The commercial transport wagons were a noisy, public affair, packed with merchants, migrants, and adventurers. Joshey took one look at the crowded benches and the shared, weary atmosphere and made a decision. He led Lucia to a smaller, more secluded part of the travel yard where private charters were available.
The charge for a covered, two-person wagon with a dedicated driver was exorbitant, but Joshey paid without hesitation, handing over a stack of florins that would have made a guardsman's monthly salary.
Lucia watched him in silence. She had known men who used wealth as a weapon, but from Joshey there was no arrogance—only intent. The money wasn't a display; it was a tool, a means to secure quiet. She respected that.
They boarded the enclosed wagon, the driver clicking his tongue to urge the horses forward. The interior was plain but clean, with padded benches and a small, locked chest for valuables. As the city of Oakhaven faded behind them, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels became the steady pulse of their journey.
Unseen, a shadow flitted from rooftop to tree branch with preternatural grace. Kieran Vale moved like a wisp of smoke, her presence erased by elven arts so refined they were less like magic and more like a rewriting of perception itself.
Inside, the silence stretched—comfortable, but edged with unspoken history.
Joshey broke it first.
"So," he began, voice casual, "your brother. What kind of person is he?"
Lucia turned from the window, her expression unreadable.
"He was... complicated," she said softly. "Funny, proud, and reckless. He lived like the world would forgive him for everything."
Joshey watched her for a moment, noticing the flicker of something beneath her calm tone—regret, maybe, or sorrow too deep to name. But he didn't pry.
The wagon rolled on, carrying their silence into the wilderness.
***
The wagon wheels had a steady, lulling rhythm. Across from Joshey, Lucia was finally asleep, her head resting against the wall, the sharp lines of her face softened in the dim light. The frantic energy from the city was gone, leaving only the quiet creak of wood and the horse's hooves on the dirt road. That's when Joshey noticed the silence.
It wasn't just quiet. It was empty. The usual forest sounds—birds, insects, the rustle of small animals—had vanished. It felt like the world had been muffled under a thick blanket. He'd been lost in his own thoughts for a while, but this was different. This was wrong.
He leaned forward and peered through the small front window. The driver was just a dark, cloaked shape on the bench, holding the reins. Everything looked normal. "Hey," Joshey called out, his voice cutting through the stillness. "Everything alright up there?" No response. The driver didn't turn or shift. He was as still as a stone.
A cold knot tightened in Joshey's stomach. He nudged Lucia's boot with his own. She was awake instantly, her eyes snapping open, clear and alert. No confusion. He put a finger to his lips and pointed towards the driver, then made a flat, empty gesture with his hand.
Lucia understood. Her expression didn't change, but the air around her went cold. She was no longer a sleeping girl; she was a weapon waiting to be drawn. Joshey motioned for her to stay put. He moved carefully to the front of the wagon, his heart thumping a slow, heavy beat in his chest. He reached through the partition to try and tap the driver's shoulder. The cloak slumped. It was empty, propped up cleverly with a sack. The reins were tied off to the brake. The driver was just… gone. He pulled back and looked at Lucia. Her face was pale. "When?" she mouthed.
He shook his head. He had no idea. The man had vanished without a sound, without a struggle. The horse just kept plodding forward, taking them… where?
The wagon creaked to a gentle, final stop. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Joshey's mind raced. Okay. Okay. Don't panic. First, figure out where we are. He pulled a folded map from his satchel, the parchment rustling loudly in the unnatural quiet.
"Elias," he thought, spreading it on his knees. "Where are we?"
Inside their shared mind, he felt a rapid, silent calculation. Elias's knowledge of the region superimposed itself on the map. *The travel time, the turn off the main road we felt hours ago, the type of soil... Joshey, I believe we are in the Dead Mount Forest.*
Joshey's blood ran colder. Dead Mount was supposed to be teeming with life, a noisy, vibrant place. The utter lack of sound was a violation of its nature. This was deeply wrong.
"I'm going to check the front," he whispered to Lucia. She gave a tight nod, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her body coiled.
He moved carefully back to the partition and pulled himself up to look out the front, bracing for an empty path.
He was wrong.
A man stood directly in front of the stationary horses, not five feet from the wagon. He was tall, wrapped in a dark, non-reflective cloak, his face hidden in shadow. The shock wasn't just seeing him—it was the fact that Joshey could see and hear him now. The man's boot scuffed lightly on a stone, the sound crisp in the dead air.
The man started, taking a half-step back. "How...?" he hissed, his voice full of genuine surprise. "You shouldn't be able to perceive me!"
«Joshey,» Elias's voice cut in, sharp and clear. «The entire area is under a sophisticated barrier. It doesn't just create silence; it actively dampens the five senses, making anyone inside it virtually undetectable. It's like a bubble of sensory static.» *Then how can I see him?* Joshey thought, his eyes locked on the stunned figure.
«Because our consciousness is synchronized. We are no longer relying solely on sight or sound. We are perceiving the mana wavelengths directly and converting them into information. We are using a seventh sense. The barrier doesn't account for that.»
The cloaked man recovered from his shock. Seeing his cover was blown, he didn't hesitate. He whistled, a sharp, two-toned sound that sliced through the false silence. "Standby, engage! The target is aware!
From the inky blackness of the trees on either side of the path, two more cloaked figures emerged, their movements fluid and silent. All three drew thin, wicked-looking short swords in unison. The one in front pointed his blade at Joshey. "Take him!" The three figures burst into motion, closing the short distance in a heartbeat, their weapons aimed with lethal intent.
The three men moved like shadows given purpose. Their speed was unnerving, a blur of dark cloth and glinting steel that was far faster than Joshey could hope to match with his own two feet. Instinct took over. He didn't try to outrun the first slash aimed at his neck; he pushed.
It wasn't a conscious decision to use Aero Mana. It was a flinch, a full-body recoil translated into force. The air behind him compressed in a sudden, silent *whump*, shoving him backward just enough that the blade whistled past his chin, close enough to feel the wind of its passage. He stumbled, his boots scraping on the dirt as he fought for balance. Another attacker was already on him, a low sweep aimed at his legs. He kicked off the ground, using another short, sharp burst of air to alter his momentum, twisting his body in a way that felt unnatural. He landed awkwardly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
*Distance. I need distance.* The thought was a frantic drumbeat in his head. If he could just get a few yards, he could use the Void. He pictured it—a sphere of absolute nothingness that would slam into them with the force of a collapsed lung, stunning them, maybe even knocking them out without having to kill them. But they were too close, their attacks too relentless, a storm of sharp edges he could only barely dance away from. He was a strategist, not a brawler, and he was losing the rhythm of this dance fast.
The wagon door creaked open.
"Joshey? What's happening?" Lucia's voice was calm, but laced with confusion. She could probably hear his frantic movements, but to her, he was likely just dodging and weaving in the empty, silent dark.
«Share the sight with her,» Joshey thought desperately to Elias.
There was a pulse, a subtle shift in the shared space of their minds, and then a projection—a stream of raw sensory data, the mana-wavelength information of the three attackers, their positions, their movements. It wasn't like seeing with eyes; it was *knowing* they were there.
Lucia didn't gasp or cry out. She simply stepped down from the wagon, and in that single step, the confusion vanished from her posture. She moved between Joshey and the swirling chaos of the attackers, a small, solid figure in the face of the storm.
"I see them," she said, her voice low and steady. "Get the one in charge. I'll handle these three."
Joshey's first thought was a spike of pure panic. *No. That's insane. There are three of them, and they're fast.* He opened his mouth to argue, to tell her to get back in the wagon.
But then he looked at her. Really looked. She wasn't posing. She wasn't boasting. She was stating a simple, logistical fact, the same way he'd delegate a task to one of his market staff. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her stance relaxed but utterly rooted. She wasn't asking for his opinion. He swallowed his protest. He didn't know if she could win, but he knew, with a sudden, bone-deep certainty, that she could last. Long enough for him to do his part. "Alright," he said, the word tasting like iron. "When I'm done with him, I'm coming for you."
It wasn't a heroic promise. It was a plan. A contingency. He didn't wait for her reply. He turned his back on the fight he was leaving her to and faced the leader, the one who had spoken, the one still standing calmly ahead of the horses. The real threat. Joshey started walking toward him, his own fear crystallizing into a cold, sharp focus.
The leader stood silent, a dark sentinel refusing to give up any information. Joshey felt a flicker of frustration, but it was quickly smothered by the simple, urgent need to survive. *Fine. Don't talk.*
A sudden commotion erupted from Lucia's fight. One of the cloaked men was flung through the air, tumbling end over end directly toward the leader. It was a perfect distraction, a moment of chaos Joshey could have used.
But the leader didn't even flinch. He simply raised a hand, and the tumbling man was shoved sideways as if by an invisible hand, crashing harmlessly into the undergrowth.
*Aero mana,* Joshey realized. Of course. It made sense. In this world, you fought with the tools you could grasp. Some, like Sylvaine, could seemingly use them all. This man's tool was the wind.
There was no more time for thought. Joshey charged forward, closing the distance. He didn't have the finesse for a prolonged aerial duel. He needed to overwhelm him. He thrust his palm forward, and a spear of condensed, white-hot flame—his Scorching Flames—shot toward the man's chest.
The leader's response was disdainfully simple. He didn't try to block it. He just swept his arm in a wide arc, and the very air between them erupted. A roaring tornado, small but vicious, tore up the ground between them. It didn't just deflect the fire spear; it consumed it, shredding the concentrated mana into harmless, scattered embers. The force of the gale didn't stop there. It hit Joshey like a physical wall, forcing him to dig his heels in. He saw Lucia and her two opponents stagger, their deadly dance interrupted as they fought to stay upright against the sudden storm.
Joshey grunted, planting his feet. He could feel Elias in the back of his mind, a constant, silent partner, but his focus was split. A significant part of their shared processing power was dedicated to feeding Lucia the sensory information she needed to fight her own battle blind. Right now, Joshey was on his own.
He had to match force with force. He remembered the theory, the principles of pressure and counter-currents. He couldn't just stop the tornado; he had to unravel it. He raised both hands, not in a block, but in a mirroring motion, his mind racing through the calculations of airflow, of vortices.
"Aero Mana: Swirling Vortex!" he yelled, the name feeling clumsy and dramatic in his mouth.
The air in front of him shimmered. It wasn't a shield. It was a whirlpool of his own making, spinning in the opposite direction to the leader's tornado. Where the two vortexes met, they didn't explode. They gnawed at each other, a violent, screeching cancelation of force. The roaring wind died into a fitful, gasping gust, leaving behind a cloud of kicked-up dust and leaves.