Beastbound: Awakening the Hunter

"Haha, I knew it all along. This kid was never going to amount to much. Now he's done for. That nobleman must be sure he can deal with him, or he wouldn’t have dared block his door!"

"Stark, you better run! Pissing off a noble is no small matter. You’ll regret it when they start whipping you—one lash could take half your life away!"

Voices began to rise, filled with nervous energy. Some nobles had knights or squires who could carry out brutal floggings—strong enough to kill a man with just a few strikes.

"Yeah, Stark, you should run to the academy. Maybe one of your classmates can help you!"

"Enough shouting. Let me go find out what’s going on."

Oliver’s voice was calm but firm, cutting through the noise.

"Quiet, all of you! Stark, I’ll go with you. Let me see which noble dares to cross you. I’ll have words with him!" Gavin, the tavern owner, fumed.

Oliver glanced at him but didn’t respond.

The drunken men and local villagers in the tavern didn’t fully understand the weight of a core apprentice's status, but Gavin did. He knew that while not every baron was like his own father—weak, poor, and in need of flattery—most noblemen would never dare cross a core apprentice, especially one who had the protection of someone as prestigious as Professor Arcanus.

So, it was clear: no one in this town would dare block Oliver's door.

Without saying more, Oliver started walking toward the village. Gavin quickly closed up his tavern and followed. The rest of the onlookers, with no more drinks to distract them, followed along too.

The crowd continued to grow as more people joined in, eager to see what would happen.

"Didn't Stark just join the academy and become a big shot? What, a few days later, and he’s already offending a nobleman? I always said it—he’s just lucky. Sooner or later, it’ll catch up with him."

"Wasn’t it you who said you regretted not marrying your daughter off to him?"

"I never said that! I’m one of the only two high-class tailors in this town! Stark’s just a lucky farmer; there’s no way I’d let my daughter marry him!"

"Ha, tailor, you might want to keep an eye on your daughter. I saw her running after Stark just now, looking more like a servant than anything!"

"What? That scoundrel? Where’s my whip?"

The tailor, outraged, grabbed his riding whip from under the table and hurried after the crowd. He’d made up his mind—when they started beating Oliver, he’d make sure to "help" by handing them the whip and giving him a few lashes of his own.

And while he was at it, he could teach his daughter a lesson about the kind of man Stark really was. A lucky farmer, nothing more. His daughter had no business dreaming about him.

---

Meanwhile, Baron Cavendish and his son Edmund were waiting nervously outside Oliver’s dilapidated house.

Many people, once they made a name for themselves, would exaggerate their past hardships to make their success seem even more extraordinary.

Cavendish had heard the rumors about Oliver nearly starving to death just over a month ago, but he assumed they were just that—rumors, spun to make Oliver's rise to becoming a core apprentice seem all the more impressive.

But now, standing before Oliver’s run-down house, Cavendish realized that those stories might just be true.

A man who had nearly starved to death, only to rise to become a core apprentice and one day become a wizard—this was a legend in the making.

And who knew? Oliver might not just stop at red-tier wizard. He could achieve even greater things. The kid was only in his teens!

As Cavendish seethed with frustration, he couldn’t help but think of his own son. Edmund had caused this mess—so quick to offend someone like Oliver, whose future was so bright.

In a fit of anger, Cavendish snapped his whip at Edmund, the crack of it echoing in the air. Edmund yelped, stunned and confused. He had been punished just yesterday. Why was his father hitting him again?

The two were soon surrounded by the crowd, and Cavendish immediately spotted Oliver in his academy uniform.

"Ah, so this is the famous Mr. Stark I’ve heard so much about. It’s an honor to meet you," Cavendish greeted, his voice sincere but tinged with visible concern.

Oliver had no idea who this man was, but he quickly recognized Edmund—bloodied, bruised, and looking utterly defeated. This was the same boy he had dealt with at the academy, a bully now being humbled by his own father.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. Was this man here to seek revenge for his son? But no, something about the way he spoke felt… off.

Before Oliver could finish his thought, Cavendish bowed deeply, his voice full of regret.

"I am deeply ashamed of my son. Edmund has wronged you, Mr. Stark, and as his father, I am here to apologize. If you wish to punish him, I will not stand in your way. You have every right to do so."

With that, Cavendish extended a bloodstained whip toward Oliver—clearly the same one he had used on Edmund.

Edmund, standing behind his father, flinched, almost collapsing in fear.

The crowd of onlookers, including the drunken men and local townsfolk, was stunned into silence.

Especially the high-end tailor, who looked utterly bewildered. This... this wasn’t what I expected!

Baron Cavendish was a man well known in the town—not like Gavin’s father, a nobleman in decline with no power to speak of. Cavendish was a figure of influence, someone whose servants had likely delivered a few beatings to the townsfolk in the past.

What kind of nobleman was this? And now, he was treating Oliver with such courtesy, even bringing his son here to apologize?

"Hey, tailor!" someone jeered, clearly mocking him. "Didn't you say Stark was just a lucky farmer? You might want to go tell him that yourself!"

The tailor instantly shrank back, his posture shrinking as he cast a desperate glance at the speaker. "No, no! What I said... I was just being honest. My daughter has good taste, choosing our town’s young hero!"

He quickly grabbed his daughter and demanded, "So, my dear, what's your relationship with Stark? Have you... been with him?"

The tailor’s daughter, her face flushed, pulled away. "Father, we’ve barely spoken!"

"Useless!" the tailor exploded, his anger flaring. "How could you be so hopeless?"

At this moment, however, most of the crowd had lost interest in the tailor’s embarrassment. Their attention was fixed on the far more dramatic scene unfolding with Oliver.

As for Edmund, when he heard that Oliver might punish him further, panic flooded through him.

He knew exactly how much strength Oliver possessed. The thought of being beaten to death right here terrified him.

Desperate, Edmund scrambled to his feet, rushing forward and collapsing at Oliver's feet.

"Please, Mr. Stark! I know I was wrong! I beg you, don’t hurt me! I’ll be your servant for the rest of my life, I swear it!"

The sight of a proud baron’s son—once arrogant and unbothered—now groveling and pleading for mercy was enough to leave everyone in shock.

The drunken men, who had been hanging around just moments ago, were now wide-eyed and sober, completely stunned by the scene unfolding before them.