The Averni soldiers lowered their hands once their magic scans shimmered faintly around the three. Nothing dangerous was detected, and with a small nod, the soldiers stepped aside. Alaric, Celestria, and Sylas passed through the checkpoint and finally set foot in Gaul.
The first thing they noticed was the air—rich with the smell of damp earth, herbs, and smoke from campfires. Wooden houses with thatched roofs lined the dirt streets, while druids in green robes walked among the people, whispering chants and weaving charms into garlands. Warriors carrying spears and round shields passed by, their armor marked with swirling symbols. Children ran barefoot, their laughter mixing with the distant sound of drums and horns.
Gaul was alive. Raw. Different from Nineveh's stone grandeur—it felt closer to nature, as if every tree and stone watched them.
Celestria adjusted her cloak, her purple eye darting about, filled with curiosity. "This place… it feels older, doesn't it? Like the ground itself remembers every battle."
Sylas kept his hood low, his eyes scanning the market stalls where merchants sold herbs, strange stones, and carved charms. "Or maybe it just smells like mud and smoke. Can't decide which yet."
Alaric gave a small smirk but said nothing, his tired eyes taking it all in.
Finally, a man from the group of adventurers that disembarked with them turned around. His armor was still scratched from the voyage, but his voice was calm. "So… what's the first step now that we're here? Where do we begin?"
The question hung in the air, as if the whole of Gaul waited for their answer.
The three decided to walk deeper into Gaul, letting their eyes and minds take in the place. The roads curved through fields where children laughed and chased each other, their bare feet kicking up dust. Women carried baskets of herbs and bread, sharing smiles with neighbors, while men gathered in circles, carving wood or sharpening spears. Everywhere, there was a strange sense of peace—a balance between the people and the land itself.
Celestria paused to watch two boys wrestle in the grass, a faint smile tugging her lips. "It's… beautiful here. They live without fear, even with so many dangers beyond the walls."
Alaric nodded slowly, the scars on his arms catching the light as he adjusted his gauntlet. "Peace is always worth protecting. That's why we came."
Sylas tilted his head, ever sharp-eyed, scanning the crowd. "Or maybe they've just gotten better at pretending."
Their wandering took them further, until at last they noticed a figure ahead—an older man, tall and dignified, dressed in a long white robe that flowed with each step. Around his neck hung ornate jewelry of bronze and amber, etched with intricate symbols. His presence was commanding, yet calm, as though he carried centuries of wisdom in his stride.
Without hesitation, the three approached. Alaric stepped forward first. "Sir, we're looking for the Druids. We were told they could help us learn… to understand our powers better."
The man's sharp eyes studied them for a moment, silent as though weighing their very souls. Finally, he spoke in a voice deep and steady. "Why do you seek the Druids? Many come for power, few come with purpose."
Celestria lowered her hood, her one purple eye gleaming. "Because if we don't grow stronger, we can't protect anyone. Not ourselves, not the people who depend on us."
Sylas crossed his arms, speaking evenly. "And some monsters can't be killed by steel alone. We need knowledge as much as strength."
Alaric simply met the man's gaze, tired eyes unwavering. "Because I don't intend to fall. Not here. Not anywhere."
For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then, a slow smile broke his stern expression. "Good. That is an answer I can accept." He straightened, his white robe shifting like light on water. "I am a Druid. Come. Follow me. There is a boat waiting—we go to the grove, where the teachings begin."
Without another word, he turned, leading them through the crowd. The three exchanged quick glances, then stepped after him, their path taking them toward the river where a small wooden boat rocked gently, as if it had been waiting for them all along.
The boat creaked as the river lapped against its sides, faint ripples shimmering in the fading light. The man in white gestured calmly, his bronze jewelry catching the sun as he turned to them.
"Get on board," he said, his tone carrying the weight of command yet softened with patience. "We are going to Anglesey—an island where many of my kin, the Druids, gather. It is there your journey will truly begin."
Celestria's eye widened slightly, her voice low with awe. "Anglesey… I've heard tales of it. They say the island is steeped in magic older than empires."
Sylas gave a skeptical snort but stepped onto the boat anyway, his boots thudding against the wood. "Old magic or not, as long as they can teach us how to fight better, I don't care where it is."
Alaric paused, his gaze lingering on the flowing river and the horizon beyond. He said nothing, but his tired eyes betrayed a flicker of anticipation. Finally, he climbed aboard, taking his place beside the others.
The Druid followed last, pushing the boat gently from the shore with a wooden staff. The vessel glided forward, the current carrying them steadily toward the open waters. Villagers on the banks shrank behind them, the sound of laughter and drums fading into the distance as the river stretched wide and quiet.
The Druid's voice carried over the steady rhythm of water. "Anglesey is a sacred place. Not all who set foot there are found worthy. You seek strength, but strength without balance is ruin. Remember that, before we arrive."
The three exchanged brief glances, the weight of his words settling over them as the boat drifted toward an unseen destiny.
The river carried them in silence for a time, broken only by the rhythmic splash of water against the boat. The three sat close, speaking in low voices as the horizon slowly shifted.
Celestria leaned her staff across her knees, her cloak brushing against the planks. "I can already feel it," she murmured, her purple eye gleaming faintly. "The air here is heavier… like every breath carries a spell."
Sylas rested his elbows on his knees, his hood still casting shadow over his face. "Or maybe you're just imagining things. It's water, trees, and mist. Nothing more."
Alaric smirked faintly at his words but didn't argue. "Whatever it is… it feels different. As if the land itself is watching."
Their talk fell into quiet once more as the boat slowed, drifting toward a wide wooden dock that jutted out from the misty shoreline. Beyond it, the land rose into dense forests of oak and ash, their twisted branches crowned with crows. The sound of drums and chanting carried faintly from deeper inland, a rhythm that stirred the blood.
The boat struck the dock with a soft thud. The man in white rose and turned to them, his voice solemn yet proud.
"Step ashore," he commanded. "You now stand at the threshold of Anglesey. This is Mona Mam Cymru—the Sacred Homeland of the Celtic Druids."
Alaric was the first to step out, his boots heavy on the dock. Celestria followed, her cloak billowing as though stirred by unseen hands. Sylas lingered only a heartbeat before joining them, his sharp eyes scanning the misty treeline.
The Druid raised his staff, pointing toward the forest path ahead. "Follow me. From here, your trial begins."
The group was led through the winding forest until they reached a clearing where several Druids awaited, each cloaked in white, their jewelry gleaming faintly with runic carvings. Their faces were stern but calm, their eyes filled with an ageless knowledge that made Alaric feel as though he were being weighed against centuries of judgment.
One Druid stepped forward, his staff striking the ground with a dull thud. "Each of you must walk a path alone. You will face a trial of your choosing—strength, intelligence, or agility. Choose carefully, for the challenge will test more than what you claim."
The three exchanged looks.
"I'll take intelligence," Celestria said without hesitation, her voice calm but her single eye burning with determination. "Knowledge is what makes power useful."
Sylas adjusted his hood and spoke next, his voice clipped. "Agility. A hunter survives by movement. If I fail that, then I deserve no bow in my hand."
That left Alaric. He stood tall, though his tired eyes betrayed no boast or arrogance. "Strength," he said simply.
The Druids nodded as though they had expected these answers. Without further words, three separate Druids approached each of them and motioned them in different directions, deeper into the forest.
Alaric followed his guide down a path of moss-covered stones, the shadows of the oaks stretching long and strange. At last, they entered another clearing where ancient standing stones circled a patch of earth blackened as if by fire.
The Druid turned to him. "Your trial is strength, but strength is more than muscle. It is the will to endure, even when the body cries for surrender. Here, you will face what no man should—yet to triumph, you must not falter."
The Druid studied Alaric for a long moment, his sharp eyes narrowing. Then, he raised his staff and slammed it against the earth. The ground split with a deep, grinding crack, and from the soil and stone rose a hulking figure—ten feet tall, carved of rock and clay, its body pulsing faintly with the glow of runes etched across its chest. The sound of grinding stone filled the clearing as the construct straightened, its massive arms dragging deep furrows into the dirt.
"This is no beast of flesh," the Druid said, his voice steady. "This is a golem, born of earth and bound by will. You will not use your Converter here. No gauntlets, no armor. Only yourself. Show me if your strength is more than a borrowed gift."
Alaric's tired eyes narrowed. He flexed his scarred fists, already aching at the thought of striking stone. Still, he gave no protest. "So be it."
The Druid lifted his staff again. The golem's eyes flared with red light, and with a grinding roar, it charged. The ground shook with every step.
Alaric braced, barely rolling aside as one massive stone fist smashed into the dirt where he had stood. The impact sent dust flying, the earth trembling beneath his boots. He retaliated quickly, slamming his fist into the golem's side. Pain exploded in his knuckles—like striking a wall of iron—but he gritted his teeth and did not falter. Chips of stone cracked away.
The golem swung again, and this time Alaric raised his forearm to block. The blow connected with a sound like a hammer against wood. His arm screamed in pain, and hot blood trickled down as the skin split open. Still, he held his ground, sliding back in the dirt but refusing to fall.
The Druid's voice carried through the clearing. "Strength is not muscle alone—it is the spirit that endures beyond the breaking point."
Alaric roared, a sound more beast than man, and lunged forward. He slammed his fists into the golem's torso again and again, each strike shattering his knuckles further, skin tearing, bones crunching. Blood streamed down his arms, dripping onto the dirt, but with every punch he carved more cracks into the construct's body.
The golem retaliated savagely, its massive hand swinging low. It caught Alaric in the ribs with brutal force, flinging him across the clearing. He slammed into the ground, blood spraying from his lips. His chest burned with fire—broken ribs, maybe more. His vision swam.
For a moment, the world tilted, his body screaming to surrender.
But then, through the haze, Alaric forced himself to his knees. His tired eyes burned with fury, and he spat blood onto the earth. "Not… yet."
He staggered upright, arms trembling, body broken but unbowed. Step by step, he closed the distance again. The golem swung down with both fists, but this time Alaric met it head on. He raised his bloodied arms, took the crushing impact, and with a guttural scream, forced it aside. The strain split his skin further, blood gushing, but his legs refused to buckle.
With one last surge, he hammered his fists into the cracks he had already made. Bone broke—he felt it, sharp and jagged inside his hands—but the stone shattered too. With a thunderous crack, the golem's chest collapsed inward. Its red glow flickered violently, then dimmed as the construct groaned and toppled backward, crumbling into rubble.
Silence filled the clearing, broken only by Alaric's ragged breaths. His body was a map of wounds—arms split to the bone, ribs fractured, face streaked with blood and dirt. He swayed but refused to fall, his fists still clenched even as blood dripped freely from his ruined hands.
The Druid lowered his staff slowly, eyes sharp with both awe and approval.
Alaric stood there amidst the rubble, broken but unyielding, his chest heaving as he stared at the remains of the golem. His voice came low, hoarse, but steady. "Is that… all?"
He did not stumble. He did not collapse. Covered in his own blood, bones screaming, he waited for the next challenge, his spirit burning brighter than the agony tearing through him.
The Druid approached slowly, his staff tapping against the earth with each step. He raised it high, then pressed the butt of the staff into the ground. A green light spread outward like roots, creeping across the clearing until it reached Alaric.
The glow wrapped around him, seeping into his torn flesh, his shattered bones. At first it was warmth—then came the agony. His arms jerked violently as bones cracked and snapped back into place. His ribs shifted with sickening pops, and his fists split further as torn flesh knitted together.
Alaric screamed, his voice echoing through the trees, raw and primal. The pain was worse than the fight itself, like being torn apart and remade. He fell to one knee, fists slamming into the dirt as the light surged through him, forcing his body to mend.
At last, the glow faded. His body was whole again, but drenched in sweat, trembling, his breath ragged as if he had just fought three battles in a row.
The Druid's voice was calm, but there was no softness in it. "You are strong, Alaric Starhelm. But strength is not only the breaking of stone. It is the body's endurance, the will to rise again and again even as the flesh betrays you."
Alaric's tired eyes lifted, still burning with resolve.
The Druid's staff struck the ground again, the sound echoing like thunder. "Your body still lacks endurance. If you wish to walk further, you must suffer more. Are you ready for the next challenge?"
Alaric forced himself upright, his body still shaking from the healing. He clenched his blood-stained fists, his jaw set like iron.
"Bring it," he said hoarsely. "I'm not done yet."
The Druid's staff thundered against the earth once more. This time, the ground split wider, metal screeching as jagged chunks of raw iron clawed their way to the surface. The soil boiled and hardened, reshaping into a towering figure. It loomed higher than the stone golem before, its iron body gleaming like bloodied steel beneath the sun.
The Druid's voice carried no pity.
"Stone was but the first step. Now—break iron."
Alaric's chest tightened. His fists were still raw from the first battle, his body screaming in protest. But he stepped forward anyway, hands clenched, determination blazing in his eyes.
The iron golem bellowed, a grinding roar like swords scraping together, and swung its massive arm. Alaric ducked low, the strike grazing him, but even that glancing blow slammed into him with crushing force. His ribs screamed, his vision blurred. He staggered, but roared back, driving his fist into its shin.
A crack. The sound of bones snapping—not the golem's, but his. His knuckles split open, blood pouring, staining the iron dark.
He didn't stop. He struck again, and again, each punch tearing skin, each blow jarring his already broken bones. The golem slammed both fists down, forcing him to roll aside, dirt exploding where he once stood. His shoulder twisted from the impact, pain ripping down his arm.
But Alaric kept coming.
He charged, leapt, and slammed his bare fists against the golem's chest. Blood sprayed as his knuckles split further, bone exposed, yet he hammered on like a man possessed. The iron shuddered but did not break.
Then the golem's backhand caught him.
The blow hurled him across the clearing. He crashed against the dirt, coughing blood, his body convulsing. His arm bent at a grotesque angle, ribs cracked like splintered wood. He struggled to rise, only to fall back to his knees. His body had reached its limit.
The iron golem raised its fist for the final blow.
Alaric's vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening. He stared down at his shredded hands pressed into the dirt, blood mixing with earth. But then—something stirred.
A biting chill.
Frost crept outward from his palms, spreading across the soil, crawling up his arms. His blood hissed as it froze in place, forming crystalline armor where flesh had torn. His shattered bones locked into place with jagged ice, reinforcing him. His gauntlet—the Converter—glimmered, consumed by frost, reshaped into a weapon of icy wrath.
Alaric's head snapped up, eyes burning with renewed fury. His breath escaped in plumes of cold mist.
He rose, fists clenched tight, shards of ice jutting from his knuckles.
The golem's fist came down—Alaric caught it. The impact shook the ground, but the ice held. With a roar, he slammed his frozen fist into the iron, and this time—the metal cracked.
He pressed forward, every strike unleashing bursts of frost, every punch carving deeper into the golem. Ice spread like veins across the iron's body, weakening its structure. The ground trembled beneath their clash, sparks and shards of frozen blood spraying with every blow.
The golem swung again, but Alaric met it head-on. He drove his frozen gauntlet into its chest, shattering plates of iron. Blood poured from his mouth as he screamed through the pain, his body tearing itself apart to keep moving.
With one final, deafening roar, he leapt high, all his strength surging into his frost-armored fist. He drove it down into the golem's head.
CRRRRACK!
The iron split. Shards exploded outward, the entire construct shattering into a thousand jagged pieces, scattering across the clearing. The golem collapsed, defeated, its body nothing more than broken heaps of frozen steel.
Alaric landed on his knees amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, blood dripping from his lips. His body was broken—but his ice-covered arm still glimmered in the light, proof of the power now awakened within him.
The battlefield lay in silence, broken only by Alaric's ragged breaths as he knelt among shards of frozen iron. Blood seeped down his body, staining the dirt beneath him. His gauntlet still shimmered with frost, but his strength was fading fast, his vision threatening to fade into black.
The Druid stepped forward, staff in hand. Without a word, he raised it high and brought its end against the earth. Healing energy surged through Alaric. His body convulsed violently as his shattered bones twisted, realigning with sickening cracks. Flesh knitted back together, but the pain was unbearable.
Alaric threw his head back and screamed, his cry echoing across the sacred grounds. The sound was raw, primal—the cry of a warrior dragged back from the brink.
When it ended, Alaric collapsed onto his hands, sweat pouring, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. The Druid's voice, calm yet edged with iron, broke through the haze.
"You may now call upon your Converter," he said. "But you see the cost."
Alaric glanced down at his frost-covered gauntlet, his arm trembling as he flexed his bloodied fingers. His whole body felt hollow, as though the battle had wrung every drop of life from him.
The Druid's gaze was sharp. "That power you unleashed…it drained you. Converters draw upon your own energy to awaken abilities beyond your Armourbound form. Most warriors rely on their armoured state first, conserving strength before tapping such reserves. You, however—can twist this weakness into advantage."
Alaric forced himself to meet the Druid's eyes. His lips parted, voice hoarse. "Then…how do I regain it?"
The Druid raised a dagger of carved bone. Without hesitation, he sliced across his own palm. Crimson drops fell, striking the ice-clad gauntlet. At once, the Converter stirred—its runes glowing faintly as it drank the blood, threads of red light sinking into the metal.
Alaric gasped as strength rushed back into him. His muscles tightened, his breath steadied. Not fully restored, but enough—enough to rise again.
The Druid closed his hand, blood still dripping from the cut. His voice carried the weight of ritual. "The life-blood of other bearers sustains you, feeds your Converter. With it, you reclaim the energy to summon your Armourbound."
Alaric stood shakily, clenching his icy gauntlet. Power hummed faintly through him once more.
The Druid's eyes narrowed. "Now you understand, Alaric. Blood for strength. Power for endurance. That is the nature of your path."
Alaric raised his gauntlet. A cold wind whipped around him, spiraling from the Converter as frost spread up his arm and across his chest. In an instant, jagged sheets of ice raced over his body, encasing him fully. The sound of cracking and grinding filled the air as the ice shattered outward in shards, unveiling the black armour beneath—the dragon-headed helmet, the flowing black cape, the red mane whipping behind him. His presence was no longer that of a weary man, but of a warrior reborn.
The Druid's eyes glimmered with approval. "Good. Now…you will not rely on steel forged by another. Make your own weapon."
Alaric glanced down at his gauntlet, then closed his eyes. He focused, feeling the chill seep into his bones, into the very marrow of his body. From the ground behind him, frost gathered, coiling upward like serpents. The air grew colder with each breath. Slowly, ice began to take shape—first jagged, then refined, until a long, gleaming blade formed in his hand.
But it did not stop there. One sword became two, then three, then a dozen, each hanging in the air like soldiers awaiting command.
The Druid tapped his staff against the earth. "Now release them. Let your will guide their flight."
Alaric thrust his arm forward. The frozen blades shot out like a storm of spears, striking the wall ahead with deafening impact. Cracks spider-webbed through the stone as the swords buried themselves deep. From the points of contact, frost erupted outward, spreading across the wall like wildfire until half the surface glittered with a sheet of unyielding ice.
The Druid smiled faintly beneath his hood. "A fine beginning. But know this—the impact you deliver can become far greater. It is not only force, but imagination that defines your strength. You must learn to bend your creation, to convert a simple strike into devastation. One blade can pierce. But many blades…can shatter kingdoms."
Alaric stood, chest heaving inside the armour, gazing at the frozen wall. His grip tightened around the icy sword in his hand. He understood—the Converter was not just a weapon. It was possibility, limited only by his resolve.
Meanwhile, the scene shifted far across the sacred grounds of Anglesey.
Sylas stood in a wide, open clearing, his gaze sharp as the Druid beside him raised his staff. With a resonant strike against the earth, tall trees erupted from the ground, shooting skyward until the open field transformed into a dense woodland. Shadows swallowed the space, the forest alive with the creak of bending branches and the hiss of leaves.
"You are not prey, Sylas Windrider," the Druid intoned, his voice low but commanding. "You are the hunter. Yet hunters stalk you even now." With a second strike of his staff, forms began to stir among the trees—archers crafted from wood and vine, their faces hollow, bows drawn with arrows of jagged bark. They slipped away into the forest shadows. The Druid fixed Sylas with a stern look. "Hunt them before they hunt you. No Converter, no tricks—only your bow, your instinct, and your will."
Sylas's jaw tightened beneath his hood. He gripped his bow, fingers brushing the fletching of his arrows, and stepped into the conjured woodland. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the faint creak of shifting branches. He moved carefully, crouching low, scanning every shadow. His instincts screamed at him to stop—and a heartbeat later, an arrow whistled past, burying itself into the trunk behind him. Sylas didn't flinch. He had felt it coming.
He pivoted, drew, and released in a single motion. His arrow sliced through the undergrowth, striking a wooden hunter clean through its hollow head. The figure collapsed into splinters, its bow falling uselessly into the leaves. Another sound—quick movement above. Sylas rolled aside just as another arrow split the air where his skull had been. He shot upward, piercing the hunter perched in the branches, watching it shatter against the bark.
Step by step, Sylas became the predator the Druid demanded. Every sound—the snap of a twig, the whisper of a branch—told him where the next hunter waited. He did not waste arrows. Each shot was deliberate, silent, precise. And as the forest grew still, one by one, his hunters fell until the only sound left was the steady draw of his bow and the wind through the trees.
Sylas's instincts screamed too late.
Two sharp cracks split the silence as arrows buried deep into his back. The force drove him forward, his knees nearly buckling as white-hot pain surged through his body. He hissed, teeth clenched behind his mask, and stumbled into a dash. His boots tore across the soil, breath ragged, every step sending a stab of agony up his spine.
He glanced over his shoulder, bow half-raised—but the hunters that had struck him were gone, vanished back into the forest's shadows. The silence mocked him, pressing down like a noose. When he spun forward again, he realized the trees had closed in around him. His escape was cut off. He had reached the corner of the conjured woodland, nowhere left to run.
Breathing heavily, Sylas forced his trembling hands to his back. With a guttural growl, he yanked the arrows out, blood spurting freely down his cloak and dripping onto the dirt. The pain was dizzying, but he refused to scream. He looked down—and his stomach tightened. A trail of crimson marked his path, glowing stark against the earth and leaves. He had left the hunters a map straight to him.
The realization sank cold in his chest. His vision blurred, his strength waning. Each drop of blood was a signal flare in this silent hunt, and every heartbeat brought the hunters closer. Sylas pressed a hand to his wound, his bow still clutched tight in the other, eyes scanning wildly for movement. He was a predator reduced to prey—and he knew the next strike could come from anywhere.
Blood poured down his back, his vision hazy, but Sylas's hand tightened around his bow. The sting of pain carved clarity into his mind—if he faltered now, he was dead. Then, as though the forest itself answered his desperation, two unfamiliar arrows pulsed into his possession: one glowing faintly red with fire, the other shimmering blue with water.
He blinked, realization dawning. Smoke.
His fingers trembled as he notched both at once, the idea unrefined, dangerous—but all he had. Just then, branches snapped. The last two hunters emerged from the trees, bows raised. The twang of their strings came first, arrows whistling toward him. Sylas dropped low, pain tearing through his wounds, and loosed his pair in a desperate shot. The arrows clashed together mid-flight, bursting into an eruption of water and flame that churned into a dense, choking smoke. The conjured forest drowned in gray haze, vision swallowed whole.
The hunters cursed but spotted his silhouette breaking into a sprint. They gave chase, the sound of their pursuit crashing through leaves. Sylas's boots carved sharp turns, his cloak whipping behind him, dragging them in circles and curves, desperate to shake their line of sight. Every step was agony, every breath ragged. Then, as if panic itself fueled it, a new arrow crackled into his hand—electric, buzzing with raw power.
He spun on instinct and fired. The arrow screamed through the smoke, striking one hunter square in the chest. The figure convulsed violently, electricity ripping through the wooden body until it splintered apart in a flash. But his victory left him open—the second hunter's arrow slammed into his shoulder. Sylas staggered, the force twisting him, his knees nearly buckling.
Snarling through clenched teeth, he tore another arrow from his quiver—this one plain, ordinary. He pulled the string back with all the fury and pain burning inside him. His shot split the air, clean and true. The arrow pierced straight into the hunter's head, and the wooden figure cracked apart, collapsing into fragments of timber that scattered into the mist.
The smoke thinned, the false forest unraveling into nothingness. The air cleared, leaving Sylas kneeling in blood and sweat, his bow sagging in his hands. Across the open ground, the Druid stood tall, his expression one of grim satisfaction.
"You hunted not with tools," the Druid said, voice low, "but with instinct. That desperation—that chaos—is the spark of your path."
The Druid pulls the arrow out of him. Blood spilled a lot as Sylas screams in pain. The Druid heals his wounds and Sylas screams further as his flesh reattached together.
An hour earlier.
The sun hung high, its golden light spilling across a wide, grassy clearing. Celestria stood silently, her hands clasped before her, as the Druid accompanying her raised his staff. His expression was calm but heavy with intent.
"Do not touch your Converter," he instructed firmly. "Mages have no need to rely on it to call upon their gifts. Your trial is different from the others—yours is not to fight with body or with instinct, but to master the torrent of your own energy."
Celestria inclined her head, strands of hair brushing across her face as she nodded. "I understand."
The Druid's staff struck the ground. From the soil, a wooden figure rose, its form crude but sturdy, shaped like a target dummy. "Then show me," he said. "Pour everything you are into that target. Do not hold back. If you collapse, so be it—better here than when true enemies come."
Celestria inhaled deeply, her chest tightening as the weight of his words pressed into her. She extended her hands, the familiar hum of energy gathering in her palms. It began as a flicker of light, faint at first, but with every heartbeat it grew brighter, sharper, hotter. Her veins throbbed with power, the air around her trembling. Sweat beaded across her brow as she pushed harder, every drop of her strength funneled into one growing sphere between her hands.
The wooden target waited silently, as if mocking her.
With a cry, Celestria thrust her hands forward. The blast erupted, a column of light and force tearing through the clearing. The ground quaked, grass flattened in waves, and the wooden target was engulfed in brilliance. The air filled with the smell of scorched timber as the figure burned away, nothing left but blackened ash scattering on the wind.
Her knees nearly gave out, breath tearing from her lungs. Her whole body shook violently, fingers trembling as the aftershock of the spell still crackled across her skin.
The Druid's gaze sharpened, studying her exhaustion, the smoke, the crater left behind. He gave a slow nod. "Yes. That is the core of you, mage. But this is only the beginning. Energy without control is destruction—and destruction without intent is meaningless."
The Druid's staff struck the ground with a thunderous crack, and the earth split wide. From the jagged fissure rose a hulking creature, its body forged of black obsidian, plates grinding against each other like the groan of mountains moving. Firelight flickered from cracks in its chest, glowing veins that pulsed with molten rage.
It stood at least twice her height, heavy arms dragging trenches in the dirt as it moved. Its molten eyes fixed on her, and with every step, the ground trembled.
Celestria froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body shivered despite the heat radiating from the beast. Five hundred meters of open ground separated them, but the distance only made the terror worse. The closer it came, the more she realized how small and fragile she was.
Her heart pounded. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She had already emptied herself of energy—no Converter, no reserves. Nothing. Her mind screamed: What do I do? What do I do?!
The golem's fist slammed down as it advanced, the impact cracking the earth into jagged pieces. The sheer sound rattled her bones. She stumbled back, almost tripping over herself. Fear clawed at her chest, louder than reason.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Think, Celestria. Think!
No spells left. No weapons. No plan.
Got it — let's give her that raw desperation, hammering away with fire until she's completely drained, then forcing herself into a final, terrifying gamble:
The obsidian golem roared, molten cracks in its chest glowing brighter as it thundered across the ground. Each step shook the earth, rattling Celestria's bones.
She lifted her trembling hands, muttering the words of fire she had drilled into her heart since childhood. Her first fireball ripped through the air, smashing against the golem's chest. The explosion rang loud—but when the smoke cleared, the beast was unscathed, black plates still gleaming.
"No… no, no, no!" she gasped, her voice cracking.
Another fireball. Then another. She hurled them desperately, rapid flickers of flame blasting from her palms, slamming into the monster with no effect but scorching smoke. Her arms shook violently with each cast, mana burning out of her veins like wildfire.
The golem didn't slow. It raised one colossal arm and slammed it down, the shockwave blasting her off her feet. She hit the dirt hard, coughing blood, vision blurring. Still, she pushed herself up, eyes wild, tears pricking at the edges.
"Burn! Just burn!" she screamed, unleashing volley after volley of fireballs until her whole body felt hollow. Each impact fizzled uselessly, leaving her feeling smaller and more hopeless with every strike.
Her legs wavered, her breath ragged, but her will refused to bend. The golem was almost upon her now—two hundred meters, then one hundred. Her magic reserves screamed empty, nothing left but the dregs of her soul.
She dug deeper. Deeper. Forcing her arms upward, Celestria gathered every shred of mana clinging to her veins, ripping it out with reckless abandon.
Her scream tore through the air as fire swirled around her, igniting into a raging vortex. The ground cracked beneath her feet, wind howling as the blaze twisted skyward, forming into a towering flame tornado.
The inferno spiraled forward, engulfing the obsidian giant. Its molten chest glowed brighter as it fought against the firestorm, but the roar of the flames drowned even its thunderous growl. The heat seared the air, warping the horizon itself.
Celestria collapsed to her knees, eyes wide, arms still trembling as she forced every last drop of power into keeping the tornado alive. Sweat poured from her brow, blood trickling from her nose, her lips whispering broken words to fuel the storm.
For a moment, she no longer looked like a frightened girl—she looked like a mage burning her life away just to survive.
The flame tornado raged on, consuming the first golem until its obsidian frame cracked, then shattered into burning rubble. Celestria fell forward onto her hands, wheezing, sweat dripping down her pale face. Her eye under the eyepatch throbbed painfully, and her chest burned as if her very soul had been scorched.
But before she could breathe relief, the Druid's voice rang like thunder:
"Not enough. Get past that limit of yours, girl!"
His staff struck the ground again. The earth split open, and three more obsidian golems pulled themselves from the soil, their molten veins pulsing like living fire. They roared in unison and began their charge, the ground quaking beneath their titanic weight.
Celestria's lips trembled. "N-no… not again…" She lifted her hands, summoning what she could. Small bursts of fireballs sputtered weakly from her palms, exploding harmlessly against the armored monsters. They didn't even slow.
Her body screamed in protest, every nerve raw. Blood trickled from her nose and mouth, and her knees shook violently as she staggered backward. The distance between her and the golems vanished with terrifying speed—four hundred meters, three hundred, two hundred.
"I… can't…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
But something inside her flared—a stubborn defiance, a refusal to let her story end beneath obsidian fists. She forced her trembling arms upward again. Her breaths came ragged, mana tearing through her veins like barbed wire.
Her eyes burned with focus as she whispered the words, over and over, forcing her will into shape. The air distorted around her, sparks dancing, her cloak whipping violently as flames began to spiral once again.
But unlike before, the tornado resisted. It demanded time. More power. And the golems were closing fast.
Celestria's teeth clenched. She dug her boots into the dirt, pouring everything into the growing vortex. Her vision blurred as she saw the three shadows racing closer—fifty meters now, forty. The earth shook under their charge, each second promising her death.
"Come on… COME ON!" she screamed, her voice raw as she pushed her soul into the spell.
The spiral grew wider, taller—slow, agonizingly slow. A towering inferno clawed into the sky at last, but the golems were already upon her. Their molten fists raised high, shadows drowning her small frame.
And yet she stood there, trembling, bloody, and half-broken—defiant.
The Druid drew his blood and it drops on her staff. The converter then consumes the given red that was on it and Celestria felt energized — enough so that she doesn't collapse.
The three Druids dismissed their pupils separately, each saying the same words in their own solemn tone:
"Go back to where you last met. Your path for now is complete."
Alaric limped at first, his body still aching despite the healing. Sylas walked silently, his steps precise, bloodied bandages wrapped around his shoulder. Celestria leaned on her staff, exhaustion written on her face but her eye alight with something fierce.
When they finally regrouped at the clearing where their paths first diverged, an older figure awaited them. His robe was woven with silver thread, his staff crowned with ancient oak leaves, and his presence radiated the weight of centuries.
The Archdruid.
He looked upon them with eyes both sharp and kind.
"You have passed the trials that tested body, mind, and spirit. Today, you are no longer novices… but true bearers of your fates. You are ready to wield your Converters as they were meant to be."
Before his words could settle, the ground shuddered. A thunderous BOOM tore across the horizon, and smoke spiraled high from the heart of Gaul. Screams echoed faintly, carried on the wind.
The Archdruid's staff struck the ground, silencing the panic in their chests. His voice hardened, urgent.
"Your trials are over. Now comes the true test. Use what you have learned. Stand together, or fall apart."
The three looked to one another. For the first time, there was no hesitation.
Alaric lifted his bloodied gauntlet, then he says "Converter, Awaken!". Ice crawled up his arm, engulfing his frame before shattering into pieces of frost, revealing the black, dragon-helmed armor beneath, his visor burning with cold determination.
Celestria closed her eye, breathing deeply as fire licked across her skin then she says "Converter, Respond!". Flames consumed her from head to toe before dispersing into sparks, leaving her clad in gleaming metal, red-lined cloak fanning like wings of fire.
Sylas gripped his Converter then says "Converter, Active!". Bolts of lightning coursed through him, sparking across his limbs, before he discharged in a flash so blinding the others shielded their eyes. When the light faded, he stood hooded and armored, his great bow crackling with raw electricity.
Together, they faced the smoke rising from Gaul.
Three warriors. Three paths. One destiny.