After ezren looking at his new magic ritual he is thinking of how increasing his power. Orin''s teacher possesses the talent to reach Level 5 as a mage, but his knowledge of dark magic is severely lacking. I know his a warrior type but common.


    Ezren want to increase his powers and he look at paralyze enemy he brought.


    Ezren’s cold voice broke through the stillness, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade. "Torture him,", his words laced with a cruel finality. "For an entire day. Break him, Graos. Make him wish for death before it comes."


    Graos’s expression remained unflinching as he acknowledged the command. With deliberate motion, he extended one of his tendrils, its tip curling gently against the man’s skull. The soft tissue yielded under its pressure, and the tendril pierced effortlessly, stopping just shy of the brain’s surface. A faint crackling sound filled the air as it made contact with the fragile folds of grey matter, grazing the outer cortex.


    The man’s breath hitched, his mind screaming for relief, but his body could not respond. The tendril released a pulse of agonizing energy, triggering waves of intense pain that reverberated through his mind. Graos knew the anatomy of the human body too well, careful to strike only at the edges of the brain where the agony would be unbearable but not lethal. The man’s face contorted in silent screams, his body frozen, unable to move, trapped within his own pain. Graos reveled in the control he had over his victim’s suffering, each pulse of energy pushing the man to the brink of his endurance without crossing the line into death.


    Ezren stood a few paces behind them, his silhouette looming like a dark specter. He watched with cold satisfaction, his face betraying no emotion, save for a slight smirk curling at the corners of his lips. After a long silence, he spoke again, his voice thick with finality. "I will leave you to your work, Graos. When the day is done, kill him, and activate the magic circle to harvest the dark energy from his corpse."


    Ezren leaves and go down the inn for dinner.


    As Ezren sat , enjoying his meal, the savory flavors of roasted meat and warm bread brought a sense of comfort. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite, and the chatter of the tavern faded into the background. His stomach was full, and for the moment, the worries of the world seemed far away. The gossip around him didn’t seem as urgent now, his focus more on the simple pleasure of the meal before him.


    He leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For once, there was peace in his day, and he allowed himself to enjoy it fully. A sense of contentment washed over him as he took another bite, completely unaware that the events unfolding around him would soon disrupt his calm.


    As Ezren continued to eat, he overheard another snippet of conversation from a group of people seated behind him, their voices low but growing more urgent with each passing word.


    Tavern Patron 1 :


    "Did you hear? The inquisitors are coming back because of the ghoal attack last night."


    Tavern Patron 2:


    "That''s right. It was a massacre. They say the ghoals came out of nowhere, tearing through the outskirts of town. It’s bad, real bad."


    Tavern Patron 1:


    "The mayor can''t just let this slide. That''s why he''s called the inquisitor back. I hear he’s going to hunt down anyone involved—ghoal or not."


    Tavern Patron 2 (glancing around nervously):


    "People are scared. The whole town’s on edge. And the inquisitor... well, he won’t stop until he’s found the cause of all this, even if it means digging into places people don’t want him to."


    Ezren''s fork froze mid-air as the mention of the ghoal attack caught his full attention. The mention of an inquisitor sent a chill down his spine. It wasn’t just the creatures that had attacked; it was the fact that the inquisitor was coming back—a sure sign that something far more complex and dangerous was at play. His thoughts raced as he listened, his meal now forgotten, the simple comfort of food slipping away.


    He got back to his room and sleep.


    In the early morning he open the portal once more. he cast reanimation and branding spell to the two ghouls. then leave his weapon in here.


    Afterward, Ezren left the inn and made his way to the church to obtain the pass. His plan succeeded—the priest didnt detect dark mana from him because of the mana lock from his undead creatures.


    With the pass secured, Ezren headed to the mercenary hall. He scanned the bulletin board, his eyes narrowing as he found a notice from a merchant seeking porters and guards for a journey to the swamp northwest of the town.


    He approached the clerk, asking, “Is this job still available?”


    The clerk nodded. “Yes, it is. You’re hired. The departure is tomorrow, and the meeting point is the north gate of the town.”


    Ezren nodded, his business settled. He left the guild, returned to the inn, and enjoyed a quiet meal before retreating to his room. There, he opened the portal back to the forge, ready to continue his work.


    Erzen look at the man being tortured and command graos to end him. Graos stab the brain and the man die. Graos perform the Rite of Convergence and harvest he dark energy from the tortured man.


    Ezren stepped back, his eyes cold as he surveyed the body before him. The bones, now glowing faintly with the dark energy they contained, confirmed it. This was the key. The pain had been the fuel, and it had worked. More energy, more power. He didn’t feel triumph, nor guilt. It was simply another step in the process. Another calculation in the dark path he had chosen.


    While in the forge he also drain the dark mana from the ghoul returning his powers. (available mana pool 41%). and stepout and sleep.


    "In the morning, Ezren settled the remaining balance with the innkeeper, who wished him good luck as he informed him of his departure."


    Ezren arrived at the designated meeting place. The air was crisp, the streets still waking as merchants and travelers prepared for the day ahead. At the gathering point, he found the one who had posted the escort request—a well-dressed merchant with sharp eyes and a cautious demeanor. Surrounding him were the hired guards: four swordsmen clad in leather and chainmail, two archers with well-worn bows slung across their backs, and the porters—four in total, including Ezren himself.


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    The merchant wasted no time in organizing the group. “No carriages,” he said firmly, adjusting the straps of his pack. “The swamp roads are impossible for wheels. We go on foot.”


    Ezren grabbed the assigned supplies, securing them to his pack, and fell in line with the others as they set off toward the north. Their first stop was the mining village—a grueling nine-hour trek along the worn road. The path stretched ahead, flanked by dense woodland, and the occasional distant howl reminded them they were not alone.


    Conversation was sparse, but Ezren listened carefully. The swordsmen walked with practiced ease, exchanging quiet remarks about past jobs. The archers scanned the tree line, their eyes sharp and wary. The merchant, despite his noble attire, moved with the hardened grace of someone who had traveled dangerous roads before.


    By dusk, they reached the mining village—a settlement nestled between rocky outcroppings and deep forest. The group settled into an inn for the night, eating a simple meal of bread and stew before retiring to their rooms.


    The next morning, they resumed their journey, heading west toward the swamp village. The air grew thicker as they ventured deeper into the marshland, humidity clinging to their skin. The terrain became treacherous—mud sucking at their boots, insects buzzing relentlessly.


    Midway through the trek, goblins ambushed them from the undergrowth. A flurry of shrieks and rustling foliage signaled their attack, but the escort guards reacted swiftly. The swordsmen formed a defensive line, blades flashing in the dim light, while the archers took to higher ground, loosing arrows into the fray.


    The battle was brief. Within minutes, the goblins lay dead, their ragged weapons clattering onto the damp earth. The merchant barely spared them a glance before pressing the group forward.


    As nightfall descended, the swamp village came into view—dim lanterns swaying from wooden posts, casting flickering reflections over the stagnant waters. Relief settled over the group as they entered the town, weary but unharmed.


    The merchant distributed payment without delay, handing Ezren his share. With the job complete, he wasted no time in finding the local inn, stepping inside just as the rain began to drizzle outside.For now, he would rest.


    In the morning, Ezren rose from his bed and made his way to the inn''s common room, where a simple breakfast awaited him. He ate in silence, the warmth of the meal grounding him momentarily before he left the inn. Stepping out into the cool morning air, he took a slow, measured walk around the swamp village, taking in the sights. The village was surrounded by long wooden walls, with watchtowers standing tall at intervals. The faint smell of damp wood and earth lingered in the air.


    Ezren moved toward the small market area where the villagers peddled their goods. He found a merchant with a variety of dried meats hanging from a stall, their rich, smoky scent tempting his senses. Ezren eyed the large barrels of dried meat, inspecting them with practiced precision. He nodded, signaling his interest.


    “I’ll buy this whole barrel of dry meat and send it to the room of the inn im staying,” Ezren said flatly, placing a handful of coins on the counter. The merchant, a burly man with a thick beard, looked at him with a raised brow.


    “That’s a lot of dried meat, friend,” the merchant said, eyeing the barrel with a smirk. “Planning to feed an army?”


    Ezren simply nodded, as if this was a normal purchase. Then ask how to dry meat.


    “Well, if you plan on drying your own meat, there’s a process to it," the merchant continued, leaning in slightly as though about to share a secret. "First, you need to cure the meat with salt—lots of salt. Once that''s done, hang it in a cool, dry place with plenty of air circulation. The key is making sure it doesn’t rot, so ventilation is vital. If you’re in a humid place, you’ll want to hang it somewhere it won''t absorb moisture. A smokehouse works best for longer preservation.”


    Ezren listened intently, his mind already noting the details. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over to the other goods.


    The merchant, sensing that Ezren was a man of few words, simply nodded and watched him move on. Ezren wandered over to the herb stalls next, eyes scanning the array of dried plants and leaves for anything useful. Without hesitation, he bought every type of herb on display—his purse clinking with a single gold coin’s worth of purchases.


    Afterward, Ezren returned to his room at the inn and, with practiced hands, opened the portal to the forge. He pulled from the Book of Poisons for Beginners, an old, tattered tome filled with detailed instructions on various poisons and how to create them.


    <hr>


    Ezren followed these steps with precision. He used the herbs he had gathered, grinding and mixing them in the manner described in the book. The process was meticulous, but he had plenty of time. He repeated the procedure for three days, perfecting his poison-making skills, until he had a sufficient supply of the deadly concoction.


    After completing his work, Ezren took his vials of poison, tucked them carefully into his cloak, and headed out. His destination was the front of the town hall, where a large bulletin board was plastered with various notices. One of the posters caught his eye—a call for anyone interested in collecting rare herbs from the marshlands.


    “Can I hire a guide?” Ezren asked.


    The clerk nodded and gestured toward a man seated near the entrance. “That’s Mark. He’s lived in the swamp for years. Knows it better than anyone.”


    Ezren approached the man. “I need a guide to help me find these herbs.”


    Mark glanced at the mission details and smirked. “Three silver.”


    Ezren raised an eyebrow. “That’s too much.”


    Mark leaned back, folding his arms. “Well, I’ll be giving you more than just directions. I’ll make sure you don’t step into a snake pit, drown in quicksand, or get eaten by something nasty. And considering where we’re going, that’s worth the price.”


    Ezren considered it, then nodded. “Fine.”


    After paying the guide, they set out into the swamp. Mark proved to be knowledgeable, pointing out landmarks and teaching Ezren how to navigate the maze-like terrain. “If you see a cloth tied to a branch, check the tree trunk below it. There should be markings—those tell you where you are and where the village is.”


    He also gave a warning. “Watch out for bugs and snakes. Always carry antivenom.”


    As they waded deeper into the murky landscape, Mark explained the real danger. “Orcs have been spotted west of the swamp, near the mountains. They’ve set up camp, and their patrols have been pushing further east. The place we’re headed? It used to be safe, but ever since the orcs started expanding, herbalists have been getting killed. That’s why no one gathers there anymore.”


    Ezren took in the information silently. It was clear the noble overseeing this village had no interest in dealing with the growing threat.


    They reached the herb-gathering site and got to work. The area was lush with rare plants, their medicinal properties valuable to alchemists and healers. They collected their fill, but as they were about to leave, Mark suddenly tensed.


    “Hide,” he whispered, dropping low into the muddy water. He pulled out a straw and bit down on it, using it to breathe while submerged.


    Ezren followed suit, pressing himself into the wet earth. Moments later, three orcs appeared, trudging through the shallow waters. They carried crude weapons and looked alert. Ezren briefly considered taking them down but decided against it—Mark was still here. He remained motionless as the patrol passed.


    Minutes later, the danger was gone. Mark emerged from the mud, spitting out the straw. “That was close,” he muttered.


    They hurried back to the village without further incident. Upon arrival, Ezren paid Mark his fee and returned to the town hall to exchange the herbs, earning five silver each for his efforts.


    Satisfied with the day’s work, he made his way back to the inn. He requested a basin of water and a towel, paying for the service before retiring to his room for much-needed rest.