Max studied the road ahead from his position at the middle of the convoy. Five wagons carried supplies bound for the southern garrison—a routine escort mission assigned to the youngest Drakhalis siblings as "valuable experience." To anyone else, the journey appeared uneventful.
But Max knew better.
The air pressure changed subtly. Birds quieted along the eastern tree line. Max counted twenty-three seconds since the last natural sound.
"Patrol forward," he called to the lead guard. "I need herbs from that ridge."
The guard frowned. "We're on schedule, young lord."
"Herbs," Max repeated, dismounting. "Medical stocks need replenishing."
He walked toward the rocky outcropping, climbing deliberately to gain a better vantage point. From there, Max spotted what the convoy couldn't see—fresh tracks veering from the main road, broken branches, and disturbed earth in a clearing half a kilometer ahead.
Ritual markings.
Max slid back down and approached the convoy captain. "Change course. Take the western fork."
"But our orders—"
"The eastern route shows signs of disturbance," Max kept his voice low. "Likely an ambush."
The captain hesitated. "Without confirmation—"
"If I'm wrong, we lose an hour," Max countered. "If I'm right, we keep our supplies and men."
Reluctantly, the captain redirected the convoy to the western path—a route that added distance but offered better visibility and defensible terrain. Max positioned himself at the rear, watching for pursuers.
They came twenty minutes later.
Three figures in tattered robes emerged from the treeline, tracking the convoy with determination rather than stealth. Max recognized the pattern—summoners, but novices. They carried crude bone talismans and ritual knives.
Amateur cultists.
Max slowed his horse, falling behind a bend in the road as the convoy continued. He dismounted, tethered his horse, and climbed a nearby tree. When the three cultists passed beneath, Max dropped behind the trailing member and knocked him unconscious with a precisely placed strike to the neck.
The remaining two turned at the sound.
"Who—"
Max closed the distance before they could react. He swept the legs from under the second cultist while blocking a knife thrust from the third. The knife glanced off his reinforced bracer.
"Blood for the void," the cultist hissed, preparing another strike.
Max caught the man's wrist and applied pressure to the nerve bundle. The knife clattered to the ground.
"Who sent you?" Max demanded.
The cultist spat. "The red moon rises. We prepare the way."
Max searched the unconscious men, finding crude maps marking the planned ambush site with ritual symbols. Examination confirmed his suspicion—they were attempting a sacrifice-powered summoning. Not demon level, but dangerous enough for an unprepared convoy.
He bound the cultists with rope from his saddlebag and dragged them into the underbrush. The convoy would continue safely, unaware of the threat they'd avoided.
A growl from deeper in the forest made Max tense.
Essence wolves.
These weren't natural wolves but ritual constructs—beasts conjured through blood sacrifice to drain life essence from victims. Max had encountered them in his previous life, but much later, when the cult rituals had advanced beyond this primitive stage.
Four wolves emerged from the trees, eyes glowing with unnatural purple light. They moved with jerky, uncoordinated steps—a sign of unstable manifestation.
Max assessed his options. In his previous life, he'd have needed Tier 8 abilities to challenge such creatures. His current body lacked that power, but these wolves showed signs of flawed summoning. The cultists hadn't completed their ritual properly.
He circled to position himself between the wolves and the hidden cultists. The wolves followed, drawn to the blood and life energy of their unconscious masters.
Max drew his knife and quickly cut his palm, letting blood drip onto the ground. The wolves' attention fixed on him instantly.
"Following the scent of essence," Max muttered. "Predictable."
He retreated strategically, leading the wolves away from both the cultists and the convoy's path. At a small clearing, Max stopped and knelt, pressing his bloodied palm to the earth.
The wolves stalked forward, hackles raised.
Max closed his eyes, recalling a counter-ritual he'd learned from a dying mage in the final days of his previous life. His aura pulsed faintly as he traced symbols in the dirt with his blood.
The wolves hesitated, sensing the disruption in the mana flow.
Max completed the pattern—not a full banishment circle, but enough to destabilize the already flawed summoning. He pushed a thin stream of aura into the blood-marked soil.
The lead wolf lunged. Max rolled aside, maintaining contact with his pattern. The wolf's paw crossed the blood line.
A flash of blue light erupted from the ground. The wolf convulsed, its form distorting as the unstable summoning magic rebounded. The creature dissolved into purple mist.
The remaining wolves circled more cautiously. Max kept his hand on the pattern, feeding it small, controlled amounts of aura—just enough to maintain the counter-ritual without revealing his full capabilities.
The second wolf attacked from behind. Max pivoted, drawing it across the blood line. Another flash, another dissolution.
Two remaining.
The wolves attacked simultaneously from opposite sides. Max dropped flat to the ground, both wolves leaping over him and landing on the pattern. Blue light flared brighter this time, and both creatures disintegrated with high-pitched howls.
Max sat back, examining his palm. The cut wasn't deep, but blood still flowed freely. He bound it with a strip of cloth from his pocket.
"Crude summoning," he murmured, studying the dissipating purple mist. "But evolving faster than before."
He returned to the unconscious cultists, checked their bindings, and whistled for his horse. After attaching a note identifying them as highway robbers, Max positioned them where a regular patrol would find them within hours.
The convoy would reach the southern garrison never knowing what had been averted. Exactly as Max preferred it.
Three days later, Max stood in the castle courtyard as Captain Reeves delivered his report to Violet.
"The supply convoy arrived without incident, my lady," Reeves reported. "Though we took an alternate route due to concerns about the eastern road."
Violet nodded. "And the bandits found near Oakshade Pass?"
"Simple highway robbers, according to the patrol that found them," Reeves replied. "They've been imprisoned awaiting judgment."
"Very well," Violet dismissed him with a nod.
Max remained silent, watching Violet study the reports. She had no reason to connect these events—no reason to suspect her youngest brother had averted a ritual summoning that, in his previous timeline, had claimed eight lives and led to increasingly sophisticated attacks.
Small changes. Invisible interventions. History rewritten through quiet actions.
As Max walked back to his chambers, he passed Archdeacon Verrin speaking with Lily about theoretical mana flows. Their scholarly debate carried through the corridor, focused on abstract concepts rather than practical applications.
Max smiled faintly. The future had already changed because he'd stopped being naive. The knowledge he carried from his previous life meant seeing dangers before they manifested fully—dangers others dismissed as coincidence or misfortune.
The wound on his palm throbbed slightly. A small price to pay for lives saved. In his room, Max updated his journal with details of the cultists' ritual patterns and the wolves' manifestation flaws. Information that would matter later, when these isolated incidents revealed their connection to the greater threat.
The path ahead remained dangerous, but for now, Max had prevented one small tragedy. One less regret to carry in this second chance at life.