corruption without letting it devour his mana reserves, how to shape Anti-Heal into threads rather than waves. Slowly, he began to craft smaller, precise curses instead of overwhelming bursts.

Yet the forest never gave him rest.

Twice, he survived ambushes from hired blades. Once, while gathering herbs, crossbow bolts hissed from the shadows. Fenrix leapt, knocking Arthur aside, then tore into the would-be assassin. The second time, a cloaked figure wielding poison-tipped daggers cornered him at a stream. Arthur barely blocked the flurry of strikes, and in the end, only a desperate burst of Anti-Heal turned the fight.

After each attack, Arthur searched the corpses for clues. The same crest surfaced again and again: the serpent and black rose.

The noble was persistent—and resourceful.

Arthur buried each attacker with quiet respect. Murder was murder, even if in defense.

"I didn't choose this path," he murmured after the second grave, "but I won't turn from it either."

---

One evening, while following a trail he hoped would lead to another informant, Arthur heard a sharp cry echo through the trees—a voice not human, yet not fully beast.

He followed the sound until he stumbled into a clearing where a young elf scout lay wounded. Her leg was pinned beneath the collapsed trunk of a rotting tree. Her bow lay shattered beside her, and blood trickled down her temple.

Eyes wide, she tried to raise a broken dagger as Arthur approached.

"Stay back!" she hissed, voice trembling.

"I'm not your enemy," Arthur replied, hands raised.

Fenrix circled slowly, watching for threats. Umbra stayed back, barely visible.

Arthur moved closer, speaking softly. "I can help you, but you must trust me."

The elf hesitated, her dagger lowering. Pain contorted her face.

Arthur knelt and pressed his hand to the fallen trunk. With a grunt and careful push, he shifted it enough for her to pull free. The wound on her leg bled heavily, torn by bark and stone.

She tried to crawl away, but collapsed with a sob.

"Hold still," Arthur ordered.

He summoned his mana and cast a focused healing spell—warm, golden light pouring into her flesh. Slowly, the bleeding stopped, and torn muscle knit together.

She blinked, breath catching. "Why… why help me?"

Arthur met her gaze. "Because someone once saved me too."

Tears welled in her green eyes. "Thank you… I'm Lyris."

"Arthur," he replied, offering his hand.

She took it, and he helped her sit up.

---

As the moon rose, Arthur listened to Lyris' story. She had been tracking the same assassins that had attacked Arthur—agents sent to destabilize border settlements. Her scouts had been ambushed; she alone had survived.

In that shared danger, an alliance was born.

"We're hunting the same serpent," Arthur said, voice grim.

Lyris nodded. "Then let's hunt together."

Arthur looked at the clearing's edge, where shadows pooled.

The night felt colder, the stakes higher.

But he was no longer alone.

And with every threat, every fight, his resolve hardened like steel quenched in fire.

The ashes of what he'd lost now fueled what he must become.

And the haunted flame of Anti-Heal was no longer a curse, but a weapon he would master.

---

To be continued...