Within the dense, shadowy depths of the Great Forest of Althea, the air trembled with the roar of explosions, loud enough to send flocks of birds scattering into the canopy.
A lone figure stood at the center of the chaos.
Three massive Iron-Tusk Boars—Rank 2 Awakened Aetherborn—ganged up on him. Their eyes burned with a murderous, bloodshot rage, and their tusks, hardened by earth-attribute mana, gleamed like dull steel. With a synchronized, earth-shaking snort, the beasts charged, their heavy hooves tearing up the forest floor.
The figure didn't flinch. He waited until the very last second, his body shifting with fluid, practiced grace. He sidestepped the lead boar, causing the three beasts to collide violently with one another in a tangle of snapping tusks and squealing hides.
Using the distraction, he leaped backward, vaulting onto the thick branch of a towering oak.
He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. Unlike the Novices who had to recite lengthy incantations, or the Adepts who needed to shout their spells to shape the elements, an Expert mage commanded mana with a mere thought.
He didn't chant. He simply snapped his fingers.
Firestorm.
In the world of magic, spells were categorized by the ranks of the mages who could cast them. A Fireball was an F-rank skill, barely enough to singe a goblin. A Fireblast was E-rank, capable of shattering boulders. But Firestorm was a D-rank spell—the hallmark of an Expert Mage.
The ambient mana in the air violently condensed above the tangled boars. A swirling vortex of blinding, white-hot flames erupted from the nothingness, expanding outward in a devastating dome of pure combustion.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion ripped through the forest. The shockwave flattened the surrounding bushes, carrying with it the unmistakable, bitter scent of scorched earth and burning flesh.
When the smoke cleared, the ground was littered with the charred, unrecognizable remains of the Iron-Tusk Boars. Once feared by novice adventurers for their relentless charges and impenetrable hides, the Rank 2 beasts had been reduced to heaps of smoldering ash in a single breath.
Any wandering adventurer would have been left slack-jawed at the sight. Entire parties of seasoned warriors struggled to take down a single Iron-Tusk Boar, yet here they were, obliterated by one young man.
The figure stood silently amidst the smoke. He was dressed in black from head to toe, his clothes worn and tattered, clinging to a lean, heavily scarred frame. A dark cloth mask concealed the lower half of his face, leaving only his piercing, amber eyes visible. Despite wielding devastating magic, his silent precision and predatory stillness gave him the air of an assassin rather than a scholar.
Clei glanced down at the scorched bodies, his eyes narrowing. He let out a long, frustrated sigh.
"Still too weak," he muttered, the words muffled by his mask.
One year. It had been a full year since his adoptive father, Silas, vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but a letter and a mountain of unanswered questions. Clei had trained relentlessly, pushing his mana to the absolute limit, but the progress felt agonizingly slow. He was chasing a ghost—a man whose power was so vast it defied comprehension. Silas had plucked him from the gutter and forged him into a mage, but now, Clei realized just how small he truly was in the grand scheme of the world.
With a graceful leap, Clei vaulted higher into the canopy, settling onto a sturdy bough hidden by the leaves.
The fatigue of the battle finally caught up to him. Casting a D-rank area-of-effect spell like Firestorm was a massive drain. While his status as an Expert meant his body now passively absorbed ambient mana just by breathing—unlike Novices who had to sit in deep meditation for hours—the Mental Energy required to compress and detonate that much fire was entirely depleted. His mind felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
He closed his eyes, letting the forest's natural mana seep into his pores to replenish his reserves. In the quiet moments that followed, his thoughts drifted to the upcoming milestone—his sixteenth birthday.
For most, such an age would bring excitement. For Clei, it was a bitter reminder of his isolation.
His memories drifted backward, pulling him to his earliest days. He had not always been alone. Born an orphan, he had been raised by the priests and nuns of the Holy Church in the village of Althea. He had once known what it felt like to belong. The priests had taught him to read, and the other children had played with him in the sunlit courtyards. It had been a simple, innocent life.
But fate was a cruel architect.
When he turned five, the warmth evaporated overnight. The priests who once smiled at him now looked at him with veiled terror. The children who once played with him threw stones. They called him a demon. An outcast. Cursed.
For an entire month, a five-year-old boy starved in the gutters of Althea, hated for a sin he didn't understand, shunned even by the girl who had once been his closest friend. He would have died in the freezing rain if a man in a tattered cloak hadn't stepped out of the shadows and offered him a hand.
"Father…" Clei whispered into the stillness. "Where are you now?"
No answer came, only the rustling of the leaves.
After an hour of rest, his Mental Energy had recovered enough to move. He couldn't linger; the scent of blood would attract larger Aetherborn, or worse, the bandits that lurked on the forest's outskirts.
Leaping down from the tree, Clei broke into a run, heading north toward a place few dared to venture.
He ran until the trees grew unnaturally close together, their thick branches intertwining to block out the sun, plunging the area into near darkness. Overgrown vines choked the ground. Clei stopped abruptly. His breath was steady, his eyes focused.
This was the place.
With practiced precision, he made a series of intricate hand gestures. This wasn't a combat spell, but a resonance key. He chanted softly, his voice melodic and quiet.
"A treasured child, a treasured life, oh where might I find you?"
The tangled mass of plants shivered and parted, revealing a narrow, hidden path. Clei stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the oppressive darkness vanished. The world shifted into a serene clearing bathed in soft, golden sunlight. Birds chirped overhead, and the sweet scent of flowers replaced the smell of ash. Before him, two lush gardens flanked a pristine marble pathway that led to a quaint, beautiful house atop a small hill.
The sight of the tranquil haven brought a fleeting, fragile smile to Clei's lips. This place, so peaceful, felt worlds apart from the turmoil that raged inside him.
He walked the familiar path, his footsteps slow and deliberate, until he reached the wooden door. Standing before it, he hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle. He pulled down his mask, revealing the lower half of his face, and spoke softly.
"I'm home."
But the house remained silent, as it always did.