Chương 37: Chapter 35 – A Demon’s Guide to Starting Mayhem Vol. 1

1 The training field spread out wide beneath the morning sun, far larger than the one Chelsea had used in the other kingdom. Packed dirt stretched in every direction, broken up by weapon racks, sparring circles, and clusters of people either fighting, watching, or waiting their turn. The air carried the sounds of clashing steel, shouted instructions, and the occasional cheer when something impressive happened. It felt alive. And today, Chelsea was part of it.

A few heads turned as their group stepped onto the field.

Some recognized Chelsea. Most went back to their own business. Not all of them. Near the edge of the field stood Dewey, Edgar, and Fiona. Dewey looked unusually bright for the morning, standing a little taller, a little more relaxed. Fiona stood beside him, arms crossed, watching everything with sharp interest. Edgar, as always, gave nothing away behind the mask.

"First thing is to obviously have a spear," Bea said, stepping into an open space.

"Right," Chelsea replied, reaching into her bag. She pulled out the short, broken piece of wood. For a second, it looked completely unimpressive. Then it shifted. The moment it settled into her grip, it extended into a full spear, the shaft lengthening and the weight redistributing in her hands like it had always been meant to be there. Chelsea glanced around, expecting reactions. There were none. Most people were too focused on their own fights to care.

A few nearby adventurers spared her a look, curiosity flickering across their faces, but nothing more.

"Let's start with a simple sparring match," Bea said.

"That way I can see what sort of technique you have and where to start."

"Alright," Chelsea said, adjusting her grip.

"You're more experienced, so I won't go easy on you." She paused, then shifted awkwardly.

"Give me a minute or two to get used to it real quick." She began passing the spear between her hands, testing different grips, sliding them along the shaft to find something that felt right. The weight wasn't bad. The balance was different from anything she had used before, but not uncomfortable.

"What is she doing?" Fiona asked, her voice carrying just a bit too far.

"With little sister, you let her do what she needs to," Dewey replied easily.

"She always surprises you." Chelsea glanced over at them. Fiona immediately looked away, as if she had not said anything at all. Dewey just smiled and gave her a small wave. Chelsea shook her head, amused, then turned her focus back to the spear. She gave it a small spin, mimicking movements she had seen in movies. That was when she hit her first problem. The butt of the spear clipped against her wing. She tried again, adjusting her angle. It clipped again.

Chelsea frowned slightly, shifting her stance and trying to account for the extra space her wings took up. It threw off her rhythm more than she expected. Maybe spears weren't the perfect fit. A faint notification chimed in her mind. Spear Specialty Level 1 Acquired. Chelsea blinked.

"Well… that was fast." A few snickers rippled through the nearby watchers. More people had started paying attention now, drawn in by the demon girl awkwardly trying to figure out a basic weapon.

"Don't worry about them," Bea said, her voice calm, even warm.

"They have to find some reason to laugh at you. You're an intimidating presence, and showing your vulnerability in something makes you seem less threatening. Let them laugh. Let's get started." Chelsea raised an eyebrow at her.

"When did you get all philosophical?" Bea smirked slightly.

"I grew up having to do the same in Adriane's shadow. I get it." That made sense. Chelsea adjusted her grip again and stepped forward, settling into a stance that felt… good enough.

"Are you ready?" she asked. She didn't feel confident. Not really. But she had learned that didn't matter as much as she thought.

"Do whatever you can to touch me with the spear," Bea said, lifting her simple wooden staff with a tiny spearhead at the end that looked like it had been slammed against rock for hours.. Chelsea planted her feet. Then she struck. A straight thrust, exactly how it was meant to be used. Fast. Direct. Bea barely moved. With a small flick of her practice spear, she redirected the spear off to the side like it weighed nothing. Chelsea felt it immediately. Too much commitment.

The moment her strike missed, her weight carried forward. The spear pulled her with it, the sudden burst of strength behind the thrust throwing off her balance more than she anticipated.

"Oh." Her footing slipped. She tried to recover, planting the spear down to catch herself while instinctively flaring her wings to stay upright. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't controlled. But it kept her from eating dirt. Barely. A few more heads turned as Chelsea caught herself. The flare of her wings drew attention in a way nothing else had so far. Conversations dipped. Even fighters in nearby circles slowed, watching out of the corners of their eyes. Her wings looked different now. Larger. Fuller.

They caught the light in a way that made them hard to ignore. That attention didn't last long. The tip of her spear dragged across her right wing as she flapped to stabilize. It sliced clean through the membrane in a straight line. There was a brief, collective intake of breath. People expected a reaction. A wince. A cry. Something. Chelsea gave them nothing. She corrected her footing, rolled her shoulders once, and came in again. This time she moved with the thrust, stepping into it instead of planting herself.

The extra momentum felt more controlled. The surge of strength behind it made more sense when her whole body was committed. Bea watched closely, her eyes narrowing just a touch. She deflected the strike as easily as before, angling it away with her practice spear, then followed up with a short, sharp kick to Chelsea's chest. Chelsea stumbled back a step, breath pushing out of her in a quick exhale. Bea didn't press. She was watching. Measuring. Chelsea reset her stance, adjusting her grip again.

The standard thrust was not working. Too predictable. Too easy to redirect. Her eyes flicked to the spearhead. Five or six inches of metal, with a sharpened edge running partway down the shaft. Not just for stabbing.

"Alright," she murmured under her breath. She moved in again. This time she lunged like before, the motion clean and direct. Bea reacted the same way, preparing to deflect. Chelsea changed it at the last moment. She twisted her wrists and shifted the angle, turning the thrust into a slicing motion aimed across Bea's left side. For a split second, it worked. Then Bea's practice spear came up from underneath. A quick bump. Precise.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Chelsea felt it immediately. That same mistake. Her spear was lifted up and away, her momentum carrying it higher than she intended. For a flash, she was back on that other field, facing Judd, making the same error. Her trajectory carried the spear over Bea's head. But this time, she had more control. She forced the motion to stop, muscles straining as she reversed it mid-swing.

The spear came down in a sharp, downward chop. Bea stepped aside like it had never been a threat. And then she moved. Chelsea didn't fully see it. She felt it. A strike to her face. Another to her arm. A third across her chest. Her stomach. Her thigh. The other thigh. It came in a blur of controlled hits, each one placed exactly where it needed to be. Chelsea staggered back, blinking. Then she looked down. Blood. A lot of it.

It soaked into her clothes, ran down her arms, dripped onto the packed dirt below her feet. The field reacted immediately. Voices rose. Shouts. Accusations.

"She went too far."

"What the hell was that?"

"That's not sparring." Chelsea barely registered any of it. She shifted her grip and stepped forward again. The outrage turned into confusion. She didn't hesitate. Didn't slow. Didn't even check the wounds beyond that one glance. She just kept going. The next few minutes blurred together. Chelsea pushed forward with everything she had. Awkward, aggressive, messy, but relentless. Bea met her at every step, correcting, punishing mistakes, forcing her to adapt whether she understood how or not.

At some point, Chelsea lost a finger. She didn't notice until later. At another point, her jaw cracked hard enough to shift out of place. Still, she kept going. Finally, Bea stepped back and lowered her practice spear.

"That's enough." Chelsea stood there for a second, breathing heavier now, blood still dripping from multiple places. Then Bea walked up to her like nothing had happened. A hand lifted. Light flared softly. The wounds closed. The blood stopped. Bone reset. Flesh reformed. The missing finger reattached itself like it had never left. Chelsea rolled her jaw once, testing it. Good as new.

"Go grab one of the towels from Edgar and clean the blood out of your eyes," Bea said casually.

"We're going to start with basic techniques." Chelsea nodded once and turned, walking over to the others at the edge of the field. Fiona looked at her like she had just watched something she couldn't fully process.

"Chelsea, are you OK?" she asked.

"I've never seen anything like that." Chelsea knew exactly what she meant. She probably looked unhinged. Charging in without hesitation, ignoring injuries that would have dropped anyone else. Chelsea gave a small shrug.

"She healed me. It's fine." She reached Edgar, took the towel he offered, and wiped the remaining blood from her face.

"Thanks." Chelsea squeezed the towel once, then offered it back out of habit. Edgar didn't even look at it.

"Keep it. Something tells me you'll need it." That felt like a fair assessment. Behind her, Fiona grabbed Dewey's arm, her voice low but urgent.

"We can't let her keep going." Dewey didn't move. His eyes stayed on Chelsea as she walked back toward Bea, steady and unbothered.

"Little sister is a Wixx and a damned good one. This is how our training goes." He gave Chelsea a thumbs up. Fiona didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue further. A mage from a nearby training circle broke away from his partner and strode over, clearly agitated. His robes swayed with each step, hands already half raised as if he were about to cast something or stop something.

"You're going to kill her," he said, looking between Bea and Chelsea.

"She can't keep getting hit like that. The pain alone would break anyone." Chelsea dabbed at her cheek one last time and stepped back into place like they hadn't just finished tearing her apart moments ago.

"Hey, Bea, all cleaned up, who's your friend?" Bea didn't even turn her head fully. Her eyes slid toward the mage, and that grin spread across her face again. The one that made people reconsider their life choices.

"Pain is a luxury." The mage froze for a second, then slowly raised both hands.

"OK, fine. If she dies, that's on you." He backed away quickly, turning and heading straight back to his own sparring partner shaking his head like he wanted nothing to do with whatever this was. Chelsea watched him go, then looked back at Bea.

"Ready?"

"Sure," Bea said, shifting her stance.

"We're going to start with forward thrusts while standing still." Simple. Chelsea adjusted her grip, planted her feet, and thrust. Bea corrected her immediately. Too high. Again. Too slow. Again. Elbows tighter. Again. Don't lean so far forward. Again. The repetition settled in fast. There was no room for creativity here, no flashy tricks or clever angles. Just the same motion, over and over, until her body started to understand it without thinking. Minutes blurred together. Her arms began to burn first.

A deep, steady ache that spread from her triceps into her shoulders. Then her back joined in, a muscle along her spine pulling in a way she had never felt before. She kept going. Each thrust got a little cleaner. A little straighter. A little more controlled. Her breathing grew heavier. Her grip tightened. Sweat mixed with whatever blood hadn't fully washed off. Bea didn't praise her much, but she didn't need to. The lack of correction on certain attempts said enough.

By the time the hour mark hit, Chelsea's arms were shaking slightly. Her last few thrusts came out uneven. Bea stepped back and lowered her training spear.

"That's it." Chelsea blinked, lowering her own spear.

"Wait. We're done?"

"We are," Bea said.

"I could only book this spot on the field for an hour. Plus, it would be stupid to go too hard on your first day." Chelsea let out a breath. She was out of breath. She hadn't even noticed. It made sense. Her arms felt like they were about to fall off anyway. She flexed her fingers once, then twice, testing them. Still working. Good. She reached for the towel again, wiping at dried streaks of blood along her neck and jaw as they started walking back toward the others.

"So what are your plans for today?" she asked. Bea replied.

"Was going to head by the guild and see if there are any postings. Want to come with? It would help a ton if you read them to me." Chelsea nodded immediately.

"Yeah, I'm in." Fiona perked up at that, eyes flicking between them.

"Chelsea can read?" Her tone carried a mix of surprise and disbelief.

"You must come back with us." Chelsea glanced down at herself again, pinching a bit of fabric between her fingers. The stains had dried into a dull brown, stiff in places where blood had soaked deep.

"Ok, fine," Chelsea relented.

"I need to go do some shopping after I help you out. Right now, these are the only clothes I have." She tugged lightly at the front of her shirt. She knew she could fix it the easy way. Strip, re-equip, done. Clean as new. But doing that here, in the middle of a crowded training field with half the city watching her? Not happening.

"Dewey? Edgar? You two care to take a nice girl like me shopping?" Edgar answered immediately, calm as ever.

"Adriane has me shadowing you today while she's working." Chelsea pointed at him like she'd just won something.

"Yes! That's one. Dewey, are you in?" Dewey scratched the back of his neck, looking almost apologetic.

"Sorry, little sister, you defeating me in the heat of battle has shown I have much work to do. I will be taking part in the same assessment as you and hope to advance to E." Chelsea stared at him for a second, then slowly nodded.

"Lame-o's," she announced, sweeping her gaze across all of them.

"The whole lot of you. Well, except you Edgar." Bea snorted. Dewey looked like he wanted to defend himself but thought better of it. Fiona, meanwhile, was still stuck on something else entirely. She stepped a little closer, eyes bright with interest.

"That flaky little rat, Easton is never around when I need a posting read. How much do you charge?" Chelsea blinked up at her, caught off guard.

"I'm not going to charge you for reading a piece of paper." Fiona's expression tightened immediately.

"Don't treat me differently than other adventurers because I'm involved with your brother. Charge me the same rate." There was an edge there now. Not anger exactly, but pride. The kind that didn't like feeling pitied. Chelsea held her hands up a little.

"Fiona, I've never charged anyone to read something before. Plus, we don't need the money that bad." That earned her a look. Actually, it earned her three looks. Bea's eyes narrowed. Dewey blinked slowly. Even Edgar's mask tilted just enough to suggest judgment. Chelsea shifted slightly under the attention.

"What?" Fiona crossed her arms.

"Very well. Can I at least offer you anything in return?" Chelsea started to shake her head out of habit. Then paused. Her supply wasn't infinite. She tapped her chin for a second, thinking it through. Practicality won out.

"Hearts. If you keep me supplied with hearts from whatever you kill, I'll read whatever you want." Fiona stared at her. There was a moment where no one said anything.

"... Hearts?" Fiona asked, even though she clearly already knew. Chelsea nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

"To eat them, of course." She said it the same way someone might say apples. Or bread. Bea burst out laughing under her breath. Dewey looked away, shoulders shaking just a little. Chelsea glanced between them, then back to Fiona, remembering the night before. The pig. The way Fiona had watched her with that strange mix of horror and fascination.

"I'll even pay you for human hearts," Chelsea added, lifting a finger like she was making an important business clarification.

"They have to be evil bad guys though." Fiona held her gaze for a long second. Then, slowly, a grin started to creep across her face.

"I think we can come to an arrangement." Then she tilted her head, "Does the evil make them taste better?" Fiona asked, leaning in just a little like she was genuinely curious about the answer.

"No," Chelsea said easily.

"Just can't have people running around killing good people for a quick couple of gold from the creepy demon girl who eats people." She laughed as she said it, like it was an obvious line not to cross. Fiona held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"That makes sense." No judgment from the big woman. Chelsea appreciated that more than she expected to. Bea, on the other hand, leaned in from the side, voice dropping low enough that it didn't carry.

"Chelsea, how much are you going to pay for them?" Chelsea tilted her head, doing the math like she always did now.

"Is fifty silver too much? Too little?" she asked back. Bea froze. Then her face twisted like she'd just swallowed something foul.

"Oh my fuck, Chels. Are you serious?" She dragged a hand down her face.

"That's how you make people start killing each other for the slightest wrongdoing. Five silver is reasonable. It makes it worth gutting them but wouldn't cause mayhem in the streets of people killing each other to feed that demon girl with the weird eyes." Chelsea blinked. That word. Mayhem. It echoed in her head for a second longer than everything else around it. Bea kept talking, Fiona shifted her stance, Dewey said something under his breath, but Chelsea barely heard any of it. Mayhem. Bodarex.

Favored by Mayhem. Her eyes drifted slightly as she thought it through. Was that actually what would have happened? A higher price, more incentive, people stretching the definition of "evil" just a little further each time until it didn't mean anything at all? Or was Bea just being dramatic? Chelsea exhaled softly and came back to the moment, giving a small nod.

"Five silver it is," she said, more thoughtful now.

"We're not starting a black market for morally questionable murder." Bea pointed at her.

"Good. Fucking idiot." Chelsea smiled faintly, but her thoughts lingered. Mayhem didn't always look like chaos and fire and screaming. Sometimes it started small. Sometimes it sounded like a good idea.......... Hey there, it's Riley again. I really hope you're liking the story so far. Could you do me a favor and possibly rate my story. If you have already thanks a ton. But if you haven't... It would mean the world to me. Thanks!:)