Baran The Rise Of Azrael

---

Chapter: 10

Baran stepped into the guild hall. His eyes drifted to the quest board, though his mind was tangled in thoughts. Then, a particular quest caught his eye:

"Track Down the Escaped Slaves in the Lost Forest"

The quest was difficult. The location, distant.

But the reward was tempting—10 gold coins.

Baran took a deep breath. Most of his remaining coins had been spent on magic scrolls.

What he had left would barely cover a few nights of lodging and meals.

This quest wasn't a choice. It was a necessity.

He turned to the receptionist.

> "I'll take this quest."

At that moment, a deep, confident voice interrupted him.

> "We're taking the same quest."

Arthur, the leader of the Star Conclave, approached the counter.

Three others followed behind him—silent, but their eyes locked onto Baran.

Arthur studied Baran carefully, as if trying to peer straight into his soul.

> "You're heading that far alone? Courage is a fine thing... but some quests demand more than that."

Baran met his gaze without flinching.

> "This quest is mine."

The receptionist interjected quickly.

> "The rules are clear. If two parties request the same quest, you either complete it together—or whoever finishes it first gets the reward."

Baran answered without hesitation.

> "I'll handle it alone."

Arthur's lips curled slightly—not in mockery, but with curiosity.

> "The Lost Forest is long and dark. Those who lose their way often lose themselves."

Baran turned away.

> "I've already lost myself."

Arthur's eyes stayed on him as he walked off.

And in the silence that followed, something echoed in the shadows clinging to Baran's back.

---

As soon as Baran left the guild, he headed straight for the inn.

He packed in silence.

He'd heard tales of the Lost Forest's dangers before. But this time, he would face it on his own.

The journey would take four to five days by carriage, followed by a three-day trek on foot.

But distance wasn't the true danger.

There were no maps of the Lost Forest.

Most who entered were never seen again.

In those woods, a sense of direction faded, and time slowed as if it slammed into invisible walls.

The journey would test not just his body—but his mind.

And Baran was ready.

He stocked up on healing herbs, two weeks' worth of food, and a few basic tools.

He meticulously cleaned his daggers, then skimmed through his spellbooks.

He wouldn't waste the carriage ride.

His goal was clear:

Mental growth. A focus on dark magic.

Especially spells like Shadow Bind, Dungeon Shackles, and Dark Fang.

These weren't just for raw power—he planned to use them with strategy and precision.

In terms of fire magic, he had changed his approach.

His first spell, Krell Thar, had been born from pure instinct.

Now, he wanted to explore imaginative techniques rather than rote formulas.

Still, some structured spells were worth learning—Fire Wall, Sea of Flames, Volcanic Surge—and he took note of them.

Once his preparations were complete, he boarded the first carriage bound for the outer regions.

The driver didn't say a word to the young man who climbed into the back, quiet as a shadow.

But a few kilometers in, he glanced at the rearview mirror and took notice:

Baran sat with his eyes closed. Mana threads danced between his fingers.

He remained nearly motionless the entire journey—silent, focused.

Yet even a still stone might hold a slumbering volcano.

Eventually, the driver began to respect that silence.

> "Strange kid..." he muttered.

After a long, wordless journey, Baran finally arrived at a small settlement near the forest's edge.

Despite the cursed reputation of the Lost Forest, the town was still standing—one of the few that remained.

Locals no longer called it the Lost Forest.

They whispered a different name, one spoken only in murmurs and prayers:

Nolmyra.

The perilous lands of Elferin...

When Baran heard the name, a chill crept down his spine.

This was no ordinary forest—just as his path wasn't one of ordinary vengeance.

He had no intention of lingering in the town.

The locals' stares told him he wasn't welcome anyway.

He bought a few medicinal herbs, studied some rough, hand-drawn maps, and double-checked his gear.

Leaning against a stone wall, he adjusted his cloak and whispered to himself:

> "I have to be fast… If I'm too late, they'll reach it before I do."

Rumors had already reached him:

The Star Conclave had passed through the town.

He refused to walk in their shadow. He had to be ahead.

The mists of Nolmyra were calling.