Sir Liam’s voice booms across the area, his fury barely restrained as he continues to berate the petrified guards. Their faces are drained of color, their bodies stiff as if any movement might seal their fate.

  Behind them, a duo of handlers struggle to control several restless dogs on leashes. The animals sniff frantically at the ground, their ears twitching, their tails flicking in frustration. Half of them let out helpless whines, circling in confusion.

  People move around the scene—searching, talking, pretending to do something.

  But it all feels so... fake.

  "So... useless."

  The word slips from my lips before I even realize it.

  I stand still, watching.

  Something crawls up from the depths of my stomach, slithering into my throat, coiling around my spine. An old, ugly feeling I haven’t encountered in a long time.

  The last time was back in the clan.

  I was new. A stranger. Someone who hadn’t suffered through the same brutal training, hadn’t earned my place through grueling tests like the others had. To them, I was an outsider, a fraud.

  They didn’t welcome me.

  They envied me.

  At first, it was small things. Personal belongings vanishing, only to be found days later—trashed, broken, ruined. A slow, quiet erosion of what was mine.

  Maybe there were reasons for their actions. Maybe I never understood or saw things from their perspective.

  But in the end, the reasons didn’t matter.

  Results matter.

  And the results they got were violent.

  Blood was spilled. Pain was delivered.

  And after that, they stopped.

  Because people like that only understand strength.

  Only understand violence.

  Only understand pain.

  My fists clench as my breath quickens. My stomach twists, my blood burns.

  Will something be taken from me? Again?

  No.

  Not again.

  My swords.

  MINE.

  My pulse hammers in my ears. I force my eyes shut, dragging in a sharp breath. The world is too loud, too messy—too much.

  I shut it all out.

  Not instantly. Not easily.

  But slowly, surely, silence begins to descend.

  I move through the steps as I was taught.

  Breathe.

  Focus.

  Control.

  Mana stirs within me, sluggish at first, then faster. It circulates through my limbs, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat, flowing in sync with my breath.

  The chaos fades.

  My mind steadies.

  My eyes open.

  And I see the world clearly once more.

  People are still running, but the chaos has changed. No longer is it aimless, no longer is it frantic. Every movement has direction. Every action has purpose.

  And I have mine.

  I shove aside the whirlwind of questions—Why? Who? What for? Why now, and why here?—none of it matters. Those are distractions, noise. There is only one question that truly matters.

  Where are my swords?

  Everything else—the confusion, the outrage, the human aspect of this mess—can be left to others.

  I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, methodically pushing mana from my sensory system. The purge is slow, precise, a technique designed to sharpen my perception of ambient mana. The world around me grows dark and cold, an emptiness stretching for mere seconds—until a single bright dot appears in the void.

  It grows.

  It twists, expands, taking on form, dimension, structure—until I recognize it as my own mana body.

  Then, more objects flicker into existence. The cobblestone street. The ruined gate. The buildings. The people. Each shape rendered in luminous outlines, as if drawn from pure energy. My world of light stretches outward, expanding, until it reaches its limit—my maximum range.

  I open my eyes.

  And nearly collapsed.

  Two worlds crash into me at once.

  One from above, distant and all-seeing. The other from the ground, real and immediate. My brain screams against the contradiction. It’s the same world—I know it is—but my senses refuse to align. My body feels like it’s tilting, falling, though my feet remain firmly planted.

  I blink. Breathe. Focus.

  Slowly, the worlds shift, twisting toward each other. The sensations crawl and morph, edges merging, until reality stabilizes into something... different.

  Something surreal.

  Success.

  Calling it a spell would be wrong. There is no spell matrix. It’s just ancient unstructured magic, one which doesn’t have much practical use in the modern world, but is taught as a way to broaden perspective.

  My eyes adjust to the glowing mist trails left behind by the dogs and their handlers. Auras pulse around those standing still—each person with a distinct hue, their individual mana signatures glowing like embers in the night. The strongest shine the brightest, blazing beacons of raw energy.

  Sir Liam.

  And the person beside him.

  Both brilliant.

  Their swords, too, gleam with power—not as intensely as their wielders, but bright enough to mark them as enchanted. My fingers itch at the thought. I’ve always wanted to play with such weapons, to test their secrets, to see how they hum with magic.

  But I have no time for curiosity.

  Maintaining this for long will not be possible.

  I need to focus on what’s mine.

  I scan the ambient mana, searching for irregularities. There are too many fluctuations, too much interference—too many moving parts and not enough time to filter them. I need something concrete.

  My legs move instinctively, carrying me toward the spot where the cart should have been.

  Ten seconds.

  That’s all it takes to reach the stables.

  I stop at the empty space where we left it.

  Gone.

  The only proof that it was ever here are the wheel tracks in the dry dirt—leading straight to the shattered gates.

  So someone walked into the armory. Took a cart full of my swords. And drove it out of an active military compound.

  Without anyone noticing.

  Without waking a single guard.

  And then they ripped the gates off their hinges.

  And still—no one noticed until morning.

  My jaw tightens. My fingers curl into fists.

  This isn’t bravery. This isn’t audacity.

  This is impossible.

  No—implausible.

  I grit my teeth.

  Focus.

  My eyes flicker from the empty spot where the cart should be—to the gates—then back again. My mind sharpens, narrowing in on the ambient mana in the area.

  Familiar signatures emerge.

  Mine. Oldie’s. James’. Num’s.

  But beyond those? A chaotic blend—an indecipherable tangle of unfamiliar traces, likely from the dozens who passed through recently.

  Was the thief’s mana among them?

  Maybe. But if it were that simple, the hounds would have caught their scent already.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Damn.

  Think.

  There has to be something. A lead. A mistake. Something.

  Swords... Swords release ambient mana for a short time after their pathways are completed. It dissipates fast—unless the smith forgets to cleanse the pathways before finishing.

  I never forget that step.

  But... what if?

  What if, just once, I missed a single blade? What if there’s still a trace of my mana clinging to the stolen weapons?

  I move toward the gates, stretching my senses, searching the air for anything—any lingering fragment of me.

  Nothing.

  The only mana I find is my own movement trail—the fading remnants of my steps between the barracks, the gates, and the stables. Already dissipating, breaking apart. A soldier walks through it, scattering the last shreds into the wind.

  My gaze shifts toward the street. A scowl forms.

  It’s worse out there.

  People are moving, gawking, pointing fingers, polluting the scene with their mana. The entire area is saturated—drowned in the energy of countless passersby.

  Finding anything in this mess?

  If not impossible, then damn near beyond my skills.

  Was this intentional? Did they stir up this hornet’s nest on purpose—knowing it would erase their tracks?

  My jaw tightens.

  I study my own fading trail again. Seconds slip by.

  Could there be a trace further away? Somewhere untouched by the crowd?

  'Could'. 'Maybe'. 'What if'.

  All of it built on a theory—on the assumption that any of my mana was left in the swords at all.

  This was bound to fail from the start.

  Damn it.

  I’m doing it again. Circling my own thoughts instead of taking action.

  I grit my teeth.

  THINK.

  What can I use?

  What am I missing?

  Seconds pass by.

  Nothing comes to mind.

  Shit.

  Now what?

  What the hell do I do?

  I start moving, scanning everything—every item, every person, their behaviors. Something out of place. A clue. A mistake.

  And then—

  I pause.

  Not because of the crowd. Not because of the chaos. But because of him.

  A single moment. A fraction of a second.

  When the latest guard finishes his report, Sir Liam sighs, waves him off with a dismissive gesture—but the man beside him...

  Smirks.

  It’s brief. So fast it might’ve been a trick of the mind. But it's not.

  My stomach tightens.

  Because that wasn’t what made me stop originally.

  This man—tall, early thirties, short black hair—his mana density nearly rivals Sir Liam’s.

  And I didn’t even notice him before now.

  What the hell is he?

  Another monster so far away from the Capital and Light border?

  Why did he smirk?

  Does he know something?

  Or... is he involved?

  A cold realization crawls up my spine.

  There had to be an inside man.

  This operation—it was too smooth. Too precise. A cart full of weapons, stolen from inside an army compound with no witnesses? Bullshit.

  But why?

  Why my swords? Why now? How am I involved? Why was I dragged into this?

  My first instinct is to go to Sir Liam—tell him, let him deal with it. But no... no.

  It’s useless. It’s speculation. Baseless.

  And if this man is behind it? He’ll just deny everything. Worse—he’ll retaliate.

  No.

  I can’t risk that.

  I grit my teeth, frustration clawing at my chest.

  What do I even do? I’m a smith’s apprentice. Not a soldier. Not a detective. This isn’t my fight.

  I could contact Dad. Or Mentor. They’d handle it.

  No.

  I’m an adult. I’ll deal with it myself.

  But how?

  Grimace forms on my face again.

  If I were a hero, no one would try to steal from me. Not even dare to think about it.

  Yet here we are now.

  Power wins. Always.

  What’s the point of creating something—pouring in time, effort, soul—only for it to be ripped away?

  I feel it again. That gnawing, sickening helplessness.

  Powerless. Again.

  Why?

  Why me?

  Why now?

  Why!?

  STOP.

  My hands clenched into fists.

  It doesn’t matter. The reason doesn’t matter.

  I cycle through my options, but they lead to nothing. My mind is drained—exhausted from all these thoughts.

  I take slow, steady breaths.

  Fine.

  I’ll default to the only plan left. Manual search.

  A cart that size shouldn’t be too hard to find. But in a city this big? It could be anywhere.

  And even if I do find it... how will I even know it’s the right one?

  It’s just a four-wheeled, wooden, half-box with a white tarp.

  ...Shit. There could be dozens of those in this city.

  What else?

  The cart might have absorbed ambient mana from the forest. Could be unique... but this town is so polluted with random signatures that— No. Not good enough.

  I need something distinct.

  The goblins? No, they never got close enough.

  The snake—

  Snake.

  Snake.

  SNAKE.

  THE FUCKING SNAKE.

  I pull out the monster core left by the snake. In my mana vision, the tiny cyan orb gleams brightly. Even after cleaning it thoroughly, faint traces of blood cling to its surface, the metallic scent still lingering.

  Blood.

  One of the best carriers of a unique mana signature.

  And the mana stone—it's saturated with that signature. If the snake’s blood races are still left on the cart, even slightly, I may be able to track it.

  I have to try.

  I moved back to where the cart had been and crouched low, trying to position my face where the bottom of the carriage once rested. Closing my eyes, I concentrate—feeling the mana stone’s signature, sensing the ambient mana left behind.

  I bring the core closer. At the same time, I channel mana into my nose, sharpening my sense of smell, honing in on the blood’s distinct scent.

  And—

  I immediately gag.

  A disgusting wave of rot, horseshit, and sweat slams into me, making me double over in a fit of coughing. It takes several agonizing seconds to recover before I can even attempt again.

  This time, I brace myself.

  I force my body to endure the stench—to stop reacting and start processing.

  And then—

  A connection clicks into place.

  My mind merges the blood’s scent with the mana signature. The two intertwine, forming something new—a thread.

  It’s wobbly, shifting, barely stable, but it’s there.

  Slowly, I open my eyes.

  The thread remains.

  Hovering inches above the ground, trailing off into the distance.

  I blink. Once. Twice. Tilt my head. It’s still there.

  Did I... succeed?

  It worked?

  We were taught about this briefly in the Clan. How to graft unstructured magic and create your own spell matrices.

  But it's been years since I've tried anything like that.

  A small smile breaks through my frustration. So I’m not completely hopeless after all.

  The smile fell as I felt the growing headache and drain on mana.

  Shit. I can't maintain it for long.

  I push forward, ignoring the stares from those around me. My eyes stay glued to the thread, my steps steady as I follow it out of the armory. The road changes to cobblestone, the physical wheel tracks disappearing—but the mana thread remains.

  Good.

  I move faster.

  The thread winds through the streets, leading me away from the crowd, away from the noise—until it suddenly veers sharply left, disappearing into a dark alley.

  I freeze.

  The rational part of my mind catches up.

  This is dangerous and stupid.

  I’m following a thread that leads straight to armed thieves—the kind bold enough to steal from the army.

  This could be a trap.

  But it’s my only lead.

  What do I—

  "Did you find something?"

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Oldie is standing right beside me.

  I didn’t hear him approach. Didn’t sense him. How?

  Was he following me the entire time? Why didn’t I notice?

  A new, unsettling thought creeps in.

  Could he be involved?

  Did the innkeeper pass along a hidden message to a contact? Was I too distracted to see it?

  Not likely. But I don’t have enough evidence to rule it out, either.

  I keep my voice neutral. "Not sure."

  And then—

  Sir Liam arrives.

  He’s flanked by several fully armored guards.

  The air shifts.

  Sir Liam’s voice, laced with raw power, sends a shiver through me.

  "Do you know where the thieves are?"

  His green eyes glow with mana, piercing straight through me. His very presence makes the air around him wobble, flickering like heat rising from an open flame.

  And then it hits me—

  If there’s one person as determined as I am to find these thieves... it’s him.

  I met his gaze.

  "Very likely. I think I have a trail." My voice is steady.

  I glance at the guards behind him.

  None of them inspire the same confidence. And—thankfully—the black-haired monster isn’t among them.

  I exhale.

  Fine.

  Sir Liam is my best shot at getting my swords back. I’ll place my trust in him.

  I draw Heavy from its scabbard and nod toward the alley. The moment I do, weapons are unsheathed all around me.

  "Lead the way." said gravely Sir Liam.

  We move.

  The alleys are tight, twisting. The thread leads me through turn after turn. I expect an ambush at any moment. But—

  Nothing.

  I move faster.

  The trail keeps zigzagging as if the thief was trying to lose any pursuers. But the mana thread doesn’t lie.

  It leads me out of the alleys—

  Into a wide road.

  This is the wealthy district. The buildings, the streets—everything here is pristine.

  But the trail doesn’t stop.

  I follow the thread as it winds alongside the main road—

  And then—

  It makes another sharp turn into a back alley.

  I keep moving.

  My legs are on autopilot, my eyes locked on the glowing thread.

  And then—

  In the distance—

  The northern city gate looms into view.

  My stomach drops.

  Shit.

  SHIT.

  SHIT!!!

  I start running.

  The mana thread streaks forward, leading straight to the city gates. A dreadful thought strikes—

  Did they already leave?

  Can I catch up?

  A heavy cart should slow them down. We could use another carriage—track them down before they gain too much ground.

  Yes.

  There’s still a chance.

  We just need to—

  Every instinct in my body screams.

  I jerk left—

  My sword is up before I even understand what I’m reacting to, heart hammering as I brace for an attack.

  But...

  Nothing.

  No blades, no arrows, no lurking enemy.

  Just... the gates.

  A massive wooden barrier set against stone, looming before me.

  My eyes darted, scanning the area, seeking the threat that triggered such an intense reaction. But—

  Nothing.

  Worse than that—

  The mana in the area feels... wrong.

  Too bland. Too empty.

  Seconds crawl by as my pulse pounds in my ears. My head whips from side to side, searching for something—anything—to justify this overwhelming sense of danger.

  "What's wrong?" resounded Sir Liam's voice right behind me.

  "I.. uh-"

  Others catch up, some coughing, others gasping for air.

  I ignore them, still scanning the area.

  What was that?

  A trap? A hidden enemy? A distraction meant to stall us?

  My jaw clenches.

  I’m wasting time.

  I step forward—

  Then freeze.

  ...Why are there no locks or handles on the gates?

  "Did you lose the trail?" Sir Liam’s voice cuts in, sharp and expectant. His gaze flicks toward the gate.

  "No. I just—"

  Explosion of light.

  A detonation of sheer force rips through the world.

  Before I can even process it, I’m slammed backward—

  HARD.

  The impact hits like a warhammer, sending me hurtling into a solid stone wall. The shockwave tears through my body, pushing the air out of my lungs.

  The world—

  Blurs.

  Sound vanishes, replaced by a deafening, high-pitched ringing. My vision swims. My limbs won’t move. The street tilts beneath me as I collapse onto cold cobblestone.

  Small stones and debris rain down. My mind struggles to catch up—

  What... just happened?

  I cough. Try to force my body to obey. My fingers twitch, but my limbs feel like lead. My mana is sluggish, unresponsive—

  No.

  No!

  Move!

  On the third attempt, my mana finally surges. I drag myself over, using the wall as support. My legs tremble beneath me, barely holding.

  Everything is wobbling like waves in the sea.

  The world is a mess.

  Smoke.

  Destruction.

  The street—obliterated.

  Chunks of stone everywhere. Burning splinters of wood. Figures groaning on the ground—the city guards, disoriented.

  And the gates?

  Gone.

  The building behind them?

  Half-destroyed. Flames licking the rubble.

  And from within the wreckage—

  They emerge.

  More than a dozen armed figures step forward, weaving through the shattered remains of the building.

  Precious seconds tick by as I register them—

  Swords drawn.

  Focused. Advancing.

  My hand snaps to my hip—empty.

  Light and Heavy—gone.

  Shit.

  No time to search. No time to run.

  They’re coming.

  My legs won’t cooperate, leaving me one option—

  Stand. My. Ground.

  Mana surges as I form a [Force Aegis], shifting into a defensive stance.

  But—

  It’s too slow.

  They’ll be on me before it’s complete—

  Desperately I push more mana.

  Faster.

  FASTER!

  And then—

  Everything stops.

  A force—unimaginable.

  Crushing. Suffocating.

  A weight slams down on everything—as if the sky itself descended.

  The world turns heavy.

  [Force Aegis] spell matrix starts unraveling.

  My breath—ragged. My legs—buckling. It’s like standing under a mountain.

  And I’m not the only one.

  The enemies collapse.

  One by one, falling like broken puppets. Their bodies hit the ground, motionless, eyes rolled back. The few still conscious?

  Frozen.

  Wide-eyed. Terrified.

  Staring in the same direction.

  I force my head to turn.

  And—

  Sir Liam.

  His deep green eyes lock onto mine.

  A look of mild confusion crosses his face, as if he hadn’t expected me to still be standing.

  Then—

  A smile.

  A nod.

  And around him—

  A storm.

  A meter-thick aura, deep blue and roaring like an inferno, blazes to life around him.

  He steps forward—calmly.

  And begins rounding up the enemies alone.

  One.

  By.

  One.

  Less than a minute later—

  The pressure disappears.

  My knees nearly give out from the sudden shift. The sheer absence of that monstrous aura leaves me gasping for breath.

  I stare at Sir Liam, thoughts swirling.

  His aura size. His density.

  No—those things aren’t the issue.

  His Aura Pressure.

  This isn’t just raw strength. This is something only Named warriors can do.

  Who the hell is he?

  A Lightborder veteran? A Hero?

  But that doesn’t make sense—why would someone like that be in such a small city?

  I don’t know.

  But I know one thing.

  I need my swords.

  My legs finally obey as I move toward the battlefield, scanning the rubble.

  And then—

  A pull.

  Something familiar.

  I follow it—pushing through smoke and wreckage.

  And there—

  Wooden crates.

  My insignia carved onto them.

  Found you.

  Shouts rise from the chaos. The city guards flood the street, chaining the attackers, saluting Sir Liam. The air buzzes with orders, reports, movement—

  And yet—

  I exhale.

  Staring at the wreckage around me.

  This is not over yet.

  And one thing is certain.

  This is going to be a very long day.