Months passed...

  I trained with Ricusoss every single day. No breaks and no shortcuts. He added more footwork drills, more strength work, even eating schedules I had to follow, and I followed them all.

  Again. And again. And again.

  The callouses on my hands were permanent now—rough patches I couldn’t scrub off if I tried. My legs? Hardened. Thicker. I could feel how this kid’s body molded itself to the rhythm, responding to punishment like it wanted more.

  Even Randall noticed. Said I’d grown a few inches. But it wasn’t the height or posture that got me.

  It was the muscle.

  Visible now. Not big nor huge. The kind of change I never got to see in my old life. Back then, self-improvement was a fantasy. A luxury. My body had betrayed me before I ever had the chance to make it my own.

  But now?

  Now it was different. This time, effort meant something. This time, I pushed and the body pushed back. I could see the results. Feel them. And gods help me—it was addictive.

  As for magic, I’d been working on my water affinity nonstop. Ricusoss finally ranked me: Flicker. First level on the mage scale. After that came Stirred, Lit Soul, Veinburned, and then... Hollowbright.

  For now, I could summon a single drop. Maybe two. Small, perfect spheres of water. It wasn’t much—but it was progress.

  And the best part? I can do all of it without chants. Just visualization. Or even better—emotion.

  The magic grew stronger when it had a feeling behind it. Anger? Raw power. Grief? Sharp precision. But water wasn’t built on rage. Water needed calm. Stillness. Clarity.

  So that’s what I trained for.

  The quieter my mind, the stronger the flow. The more centered I felt, the more the leyline answered.

  But…..then…. there was a price.

  Casting meant energy. Casting meant mana. Casting too much meant blacking out or bleeding from places I didn’t know could bleed. So I learned control. Discipline. I made it a rule: don't waste movements, don't waste power.

  It was strange, honestly. For something so demanding, it was... enjoyable. Maybe because it was the first time in both of my lives that I’d ever felt like I was becoming someone.

  And I didn’t actually…..want to stop.

  Today was supposed to be a rest day.

  Ricu was off doing gods-know-what—wouldn’t say, just told me to stay out of trouble and keep my ass parked. Said I needed the break.

  So, of course, I didn’t listen.

  Randall was already by the river, hauling sacks of coal. The old man never stopped moving. And maybe that’s why I found myself helping him—because someone had to, and Ricusoss wasn’t here to stop me. Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit still long enough to hear myself think.

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  “Why you prepping that much charcoal, old man?” I asked, nodding at the growing pile. “Planning to cook or burn the whole forest down?”

  He shot me a smirk. “Blacksmith put in an order. Big one.” He jerked his chin toward the stacked sacks. “Ain’t pretty work, but it keeps us fed. Brilliant, huh?”

  That was Randall—always near the river, claiming it was cooler there. He wasn’t wrong. The breeze off the water cut the heat just enough to make the work tolerable. Between the rhythm of lifting, stacking, hauling, and the sound of the current rushing past, it almost felt like peace..

  “When you delivering these?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow,” he grunted, adjusting his grip on a sack. Then a glance. “You’re comin’ with me... right, kid?”

  I gave him a sideways grin. “Like always. You forgetful, or just getting soft?”

  He barked out a laugh and hoisted two sacks like they were nothing. I hadn’t even noticed we were done.

  Which meant—

  “Oi, you plannin’ to throw yourself in that river again?” Randall called as he passed, voice trailing like smoke.

  “I am, old man!” I shouted back. “You coming in too?”

  A chuckle, low and fading. “Nah... but try not to drown yourself, alright?” Then he laughed.

  Pretty funny, the water was just feet high.

  The river was part of the routine now. My version of clocking out. Just a few feet deep, clear as glass, cold enough to remove the ache from my arms. Randall didn’t worry—wasn’t much danger for a kid like me.

  Before diving in, I hauled the last two sacks up to the house. Hands scraped, back tight, but I didn’t care. The work felt good.. Heavy in a way I could hold.

  Then I walked back down, barefoot on dirt and stone, and stood at the edge of the river.

  Clear. Cold. Full of rocks and scattered weeds. And for one brief second, I thought: What if I just dove straight in?

  Just for the thrill. Just to feel something reckless.

  But no. That means suicide.

  I stepped in slowly.

  One foot, then the other. And let the cold wrap around me.

  “Better than anything,” I muttered.

  And I meant it.

  You’d think the river would be freezing, but it wasn’t. Not here. I found a smooth patch between the rocks and sank in, letting the current wrap around my legs, light and cool. Tiny fish darted past my skin—one brushed my ankle and made me twitch. It tickled.

  Gods, it was peaceful. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

  The water flowed with a soft hush, birds chirped in the canopy above, and the breeze carried the kind of scent you don’t realize you miss until you breathe it—green, clean, wild. There was no metal in the air. No smog. It wasn't polluted.

  If you ever find a place like this, don’t leave. Ever.

  But even in that stillness, something poked at the edge of it—wrong and out of rhythm. A dull thump. Wood against wood. Then metal. A faint clang. A distant shout.

  I sat up.

  I glanced toward the tree line across the river. Nothing. But I kept hearing it—sporadic, but constant.

  Was there a road that way? I didn’t remember one.

  And maybe I should’ve stayed where I was. Maybe I should’ve listened to the part of me that remembered Ricusoss’s warnings or Randall’s lectures. But I didn’t.

  I got up. Dried off quick. Pulled my shirt back over sun-warmed skin and stepped into the forest.

  Fifteen minutes of walking. Deeper. Past where I’d ever bothered to go. The trees grew dense and familiar, but the ground shifted—sparser roots, worn brush, and then... a path.

  A dirt road.

  Hidden, narrow, undeniably a road. Just like the one that led toward Mithket, but this one was rougher. Less traveled. Overgrown in parts. And it didn’t stretch far.

  It ended. Abruptly.

  And standing there, at the edge of that broken road, was a horse.

  Alone.

  There was no rider.

  Its armor gleamed—metal plating fitted to its frame, not decorative but functional. It pawed at the dirt. Digging. Breathing heavy. Steam curling from its nostrils.

  Just one horse.

  But I couldn’t move.

  Because something about it felt... off.

  I kept thinking about whatever was supposed to be riding it hadn’t arrived yet. Or worse—had already come and gone.

  Before I could even think about heading back, another sound cracked through the woods—louder this time. A metallic slam. A wooden thud. Then came the smoke. The sharp, dirty scent of something burning. And a scream. Human.

  “What in the—” I muttered, low, already moving toward the noise.

  Instinct kicked in. I crouched low, steps light, breath held. I didn’t go near the horse—something about it still twisted in my gut—but I slipped past it, into the trees.

  The shouting grew clearer. Closer. And worse.

  My hands started to shake. My chest tightened. I crept forward through brush and shadow, and then—

  I saw it.

  Trees, snapped and splintered like something massive had torn through them. Branches cracked. Bark shredded. And then that sound again—wet and fast—splattering.

  I froze.

  Liquid. On dirt.

  Another scream, cut short.

  And then I saw what made the sound.

  A man—what was left of him—lay in a heap, split in half, his guts spilling on the ground. The shine of his intestines. The stench of blood. My stomach lurched hard.

  I turned away, gagging.

  Held it. Failed.

  Everything inside me tried to get out. I gripped a tree trunk, heart jackhammering in my chest, sweat freezing on my skin. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. This wasn’t a story.

  I forced myself back around, forced my eyes to look.

  It wasn’t easy. My legs were jelly. My mouth tasted like bile. But I saw it.

  There were bodies. At least six—wearing familiar clothings, those of Toll collector uniforms.

  They were fighting against armored figures. 3 armored men. A carriage stood just behind them, its side painted with dust and blood. One of the doors hung open.

  And suddenly everything in me screamed to run.

  But I didn’t.

  I just watched.

  And the sound of another blade tearing through flesh cracked through the trees again.