The hills rolled endlessly eastward, and David traveled with no map. He needed none. The mana itself guided him — its flow always drifting toward the same unseen center. For days, he followed rivers whose currents whispered of deeper roots, forests whose trees bent toward unseen tunnels, and mountains that trembled under hidden veins of power.
Then, as the fifteenth dusk fell across the stone-blasted ridges, David found it.
A jagged scar cut through the base of a cliff, wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The opening was unnatural — not carved by hands or water, but by something older. It pulsed faintly with blue light, the same hue that ran through his veins. Myndros.
He stepped inside.
The air changed instantly. Cold, dry, humming with unseen life. His feet struck worn stone steps, each one etched with runes so old they'd nearly faded to dust. David felt the pressure grow as he descended, not like weight, but like depth — as if the world was folding inward around him.
An hour passed before the steps gave way to a hall.
The ceiling arched high above, supported by pillars of translucent crystal. Strange lights floated through the air — not torches, but free-drifting motes of mana. They reacted to David's presence, swirling around him like curious birds.
"Myndros..." he whispered.
A sound echoed back — not his voice, but a response. A low hum, vibrating in his bones.
He walked further. The hall opened into a vast underground city, half buried by time. Crumbled towers, shattered statues, broken bridges that once arced across the wide cavern like ribs of a giant beast. And yet, in the heart of it all stood a single intact structure: a temple, pulsing with dim white light.
Inside the temple, it was warm. The mana here wasn't wild — it was ordered. Tamed. Every tile on the ground was inscribed with sigils. The walls were covered in murals: warriors cloaked in glowing light, meditating as stars fell from the sky, hands raised not in war, but in harmony.
At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal.
And on it, a book — floating in the air, bound in metal and obsidian glass.
David stepped forward. The book opened by itself. Pages fluttered to one blank sheet.
Then, glowing letters began to appear.
"To the Vessel of the Well…"
The words formed in silence, yet they thundered within his spirit.
"You have come to the source not to learn power, but to become worthy of it."
David's hands clenched. He already felt power. Endless, ever-growing. What more was required?
The next line appeared, as if in answer.
"Power without clarity is fire without direction. It consumes all."
The room darkened. The glowing motes faded. David looked up and found himself no longer alone.
A figure stood across the chamber.
It wore a hood, face hidden, but its body… it rippled with mana in a way David had never seen. Controlled. Perfect. Like a sword unsheathed.
"You are the current," the figure said, voice deep and calm. "I am what you will become — or what you will destroy."
David dropped into a stance, not from fear, but instinct. The mana within him surged, readying itself. "What are you?"
"I am the Bound Flame. The Trial of Myndros."
Without warning, the figure moved — faster than anything David had ever seen. But he was ready.
He parried the first blow with an open hand. Mana sparked where they touched. Their collision wasn't like a strike of bodies, but of concepts — his passive, ever-flowing force against the refined precision of the Bound Flame.
They exchanged blows in silence, the chamber shuddering with each movement. The more they fought, the more David felt his mana adapting, evolving, learning.
But something strange happened.
His attacks grew slower. Not weaker — just… heavier.
He realized it too late: the trial was draining him.
No, not draining — reflecting.
His own power fed the enemy.
The more he grew, the stronger the figure became.
David fell back, breath steady, eyes narrowed.
"I see. You are me. Or what I would become… if I only fed the Well."
The figure nodded. "The Well grants all. But without restraint, it becomes its own god."
David closed his eyes. The mana within him wanted to push harder. To flood the room. To overwhelm.
But he did the opposite.
He pulled inward.
The flow slowed. His breath deepened. He shifted from offense… to stillness.
The figure hesitated.
David whispered a wordless thought to the Well — not to grow, but to listen. The mana, for the first time, paused. It held. It waited.
Then, he moved.
Not with force. With purpose.
One step. One strike.
The Bound Flame shattered.
Silence.
The motes returned. The light of the temple brightened. The book on the pedestal turned a new page.
"You are more than a vessel. You are a wielder."
"Go now. Deeper. There is another who waits — not to test you, but to teach you."
David stood for a long time in the silence, heart still echoing with the battle's rhythm. He'd learned something today: the Well was not just a source of strength.
It was a river.
And rivers did not exist only to flood — they carved, nurtured, shaped.
He would grow. But he would grow with measure.
He left the temple and followed a tunnel behind it, deeper into the earth. The mana here was ancient — thick like smoke, pressing against his skin. After hours of descent, he emerged into a chamber unlike anything before.
No ruins. No murals.
Only a single man — seated cross-legged, eyes shut, floating above the ground.
His hair was long and white, but his face was ageless. His body glowed faintly, but not with mana. With balance.
He opened his eyes.
"You've finally come."
David bowed slightly. He didn't know why. It just felt… right.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The man smiled. "I was the first."
David's breath caught.
"The first… Well?"
"No," the man replied. "The first to survive it. The first to understand what it truly is. And now I am the last of the Watchers."
David approached. "Why did I survive? Why do I grow?"
The man nodded slowly. "Because you were empty. The Well cannot fill what is already full. Your heart was silent, so it could echo. That is rare."
David lowered his gaze. He remembered his past — the quiet suffering, the loneliness, the silent hunger to become something more.
"So what now?" he asked.
The man raised his hand. A vision appeared — not with light, but with understanding. David felt it rather than saw it.
A dark shape. Moving across the world. Not a creature, but a void. A hunger. The Hollow.
"It stirs," the Watcher said. "It has fed on broken Wells, corrupted ones. It knows of you now. You are its opposite — growth where it is hunger. Form where it is decay."
David clenched his fists. "How do I fight it?"
"You don't," the man said. "Not yet. You become first."
He touched David's chest.
"You are not finished. The Well has no end — but you must choose the river it carves. Let it define you, or define it."
David left Myndros three days later. He said nothing. The Watcher had given no weapon, no artifact — only clarity.
But that was enough.
The world above was waiting. And for the first time, David did not walk aimlessly. His steps carved a path.
He felt stronger, yes. But more than that — he felt clearer. As if his power had aligned with his will.
He looked to the north, where dark clouds brewed unnaturally.
The Hollow had seen him.
Good.
He was ready to be seen.