Light is a nasty little bitch!

  It’s been several days since I... discovered my little trick—shoving mana at a problem and hoping it fixes itself.

  And while it sort of worked, nothing else I’ve tried even comes close. It just doesn’t make sense. That’s not how this is supposed to work. Sure, I hit snags sometimes, but this? This is something else entirely.

  If my trick is like trying to cut down a massive tree with a spoon, then everything else I’ve attempted feels like trying to do the same with a toothpick. It doesn’t matter how sharp the damn toothpick is or how well I hold it. At the end of the day, it’s still just a toothpick—not an axe. It was never meant to cut down trees.

  I’m missing something.

  There has to be another way. But as things stand, I don’t see myself finding it anytime soon.

  I’m not giving up. I didn’t settle on accepting my powerlessness just a few days after completing my education. No!

  ...But right now, I have no idea what else to do.

  Not to boast, but I pride myself on my pathway creation skills. Mentor always praised my precise mana control, the way I mastered the secret ‘drill’ technique he taught us. It only takes me a few minutes to carve pathways into a normal sword. And with my mana regeneration, I can keep at it all day and barely burn through a third of my pool.

  With Light?

  I have to take constant breaks just to avoid mana exhaustion. And after all that effort—all the sheer volume of mana I’ve poured into it—the central pathway is barely a centimeter and a half long.

  Absolutely ridiculous.

  And the worst part?

  That’s not the only thing that’s stalled.

  The rain kept coming and going, slowing us down and turning the road into a slog of mud and exhaustion. Now I sit next to the campfire doing my best to start a fire with the damp wood Num found lying around. A [Fireball] hovers over my palm, drying the branches as I carefully regulate the heat—just enough to dry, not enough to ignite.

  No point in hiding that I can use spells. They already saw me cast [Lumen], and I’d rather not spend another night gnawing on that foul-smelling slab of so-called dried meat. Supposedly dried, because who the hell knows what unholy process went into its creation? I wouldn’t be surprised if some necromancer—or even a lich—had a hand in its preservation.

  Wet footsteps crunch through the underbrush, and Oldie steps into view, two rabbits dangling from his grip.

  "Meat’s back on the menu, boys," he announces.

  A small smile tugs at my lips as I redouble my efforts, drying the last of the wood. Soon, the fire will be strong enough. James takes the rabbits from Oldie, setting to work dressing them, while Num heads off to fetch water.

  Then, after a long stretch of silence, Oldie speaks again, this time with a frown.

  "No deer."

  "You won’t hear me complaining," James says, slicing the meat into smaller chunks. "Rabbit stew beats that dried crap any day."

  "No. Not that." Oldie scoffs. "There should have been deer. Plenty of them. But I didn’t see a single trace. It’s like they just... disappeared."

  I pause. "Monsters?"

  "Unlikely. I’d wager the locals overhunted them."

  "There are locals here?" I ask, skeptical.

  "Riverside is a short walk away," he replies. "Decent-sized city. We’ll reach it tomorrow."

  I frown, trying to piece together his concern. "Is it a problem if they are overhunted?"

  Oldie shrugs. "Not a problem, exactly. Just... strange. After the spring harvest, food should be plentiful. Overhunting now could screw next year’s population."

  "Maybe they just wanted meat?" James offers, tossing the chopped rabbit into the pot Num brought, one filled with clean water.

  "Maybe." Oldie sighs, unconvinced.

  A few moments later, the pot is placed over the fire. All eyes settle on it. Finally, hot food.

  Then, wet footsteps sound again. The merchant and his adventurer escort step into the firelight, smiles plastered across their faces, eyes locked onto the pot.

  "We hope we’re not interrupting," the merchant begins smoothly.

  "No, you’re not," Oldie replies, neutral. "We’re just preparing dinner."

  "Oh, good!" The merchant grins. "We were about to start a fire ourselves but saw you’d already organized everything. Thought we might join you."

  Silence stretches. We stare at him. Shameless. As if I’d believe they hadn’t tried—and failed—to make their own fire.

  "We have spices," the merchant adds, shaking a small pouch of precious seasonings.

  Oldie smiles. It’s the same kind of smile the merchant wears—one that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

  "Of course. Join us."

  ...

  The day started on a sour note, greeted by a cold, miserable rain that had no business falling in late spring. How the hell is it this cold? Summer is just a few weeks away. It makes no sense. Then, as if to mock us, the downpour eased into a relentless drizzle—the kind that never truly stops, just lingers, stretching time and patience thin.

  The road turned into a sludgy mess, slowing our pace to a crawl. More than once, the cart got stuck, and we had to haul it free, pushing it through deep puddles of mud thick enough to swallow our boots.

  With the sky smothered by thick clouds, it was impossible to tell the exact time or how much daylight we had left. We were supposed to reach Riverside by noon, but as darkness crept in, doubt started gnawing at me. Had we taken a wrong turn? Gotten lost? Yet the trio refused to stop for the night, insisting the city was just around the corner—that it could appear any moment now.

  So we pressed on. The world darkened by the second, but I didn’t argue. I understood their eagerness. Spending another night in a wet, miserable forest while a warm, dry city was within reach? It would have been insane to stop now.

  And sure enough, minutes later, the first glimmers of light appeared in the distance. A towering gray stone wall came into view, its outline visible even in the dying light of day.

  A deep sigh escaped me. Finally.

  The cart rolled forward, breaking free from the forest and into the open. Empty, muddy fields stretched on either side of the road. As we neared the city, something about the landscape nagged at me. The mud wasn’t just rain-softened—it looked disturbed, as if something had trampled it over and over. The ground is uneven, pocked with strange depressions and ridges. Even weeks of heavy rain wouldn’t cause that.

  My unease lingered as we crossed a bridge over a wide, reeking moat. The water is dark, murky, and foul-smelling. I frown. Why would a city this deep inside the empire need such heavy fortifications?

  We finally reach the tall portcullis, where a dozen guards stood watch, clad in full-body chainmail. Their eyes tracked our every movement with sharp, unreadable focus.

  The trio didn’t hesitate. One by one, they hopped down and approached a massive purple orb resting on a stone pedestal beside the guards. Without a word, each extended their palm with silver bracelets on the wrist to the mana stone. A glow pulsed confirming the identity, and only then did the guards relax, offering a nod of approval.

  My turn. I stepped forward, placing my left palm with a bracelet on it against the orb and channeling mana into it. A soft glow flickered in response, and I withdrew my hand.

  These bracelets are mandatory for anyone in the Army. A simple yet effective method of identification—one that had put an end to the rampant impersonation plaguing the empire half a century ago. The process of creating them was straightforward: a few drops of blood, some enchantment work, and that was it. Afterward, they became foolproof identification devices.

  If someone tried to impersonate the owner? Best case, the bracelet crumbled to dust. Worst case? It exploded, taking the impostor’s hand—or more—with it.

  Of course, there are rumors about malfunctions. Stories of bracelets misfiring, triggering by themselves at random. Just baseless paranoia... right? Yeah. Because walking around with a potentially unstable bomb strapped to my wrist wouldn’t be terrifying at all.

  The verification process itself was a swirl of chaotic magical energy—too complex to decipher at a glance. Not that it mattered. The thought of trying to disassemble one was out of the question. I liked my left hand exactly where it was, thank you very much. And any real information about their inner workings? Locked up tight by the army.

  The guards gave us one last glance, then waved us through without even bothering to check the cart’s cargo.

  The same couldn’t be said for our other traveling companions.

  The merchant and the adventurer weren’t so lucky. Before they could enter, a pair of guards stepped forward with weary sighs. The inspection would take time, and judging by the looks exchanged, no one was going to enjoy it.

  We bid them a quick farewell, then clambered back into the cart and rolled past the gate.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Beyond the portcullis, wet cobblestone streets stretched ahead. A few late-evening stragglers moved along the roads, casting brief, indifferent glances our way before hurrying off. Five years had passed since I’d last set foot in a city, yet the air of unfriendliness remained unchanged.

  "Where to now? An inn?" I asked, turning to Oldie.

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "The army barracks here are... enough, and we can spend the extra money on a good meal."

  He paused, then added, "But first, we report to whoever’s in charge."

  With that, the cart resumed its slow trek deeper into the city.

  ...

  A tall man in his fifties, built like a fortress, with a thick beard and piercing green eyes, listened in silence as Oldie gave his report. Sir Liam, as Oldie had addressed him, didn’t so much as blink as he absorbed every word.

  Not a single mention of goblins or the giant snake.

  We had all agreed to keep quiet about it, but actually standing in front of a man like this and withholding the truth? That was an entirely different challenge. It wasn’t just his presence—though that alone was enough to demand absolute obedience. It was something deeper.

  His aura.

  A thin layer of mana coated his body, distorting the air around him. It shimmered faintly, an invisible force so dense it warped reality itself. And what made it even more terrifying? He wasn't doing it on purpose. That kind of pressure just existed around him, a natural byproduct of his sheer power. He would have to put in some effort to conceal it and appear... mundane. He just doesn't care.

  This man had earned his rank.

  There was no doubt in my mind—he could wipe out this entire city blindfolded, one arm tied behind his back. A walking catastrophe in human form.

  Tier 5? No. Tier 6. Just a step away from being a hero.

  If I remember correctly, the description of a Tier 6 warrior went something like this: "Flight-capable individuals with an arsenal of spells powerful enough to flatten an entire village."

  Damn.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen anyone like that. Someone that strong should be stationed at the Capital, or at least guarding the Light Border. So what the hell is a monster like that doing here, in this quiet, unremarkable corner of the Empire?

  Sir Liam nodded occasionally as Oldie spoke, his expression unreadable. He asked a few more questions—short, direct, cutting straight to the point—before finally signing a document and stamping it with his personal seal. Oldie accepted it with a respectful nod and a word of thanks.

  With that, we turned and made our way back to the compound gates, where another soldier inspected the document, scribbled something onto his own paper, and handed it over.

  A few minutes later, another document.

  Together, we moved deeper into the compound, cart rolling behind us.

  Then a third soldier reviewed the first two documents, filled out yet another paper, and passed it to Oldie.

  And finally, with all three papers in hand, we pushed forward again, eventually arriving at what appeared to be an armory. The guards barely glanced at the documents before waving us toward the stables, where we could leave the cart for the night. They also informed us—rather lazily—that we were free to grab any available cot in the barracks if we wanted.

  And just like that, it was over.

  We stood in the now-empty yard, and I took a long moment to reassess my understanding of the army.

  I had always assumed military operations were handled with verbal orders, strict but straightforward. But this? This was layers of bureaucracy, one piece of paper feeding into another, a chain of approval so meticulous it bordered on absurd.

  Maybe the army was far more organized than I had originally thought.

  Oldie stretched, rolling his shoulders, then clapped his hands together.

  "We will continue traveling tomorrow," he said. A grin spread across his face. "But right now? Now we quickly wash up and finally eat."

  ...

  As we followed Oldie through the dark streets of the city, my eyes flicked around cautiously. The rare magical streetlamps offered little more than a dim glow, just enough to navigate but not enough to feel safe.

  I am starting to regret agreeing to this.

  The so-called quick wash had been a joke—a single bucket of cold water, a rag, and five minutes to scrub off the worst of the mud and grime. I'm still not sure why I expected more. I mean, it's better than washing in a freezing river like I had the past week, but still...

  I no longer smell like a rotting sock, but drying off has been an issue. Now I walked through the cold night, in damp clothes, warmth rapidly draining from my skin.

  And to make matters worse, I am carrying everything I own.

  Both swords hung at my left hip, while a small bag rested on the opposite side. Inside, nestled among personal belongings, is the mana core of the snake—and a small piece of mithril. If a wrong person learns what I am carrying... things could turn very ugly.

  Mentor had always warned me to be extra cautious in crowded and isolated areas alike—those were the hunting grounds of thieves and thugs, the parasites of city life.

  I half-listen as Oldie rattled on about our destination, an inn he swears by, known for some special soup he always orders whenever he passes through this city. He continued listing menu items, going on about their fair prices and excellent flavor, but my focus remained elsewhere.

  At least the inn was easy to spot, its bright light spilling onto the streets, cutting through the gloom. As we approached, the muffled noise from inside became clearer—laughter, clinking mugs, voices raised in conversation. But the moment Oldie pushed open the door, the lively atmosphere snapped into silence, replaced by a heavy pause.

  Every eye in the room turned to us.

  Oldie, unfazed, walked straight to the counter, where a sweet-looking woman—late thirties, maybe early forties—greeted him with a warm smile. They exchanged pleasantries, and slowly, the tension in the room faded as conversations resumed.

  Num motioned for us to follow as a waitress appeared from seemingly nowhere and led us to a secluded corner. As we sat, I could feel the weight of several gazes lingering on us. Some were just curious. Others... had a sharper edge.

  Predatory.

  James and Num met those stares head-on, but neither let their gaze linger.

  Right.

  I had read about this kind of thing before. Some ridiculous thug custom about marking each other, a silent exchange of power, respect, or whatever nonsense they believed in. Dad had said something similar once—how humans weren’t much different from animals, how we don't use fangs and claws, but something just as primal.

  I always thought it was stupid.

  Why waste time on this subtle dance of glares and body language? Why not just say what the problem was and be done with it?

  Before I could dwell on it further, Oldie appeared with two large bowls of soup in hands, which were placed on the table. Shortly joined by another two brought in by the sweet-looking lady. Who also gently places a plate full of hot bread in the center.

  "Enjoy your meal." the lady says with a soft voice as her hand slides by Oldie’s shoulder.

  Huh?

  Why is she swinging her center of mass back and forth while walking away?

  Oh.

  OH.

  Oldie’s eyes linger on her retreating figure before he clears his throat and gestures toward the food, suddenly aware of our looks.

  I narrowed my eyes on him—the same guy who, on the way here, rattled off the entire menu only to order the same dish for everyone without asking.

  I shake my head. Soup. Right. Not the lady with swinging hips.

  But the moment I take a spoonful, my skepticism vanishes.

  The broth is deep and rich, the chunks of meat and vegetables hearty, the flavors perfectly balanced. Oldie suggested soaking the bread in it, and he was absolutely right—the fresh bread soaked up the broth beautifully, adding another layer of texture to the meal.

  Before I know it, the bowl is empty. Faster than I would’ve liked.

  For a brief moment, I considered ordering another portion, but my stomach is already full. Maybe a half portion? No. No point in overdoing it. We can return here in the morning before we leave. I nod coming to a decision.

  Instead, I lean back, letting warmth spread through my body, closing my eyes in quiet contentment.

  This... this is comfort.

  A proper meal, a moment of peace.

  Much better than whatever we managed to cook in the wild.

  But then—

  My eyes snapped open.

  My head turned sharply to a seemingly empty table across the room. No one is there.

  I frown

  That wasn't an offensive spell per se. Maybe not even attack.

  I felt the mana shift.

  It wasn’t an attack.

  A [Echo Pulse]? No, but similar somehow...

  What?

  Why?

  Across from me, Oldie’s expression darkened, his usual easy demeanor vanishing. His sharp glare scanned the room, met by several others. For a long second, the air in the inn shifted, becoming heavy, thick with unspoken hostility.

  My fingers drifted toward Heavy at my hip.

  Was this it?

  Was this the kind of situation Mentor had warned me about? How small groups could vanish in cities on dark nights—how no one would hear, no one would speak, and no one would care?

  Oldie stood abruptly.

  "We’re leaving," he said, his voice firm. "Now."

  James, Num, and I followed his lead without question.

  I did my best to ignore the lingering stares as we made our way to the exit. By the time we stepped into the night, Oldie had already paid, leading us swiftly away from the inn.

  James moved closer, his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

  "Hush," Oldie muttered.

  Only then did I notice something unsettling—the number of active streetlamps had dwindled.

  Were they turned off?

  The ones that remained felt like tiny islands of light in an ocean of darkness.

  Not good.

  [Force Aegis]

  I pushed more mana into it. Just in case. I won't make the same mistake twice.

  My pulse quickened as my sense of danger prickled. Something was watching.

  Were we being followed?

  [Echo Pulse]

  Nothing.

  "Don't" whispered Oldie suddenly.

  I frowned. Are they following?

  As we hurried through the streets, a creeping realization settled in.

  I had no idea where we were.

  The landmarks were unfamiliar. The twisting alleys made it impossible to tell if we were heading north or south. A horrible thought struck me.

  Are we going in circles?

  Are we lost?

  Would we have to fight in the dark against an unseen enemy?

  Why? What did I do?

  Wait—no. Not me. Them.

  Oldie had led us into that inn.

  James and Num had glared at those men.

  Was that the reason? Did they start something?

  Am I now tangled in some weird mess?

  Mentor’s words echoed in my mind—Never trust the army. Some would sell you into slavery for gold or promotion.

  My grip tightened around Heavy.

  Should I unsheathe it?

  Are the trio my enemies?

  Should I run?

  Then—there it was again.

  That pulse.

  Heavy was out in an instant, more mana was pushed into [Force Aegis] as I turned, searching for an attacker—

  Nothing.

  James let out a breath of relief.

  "Finally!" he said.

  I followed his gaze—and there it was.

  The army compound gates.

  We’d made it.

  Have we lost them? Are we safe?

  Oldie loudly knocked on the large gates, someone from above looked down at us hissed.

  "Who goes there?"

  "Friendly!" said back Oldie and raised his wrist with an Army bracelet.

  A pause.

  Movement.

  The gates started to open.

  We quickly walked in, verified our identity with purple orb and started walking deeper into the compound.

  James approached Oldie, frustration boiling over. "What the hell was that? Why did we have to leave? Who was following us?"

  Oldie’s jaw clenched. "I don’t know, and I don’t care," he growled. "We’re leaving at dawn."

  A few minutes later, we reached the barracks. Dozens of empty cots lined the room.

  "Get some sleep," Oldie muttered, climbing into one.

  James and Num followed suit.

  I stood for a moment, my mind racing, trying to piece everything together. But exhaustion crept in, weighing down my limbs.

  As I crawled into a cot, the stale scent of sweat and something spoiled hit me. Still—better than sleeping in the rain.

  Maybe we should’ve stayed at the inn.

  But that thought barely formed before sleep swallowed me whole.

  ...

  Shouting.

  Footsteps.

  Noise.

  A lot of noise.

  I roll onto my side, stubbornly keeping my eyes shut.

  Just a few more minutes... please.

  But the noise keeps growing.

  Motherfuckers.

  Give me just a few more-

  Someone grabs my shoulder and starts shaking me—hard. Instinct kicks in, and my hands shoot up to defend myself. My fingers nearly find purchase on a throat before I register the face in front of me.

  James.

  He's shouting something. Loud. Right in my face.

  "—armory!"

  What?

  Still half-asleep, I blink sluggishly. "What?"

  "Broken!"

  The words don’t make sense. My brain refuses to function.

  James doesn’t wait for me to catch up. He yanks me to my feet. My hands scramble for my clothes, my weapons, my bag. I nearly trip trying to get my belt on, fumbling with the straps before finally securing my swords.

  James doesn’t give me a second longer. He drags me outside.

  The yard is in chaos.

  Dozens of people are running—shouting—moving in a frantic storm of bodies. My sluggish brain barely processes the panic before I spot it.

  The armory.

  Something’s wrong.

  But then—the gates.

  My stomach drops.

  The massive gate doors that had been standing firmly in place last night are now lying on the ground. Ripped clean out of their frames.

  And in front of them—

  Sir Liam.

  The powerful commander with whom spoke yesterday now stood red-faced, roaring at a group of deathly pale guards.

  They looked frozen. Petrified.

  Oldie stood off to the side, watching. Silent. Calculating.

  James pulls me toward him.

  "They don’t know anything," Oldie says, shaking his head.

  I stare at him, still trying to catch up.

  "What?"

  "The guards," James snaps. "They were asleep the whole time. They didn’t see who did it."

  What?

  "See what?"

  James turns, his face twisting in frustration.

  "The thieves," he says, practically spitting the words.

  I blink. "What thieves?"

  James explodes.

  "THE ONES THAT BLEW OFF THE GATES AND TOOK OUR CART!"

  My heart skips a beat.

  What?

  Cart.

  Our cart.

  My swords.

  Where are my swords?