NOVPUBChapter 48: Partnership Is Trash, I don't like you.
...They came to a halt beside a crumbled rock wall half-swallowed by vines. Oliver turned sharply as his eyes narrowed on Garron—chest still heaving.
“Alright,” he said, voice sharp. “You’ve followed me far enough.”
Garron raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t need you anymore.” Oliver’s hand rested on the red rag at his side. “You served your purpose.”
Garron blinked, then laughed once—dry and humorless. “You’re dismissing me? After I saved your little cursed life back there?”
Oliver’s glare was unshaken. “I saved yours too. We are even. Besides, You didn’t do it for me. You did it because you were afraid to die.”
A muscle twitched in Garron’s jaw. He felt as if he had been seen through. For Garron, it was a rare feeling. He always fancied himself on top, or ahead of most situations, even when he did not look like it. Fleshing out advantages was kind of his thing. No matter the situation, he always found his way out of things, and to his favor.
But with Oliver, things had turned out differently. It started with Barka. That loss had been unexpected.
Barka had been a good handy man when it mattered. Losing one so useful really pissed Garron off.
But then they were other things. For example. Garron could tell that when the noble brats came to their cell and took Oliver, he was the only one that came back 'untouched'. First time might have been a fluke, but it happened twice. And then the soldiers took him to 'teach' him a lesson for killing Barka. Oliver came back whole.
And lastly, even Seraphina, that scary woman that killed a noble and hing it on the ship—seny for him, but returned him without a scratch.
A mistake the first time. A coincidence the second. And a pattern, the third.
While, like most commoners, he had his quarrel with royalty, all the evidences screamed at his mind, and his survival instincts told him one thing. 'Don't let him out of your sight.'
It was also the reason he had dove to save Oliver back then, and in all honesty, now that he was no longer crawling to move forward, that decision proved to be the right move.
Was the boy hiding secrets? Definitely! All royals had something fishy in their pants, hidden behind perfumes of smile and all that.
However, right now, sizing Oliver up, that look on the boy's eyes. It was not like the familiar look he had seen in the eyes of nobles.
It carried an edge to it, that pissed Garron off.
“What are you—Ten—Eleven years old, and already talking like a little royal tyrant.”
However, considering how Oliver had seen him take the reigns of power in that cell of the ship that brought them here, Oliver believed that word was better suited to the man before him. But that did not mean that Oliver would feed his ego.
“I’ve met tyrants,” Oliver said, voice cold. “You’re just a coward with a sharp tongue.”
That hit. Garron’s face darkened. 𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑝𝘶𝘣.𝑐𝘰𝘮
“And you,” Garron muttered, stepping closer, “are a walking contradiction. I’ve seen plenty of kids crushed under this 'monarchy system', begging for scraps. But you? You crawl out of a hole and start bending people's will, like you're owed something.”
“I am owed,” Oliver snapped. “More than you can imagine.”
Those words had been belched out of his heart, faster than his tongue could have controlled. And while his deep anger, and hunger for Vengeance was not directed at the man before him, Garron was slowly becoming an outlet for it.
Something even the Asmodeus bloodline sensed.
But Garron was also different, in his own way.
His eyes narrowed. “You're not normal, kid. I don't know what the hell you're hiding, but you reek of something dangerous. And don’t think I didn’t notice how that rag worked. Or how you and I stood up the moment it touched the damn skin.”
Garron was obviously smart, but limited by knowledge. He did not know what a shard was. They had not been taught about it yet.
Then again, even the nobles of the Tyrell kingdom had little to no information of the treasures of the dungeons.
The Somara empire had done a good job of keeping tight their secrets.
People like his father, Richie Von Rich were just abnormal.
"I can tell you know a lot. 'Your' kind, always keeping the good stuff for yourselves—"
Oliver understood the man's words.
To say he was not a bit impressed would be a lie. If Garron had been born noble, it might have actually been a blessing or a curse to any nation.
Garron suddenly leaned in slightly, looking deep in Oliver’s eyes. “... But you, its a little more different fir you. I can tell. My Bloodline can feel it. You've... been through something. Something—an edge—an advantage. And whatever it is," his eyes narrowed even more, "it's precious!"
Oliver felt like smacking his forehead.
What the heck was this? First Accra, and now Garron. Was he really so easy to read?
No! He wasn’t. It was just that there were too many freaks in the world with Bloodline Abilities that defied common sense.
Luckily, it was just these two people—for the time being.
But they might be more in the future. People with even scarier abilities.
Oliver made a mental note in his mind to find a way to hide himself from other people's bloodline perceptions.
Garron had come closer. But then he suddenly took a step back, "But you’re still a child. And you will slip up.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Maybe,” Oliver said, also stepping back. “But if you stay with me, I guarantee I’ll drag you down when I do. So leave.”
Silence hung between them.
Garron exhaled slowly, tilting his head. “Y’know what’s funny? I don’t like you. Not even a little. But something tells me if I let you out of my sight, I’ll regret it. You’ve got blood in your eyes, kid. In such a foreign land. I think its interesting. And I think wherever you’re going, something’s gonna burn.”
Oliver turned his back, with insaid words in his head. 'Then don’t blink. Or you might miss it.'
Oliver began walking again.
He didn’t get far before he heard Garron’s steps trailing him again.
“I told you to leave,” Oliver growled.
Garron shrugged behind him. “Yeah, right. I am not going to do that—listen to a child. What were you thinking? Or do I look like one of your royal servants to wipe your ass? Besides, something tells me we are not even at the fun part yet.”
Oliver whirled. “I’m not your little project.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Garron reached out, grabbed Oliver’s shirt. “You want me gone? Make me.”
Oliver didn’t think. He twisted—years of crawling through vents making his movements sharp and serpentine. He slipped out of Garron’s grip like water and kicked off a nearby root, landing with both feet planted.
Garron blinked. “Huh. Rat-boy’s got moves.”
Oliver lunged first—sloppy, a rush of adrenaline and instinct. Garron sidestepped easily, palm catching Oliver’s wrist and spinning him to the dirt. “Not like that.”
Oliver rolled to his feet instantly, teeth bared. His stance was wrong. His fists were too tight. But his eyes—his eyes burned like something ancient.
Oliver knew next to nothing about combat, but he made up for certain short comings as a result of the gains in the night trial. While Garron certainly had experience in the field.
Also, there was a way he moved, like he coukd predict outcomes.
He charged again.
This time, Garron didn’t dodge. He struck—lightning-quick. A blow to the shoulder, a sweep at the legs. Oliver staggered but didn’t fall.
Again.
And again.
“Stay down, royal brat—” Garron began. He was very surprised. Oliver was far shorter than him. A skinny boy of just ten, but the way he moved was incredibly abnormal.
Garron did not feel like he was struggling with a child, but another grown, strong man.
Oliver tackled him.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful. But it was wild. Tenacity incarnate.
The two hit the ground, Garron cursing as Oliver scrambled up his chest, elbow swinging for his jaw. Garron blocked it—just barely—and shoved the boy off, both panting.
Garron spit to the side. “You’re a damn animal.”
Oliver tiuched the injury now on his mouth. It was deep, and while it was red, it still did not bleed. “I’m not your damn PROJECT.”
He spat to the side.
Garron sat up, scowling. “What are you running to that’s so important, huh? You shit faced royals! Always the same with your lot. Another secret? Another lie?”
“I’m not running.” Oliver’s voice was cold. “I’m climbing. You’re the freaking weight. Just leave me alone.”
And then—
Thwick.
A sharp buzz cut the air. Oliver's aether caught it fast in the air, and by that instinct alone, he moved his head to the side.
Something thin and fast passed his ear. He froze.
An arrow embedded itself in the tree behind him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Oliver’s Aether sense flared—wild, blood-red dancing wide in just his vision. Danger. Surrounding.
He didn’t wait for Garron’s opinion.
“Get up,” Oliver hissed. “They’re here. They found us,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.
“Who?" Garron growled. “another beast?”
But Oliver wasn’t listening—his fingers already flicked open the Nightmare Sigil interface, blood-red glyphs glowing across his vision. His eyes widened.
<WARNING: —RED WHISPER— TIMER: 9 MINUTES, 52 SECONDS>
<SLAVE SIGIL SUPPRESSION DETERIORATING. TRACE INSTINCT DETECTION ACTIVE>
He clenched his teeth.
“They shouldn’t have been able to sense us. But damn it, we wasted too much time.” Oliver whispered. “Not yet. The cloth—there’s so little time left…”
Garron shot him a look. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Corrupted,” Oliver answered, gaze shifting to the undergrowth. “Slaves whose seals got corrupted. The slave sigil… it’s a forgery of Solomon’s seal. It is Imperfect. Cracks with time, sometimes with trauma, sometimes the bloodline fights against it, and others, when in contact with wild Aether. Those stupid Vaelcrests let them stay here.”
“You’re saying—”
“They’re part of this trial,” Oliver snapped. “They don’t see. They don’t smell. They move simply by instinct of hunting others with the slave sigil. The worse part is that they still retain any skill or ability they had before their death. If the slave sigil is even a little active, they'll come for you.”
The old man that told Oliver of this place, had said that he passed these 'corripted' peacefully.
But Oliver had wasted time with his argument and battle with Garron, and now, the benefit the cloth could give was restricted to about 10 mins.
As if on cue, the brush ahead parted—and a figure shambled out.
Garron’s breath hitched. The creature was once human—male, muscular, likely in his thirties—but now its chest was twisted, ribs cracked open with bright green stalks and leaf-veins growing from its spine. A thick vine crawled from its eye socket, twitching like an antenna.
It tilted its head.
Then charged.
Oliver’s body reacted before thought—dodging left, scrambling for cover. Garron met the thing head-on, bone–dagger from the human corpse he used to threaten the Fangborne, flashing.
The corrupted slave moved like a predator—erratic but fast, too fast for something so broken. Garron parried once, twice—but the third strike nearly gutted him.
Garron had proven himself to be quite fast. Oliver was not expecting him to lose to the Corrupted slave.
Oliver grabbed a rock and flung it—hard. It struck the thing in the shoulder, and its focus snapped to Oliver.
“Over here, you plant-brained freak!”
It lunged.
Oliver barely sidestepped, his leg grazing a root as he tumbled and rolled. The corrupted slave swung wildly—and Oliver grabbed the crushed herb bundle from earlier, one of the ones he’d picked while crawling.
It was a well known one, Whispering Bloom—it desipated Aether. Ironically, it was also the same one used during his father's wedding by Seraphina.
Without thinking, Oliver shoved it into the corrupted one’s opened chest.
It screamed—high, animal, shrill.
And in that moment, Garron moved like a ghost. His bone–blade plunged deep into the creature’s back.
But it wasn’t dead.
It turned—arm raised.
Oliver moved even faster than he thought possible. In one fluid motion, he leapt onto the creature’s back, wrapped his arm around its neck, and stabbed the sharp, herb-stained rock deep into its throat.
Green blood sprayed.
It shuddered.
Then collapsed.
Silence fell.
Both Oliver and Garron stood there, panting.
The corpse twitched once. Twice. Then was still.
Garron took deep breathes to steady himself, and then he turned to Oliver, eyes dark. “would you look at that. You actually killed it. I never would have thought you had it in you.... I mean, there was Barka, but that was a fluke, wasn't it? This one..." he whistled.
Oliver didn’t answer.
He just looked down at his blood-stained hands, then at the timer slowly ticking down in the corner of his vision.
<8 MINUTES, 02 SECONDS>
He whispered under his breath, “We wasted too much time.”
Garron straightened. “You’re hiding something Again. And that You’ve been hiding something since the start. That rag—what is it. Tell me?”
Oliver really hated this. It was one of the reasons he did not want this guy to be with him.
Garron was no doubt the curious type. Too much questions, and oliver had too much secrets.
“A gift." oliver replied. "From someone who died before they could use it.”
Oliver was not joking. Because right now, that old man that should have gotten this rag, stared lifelessly to the sky, as the Fangborne fed on his carved–in–chest. His fate had changed.
Oliver looked Garron dead in the eyes. “I’m leaving. You’re slowing me down.”
Garron chuckled, brushing blood off his arm. “I just saved your life... Again.”
“No,” Oliver corrected, stepping back. “I saved yours. You got pinned. I killed it.”
Garron’s smile faded. “You little—”
He reached out, grabbing Oliver’s shoulder.
Oliver twisted beneath his arm, flipped sideways like a snake, and landed in a crouch a few feet away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You think I’ll just let you run ahead?”
“I don’t care what you let me do,” Oliver said. “I’m not here to play partners.”
Garron’s face darkened. “You’re a damn rat, and you’ll die like one.”
“Then stop talking and try.”
They stood facing each other, bloodied, breathless.
Then—
Thump.
Another vine-laced corrupted stepped into view, sniffing the air like a beast.
Oliver’s Nightmare Sigil pulsed.
<ALERT: MULTIPLE INFECTED IN RANGE>
<SUPPRESSION:RED WHISPER– TIMER: 7 MINUTES, 14 SECONDS>
He and Garron exchanged a glance.
They didn’t speak.
They just ran...
