The crimson-cloaked mage's spell blazed in his hand, a coiling serpent of fire ready to strike. Ash staggered back, the pit yawning behind him.
"Nowhere left to run," the mage sneered.
But then—the clank of metal. The shuffle of boots. A squad of city guards turned the corner, their torches throwing harsh light across the alley.
The mage's eyes flickered. He lowered his hand, cloak wrapping tight.
Ash's heart hammered. Guards meant death for slum rats, mage or not. But between predator and predator lay a thin chance.
The Codex's whisper surged through his mind:
> Two hunters now stalk the field. Their eyes are not on you—yet. Slip between their gazes, and the battlefield is yours to leave.
Ash inhaled, slow, steady. He shifted his stance. When the guards barked a question, he moved. Not forward, not back, but sideways—sliding into the shadow of a crumbling wall.
The mage's attention fixed on the guards. The guards' attention fixed on the mage. Neither saw the ragged child vanish into the night.
---
Ash didn't stop running until his lungs burned raw. He collapsed beneath a shattered cart, gasping, clutching the Codex to his chest.
Alive. Somehow.
The Codex's whisper came softer now, like the voice of a teacher after scolding a student.
> Every battlefield has more than one enemy. Let them trip over one another while you pass unseen. Remember this, child of ashes.
Ash pressed his forehead to the cold earth. "Why me?"
> Because you chose to grasp me. Because you would not die.
Ash had no answer. Only breath and exhaustion.
---
The next days blurred into a rhythm of struggle.
Dawn brought hunger. His stomach growled until he scavenged from refuse pits or bartered with scraps. Rats became meat, if he was quick enough.
Day brought danger. Torvek's broken gang still muttered vengeance. Stray guards harassed any urchins they caught. And always, somewhere in the city's veins, the cloaked mage hunted.
Night brought whispers.
In the shelter of ruined places, Ash opened the Codex. Its pages seemed blank, yet symbols burned faintly when his fingers traced them.
> Strategy is the art of sight beyond sight. Train your eyes to see not what is, but what may be.
It taught him to watch the patterns of slum life: when gangs moved, when drunks staggered, when the city's night watch passed. He began to plan paths, not just wander. To map the chaos in his head.
> Magic is the shaping of possibility. Feel the river beneath the world. Draw, shape, release.
It drilled him in meditation, in pulling threads of mana. At first he could spark a flame no larger than a matchhead. Soon, he could light a steady ember, enough to warm his hands on freezing nights.
But every lesson carried a price. His body ached. Hunger worsened when mana drained him. Once, his control slipped, and the ember scorched his palm raw.
Ash endured. He had endured all his life.
---
Some nights, he tested what he learned.
When a gang cornered Mairen in an alley, Ash stepped from the shadows. He didn't fight them head-on. He toppled a loose beam, collapsing rotten timber in their path. The dust blinded them long enough for Mairen to flee.
When guards chased him near the tannery, he lured them across planks slick with lye. Their boots slipped, sending them crashing into the filth while Ash vanished.
Each victory was small, fleeting. But they stitched a reputation in the slums.
"The rat sees everything."
"The ash boy walks where blades miss."
"Don't cross him—he burns."
Ash said nothing. He ate, he hid, he learned.
And always, the Codex whispered.
> You are not yet a warrior. You are not yet a mage. But you are becoming a strategist. Hold fast. The path to kings begins in gutters.
---
Weeks passed. Hunger gnawed. The Codex's lessons deepened.
Ash learned to draw more mana into his core—painful, like drowning in ice. He learned to shape it not into flame but into force: a push, a shove, enough to topple a bottle or knock a hand aside.
He practiced when no one watched, repeating until his nose bled.
Slum life mocked him still. The cold cut his bones. Mairen vanished one day, sold perhaps, or dead. Torvek limped but glared daggers whenever their paths crossed.
Yet Ash was changing. No longer just surviving—he was sharpening.
---
One night, as he meditated, the Codex's voice came darker.
> You grow, child of ashes. But remember: knowledge alone is nothing. The world will test you, again and again. Each test sharper, bloodier. Each choice carving what you become.
Ash opened his eyes. The ember in his palm wavered, casting shadows across the ruin.
"Then what am I becoming?" he whispered.
The Codex did not answer.
Instead, Ash heard footsteps outside. Heavy. Purposeful.
His blood froze.
Peering through a crack, he saw them: three cloaked figures, moving with the discipline of hunters. Not Torvek's gang. Not guards.
Mages.
Searching.
And one of them carried crimson trim.
The hunter had returned—this time, not alone.