This looks terrible, he thought, staring at his mangled reflection in the small window's faint gleam.
He got up, the wooden floor feeling cool under his bare feet, and made his way to the door. It creaked softly as he stepped into a short, narrow passage that opened into a living room. On either side of the hall were two closed doors.
Walking straight ahead, he entered the living room—and despite its simplicity, it felt surprisingly cozy. To the right, slightly raised, was a small kitchen space where the old man stood, holding a steaming bowl that must have been Oliver's food.
"Here," the old man said, handing him the bowl. Inside was a hearty meat stew dotted with vegetables. Oliver nodded his thanks, taking it in hand.
"You can sit in the living room," the old man said.
Oliver did just that, sinking into the couch and eating with slow, steady motions while letting his eyes wander. There were more books on the shelves here, neatly arranged beside a flickering lamp.
The old man took a seat opposite him, leaning back slightly. "So, what's your name, boy?"
Oliver paused, setting the spoon down briefly. "My name is Oliver."
"And what were you doing in the Forbidden Forest, Oliver?"
He was about to answer but stopped himself, weighing his words. The hesitation didn't go unnoticed.
"I was flying north," he finally said. "On my mount."
"And why," the old man pressed, "would you take such a dangerous route to the north?"
Oliver didn't respond, instead lifting the bowl again and sipping quietly.
"Are you not going to speak, boy?"
"Yes," Oliver said simply, "I am not going to speak."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "And why's that? Were you fleeing from someone—or something? Why were you running, boy?"
Oliver's expression didn't change. He kept eating, his calm exterior making it clear he wouldn't be baited.
"Tch." The old man clicked his tongue. "You'd think a little boy who knows nothing of the world would be flustered. Why the cold face?"
"I'm not little," Oliver replied evenly, "and I'm not going to talk."
"That much I can see." The man chuckled, though his eyes glimmered with interest. "I'm curious, you see. People don't just decide to fly over the Forbidden Forest unless they're seeking a quick death—or were forced to. I'd wager it's the latter." He leaned forward, grinning. "Since you won't spill the beans, I'll have to find another way to make you talk."
Oliver had finished his stew by now, setting the empty bowl aside.
"You can call me Augustus," the old man said at last, leaning back in his chair. "Or just 'old man,' whichever you prefer. Now that you're all better, you'll be doing some chores for me."
"Chores?"
"Yes, chores," Augustus said with mock offense. "I saved your life. Slept in the living room for three weeks because you took my bed. Spent my precious time patching you up. Used one of my elixirs on you. And you just ate some of my stew. Do you know how much effort it takes to hunt those beasts in this forest?"
"It was quite good," Oliver said, then blinked. "Wait—the meat stew was made from one of those beasts?"
"Why yes," Augustus said, grinning. "Where else would I find game here? The only things that live nearby are bestial abominations."
Oliver nodded quietly.
"Not a big talker, are you?" Augustus said.
Oliver didn't reply.
"For your chores," Augustus went on, "you'll clean the house every day, cook for us both, and whatever you cook, you'll hunt yourself. You'll also gather herbs in the forest. And you'll do whatever else I ask in the future."
Oliver frowned. He considered rejecting the old man, but that would be rude—and foolish. "And how long will these chores take? I have places to be."
"Oh, I'm sure you do," Augustus said, smiling thinly. "They'll take as long as I want them to."
Oliver's brow twitched. He was starting to feel like a hostage.
"And don't even think about running," Augustus added. "You'll be dead before you've gone a mile into the forest."
Oliver frowned. "Then how am I supposed to go hunting and gathering herbs? Wait—you said the stew meat came from a beast in this forest. Can I even kill such a thing?"
The old man's grin widened, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "Oh, believe me, I expect every hunt to be dangerous. But I'm not sending you to die. I've still got a bit of stock left in the pantry. Until then, I'll teach you how to hunt—and survive—in the Forbidden Forest."
A chill crawled down Oliver's spine.
"How will you train me to fight abominations?" he asked. "Unless you haven't noticed, I'm but a mortal—with no mana core."
"Oh yes, I noticed," Augustus said with a dry chuckle. "But I also know you've trained with a sword quite diligently."
Oliver's eyes widened.
"Don't worry," the old man continued. "I don't really know anything about you. But I've spent enough time around swordsmen to recognize how their muscles develop after years of training. Yours are still forming. Your build gave you away."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "Let me tell you something, boy. You don't always need a mana core to be powerful. You don't need mana to slay beasts. A blade and a bit of wit will do just fine. When I'm done with you, you'll at least know how not to die the moment you step into the forest."
Oliver nodded slowly. He didn't know how powerful this old man truly was. Despite the frailty in his frame, something deep within Oliver's instincts whispered—don't underestimate him. And the last time Oliver had ignored his instincts, it had nearly cost him his life.