Mud clung to Kilu’s bare feet as he stood under the weight of every eye in the torch-lit camp center. All around them, flambeaux torches hissed and popped in the cold night air, casting long shadows that danced across the camp's central grounds. Dozens of soldiers watched in a loose circle, silently eating and waiting to be entertained.

  Commander Tilumana stood behind the crates, arms at her hips, eyes like cold steel. Her eyes swept the camp before landing on the two before her.

  "Let this be a reminder," she said loudly enough for the entire camp to hear. "This—" she jabbed her finger at Kilu and Glushim "—is what happens when order is disrupted in my camp."

  Whispers rippled through the ranks.

  Commander Tilumana leaned forward. “Crow Kilu. Your tattoo runes keep you from stealing whatever you find, yes?”

  Kilu nodded once. “Aye commander.” he said softly, tapping one of the faint glowing tattoos that curled along his neck.

  Tilumana nodded. “Indeed. Your runes prevent theft. And what happens if you try to steal?”

  "First warning, I hurt for 3 breaths. Second warning, I hurt for 10 breaths. Third warning, I hurt forever," recited Kilu without emotion.

  Glushim opened her mouth, but Tilumana raised a finger at the squirming hobgoblin.

  "Stay your tongue, handler. I’m not finished."

  Tilumana turned back to Kilu.

  "What happened to you when the invader's tower fell?" Tilumana questioned Kilu without looking at him.

  Kilu turned his gaze toward the surrounding soldiers. To him, the world shimmered with amorphous, yet decipherable, information. His senses translated colors, scents, sounds, and textures into a language only he could quantify. Sapient beings revealed even more—through emotion, posture, the inner rhythms of their organs, and countless subtle cues. Over time, Kilu discovered that this flood of organic, inorganic, and aural data aligned closely with a being’s potential.

  "I sent the war machine's mage off and ran as the tower exploded." Answered Kilu.

  "How did you survive?" questioned Tilumana as one eyebrow raised.

  "I jumped into a cannon's barrel and don't remember after." Kilu answered impassively.

  “Clever crow,” Tilumana smirked. “Now… did you acquire anything bearing strong magic?”

  Her voice dropped into a ritual cadence. “All truth, no lies. Truth only—until one dies.”

  The soldiers echoed in unison, like a well-rehearsed prayer:

  “All truth, no lies. Truth only—until one dies.”

  Kilu's visage stayed neutral. "I'm able to feel if the item seems solidly built. If so I salvage, if not I throw it and move on," Kilu confidently answered.

  Glushim huffed, shaking her head. “Crow bugshit lie! Glushim save crow. Glushim see little bugshit crow take from dying man. That true! True! True! Glushim touched crow with hand. Maybe that what strong magic is from!”

  Tilumana raised a finger, silencing her again.

  “I miss the days when the only hobgobs I knew were skewered on my sword,” Tilumana sighed to the lanky mage.

  Kilu whispered to himself, barely audible, as his eyes moved from one figure to the next.

  "Level 1... level 0....level 0... level 2....Commander, level 7.. Mage, level 5.... "

  Kilu clenched his thoughts tight—pushed, begged, forced his mind to cough up more. Descriptive traits. Hidden affinities. Anything. But the auras swallowed it all. Slippery. Vanishing. Gone before he could grasp a single thread.

  Tilumana waggled her finger above her head. “Nisi. Approach.”

  Nisi stepped forward with a lazy gait, hands in his pockets. His dirty blond hair flopped over one eye. He looked like a man always halfway between boredom and amusement. The ragged tunic and flodded pants he wore gave him an almost civilian appearance, but his movements were sharp, trained.

  Tilumana pointed at Kilu. “Tell me what you know about this crow.”

  Nisi shrugged. “ That one—Kilu—he's different. He's been a crow since he could walk. That makes him the longest-living crow I know. Youngest crow too. Sharp. Quiet. Don't know nothin' about any missin' artifact, but if somethin's gone, it sure as spit wasn’t him.”

  Tilumana gave a curt nod. “And his handler, Glushim was it?”

  Nisi tilted his head. “Glushim ain't known for clean work. Her crows scatter like scared squirrels, and she always brings back less than she should. She may have shamanic powers but their weak. I think she filched something and blaming Kilu.”

  Glushim flushed and shot Nisi a venomous glare.

  Surrounded by former enemies, Glushim had learned to survive by playing the fool—muttering nonsense, feigning ignorance, keeping her head low. Seeming harmless made her forgettable. And forgettable meant alive.

  But she wasn’t stupid. She knew the boy’s tattoos made theft impossible, and the more she protested, the more suspicion crept in. So instead of denying, she smiled wide—too wide—and turned to Tilumana with mock indignation.

  “Commander, this not fair! Glushim innocent!” she hissed, eyes gleaming beneath her hood. “Glushim want… yes. Glushim demand Judgment of Combat.”

  A stir ran through the camp. Some soldiers started betting pools.

  Tilumana raised an eyebrow. “Judgment of Combat?”

  Glushim straightened. “Yes. Judgement of Combat show truth!"

  Tilumana sighed. “Little crow. Will you agree to a Judgement of Combat?"

  Level 3, twice my height, thought Kilu as he nodded at Tilumana.

  She stood and gestured to the clearing. “So be it. Draw the circle. You fight until one falls or yields. No killing—though it happens, Rutherbean—give them the rods."

  The lanky mage stepped forward and carved a four-meter circle into the mud. He clumsily handed each combatant an iron rod, two fingers thick and a foot long. The rods were etched and dented from years of brutal use in combat trials.

  “Let all know—the result of the Judgment of Combat is absolute and cannot be rescinded!” squeaked Rutherbean, puffing up like a wet scroll trying to stay dry.

  The lanky mage raised his hand toward Glushim, palm open. She curled her lip but handed over her staff with a long, drawn-out groan.

  “Everything,” Rutherbean said, deadpan.

  Glushim tilted her head, eyes glittering beneath her hood. Then, grinning like a toad about to bite, she began unloading her belongings: a frayed pouch, a bent dagger, a shriveled something-in-a-jar, and lastly, her necklace—strung with little finger bones, each polished to a yellowish shine.

  Rutherbean’s face twisted. He took the necklace between two fingers like it might bite him back and held it at arm’s length, muttering, “Charming. A real fucking collector’s piece.”

  Rutherbean turned to Kilu, eyes expectant, waiting to see if anything needed surrendering.

  "Crows own nothing but these." Kilu indicated at his meager clothes and the rope that held it together as a belt.

  "Oh good," exhaled Rutherbean.

  Glushim grinned as soon as she held the iron rod and looked at Kilu staring at her. Internally, she was giddy.

  **A small child. Little crow quick but weak. I end this quickly. Then beating all night and then yummy soup.**

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The two stepped into the circle carpetted with mud and tufts of grass.

  Kilu studied his weapon intently.

  4 durability.

  He tried to peer at Glushim's iron rod stats but the stats wouldn't appear. He shook his head in defeat.

  "Begin!" Rutherbean clapped his hands and the torches surrounding the fight circle erupted up spurring on loud cheering from the spectators.

  Kilu's eyes darted everywhere on Glushim's person as she shuffled forward.

  Glushim paused and frowned at the constricting mud at her feet.

  The soldiers watching became rowdy and excited. Tilumana smiled satisfied. She needed her soldiers to forget their recent losses.

  Glushim heavily stepped forward and brought down her rod in a downward arc, intending to crush Kilu's skull.

  Kilu stepped back to evade her attack and ran along the edge of the circle. He flung a chunk of mud at Glushim’s face. He missed—but it was enough to make her pause in a flash of rage.

  Glushim snarled and swung her rod in a wide arc at her side and aiming for his face.

  Three steps reach.

  Kilu didn’t flinch. The swing passed inches from his face, and he didn’t even blink. He’d already measured her range.

  The moment the rod swept by, he lunged forward—but jerked back as a stream of putrid yellow spit splattered across his face.

  “Tit for tat, bugshit!” Glushim barked as she wiped off the mud he threw at her.

  Kilu stepped back, wiping the filth from his face—just as a dull, meaty impact landed against his shoulder, followed by the metallic ring of iron against bone. The crack of it made the entire crowd wince. His right shoulder screamed with pain, and he staggered slightly, his breath catching.

  “Shoulder’s gone. That’s a clean break,” muttered a nearby soldier.

  “Double my bet,” someone else shouted.

  “You already lost, idiot,” another barked. “He’s six and still standing.”

  Another swing cut toward Kilu’s left. He blocked it, barely, the rod catching the blow and rattling through his arm like a hammer to the nerves. The hit forced him back, just beyond Glushim’s reach.

  She cackled, breathless and wild.

  “Glushim beat you all night and—yes, yes—make crow-finger soup. Mmm. Glushim love taste of child meat. Leave you some fingers. Still do crow work. No worry, no worry.”

  Someone from the crowd barked a laugh.

  “Soup’s on!”

  “Don’t forget the bones—adds flavor!”

  Kilu didn’t respond. He winced and calmly switched his rod to his left hand. His right hung limp. With slow, mechanical care, he tucked it into the rope at his waist to secure it.

  His feet dragged in the thick mud, each step a fight. Glushim stormed forward, snarling with every stomp, her steps just as heavy and clumsy.

  That’s when Kilu noticed the tufts of grass. Sparse, but firm. They hadn’t sunk with the mud.

  Try it, he thought.

  He scraped the muck from his soles and darted along the circle’s edge. This time, his footing held. The grass gave him grip. His balance returned. His speed surged.

  Glushim blinked. Her head jerked slightly as she realized—he wasn’t slipping.

  “Is he a damn fairy?” someone muttered in awe.

  At the center of the circle, Glushim twisted to follow him—slow, predictable. And then she froze. Her feet wouldn’t move. The mud had turned on her.

  Kilu lunged, left shoulder first, and crashed into her back. Her spine twisted, and she let out a pained screech. Still pinned by the mud, she collapsed to her knees.

  Kilu rolled away and pushed himself upright, breathing hard. The weight of the muck dragged on him again, but he stood. He blinked once, watching her struggle.

  Then her aura wriggled.

  He heard her murmured incantation. Smelled the change.

  “Sulphur. Oilcloth. Heat spell incoming,” he said under his breath.

  Glushim yanked herself from the mud with a violent jerk and stabbed her iron rod into the nearest torch. The flame roared up.

  Using it as a catalyst, she drew the rod back—dragging behind it a flickering rope of fire. The metal glowed red-hot, hissing in the cold night air, casting manic shadows across the arena.

  "Fire whip." said Rutherbean at Tilumana.

  10 breaths spell duration. Damn. Thought Kilu.

  “Add crow toes to soup… mmm,” Glushim wheezed between pants. Her grin stretched ear to ear. Yellowed, blackened, and jagged teeth caught the red glow of her weapon, making her look demonic.

  Kilu watched her eyes. She looked down.

  My right thigh. He predicted.

  She flicked the rod—fast. A whip of fire lashed at his thigh, igniting his pants. Kilu grabbed a fistful of mud and slapped it over the flames. No injury—yet.

  Another lick of fire whistled out. This time the fire coiled around his left calf.

  He gritted his teeth as his skin seared.

  Commander Tilumana and Rutherbean exchanged a brief, silent shake of their heads—an unspoken agreement between them: the boy wouldn’t last much longer.

  Glushim shoved her feet deeper into the mud and yanked Kilu toward her. The fire-wrapped tendril around his calf cinched tighter as he slid easily across the muck. The magical flame whip ignored the wetness—unbothered by the mud.

  8 breaths left on the spell — too long, thought Kilu.

  “It’s over,” yelled a spectator. "Not yet, not yet," countered another.

  Glushim exaggerated each pull, playing to the crowd like she was reeling in a prize catch. She had her dinner—at least part of it. Finger and toe soup, made from children, always tasted best.

  Kilu stared stoically at Glushim, catching a strange sound from her fiery rod—the brittle crack of stressed metal.

  Kilu’s gaze locked onto Glushim’s blazing rod. The fire curled around it like a predator gnawing its own leash. He focused—deeper than before—forcing his mind through the haze of pain and noise, diving into the hidden logic that pulsed behind the world’s skin.

  And there it was.

  The rod screamed.

  Not in sound, but in sensation—a high, metallic wail that rang in Kilu’s bones. The weapon groaned under the weight of fire and rage, its aura quivering like a dying animal. The enchantments within it buckled and twisted, as if begging to be released.

  It was too hot. Too brittle. The magic no longer binding—it was straining, pleading.

  “One point of durability left,” Kilu whispered.

  His eyes narrowed.

  He could already hear it break.

  Still tangled in the burning tether, Kilu was dragged across the mud—until Glushim loomed over him, rod raised high. Her mouth twisted in glee. The red-hot iron tip hovered above his chest, aiming for his heart.

  Flat on his back, Kilu didn’t panic.

  He gripped his own rod with both hands, braced his feet against the mud—and swung upward with everything he had.

  Iron met iron.

  Durability four met durability one.

  Glushim’s rod exploded.

  The enchanted weapon—a Judgment of Combat rod, forged to survive centuries of brutal trials—shattered into jagged fragments. The flames sputtered and died in midair. The crackling whip vanished with a hiss.

  And then—silence.

  Real silence. No wind. No breath. No words.

  Commander Tilumana stood perfectly still behind her crate-desk, her mouth half open, one brow slowly rising.

  Rutherbean’s hand, mid-gesture for a spell, stopped trembling in the air.

  The crowd, packed and rowdy only moments before, had frozen in stunned silence.

  Judgment rods were known for their enchantments, forged in rituals passed down from high tribunals. Designed to withstand generation after generation of duels. Hardened to survive magic, rage, even monsters. Few in the camp had ever seen one break. Fewer still had seen it done by someone so small.

  Glushim stared down at her hands. The hilt she clutched now ended in jagged ruin. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Her eyes shifted from the fragments around Kilu… to Kilu himself.

  He lay beneath her, bruised, caked in blood and soot—but calm. Unblinking. His rod still clutched in his hands, steam rising faintly from its battered edge.

  Glushim didn’t move.

  She couldn’t.

  Then the silence shattered.

  The crowd erupted—shouts, cheers, disbelief tumbling into a roar. Some laughed in awe, others cursed in shock. Someone shouted, “He broke a judgment rod!” Another cried, “With a single swing!”

  No one asked his name.

  No one cared.

  But they would remember this:

  A little crow broke something that was never meant to break.

  “I decree,” Tilumana continued, her voice slicing clean through the noise, “that Glushim, crow handler, be flogged forty times and locked in the stocks for three days—for all to witness her folly. Let this stand as the punishment for such a disgrace. Dismissed!”

  Rutherbean hovered awkwardly over Kilu, clearly debating the least offensive point of contact.

  “Good show, little crow. Good show,” he muttered, grimacing as he offered a single finger like he was poking a diseased toad.

  Kilu, drenched in mud, blood, and soot, stared at the finger.

  “Not necessary, sir,” he said flatly, already pushing himself upright.

  Rutherbean pulled his hand back with visible relief. “Excellent. Cooperation. That’s the spirit.”

  “Little crow, come,” Tilumana beckoned.

  Kilu held his right arm and limped forward, trying to stand straight before the commander.

  “Aye, Commander?” he said.

  “At ease, little crow.” Tilamana gestured to Rutherbean, who handed her a rune-marked satchel.

  “As per the ancient laws of Judgement Combat, we cannot treat your injuries, but…” Tilumana held out the satchel. “I know crows aren’t permitted to own anything but their clothing—but take this. You earned it.”

  Inside was Glushim’s rune-stitched satchel—and within it, the magical pocket watch.

  Tilumana touched the tattoo on his chest, about to trigger, and recited:

  “By the authority vested in me by His Eminence, Emperor Galbatine, I, Commander Roxana Cavalcade Tilumana, grant this allowance as yours.”

  The burning from Kilu’s tattoos faded.

  He saluted, keeping his arm raised. A hidden smile almost broke his placid expression.

  “T-thank you, Commander!”

  Tilumana smiled at the trembling boy.

  “You’ll go far, little crow. Now go recover. And use that gift wisely.”

  “I will, Commander,” Kilu replied, lowering his salute.

  As Kilu limped through the camp, a thin trail of murmurs followed him.

  “Didn’t expect the little crow to survive,” someone muttered with a scoff.

  “More luck than skill. He just got in a lucky swing.”

  “Still broke a judgment rod,” said another—grudging, bitter.

  A few smacked his shoulder too hard in mock congratulations. One tossed a copper at his feet. Another ruffled his matted hair like he was some stray beast that performed a trick.

  “Next fight, he’ll snap in two.”

  Kilu didn’t answer. He didn’t slow. He didn’t look at any of them.

  He kept limping.

  One step. Another. Quiet. Measured.

  He climbed a low slope to the outer edge of camp. The tents and firelight dimmed behind him. His cave waited—small, hidden beneath a mossy overhang. He ducked in and pulled the twig door shut behind him.

  Silence.

  Stillness.

  He waited a moment, listening. Then exhaled.

  The limp disappeared.

  He stood straight. His right arm—once bound tight to his side—lifted with a slow roll of the shoulder. Stiff. Sore. Not broken.

  Kilu looked down at his legs. Mud clung to the torn fabric, but through the grime, he saw them clearly—not with his eyes, but through the quiet shimmer of aura.

  Words appeared faintly in the air over each injury.

  [Minor]

  [Minor]

  [Superficial]

  He nodded once.

  He knelt and opened the satchel Glushim had fought so hard to keep. Inside, near the bottom, wrapped in grime and faded cloth, lay the pocket watch.

  He held it in his hands, studying the delicate craftsmanship. The way the runes curled across the casing like they were breathing. A protective spell—not just a trinket, but something with weight.

  “Protection magic,” he whispered.

  He angled the surface, catching his reflection in the metal.

  A thin, dirty child. Dried blood and soot still across one cheek. His eyes, however—still sharp, still focused.

  Above the reflection, faint and ethereal, glowing like a ghost:

  Level 9