Tracing the Mage was not like tracking a beast. Beasts left broken twigs, disturbed earth, and the scent of musk. The Mage left nothing but a violation of nature.
Draven crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, his chest heaving silently. Fifty meters ahead, the grey-robed figure was moving through the dense undergrowth. Where the Mage stepped, the grass didn't just bend; it withered. The faint blue glow from his staff seemed to suck the color out of the world, leaving a trail of grey, lifeless vegetation in his wake.
His instincts were screaming at him. Don't go closer. Every lesson Draven had learned in the trenches told him to turn around. Fighting men with swords was one thing; you could parry steel. You could dodge a spear. But how do you parry a thought that sets you on fire?
Draven looked down at his own hands. They were caked in mud, shaking slightly. He was stronger now—he felt the density in his muscles, the way his grip crushed the bark of the tree he was holding—but against magic, muscle was just meat waiting to be cooked.
Why am I following him? Draven asked himself. The answer wasn't bravery. It was desperation. The Mage was confident. He was walking through the Dead Zone with a light source, unafraid of the monsters. That meant he had power. And he had supplies. Draven touched the empty waterskin at his belt. He had food, but the metallic streams here were poisonous. The Mage likely had clean water. Or potions.
Opportunity. The System's word echoed in his mind. This was a gamble. If he won, he survived. If he lost, he was ash.
They walked for an hour. Draven kept his distance, staying downwind, moving only when the wind rustled the trees. He moved with a fluidity that surprised him, his body adjusting to the uneven terrain without a sound, as if the forest floor was welcoming him.
Suddenly, the Mage stopped. He had reached a small clearing dominated by a pool of stagnant, black water. The Mage raised his staff. The crystal at the tip flared brighter, casting harsh shadows against the trees.
"Reveal yourself," the Mage said. His voice was young, arrogant, echoing strangely in the silence.
Draven froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. He knows. Draven gripped his spear, preparing to charge, to die fighting.
But the Mage wasn't looking at the trees. He was looking at the water.
The surface of the pool exploded.
A Swamp Stalker—a reptilian nightmare of scales and teeth, easily twice the size of a man—lunged out of the black water. It moved with terrifying speed, jaws gaping to swallow the robed figure whole. Draven had seen these things tear armored knights in half. Physically, it was a monster. A creature of pure muscle and rage.
Draven watched, holding his breath. Run, wizard. Run or die.
The Mage didn't run. He didn't even flinch. He simply pointed his staff. He whispered a single word. A syllable that hurt Draven's ears just to hear from fifty meters away.
"Ignis."
A lance of fire, condensed and white-hot, shot from the staff. It didn't look like normal fire. It looked like a solid beam of light. It hit the Stalker in mid-air, right in its open maw.
There was no explosion. There was a sound like wet laundry being torn—a sickening thwump. The Stalker's head simply... vanished. Vaporized. The massive, headless body of the monster carried its momentum forward, crashing into the mud just inches from the Mage's boots. Steam hissed from the cauterized stump of its neck.
The Mage nudged the carcass with his foot, looking disappointed. "No mana core," he muttered. "Waste of a spell."
Draven, hiding behind a tree, felt a cold sweat drench his back. He stared at the dead monster. One word. One second. If that spell hit Draven... his newfound strength wouldn't matter. His regenerating shoulder wouldn't matter. He would be erased.
He is a god, Draven thought, fear gripping his throat. No. He is artillery.
He forced himself to analyze. The Mage was breathing hard. The spell had a cost. The light in the staff had dimmed significantly. And the Mage was... fragile. Draven noticed the way the man moved. He was skinny, almost frail under those robes. He nudged the beast with visible effort, stumbling slightly. High damage. Zero defense.
A glass cannon. Infinite power at range. Tissue paper up close.
The Mage sat down on a dry rock, pulling a flask from his robes. He took a long drink, then wiped his brow. He began to rummage through a satchel, pulling out a book and reading by the light of his staff. He was resting. Recovering.
Draven watched. Calculations ran through his mind. Distance: Forty meters. Terrain: Muddy, open ground. Time to close the gap: Four seconds at full sprint. Casting time for that fire spell: Maybe one second.
If Draven charged, he would die three times before he reached the rock. He couldn't outrun the fire. So he had to make sure the fire never happened.
Draven looked at the ground. He picked up a stone the size of an apple. He looked at the stagnant pool where the monster had emerged. He looked at the trees surrounding the clearing.
He moved. Not toward the Mage, but sideways, circling the perimeter. He needed to be closer. Ten meters. No more.
It took him twenty minutes to close the distance. He crawled on his belly through the mud, ignoring the insects biting his face, ignoring the cramp in his injured shoulder. He was a reptile. He was a shadow. He stopped behind a thick bush, just ten meters behind the Mage.
He could hear the man humming a tune. He could smell the ozone coming off the staff. He could see the exposed neck of the Mage.
Now? No. The staff was still glowing. The Mage was alert.
Draven picked up the stone he had carried. He threw it—not at the Mage, but high into the branches of the tree on the opposite side of the clearing.
Crack-thud.
The stone hit the wood, mimicking the sound of a clumsy footstep. The Mage whipped around instantly, his staff flaring up. "Who's there?" he shouted, pointing the staff at the far tree line. "Ignis!"
Another lance of fire shot out, blasting the innocent tree. Wood exploded into splinters and embers. He's jumpy, Draven noted. He shoots first, asks questions later.
But now, the Mage was facing away from Draven. And the staff's light was dim, flickering like a dying candle. Mana exhaustion.
Draven stood up. He didn't scream. A war cry would give the Mage a split second to turn. He sprinted. The mud sucked at his boots, but his body felt lighter than it ever had. His legs drove him forward like pistons.
Ten meters. Five meters.
The Mage heard the footsteps. The sound of wet mud splashing. He spun around, eyes wide with panic. He was young, barely twenty. His face was pale, terrifyingly human. He raised the staff. "Ig—"
Draven was too close for the spear. He used the spear not as a weapon, but as a pole vault. He planted the butt of the spear into the mud and launched himself forward, legs first.
It was a messy, desperate tackle. Draven's boots slammed into the Mage's chest. There was a sickening crunch of ribs breaking. The Mage's fragile frame crumpled under the impact.
They both crashed into the mud. The staff flew out of the Mage's hand, rolling away. The Mage gasped, wheezing, blood bubbling on his lips. He tried to scramble away, his hands clawing at the dirt. "Wait!" the Mage gurgled. "Wait, I have gold! I have—"
Draven didn't wait. He was on top of him in a second. He didn't use the spear. He drew the rusted dagger.
The Mage raised a hand. A weak spark of blue light flickered at his fingertips—a desperate, final cantrip. Draven slapped the hand away and drove the dagger down.
It wasn't a clean kill. The robes were thick. The Mage struggled with the frantic, terrified strength of a dying animal. Draven stabbed again. And again. He felt the resistance of bone. The warmth of blood. He didn't stop until the Mage stopped moving. Until the blue spark at the fingertips died out completely.
Draven rolled off the body, collapsing onto his back in the mud. He gasped for air, his heart hammering so hard it hurt. He stared up at the dark canopy.
He was alive. He had killed a Mage. Not because he was stronger. But because he was a coward. Because he was a hunter.
[ Target Neutralized: Human Initiate (1st Circle Candidate) ] [ Combat Analysis: Stealth / Interrupt. High Threat Target. ] [ Reward: +1 Agility ] [ Reward: +1 Awareness ]
[ Achievement Unlocked: Mage Slayer (I) ] Killing a magic user without using magic.
Draven wiped the blood from his eyes. He sat up, looking at the corpse. The boy looked harmless now. Just a broken doll in muddy robes. Draven felt a pang of nausea. This wasn't a monster. This was a human. But then he looked at the tree that was still burning from the spell. If I hadn't killed him, I would be that tree.
He crawled over to the body. "Sorry," Draven whispered. Then he began to loot.
The staff was useless to him. When he touched it, the wood felt dead, heavy. Without Will, it was just a stick with a rock on it. He checked the satchel.
Gold Pouch: Heavy. Maybe 50 coins. Useless in the forest, but good if he ever returned to civilization.
Waterskin: Full. Clean, sweet water. Draven drank greedily, washing the metallic taste from his mouth.
Dried Rations: High quality. Better than the army slop.
A Book: Leather-bound. Draven opened it. The script was complex, geometric. He couldn't read it, but the diagrams... they showed flow. They showed energy moving through the body.
[ Item: "Basics of Mana Circulation" ]
Requirement: Awareness 15 to decipher.
Draven put the book in his pack. He was close. Maybe, just maybe, this book held the key to unlocking his own potential.
Finally, he found something in the inner pocket of the robe. A small, glass vial containing a swirling red liquid. [ Minor Healing Potion ]
Draven held it up to the faint light. Liquid life. This was worth more than gold. He didn't drink it. His shoulder was healing on its own, and he might need this for something worse.
He stood up. He stripped the Mage of his outer robe. It was high-quality wool, enchanted to repel rain and dirt. It was grey and nondescript. Perfect camouflage. He put it on over his leather armor. It was a bit short, but it covered his injuries.
He looked at the dead Mage one last time. "The forest eats us all," Draven muttered, repeating the mantra of the scouts.
He turned to leave, but stopped. A sensation crawled up his spine. Not danger. Something else.
He looked at the staff lying in the mud. The crystal tip was dull, but deep inside, a tiny spark remained. Draven reached out. He didn't grab the staff. He touched the crystal with his finger. He focused. He didn't have Will. He couldn't command the mana. But he had the System.
Absorb? he thought wildly. Can I eat it like the boar meat?
[ Error: Cannot consume inorganic matter. ] [ Alternative: Direct Resonance Attempt? ] [ Warning: High pain probability. ]
Draven hesitated. Pain he could handle. Weakness he could not. "Do it."
He gripped the crystal. It felt like grabbing a hot coal. A shockwave of energy shot up his arm, burning his veins, racing toward his heart. Draven gritted his teeth, suppressing a scream. His vision whitened. It wasn't mana entering his core—he didn't have a core. It was raw energy assaulting his nervous system.
[ External Energy Detected ] [ System filtering... ] [ Conversion efficiency: 0.1% ] [ ... ] [ Status Update ] [ Will: 1 / 100 (LOCKED) ]
The crystal shattered in his hand, turning to dust. Draven fell to his knees, panting, sweat dripping from his nose. His arm felt numb. But in his mind, the number was there.
Will: 1
It was locked. He couldn't use it. He couldn't cast a spell. But it wasn't zero anymore. He had forced a drop of water into an empty cup.
He looked at his hand. Tiny shards of crystal were embedded in his palm. He clenched his fist.
He was still weak. A single spell could still kill him. But now he knew the path. He didn't need to be a Mage to get mana. He just needed to hunt them.
Draven stood up, the grey robes billowing in the wind. He picked up his spear. The Dead Zone was no longer just a place to hide. It was a mine. And he was the pickaxe.
He turned West, deeper into the forest. Toward the enemy lines. Toward more targets.