The sun, an imperious, unforgiving orb, had claimed the zenith of the sky and now presided over the vast, tawny grasslands with merciless intensity. The air hung still and heavy, scented only by parched earth and the metallic tang of sweat. The trail they followed was a ribbon of powdered dust, rising in thin, dispirited clouds with every weary step Dorian and Kael took. Scattered across the immense landscape, a few dark, gnarled trees stood like forgotten sentinels, offering tantalizing but ultimately useless promises of shade.
"Let's stop for a minute, please," Dorian pleaded, his voice a dry, rasping sound, barely audible above the rhythmic crunch of their boots. His feet felt like blocks of lead now, heavy and unresponsive, dragging along the ground. They had been walking relentlessly since the first pale light of dawn.
Kael did not break stride. His frame, lean and taut, moved with an almost mechanical efficiency that seemed untouched by the heat and the miles. "No. We are making good time," he replied, his voice clear, steady, and utterly firm, a stark contrast to Dorian's wheezing exhaustion. "If we start dilly-dallying now, we won't reach Tide's Reach for five months." He paused, his gaze fixed on the shimmering, heat-hazed horizon, before adding a small, calculated measure of hope. "Don't worry, though. There is a village just over that rise. There, we can rest."
They had traveled together for over two weeks, since the day Kael, stoic and self-contained, had found Dorian at the small stream. Dorian, ever vigilant, had used this time to surreptitiously study his companion, gauging if Kael was the type to betray him for a scrap of coin or a moment of advantage. What he observed was a man of extreme reserve. Kael spoke only when necessary, his answers clipped and direct. He was meticulous to a fault: his dagger was cleaned with ritualistic precision every evening; he continuously scanned the back trail, his eyes sharp and assessing, suggesting a deep-seated paranoia born of past trauma. He offered no details of his life, but Dorian had deduced he was a wanderer, a man perpetually 'in between jobs,' moving to the next town the moment scarcity threatened the last. Dorian himself was not one for idle chatter, and over the miles, they had developed a powerful, unspoken understanding, communicating the necessities with the absolute minimum of words.
Minutes later, Dorian saw it: the village. It materialized like an oasis against the heat haze. It was a charming dichotomy of structures, from humble wooden shacks to more prosperous brick cottages topped with rich clay tiles. The settlement radiated a peaceful, almost soporific energy. Children played games in the dusty lanes, their laughter a thin, bright sound, while distant hills were dotted with grazing cattle. It was, essentially, just another sleepy village in the vast kingdom of Sylvandor.
Their previous stop had been a full week ago, a stark reminder of the colossal scale of this world where settlements were separated by days of arduous travel. Transportation was severely limited: foot travel, ordinary horses, or the prohibitively expensive magical vehicles and beasts. They had forsaken horses because their natural noise and scent inevitably attracted the dangerous magical beasts that roamed the wilds. Kael possessed an eerie knack for reading the subtle signs—broken twigs, displaced soil, a particular stillness in the air—that warned of these creatures, allowing them to skirt danger narrowly, not once, but twice. Magical transport, the most efficient method, remained laughably beyond their means. And so, they walked, trudging towards Tide's Reach, a journey Kael estimated would still take another three months.
They finally stepped onto the village's main thoroughfare and headed for the nearest inn, a humble establishment on the town's periphery. After securing a room—a simple affair with two rough-hewn beds, a nightstand bearing a soft-glowing magical lantern, a woven mat, and a desk—Dorian immediately collapsed.
Kael was spent, too. Despite the sun having only just begun its descent into dusk, kael was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
Dorian, however, could not afford rest. He sat up, crossing his legs in a standard meditative position. For the last two weeks, despite the grueling travel, he had been diligently working on Pioneer's Gaze, the cultivation technique gifted by the artifact spirit bound to his core. He had begun to grasp the technique's essence—a uniquely powerful method for purifying and expanding his mana core—but it was profoundly different from any other wizarding technique he had ever known. All conventional Elemental techniques included detailed descriptions of the skills and spells one would naturally acquire at each advancement level. Pioneer's Gaze offered none of this. It was a technique of pure, raw energy refinement, seemingly designed by someone who either lacked an elemental affinity or scorned the structured path. "I guess the name 'Pioneer's Gaze' really fits," he mused, clearing his mind of all distractions.
He began the slow, arduous process of absorbing the ambient cosmic energy, the mana, saturating the air. This was the fundamental, bedrock method of wizarding cultivation, but it was painfully slow. Even with an advanced technique like Pioneer's Gaze, Dorian was only at the mid-One level of the wizarding path. He desperately needed faster resources.
To advance swiftly, a wizard relied on mana stones, crystals of coalesced cosmic energy. These were roughly spherical, palm-sized crystals that, when absorbed, could dramatically accelerate cultivation. Dorian's noble background meant he had once enjoyed unlimited access to these. Mana stones, like the wizarding ranks, were divided into Nine Tiers. Crucially, each successive tier contained ten times the usable energy of the last, meaning a Tier Two mana crystal was ten times more potent than a Tier One crystal, and so on. Meditating on environmental mana was, as the saying went, like trying to catch individual raindrops in a storm; utilizing mana crystals was like finding deep, brimming puddles. A familiar pang of melancholy struck him as he recalled the lavish resources he had once taken for granted.
After several hours of concentrated meditation, Dorian's eyelids felt heavy. He dimmed the magical lantern, pulling the thin blanket over himself. As he finally drifted off, his thoughts were no longer shadowed by regret, but focused keenly on the exciting and perilously uncertain life that lay ahead.
The next morning, Dorian woke to the distinct, quiet clanging of metal on metal—Kael was already awake and packing. Without need for spoken greetings, they descended to the inn's restaurant, ate a quick, sustaining meal, purchased minimal, necessary supplies, and were back on the road.
They pressed onward for hours, the rhythm of their walking once again becoming the monotonous pulse of their journey. Unbeknownst to them, they had been notuced. Five men, a ragtag collection of cutthroats and mercenaries, followed them from a significant distance. They were distinguishable by their rough clothing, the heavy cloaks that did a poor job of concealing simple, ill-maintained swords, and the network of scars marking their weathered faces—clearly bandits.
Kael, eyes always moving, was the first to realize. He increased his pace slightly, closing the distance to Dorian, and whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. "Don't look, but we are being followed. Five of them."
Kael knew Dorian possessed magical power, but he had no concept of its strength or element. "What can you do?" he asked, his hand dropping discreetly to the handle of his dagger.
"Not much yet, but you don't have to worry about me," Dorian answered, immediately beginning to circulate the refined mana within his core, preparing for defense. His core was Fire-attuned, but the Pioneer's Gaze mana felt… different. He wondered if he could successfully layer Fire skills onto the technique's raw energy.
They suddenly stopped, pretending to adjust their packs and rest. They hoped that if the bandits, thinking them vulnerable, simply passed by, the conflict could be avoided.
The bandits, who had been happily chatting in the distance, halted directly in front of them. The leader, a burly man whose smile was wide and unsettlingly predatory, approached.
"Hello, friends," the man said, his voice laced with false cordiality. "My name is Easton, and my acquaintances and I require your belongings." He stated the demand as a matter of simple logistics, as if they were discussing the weather rather than impending robbery.
Kael's knuckles went white as he gripped his dagger, his eyes narrowed to slits.
The group of five completed their encirclement, drawing their crude swords. The one immediate piece of good news was the absence of any visible wizarding artifacts or mana signatures. The rarity of wizards—a few tens of millions in a country of billions—meant non-wizards were still the most common threat.
"No," Kael said simply.
"Tsk, tsk." Easton clicked his head, shaking it slowly from side to side in an exaggerated display of disappointment. "A real shame. I truly hoped I wouldn't have to spill blood this morning."
Without any further preamble or warning, they lunged. Two men rushed Kael, and two rushed Dorian. Easton remained where he was, watching the initial engagement like a general directing his troops.
Kael was unexpectedly brilliant. He deflected one sword with his dagger, ducked under the wild swing of the second, his movements perfect in their timing and economy. He was a master of evasion, parrying, kicking, and deflecting, keeping the two opponents in constant motion, preventing them from coordinating a lethal trap.
Dorian, with his meager training, was having a significantly harder time. He managed to evade the initial, clumsy thrusts, his reactions quick, but he lacked Kael's fluid, battle-hardened grace. The confrontation continued for a few frantic, exhausting moments until Dorian made a fatal, rookie mistake: he snagged his boot on an uneven patch of ground, stumbled backward, and fell.
The bandits, sensing the immediate advantage, were instantly upon him. It seemed inevitable—the end of the road.
In a pure surge of instinctual panic, Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and threw his hands up in a desperate defensive gesture as one of the bandits stabbed down. He braced for the pain, the cold slice of steel.
But the sword never came.
Dorian opened his eyes slowly. He was looking directly at the point of the bandit's sword, which was halted less than six inches from his face, suspended by an invisible force. A barrier, shimmering faintly with pure, undifferentiated mana, held the blade in check. The bandit's face was a mask of strained effort, struggling futilely to drive the sword forward.
It was in this moment of extreme duress that the deeper meaning of Pioneer's Gaze roared to life in his mind. The technique wasn't about conventional spells; it was about raw control. Mana was clay. He could mold it. He could shape it as he pleased.
A surge of primal will erupted from his core. The shimmering barrier expanded, pushing outwards with violent, concussive force.
The two bandits were hurled away from him like ragdolls, skidding uncontrollably across the dust and stones.
The entire engagement stopped. Kael and his two attackers froze, staring at the incomprehensible sight.
Dorian stood up slowly, the rush of adrenaline and revelation clearing his mind.
Then, a flicker of movement. One of the stunned bandits, thinking he could strike the wizard while he was distracted, rushed Dorian from behind, making a wide, desperate slash at his neck.
"Dorian, watch out!" Kael screamed, his voice thick with sudden fear.
But again, the sword stopped. Mid-air. It simply arrested its movement, trapped in a field of raw, kinetic mana that Dorian hadn't even consciously formed—it was an automatic, instinctual reaction to a perceived lethal threat.
The attacker's face transitioned from desperation to paralyzing terror as Dorian slowly turned to face him. Dorian's expression was cold, devoid of the panic of moments before, replaced by a terrible focus, the countenance of a force of nature newly aware of its power.
He didn't need to speak an incantation. He didn't need to recall a Fire spell. He simply directed the raw energy. He made a sharp, definitive slashing motion with his hand, the same motion he would use if he held a physical sword. From his palm, a sliver of concentrated, cutting force materialized—transparent, yet reflecting the light like a shard of broken glass.
With a horrifying whoosh, the energy slash connected. It was instantaneous, a single, devastating moment of sheer power. The bandit didn't even have time to scream. The shard of energy separated the man's legs from his torso, the force incredibly clean, incredibly lethal.
Silence descended, broken only by the sickening sound of the corpse hitting the dirt.
"Run!" Easton screamed, his commanding facade shattering instantly. His remaining men scattered, throwing down their swords and fleeing in disparate directions, fear lending them impossible speed.
Dorian stood staring at the halved corpse, his chest heaving, the stench of blood sudden and overwhelming. He hadn't meant to do that. He had only intended to blast the man away, to incapacitate him, like the others. But the raw, untamed power of his affinity had been too great, his control too coarse.
He slowly lowered his hand, staring at his palm, the incredible force that he had wielded both amazing and deeply unnerving him. "Seems like a special grade affinity is truly strong," he muttered, processing the sheer lethality of the attack.
Kael, his face pale, slowly sheathed his dagger. He took a staggering step back, his eyes wide, looking not at the body, but at Dorian.
"What are you?" Kael finally managed, the question not accusatory, but laced with a profound, bone-deep horror. It was a question that ripped away all their previous, silent understanding, laying bare the truth: Dorian was not just a wizard; he was something entirely new, terrifyingly unique.