Chapter 41 — Shadows on the Horizon
(Shadeblade POV)
The forest of Shimmering Pass stretched ahead like a living puzzle. Pine, moss, and the lingering scent of smoke from old campfires made the air feel heavy, yet alive. I crouched atop a ridge, boney white mask in place, the distinctive crack streaking from my left eye to cheek. My eyes darted across twisted roots, uneven cobbles, and creeping shadows. Observation first. Panic later. Fundamentals always first.
Selia perched on a broken branch like she owned the sky. "Finally! A Skeleton who looks like he's thinking. Don't get used to it," she said, toes tapping impatiently.
Bran leaned against a tree, grinning. "Thinking, huh? Careful, Skeleton. If you overthink, you might accidentally do something competent. And I can't handle that kind of chaos."
I muttered beneath the mask, tightening my grip on my sword. Tier‑2 mid. Disciplined. Observation and awareness were my allies—even if my legs occasionally disagreed.
Korran Veyle, calm and analytical as ever, adjusted the edge of his cloak. "Tracks are fresh. Large, predatory. Likely dangerous. Predictable if approached carefully."
Vaelric Dorn crossed his arms, scowling. "Naturally, the clumsy Skeleton notices first. How convenient."
Lysara, hood low, silently scanned the forest. I sensed her evaluating every movement, every shadow, like a predator sizing up prey without revealing intent.
---
We weren't just wandering for fun. Rumors had surfaced of rogue black magicians performing forbidden summoning rituals here in Shimmering Pass. Merchants whispered of glowing lights at night, unnatural creatures, and a few disappearances. The guild dispatched our crew: investigate, neutralize immediate threats, and gather intelligence. Simple in theory. Chaotic in practice.
The forest seemed to sense our intrusion. Shadows twisted unnaturally. A breeze whispered like a warning. Every snapping twig might be a monster—or just a squirrel mocking me.
Selia's voice cut through my thoughts. "If your observation fails, Skeleton, try a faceplant for distraction. Works 90% of the time."
Bran laughed. "Yes! Enemies distracted by his chaos, we win by default!"
Even Korran allowed the tiniest smirk. "Optional humor can be effective for morale."
Vaelric muttered, "You're all insane."
---
A sudden rustle in the underbrush—two monsters emerged: jagged scales, claws, fangs glinting. Not massive, but enough to test the party's coordination.
Bran growled. "Time to see if skeleton reflexes can keep up with skeleton brains."
I readied my sword, grounding myself in Volrag's lessons: stance, grip, balance. Step, pivot, slash. The first monster staggered from a clean strike. Selia's daggers whirred from above. Lysara moved silently, precision strikes finding weak spots.
Korran remained calm, giving tactical calls. Vaelric tried to interject a plan, muttering about efficiency, but the chaos around him made even his meticulous calculations messy.
From the shadows, a hooded figure observed—the mysterious Tier‑2 mana girl. Faint energy pulsed around her hands, but she didn't intervene. Her presence added tension, curiosity, and intrigue.
---
Combat escalated. Bran barreled into one monster, shoulder-first. I sliced across the second monster's flank. Selia cheered from above: "I'm crying! A walking disaster and effective!"
Vaelric muttered under his breath, annoyed but impressed: "Annoyingly effective… I hate it."
Korran nodded slightly. "Fundamentals intact. Improvised disruption effective. Humor optional, yet beneficial."
Lysara, hood low, whispered, "Not dead. That's a win."
---
After the fight, we collapsed near the fire. Night wrapped the forest like a velvet curtain. Firelight danced across soot-streaked faces—or masks, in my case.
Selia perched above, tossing a piece of jerky. "Survived. Effective. And surprisingly graceful."
I smirked beneath the mask. Tier‑2 mid, disciplined, still learning. Still clumsy—but effective.
Bran laughed so hard he nearly tipped the fire. "Alive, slightly competent, entertaining… I'll take it!"
Korran placed a hand on my shoulder. "Sword fundamentals intact. Improvised techniques effective. Tier‑2 mid within reach if rhythm is maintained."
Vaelric muttered, "I don't like admitting it… but I'm impressed."
---
The feast was simple: bread, stew, dried meat. Yet after the chaos, it felt like a banquet. Laughter mixed with groans, teasing, and a few minor mishaps—Selia flicking a stray pea at me, Bran nearly flinging a roasted leg across the camp.
The hooded observer lingered at the edge of the firelight, quietly watching. Mana flickered faintly around her fingers—a subtle but undeniable Tier‑2 presence. For now, she remained a mystery, her intentions unknown.
Somewhere beyond the dark hills, the academy waited: Tier‑5 legends, cool and badass teachers, a place of challenge and growth. For now, though, I allowed a brief moment of calm.
I glanced at my crew, feeling something strange beneath the mask: warmth. Misfits, mercenaries, friends—maybe a family. Tier‑2 mid wasn't the pinnacle. It was the beginning. And with these people at my side, clumsy, chaotic, and absurd as I might be, I felt unstoppable.