The morning sun filtered through the trees as Eliakim moved silently through the forest. Every leaf, branch, and stone had become a tool in his hands. He had spent the entire night preparing traps across the forest trail leading to the fake cavern marked on the merchant's map—a map the merchant himself had bought for a purple gold coin.
Skyling hovered above in her evolved form, her feathers refracting the light to create glimmers of mirage. Together, they watched as the merchant and his twenty-five adventurers entered the forest path, their boots crunching over leaves and twigs, unaware of the invisible web surrounding them.
One by one, the adventurers disappeared.
The first stepped into a pit concealed by illusion, sinking waist-deep into magically softened mud that hardened instantly, trapping him like stone.
The second walked through a hanging thread disguised by light-bending charm—triggering a cluster of vines to slam him into a tree trunk.
Another found himself surrounded by buzzing insects drawn by alchemical scents hidden in his armor. As he panicked, stumbling away, he tripped a snare that flung him into a net woven between two trees.
And so it continued. The forest devoured them silently.
Some found their weapons too heavy, enchanted to drag with unnatural weight. Others turned around only to find themselves surrounded by illusions of themselves being stalked by phantom wolves.
They cried out, but no one answered. The merchant remained unaware—his greed too blinding.
By the time he arrived at the X-marked clearing deep in the woods, he was alone. The caravan's wheels squeaked behind him, pulled by terrified horses and empty of his so-called guards.
He laughed like a madman. "Finally! The ghoststone vault will be mine!"
He spun around to revel in his triumph—
Only to find Eliakim standing in the middle of the clearing.
Not a drop of sweat on his brow. Not a wrinkle in his cloak.
Just calm, calculating eyes and a crooked grin.
The merchant's eyes widened. "W-Where are they?"
"Gone," Eliakim replied softly. "You'll see them again… eventually."
"No! No, this is impossible!" he roared, drawing a short blade from his side. "You little rat! You tricked me!"
"You tried to sell my friends," Eliakim's voice turned colder. "You deserve worse."
The merchant swung his blade, but it passed through an illusion.
Skyling appeared behind him, flaring her wings, her sharp tail curling into a warning.
The merchant fell to his knees, trembling. "Please… mercy. Take the map! Take everything!"
Eliakim stepped forward, silent.
He opened the caravan's doors and looked inside. Crates of dried meats, barrels of spice, bolts of silk, and even a collection of stolen baubles and trinkets. He found bags of coins stamped with foreign empires—blue gold, red silver, black copper.
And beneath a false bottom, he uncovered several magical artifacts—rings that whispered commands, a compass that always pointed north unless enchanted, and even a cloak that shimmered with defensive enchantment.
Eliakim confiscated everything.
"All of it now belongs to the village," he said. "This caravan, your treasures, your coin—payment for the trauma and risk you brought here."
He signaled Skyling, who flew in a wide circle above. Enchanted vines burst from the ground and bound the merchant's wrists and ankles, gagging him with thick moss. Eliakim inspected the scroll cases, weapon racks, and bags—making an inventory of every artifact, charm, and cursed item.
He tied the reins of the caravan to the merchant's belt.
"You'll walk it back yourself."
The Codex chain around his pinky vibrated as if satisfied. Eliakim touched it, letting the knowledge seep in: the correct rituals to return stolen goods, the ancient laws that permitted justice in isolated territories, and the loopholes that let him act as the arbiter in places like Yldrahollow.
The bracelet shimmered briefly, invisible to others but pulsing with authority.
Eliakim turned and led the caravan back to the village, leaving the broken merchant to shuffle behind, weighed by shame, fear, and the trail of traps that had unraveled his scheme.
By the time they arrived at Yldrahollow's entrance, the villagers watched in stunned silence. The same merchant who had come to enslave them now pulled his caravan alone, disarmed, and defeated.
Children rushed to Eliakim. The women wept.
"He's safe!" "He did it!" "They're free!"
Eliakim said nothing. He simply turned to the village head.
"This," he said, gesturing to the spoils, "belongs to you now. Use it to rebuild."
The merchant collapsed.
And the boy who had entered a cursed cave a weakling had returned a hero no one dared question.