The tent didn't smell like a soldiers. It didn't smell of sweat, unwashed leather, or the metallic tang of weapon oil.
It smelled of lavender.
We burst in-Valen, Marcus, Edgar, and I- weapons drawn, moving with synchronized violence of a team that expected a fight.
But there was no fight.
The interior of the tent was shockingly empty. There were no maps, no weapon racks, no sleeping rolls. Just a single, high-backed wooden chair placed precisely in the center of the rug.
Sitting on that char was the man.
To the naked eye, he was a nondescript soldier in standard-issue leathers, perhaps a bit clean for the field. But to me, the muddy disguise had peeled away the moment we crossed the threshold. The "Rank 1 Grunt" camouflage dissolved like sugar in hot water.
Underneath, an Orange Core pulsed in his chest.
It wasn't the warm, hearth-like orange of a cooking fire. This was sharp. It possessed a chemical heat, volatile and biting, like a rag soaked in gasoline water waiting for a spark. And the white particles of his aura weren't jagged with fear or spiking with suprise.
They were looping. Smooth, bright, lazy loops of Delight.
"You're late," the Mage said.
He smoothed the front of his robes, picking a piece of lint off his knee. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't raise a shield. He just looked at Valen with the casual indifference of a customer complaining about slow service.
Valen stopped, his sword lowered slightly in confusion. The plan was a snatch-and-grab. A sleeping target. This... this was a reception.
"Secure him," Valen barked, though his Green Core was already spinning up, sensing the trap. "Marcus, gag him. Now."
Marcus stepped forward, a coil of rope in his hand, his massive Peak Rank 3 frame filling the space.
The Mage didn't flinch. He just smiled, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
"You chose the safe option, Captain," the Mage said, his voice calm and smooth as polished glass. "You stood on the ridge. You saw the big, scary Yellow Core in the center tent, and you thought, 'No, that's too risky. Let's grab the little guy. The Orange one. He'll be easier.'"
He chuckled, a dry sound that grated on my nerves. "The Governor said you were predictable. He said a 'hero' always tries to minimizes casualties. That's why you're late."
"Late?" Valen hissed. The air pressure in the tent dropped instantly as his wind mana tightened. The canvas walls sucked inward, snapping tight against the poles.
"Two days late," the Mage corrected, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed with malice. "Because you took so long getting here-struggling through the woods, slowed down by your little baggage-we didn't wait."
He pointed a finger at Valen.
"We sent a vanguard yesterday, Captain. A kill team. They're already at your camp. They've probably already killed the sentries."
The blood drained from Valen's face. The Green Core in his chest stuttered.
"You're lying," Marcus growled.
"Am I?" The Mage grinned. "The Yellow Mage isn't here to start the fight, Valen. He's here to finish it. To bury the bodies."
I felt Edgar stiffen beside me. His aura spiked with that familiar jagged grey Anxiety I'd sensed all journey.
"I'm not your intel." the Mage said. "I'm our trigger."
The Mage raised his hand.
He didn't aim at us. He aimed at the roof of the tent.
My 'Understanding' screamed. Time seemed to slow down. I saw the physics of the spell before it happened. I saw the Mana in his core coursing through his pathways and onto his palm mix with the ambient mana close to his palm-Red and Orange mana condensing into a tight, explosive knot.
Structure: Fireball.
"Stop him!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "It's a signal!"
Too late.
BOOM.
A streak of Orange fire shot from his hand, punching through the canvas roof like a lance. It screamed into the night sky, climbing higher and higher until it detonated high above the valley in a violent, washing crimson star.
The Mage slumped back in his chair, laughing maniacally. "Go on, Captain! Look outside! Look at what you missed!"
Valen didn't wait. He spun around and tore back out of the tent. We scambled after him, stumbling into the cool, night air.
The valley floor shook.
I looked toward the center of the camp-toward the large tent where I had seen the Yellow Core-the Earth Mage.
The tent exploded.
A pillar of stone burst from the ground beneath it, acting like a massive, earthen catapult. It launched the Yellow Mage into the air with the force of a siege engine.
I saw him clearly against the moonlight sky. A figure glowing with the heavy, gritty power of an Earth Mage. He hit the apex of his jump, fifty feet up, defying gravity for a heartbeat.
As he began to fall, the earth rose to meet him.
A wave of soil, rock and graved surged up from the valley floor, catching him. He stood on the crest of the earth-wave like a surfer riding a tsunami of dirt. The mana didn't lift him; it carried him. The earth churned and roiled beneath his boots, propelling him forward at a terrifying speed-straight back the way we came.
Toward the bandit camp.
"He's surfing," I breathed, my mind struggling to comprehend the sheer mass of the magic. "He's surfing the ground."
"He's heading for the camp!" Marcus shouted, his voice laced with horror. "He's going to help the vanguard!"
Valen roared, a sound of pure, animalistic fury. The wind whipped around him, tearing leaves from the trees. He sprinted toward the exit of the valley to chase the surfer.
But he stopped.
We all stopped.
Blocking the exit of the valley, standing between us and the fleeing Mage, was a wall of white light.
Sixty men.
They weren't sleeping anymore. They were awake, armored, and in formation. Rank 1 and Rank 2. A solid wall of Iron Bone and Copper Skin.
To my 'sight', it was blinding. Their combined auras created a haze of white static so dense it felt like walking into a blizzard. The sheer mass of their Vitality distorted the air, creating a barrier of flesh and intent.
"Hold the line!" their Lieutenant screamed from behind the shield wall. His aura was a dense Peak Rank 2, woven tight like chainmail. "The Governor wants his head! Stall him!"
"Stall him!" thee Orange Mage shouted from the tent behind us, his voice triumphant. "Ten minutes! Give the Earth Mage ten minutes to catch up to the vanguard!"
I saw Valen's aura fracture. Violent sparks of terror mixed with the green wind.
He took a step forward.
"Move," Valen growled at the army.
They didn't move. They locked shields. Spears lowered in a rhythmic clack-clack-clack.
"I said... MOVE!"
Valen walked forward. He didn't raise his sword to parry. He didn't adopt a defensive stance. He held his sword out to the side, the tip dragging in the dirt.
The Green Core in his chest began to scream.
It wasn't a sound I heard in my ears. It was a sound I felt in my teeth. It was the sound of a vacuum being created.
The wind in the valley died. The leaves stopped rustling. The dust on the ground stopped drifting. The air grew thin, cold, and sharp. Every loose particle of mana in the gorge was being sucked into the vortex spinning in Valen's chest.
My own Red Core trembled, terrified by the proximity to such power.
The sixty soldiers hesitated. I saw their auras waver. The "solid light" of their discipline fractured with jagged spikes of Fear.
"Steady!" the Lieutenant screamed, though his own particles betrayed his real feelings. "He's one man! Brace!"
Valen stopped twenty yards from the shield wall.
He lifted his sword. The metal didn't glow green. It vanished.
It was coated in a layer of pressurized, distorted air so dense it warped the light around it. It looked like he was holding a heat haze shaped like a blade.
Peak Rank 4. Elemental Aura.
Valen swung.
"Severing Wind."
A crescent of green pressure, thin as a wire and wide as the river, detached from his blade. It didn't travel like a projectile. It expanded. It was a horizontal line of absolute force that screamed across the gap faster than thought.
It hit the shield wall.
There was no battle. There was no clash of metal. There was no scream of dying men.
There was only the wet, tearing sound of the world coming apart.
SHRRRRRRR-CRACK.
The slash didn't stop at the men. It cut through the steel shields like paper. It cut through the Iron Bones like dried twigs. It cut through the armor. It carved into the valley walls on either side.
The cliffs groaned. Massive sections of rock sheared off, sliding down into the river with a thunderous crash.
The trench it carved into the ground extended for a hundred meters-extending the gorge by a football field in a single heartbeat.
The sixty men simply... unraveled.
Their solid white light bodies dissolved into mist. The wind blade carried "little slices" of secondary intent-miniature scythes of air that whipped around the main strike like sharks in a frenzy, ensuring nothing remained standing.
Silence slammed back into the valley.
I stood there, my mouth open, my sword hanging loosely in my hand. My Red Core felt like a flickering candle next to a supernova.
That is Rank 4, I thought, my mind reeling. That is what a Magic Swordsman looks like. It's not fighting. It's a deletion.
Valen stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned back to us. His eyes were wild, the wind still whipping his hair, his Green Core slowly winding down from the exertion.
He looked at the tent where the Orange Mage was cowering in silence. Then he looked at me.
"Aaron," he barked.
Valen froze. He blinked, his wild expression softening into confusion for a split second.
"You..."
I looked down at myself.
The pressure of his spell. The sheer volume of ambient mana he had gathered and released in that single strike-it had saturated the air. It was thick, heavy, and suffocating. And my body, in its panic, had done what Henry taught me.
I had inhaled it.
My Red Core was throbbing, swollen with the excess power. But it was my body that had changed.
The 'Understanding' showed me the map of my own muscles. Before, the white particles had been a loose webbing-Initial Rank 1.
Now?
The webbing had snapped tight. The particles were woven together into a dense, consistent fabric. My skin felt harder. My blood heavier. The mana had forced the fibers to knit together to survive the pressure.
Now?
The webbing had snapped tight. The particles were woven together into a dense, consistent fabric. My skin felt harder. My blood felt heavier. The mana had forced the fibers to knit together to survive the pressure.
Mid-Rank 1.
I had ranked up standing still.
Valen's aura sparked with a flurry of impressed motes.
"You get bigger every time I look away," he muttered, shaking his head.
He looked at the sky. The Yellow Mage was long gone, gaining distance with every second.
"Marcus! With me!" Valen shouted. "We run!"
"But the boy-" Marcus started, looking back at me.
"Edgar has him! Edgar, secure the prisoner! Follow us at your best pace!"
Valen didn't wait. He didn't fly- he wasn't a Blue Core yet. Instead, he bent his knees and launched himself into the air. He jumped thirty feet straight up, caught an updraft I couldn't see, and glided forward, bouncing off the canyon wall to gain speed.
Marcus sprinted after him, his peak Rank 3 Body moving like a runaway train, kicking up gravel as he chased his Captain.
They were gone.
I was left standing in the blood and dust, the echo of the wind slash still ringing in my ears.
"Well," a voice sounded behind me.
I turned.
Edgar stood there. He had gone back into the tent and dragged the unconscious Orange Mage out. Marcus had knocked him out cold and wrapped a heavy chain around his neck-Dwarven Iron, they said. Anti-magic metal. It dampened the Mage's core to a dull smolder.
Edgar threw the captive over his left shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
He looked at the trench Valen had carved. Then he looked at me.
His aura was spiking again. That grey, jagged anxiety. It was louder now. Sharper.
"Guess we're walking," Edgar said.
He didn't smile. He didn't offer a word of comfort. He just adjusted the weight of the Mage, grabbed me by the back of my leathers, and hoisted me onto his right shoulder.
"Hey!" I protested.
"Shut up," Edgar grunted. "You're slow."
He took off.
It was a humiliating experience. Being carried like a sack of loot while bouncing against another grown man's armor. But Edgar was a Peak Rank 2. He moved with the relentless endurance of an Iron Bone warrior.
We ran for hours.
But something was wrong.
My senses told me we weren't following Valen's path. Valen had taken the high ridge. Edgar was veering north. Towards the deep woods.
"Edgar," I said, the wind rushing past my face. "You're drifting north. The camp is more towards south-east."
"Shortcut," Edgar said.
His aura was spiking again. That jagged, grey anxiety was gone, replaced by something colder. Resolution.
We ran until the sun began to bleed over the horizon. Half a day passed. We were miles from the gorge, deep in a dense forest of pines.
Suddenly, the Mage on Edgar's left shoulder squirmed.
"Put me down," the Mage rasped.
Edgar stopped. He dropped me to the ground with a thud. Then he gently lowered the Mage.
I scrambled up. "Why are we stopping?"
Edgwar wasn't checking the perimeter. He was unlocking the Dwarven chains.
Click.
The collar fell off. The Orange Core in the Mage's chest flared to life, sucking in the air greedily.
The Mage rubbed his neck. "Took you long enough. That Dwarven garbage itches like the plague. I hope the King grows a spine and invades those monsters in the north kingdom soon. We need to burn those bearded runts out of their holes just for inventing this metal.
I stood frozen. The cold morning air felt suddenly freezing.
Edgar stood up. He looked at the Mage.
"Valen is fast," Edgar said, his voice emotionless. "But the Earth Mage has a head start. And with the vanguard already there... the camp is gone."
"Good," the Mage said. "The Governor will be pleased."
I finally put the pieces together. The anxiety. The cynicism. The shortcut. The delay on the road.
"You," I whispered.
Edgar turned to me. His aura was calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"I told you, kid," Edgar said, his voice flat. "Character doesn't stop a fireball. Smart choices do."
"You're the traitor," I said, hand drifting towards my short sword.
The Mage laughed. "Traitor is such an ugly word. He's an employee."
The Mage turned his gaze to me. His Orange eyes glowed with curiosity. He looked at my oversized limbs, at the iron sword in my hand, and finally, the Red Core thrumming in my chest.
"And you," the Mage purred. "The blind boy who sees magic. The Governor will be very interested in you."
I tried to run.
But the Mage flicked his wrist. Orange particles shot out of the ground, forming a ring of fire around me that froze the ambient mana.
Sealing Art.
My Red Core slammed against a wall. My strength evaporated. I fell to my knees.
"Don't break him," Edgar said, sounding bored. "Valen might come back for him."
The Mage smiled, looking down at me.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that."