The village faded behind him, littered with corpses—man and beast alike.
Vael staggered forward, his breath a ragged fog in the freezing air. His clothes were in tatters, reduced to strips of fabric clinging uselessly to his frame. The only warmth he had left came from the blood soaking his skin, dripping steadily into the snow.
Claw marks gouged across his body, each step tearing at wounds that refused to close. He had fought off nearly twenty Bloodfangs—wolves swollen with unnatural muscle, jaws filled with serrated teeth. One alone was enough to kill an unprepared fighter. But they never came alone. They hunted in packs.
And no one else in that wretched little village had been strong enough to stand beside him. The defense had been his alone.
His rapier, once a lifeline, lay shattered amidst the carnage. Steel had limits. He had always known this. That was why he had prepared.
The answer had been clear: compressed space.
Spatial affinity was not just teleportation, not just blinking through walls and distance. Space was infinite. Flexible. Dangerous.
And when forced tight enough, shaped with intent, it could become a blade sharper than any forged steel.
Vael's hand flexed, gathering the fractured streams of mana that bled into the frozen air. Threads of space twisted, bending, collapsing into one another until they formed a solid edge. A weapon drawn from nothing.
He exhaled, eyes burning against the sting of cold air.
What now?
The village had offered scraps of information, enough to sketch the world beyond its snow-bitten borders. A coastal city lay not far. From there, he could head south, pass through other villages, eventually reach the Kingdoms themselves.
And the thought of it tempted him—marching straight into the heart of the nobles' dominion, cutting them down where they stood. But temptation was not strength. Not yet.
Vael clenched his fists. He knew better.
His path was clear. Painfully clear.
Time—that was what he needed. Time to grow in silence. Time to vanish into the shadows, far from the nobles' gaze, until the day came when he could return and make the world choke on their arrogance.
And his way forward was east.
Beyond the sea.
Vasulina.
Another continent, a month away by boat. A place to disappear, to harden, to sharpen himself into the blade he would one day drive through the Empire's heart.
Weirdly enough, the Bloodfangs chose to strike in the heart of day, when their camouflage meant little. Perhaps they thought the village was ripe for the picking, an easy slaughter. They were wrong.
Vael's gaze hardened. He turned eastward, the decision already carved into him like the wounds on his flesh.
His body screamed in protest—torn muscles, skin split by claw and fang, an emptiness gnawing at his stomach.
He blinked to the top of a frost-covered tree, high above the crimson snow, and dug into the meager supplies left in his Pocket. Bread, water, bandages. Barely enough to keep a man alive, but enough for him.
As he tightened the last strip of cloth around his forearm, the resolve settled.
Next stop: Vasulina.