The Glitched Mage-Chapter 66: The Demon

They rode hard through the night, their horses' hooves pounding against the dirt road as the capital faded into the distance. The dense forests surrounding the city gave way to open fields, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. The air was crisp and carried the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the thick, incense-laden atmosphere of the academy.

They stopped only when necessary—brief moments to rest their mounts, refill their waterskins from clear-running streams, or stretch their legs when the strain of riding for hours grew unbearable. But they never lingered long.

Riven barely spoke, lost in his own thoughts as they pressed forward. This was the first time in his new life that he had been beyond the controlled walls of nobility or academia. He had memorized maps, read accounts of the land, but nothing compared to seeing it firsthand.

The roads were winding, uneven in places, carved through dense wilderness. Strange birds called in the distance, and on occasion, they passed the remnants of old, abandoned settlements—small villages swallowed by time, their stone walls crumbling, their existence nothing more than whispers of history.

By midday, they reached a crossroads where an old milestone stood, its surface worn and cracked with age. The engraved lettering was barely legible, eroded by time and weather, but the directions remained clear. The northern path led to the frozen cliffs of Myrdal, a land of ice and unforgiving winds. To the east, the merchant hubs along the Serpent River promised bustling trade and wealth.

And to the west—toward the Forgotten Wastes.

A land abandoned, whispered about in passing but rarely spoken of in detail. Maps marked it as little more than uncharted wilderness, a place where travelers seldom returned. Official records claimed it was barren, lifeless. But Riven knew better.

Their destination lay beyond those desolate lands. Hidden in the ruins of what the world had chosen to forget.

They pushed forward.

By evening, the terrain began to change. The forests thinned slightly, giving way to well-trodden roads lined with tall oaks and neatly stacked stone markers—signs of a maintained trade route. The road curved gently downward, leading toward the warm glow of lanterns flickering in the distance.

A town.

Not a grand city, but more than just a traveler's rest. A waypoint, bustling enough to see regular trade but small enough to avoid the political weight of the capital. The buildings were sturdy, built from stone and dark timber, their roofs sloped to withstand heavy rains. Cobblestone streets wound between shops and homes, and iron lanterns hung from posts, casting steady pools of golden light.

Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread. Somewhere, the faint melody of a fiddle wove through the evening air, blending with the murmur of voices spilling from the town's heart—the tavern.

The town was alive, but not in the way the capital had been. Here, the atmosphere was grounded—lacking the elaborate decadence of noble affairs, but rich in something else. Stability. The people moved with purpose, merchants closing their stalls for the night, travelers leading their mounts to the stables, blacksmiths hammering out the last of the day's work.

Riven and his group dismounted near the entrance, their horses lathered from the long ride. A stable hand—a boy no older than fourteen with straw-blonde hair—rushed over, eyeing their well-bred mounts with open curiosity.

"Need 'em fed and rested?" he asked, already reaching for the reins of Nyx's stallion.

Riven tossed him a silver coin. "And brushed down properly."

The boy's eyes widened at the payment, and he nodded quickly, leading the horses toward the stables.

Nyx stretched and yawned. "Never thought I'd say this, but I miss real beds."

Krux cracked his neck. "I miss real food."

Aria had already moved ahead, her sharp gaze sweeping over the bustling tavern at the town's center. The Iron Hart, if the carved wooden sign was to be believed. The three-story structure stood firm among its smaller neighbors, its windows glowing with warm light, laughter and the clinking of tankards spilling out onto the cobblestone streets.

She turned to Riven. "We should gather information before setting out again. We don't know what lies ahead in the Wastes, and it wouldn't hurt to hear what the locals think."

Riven nodded. "Agreed. Let's keep a low profile."

They stepped inside.

—x—

The Iron Hart was exactly what a frontier tavern should be—loud, warm, and filled with the scent of spiced ale and roasting meat. A massive hearth crackled against the far wall, its flames casting flickering shadows over the worn wooden floors. Travelers and locals alike filled the space, some seated at long communal tables, others huddled in smaller booths, engaged in quiet conversation.

The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and shrewd eyes, polished a tankard behind the counter, his gaze flicking briefly toward them as they entered. He didn't react beyond that, merely noting their presence before returning to his work.

Good. That meant they hadn't drawn too much attention.

Krux wasted no time in striding toward an empty table near the back. "I don't care what it is, I just need food." He plopped into a seat with a heavy sigh.

Riven took the seat across from him, his eyes scanning the room with calculated ease. No one seemed to pay them much mind, but he wasn't naive enough to lower his guard. Aria, ever observant, leaned in slightly.

"I'll listen around," she murmured. "If this town has any recent news about the western roads, I'll find it."

Riven inclined his head. "Be subtle."

She gave him a look.

"When am I not?"

Before he could respond, a barmaid approached, balancing a tray of empty mugs. She was young, her auburn hair braided over one shoulder, her green eyes sharp and assessing. "Evening, travelers," she greeted, her voice tinged with curiosity. "You look like you've had a long ride."

"We have," Riven said smoothly. "Something warm to eat and drink would be appreciated."

She nodded, jotting something down. "Stew's fresh, and the cider's strong. That work for you?"

Krux grinned. "Works perfectly."

The barmaid smirked. "I'll be back with your orders."

As she disappeared into the crowd, Riven leaned back slightly in his chair. The warmth of the tavern was a stark contrast to the cold night outside, but his thoughts remained sharp.

The warmth of the Iron Hart settled around them, the steady hum of conversation blending with the occasional burst of laughter or the scrape of chairs against the wooden floor. Riven remained still, listening, observing. The townsfolk here were comfortable, but not careless. This was a place where people paid attention, where information moved quickly—just like he needed it to.

It wasn't long before the barmaid returned, balancing a tray laden with steaming bowls of thick, hearty stew, dark bread, and tankards of cider. The scent of roasted meat and spices filled the air as she set everything down.

"There you go." She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at them. "Need anything else?"

Riven offered her a polite, measured smile. "Just the food, for now."

The barmaid lingered a moment, curiosity in her eyes, but she didn't press. With a nod, she moved on to another table.

Krux wasted no time, immediately digging into his stew with unrestrained enthusiasm. "I don't even care what's in this," he muttered between bites, "it's good."

Nyx smirked, tearing off a piece of bread. "I'd make fun of you, but I'm too hungry."

Riven ate slower, his mind still focused on the task at hand. As they worked through their meal, Aria slipped back into her seat, her expression unreadable.

She waited for a moment before speaking, her voice low. "We have a problem."

Riven set his spoon down. "Go on."

Aria leaned in, her sharp eyes scanning the tavern before she continued. "The western path isn't as empty as we thought. A group has taken up residence in the Wastes—no one seems to know exactly who they are, but the word is they're dangerous."

Krux slowed his chewing. "Dangerous how?"

"Bandits?" Nyx asked.

Aria shook her head. "More than that. They're organized. No one crosses into the Wastes without their permission anymore. Merchants trying to take the old roads either disappear or turn back with warnings burned into their wagons. People are calling them a gang, but it's bigger than that."

Riven frowned. "And no one's dealt with them?"

Aria gave him a pointed look. "It's the Wastes. The Kingdom barely acknowledges it exists. No lords claim it, no army patrols it. There's no one to deal with them."

That was a problem.

It meant whoever had moved in wasn't just some passing group of criminals. They had a foothold, a base of operations. And that meant they had a reason for being there.

Riven tapped his fingers lightly against the table. "Anything else?"

Aria nodded. "Something… interesting." She hesitated for a beat before continuing. "There's a fighting ring not far from here. People from all over come to watch, but lately, one name keeps coming up." She glanced at Riven. "They call him The Demon."

Nyx arched a brow. "Dramatic."

Krux grinned. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

Aria ignored him. "No one's been able to beat him. Not once. He's brutal—fast, strong, and terrifyingly efficient. And here's the part that caught my attention: he's connected to the group in the Wastes."

Riven's gaze sharpened. "Connected how?"

"No one knows exactly. Some say he's their leader. Others say he's their enforcer. But he's not just some fighter—they respect him. Or fear him." Aria's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Either way, he's important."

The table fell silent.

Riven processed the new information quickly. A group powerful enough to claim the Wastes. A fighter undefeated in the rings. And some connection between the two.

Coincidence? No. Too much was lining up.

Krux leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "So what's the plan? Are we avoiding them or getting involved?"

Nyx smirked. "You know we're getting involved."

Riven exhaled slowly, tilting his head.

"We need to see this Demon for ourselves," he said at last. His voice was steady, decisive. "If he's part of the group in the Wastes, then he knows what's happening there. If we're going to move through their territory, we need to understand who we're dealing with." His fingers curled slightly. "Or make them understand who we are."

Nyx grinned. "Now you're talking."

Aria nodded. "The fights are held in a pit outside the town. Tomorrow night."

Riven smirked. "Then tomorrow, we meet a Demon."

—x—

The morning in Stonebrook, as they learned the town was called, was brisk and filled with movement. The scent of fresh bread and morning dew clung to the cool air as the town's merchants began setting up their stalls. The marketplace, nestled in the heart of the town, bustled with traders selling everything from dried meats and herbs to enchanted trinkets of questionable authenticity.

Riven and his group moved through the narrow streets at a casual pace, blending in with the other travelers. They used the chance to replenish their supplies properly before heading into unknown territory.

Krux took the lead in acquiring provisions—dried rations, fresh water, and extra medical supplies, though he insisted on slipping in a few bottles of whiskey for "emergency purposes."

Nyx bartered with a weaponsmith, trading a few enchanted trinkets for extra daggers and throwing knives, while Aria secured new cloaks to replace their dust-ridden travel gear.

Riven remained silent for the most part, taking in the way the town operated. Information moved quickly here, but not carelessly. People gossiped in careful whispers, exchanging news at a measured pace, careful not to speak too loudly lest the wrong ears overheard.

A sign of a town that knew how to survive.

By mid-afternoon, they had everything they needed.

"All set?" Nyx asked, adjusting her new cloak.

Riven gave a short nod. "Let's find out what makes this 'Demon' so special."

—x—

By nightfall, the outskirts of Stonebrook had transformed.

Torches lined a crude pathway leading deeper into the woods, their flames flickering against the darkened trees. The distant hum of cheering voices and the clash of steel grew louder as they approached, the unmistakable energy of fighting thick in the air.

The pit itself was a sunken arena carved into the earth, ringed by jagged stone and makeshift wooden platforms where spectators loomed over the fights. Rough-built torches were staked into the ground, casting long shadows across the dirt floor.

A crowd had gathered, merchants, mercenaries, and outlaws alike, all eager to see the night's main event.

At the center of the pit, two men fought savagely, their bodies already battered and bloodied. The larger of the two—a thickly built warrior wielding twin axes—lunged forward, his strike meant to end it.

But his opponent was faster.

With a swift, almost effortless movement, the smaller fighter sidestepped, catching the larger man's wrist in an iron grip before twisting it at an unnatural angle.

A sickening snap echoed through the pit.

The ax-wielding fighter screamed, dropping his weapon as he crumpled to his knees.

The match was over.

A roar erupted from the crowd, a mix of cheers and groans, as wagers were either won or lost.

A man—clearly the announcer—stepped forward, raising a hand to silence the crowd.

"And once again, the undefeated champion remains standing!" he bellowed.

He gestured toward the far end of the pit, where a large iron gate slowly began to rise.

"And now, what you've all been waiting for—the final fight of the night!"

The tension in the air shifted.

The spectators pressed closer, whispering excitedly.

The announcer grinned. "I give you… The Demon!"

Heavy boots struck the dirt and a figure emerged.

At first, he was just a silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. Then, as he stepped into the torchlight, his features became clear.

He was handsome, strikingly so, with sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and dark, shoulder-length hair. His skin was tanned, scarred in places, telling the story of countless battles. His build was thick with muscle, his posture exuding raw strength and control.

But what stood out most were the two small, curved horns protruding from his forehead, barely peeking through his unruly dark hair.

The crowd cheered wildly, some chanting his name, others calling out bets on whether he would win once again.

But at Riven's table—silence.

His Generals were frozen.

Nyx had stiffened, her usually sharp expression slack with shock.

Aria's fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her breathing controlled but undeniably shaken.

And Krux—Krux, who rarely showed anything but confidence or amusement—was gripping his tankard so hard it cracked.

Riven's gaze flicked between them.

"You know him."

It wasn't a question.

Krux exhaled sharply. "Know him?" His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. "That's one of your Generals!"

Riven's eyes narrowed.

"That's stupid meat head!" Nyx seethed in fury. "I told him that his king awaits him, and he's been wasting his time here?!"

The announcer's voice cut through the roaring crowd, his theatrics feeding the excitement.

"And now, who dares to challenge The Demon?"

The pit hummed with anticipation. The spectators pushed closer, waiting to see if anyone would be foolish—or arrogant—enough to step forward.

At Riven's table, his Generals were still locked in stunned disbelief.

Nyx's hands had curled into tight fists, her usually sharp smirk replaced with a look of sheer aggravation. "Unbelievable. We went through the Abyss to find this bastard."

Krux muttered something under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. "I thought he'd been trying his best to climb back to the human world." His voice was still thick with something between relief and irritation.

Aria was quieter, her fingers tapping against the wooden table in slow, deliberate beats. "If he's been here this whole time…" Her eyes flicked toward the arena. "Then he ignored the summons."

Nyx's expression darkened. "I'm gonna kill that bastard."

Riven's gaze remained locked on the so-called Demon. His General.

He analyzed him carefully—the sheer strength in his stance, the way his muscles barely tensed as he stood waiting, like he was bored of the whole spectacle. But there was power there, undeniable and raw.

It was clear why no one had beaten him yet.

But Riven didn't care about that. What he cared about was why.

Why had his General remained here, fighting in some pointless pit, when the return of his King had already been whispered through the Abyss?

New n𝙤vel chapters are published on freeweɓnøvel.com.

The Demon was his.

And he had forgotten that.

Riven pushed back his chair. The legs scraped against the wooden floor, the small sound barely noticeable over the roaring crowd. But at his table, his Generals felt the shift.

They turned to him immediately.

Nyx's grin was feral. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

Krux exhaled, shaking his head. "He's not gonna see this coming."

Aria's sharp gaze flicked between Riven and the pit, already understanding what was about to happen. "Don't kill him."

Riven said nothing.

Then, he stepped forward.

The moment his boots hit the dirt, the announcer perked up, sensing a new surge of excitement.

"Well, well, we have a challenger!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, drunken shouts, and murmurs. But the Demon didn't react at first. He simply turned his head, his sharp red eyes flicking toward Riven as if finally acknowledging his presence.

Then, something amused flickered across his features.

He studied Riven like he was some new prey. Like he had no idea who he was looking at.

The announcer, grinning wide, lifted his arms. "A bold challenger! But will he survive?" He turned toward the Demon. "What say you, Champion?"

The Demon rolled his shoulders, lazily stepping forward. "I say… he better not bore me."

The crowd cheered.

Riven simply smiled.

He stepped into the pit, the earth solid beneath his feet, the weight of inevitability pressing into the air around them.

The moment the announcer signaled the fight, the Demon smirked and moved first.

Fast.

Unnaturally fast.

He closed the distance in a breath, throwing a heavy, bone-crushing punch meant to send Riven sprawling.

But it never landed.

In a blur, Riven shifted to the side, graceful and unbothered, his movements precise. The Demon's fist hit nothing but air.

For the first time, the crowd stilled.

The Demon's red eyes narrowed.

Riven smiled. "Too slow."

Then, he struck.

Faster than the crowd could track, faster than the Demon could react.

A single, crushing blow to the gut.

The impact sent a shockwave through the pit.

The Demon staggered.

His breath hitched, the force of the blow forcing him back a step. The crowd gasped—no one had ever made the Demon stagger.

Yet, Riven wasn't done.

The flames beneath his skin burned, eager to be unleashed. But he held them back, keeping them just below the surface, fueling his movements, strengthening his strikes without exposing his abyssal nature. Using his fire here—revealing what he truly was—would bring the kind of attention he didn't need.

Instead, he let his fists do the talking.

Another hit—this time to the ribs. A sickening crack filled the air as Riven twisted on his heel, driving his fist into the Demon's side. The man barely managed to bring up his guard, his arms tightening against the force of the attack.

But it didn't matter.

Riven was faster. Stronger.

The Demon barely regained his footing before Riven's palm slammed into his chest, sending him skidding backward across the dirt.

And still, Riven advanced. Unrelenting.

"You forgot your king," Riven said coldly, his voice just loud enough for the Demon to hear over the stunned crowd.

The Demon's expression twisted into something caught between pain and realization.

His red eyes—wide now, filled with something almost human—flickered with recognition.

As if he was finally seeing who stood before him.

Riven didn't let him breathe.

A sharp elbow to the jaw sent the Demon's head snapping to the side, blood flying from his mouth as he barely caught himself. He staggered, spitting onto the dirt floor.

He growled low, finally baring his teeth like a cornered animal.

"You—"

Riven didn't let him finish.

His fist cracked against the Demon's cheekbone, sending him reeling. The horns on his head gleamed under the firelight as he stumbled, the weight of Riven's blows crushing down on him like a storm.

Riven leaned in, his breath calm, controlled.

"You forgot your king." Another blow.

"You abandoned your duty." A second.

"You let yourself rot in the dirt—"

CRACK.

The Demon hit the ground and the entire pit went silent.The great, undefeated champion lay sprawled in the dirt, his chest heaving, his face bloodied, his pride shattered.

Riven stood over him, his presence looming, suffocating, undeniable.

His abyssal flames licked beneath his skin, a silent reminder of what he could do if he truly wanted to end this.

But he didn't need to.

Because the Demon was already beaten.

The crowd—who had roared with anticipation—were speechless. The announcer, stunned beyond words, stared at the impossible sight before him.

Riven lowered himself slightly, his voice quiet but lethal.

"You were supposed to come when called."

The Demon's fingers curled into fists against the dirt. His jaw clenched.

Riven tilted his head, his abyssal flames flaring just slightly, enough that the Demon felt the searing heat ghosting over his skin.

Red eyes met his.

Riven's next words were not a request.

"Kneel."