The first step beneath the shadows of the trees was like crossing an invisible threshold.
Thiriel felt the change immediately. The temperature dropped several degrees, the air grew more humid, and the sounds of the city vanished completely, replaced by the crunch of dry leaves under his boots and the distant song of birds.
The new sword rested in his right hand—the familiar weight of a real weapon. Less than a day ago I was bedridden, he thought as he advanced between the trunks. And now I'm hunting beasts in an unknown forest.
The irony was not lost on him. In his previous life, he commanded armies. Now he was hunting animals for copper coins.
But that was how this world worked. Power was built from the ground up, step by step, without shortcuts.
Or at least, without shortcuts that didn't carry a terrible price.
The memory of Vexar's basement crossed his mind: the ritual circles, the suspended bodies, the vital essence draining drop by drop. He had seen what happened when someone tried to accelerate their progress through dark means.
Thiriel stopped by a massive oak whose roots protruded from the ground like twisted fingers. He closed his eyes and extended his senses.
The ambient magic was denser here than anywhere inside Oakhaven. It floated between the trees like an invisible mist, concentrating in certain spots where the vegetation grew greener, wilder. The meridians of his body responded instinctively, absorbing small amounts of energy without him even commanding it.
Interesting, he thought. Passive refinement is more efficient in zones of high magical concentration.
That explained why Vexar had built his tower so far from the city, surrounded by forests and near a lake. It wasn't just for privacy. It was for the available energy.
He opened his eyes and continued moving forward.
The secondary path had become little more than a trail of compacted dirt amidst the undergrowth. Thiriel followed it for several minutes, memorizing landmarks.
Arielle had described the herbs he was looking for in quite some detail. The Moonflower had white petals with silver veins and only grew in places where direct sunlight didn't reach. The Ironroot was harder to identify: a low-lying plant with reddish leaves that clung to rocks near water sources.
Twenty minutes later, he found what he was looking for.
A shallow ravine opened between two hills covered in vegetation. At the bottom, where the shadow was permanent, dozens of white flowers grew, glowing with a faint silver radiance even without direct light.
Moonflowers.
Thiriel descended carefully, digging his feet into the loose earth to avoid slipping. The air at the bottom of the ravine was cold and smelled of wet earth. The flowers grew in groups of three or four, their petals so delicate they seemed made of paper.
He knelt by the first group and took a cloth bag from his spatial bag. Arielle had explained how to harvest them: cut the stem two fingers from the ground, never pull the root, and store them in a container that didn't let light through.
He cut the first flower carefully.
That was when he felt it.
A chill ran down his neck. That primal instinct that had saved his life hundreds of times on battlefields—that sixth sense that warned him when something was watching.
Thiriel didn't move.
He didn't turn his head.
He continued cutting flowers with slow, deliberate movements, while his senses expanded in all directions.
Three, he counted mentally. No, four. Two behind, one to the left, another above on the edge of the ravine.
Beasts. He could smell the wild musk mixed with something metallic. Old blood in their maws.
Shadow Wolves.
The same ones that had killed three Bronze adventurers this month.
Interesting, he thought without altering his breathing. They came to me.
He cut another flower. He tucked it into the bag. The movement was so natural that any observer would have taken it for ignorance.
But inside, Thiriel was calculating.
His body wasn't at one hundred percent. Perhaps seventy, if he was being generous. The muscles still protested when he forced them too much, and the Magic Warrior Aura remained a risk if he kept it active for too long.
But I don't need to be at one hundred percent, he thought. I only need to be faster than them.
Shadow Wolves were low-rank magic beasts. They were dangerous to novice adventurers because they hunted in packs and attacked from multiple directions simultaneously. Their dark fur made them nearly invisible in the forest's gloom.
But they were predictable.
They would attack when they believed their prey was distracted. They would go for the back first, trying to bring him down, and then the others would join in for the final blow.
Thiriel cut one last flower.
And then he lunged forward.
The wolf behind him jumped at the same instant, its open jaws aiming for where his neck had been a fraction of a second ago. The animal landed in the empty space, confused by the absence of its prey.
Thiriel spun.
The sword described a horizontal arc that sliced through the air with a clean whistle. The blade found the wolf's side before it could react, opening a deep wound that exposed muscle and bone.
The howl of pain was deafening.
The other three wolves attacked in unison.
Thiriel didn't try to dodge them all. Instead, he moved toward the closest one, using its body as a shield against the other two. The wolf didn't expect its prey to advance instead of retreating. It hesitated for a fraction of a second.
That moment of doubt cost it its life.
The sword pierced its throat with precision. Thiriel withdrew the blade and pivoted, using the momentum of the movement to launch a magic-reinforced kick against the third wolf attempting to flank him.
The impact sent it flying several meters back.
Two down, he counted. Two left.
The fourth wolf, the one on the edge of the ravine, descended with a jump that would have crushed him had Thiriel not moved. Its claws left deep furrows in the earth where he had been standing.
The first one, wounded but not dead, crawled toward him with a savage look.
Thiriel took a deep breath.
The body protests, he noted.
He activated the Magic Warrior Aura at twenty percent. Just enough to gain a bit of extra speed.
The wolf from the edge attacked first, lunging with open jaws. Thiriel took a sidestep and let the animal pass beside him. The sword cut across its back as it flew, splashing blood everywhere.
The wounded wolf tried to bite his leg. Thiriel stepped on it, driving his heel into its neck, snapping it.
The third wolf, the one he had kicked, was slowly recovering from the blow. Thiriel gave it no time. He crossed the distance in three steps and buried his sword in its skull.
Silence.
Only the sound of his own heavy breathing and the drip of blood from the blade of his sword.
Thiriel deactivated the aura and allowed himself a moment to evaluate his state.
The muscles burned, but there were no new tears. The magic core had lost a minimal amount of energy. The wound on his left forearm was superficial—barely a scratch where a claw had grazed him.
He looked at the bodies of the wolves.
Four low-rank magic beasts, eliminated in less than thirty seconds. No serious injuries.
If these are the ones that killed three Bronze adventurers... he thought with disappointment.
He understood why, of course. Novice adventurers lacked real combat experience. They might know how to swing a sword, but they didn't know how to read an opponent's movements, how to anticipate attacks, or how to use the terrain to their advantage.
Thiriel had spent decades perfecting those skills. Even in a weakened body, even at seventy percent capacity, he was still a veteran warrior facing animals.
There was no comparison.
He knelt by the first wolf and began to process the carcass as he had learned. The pelt was valuable if extracted correctly. The fangs had minor magical properties. And the heart...
He cut open the animal's chest and searched through the organs.
There was no magic crystal.
Normal, he thought. Low-rank beasts rarely have them.
He repeated the process with the other three wolves. He stored the pelts, fangs, and hearts in his spatial bag. It wasn't a fortune, but it would cover the inn expenses for several days.
When he finished, the sun had moved noticeably in the sky. Thiriel estimated he had been in the forest for nearly two hours.
He returned to the patch of Moonflowers and finished gathering them. Now that the wolves were dead, there were no immediate threats nearby. He filled the cloth bag carefully, making sure not to damage the delicate petals.
Next objective: Ironroot.
Arielle had mentioned it grew near water sources, clinging to rocks. The river where the magic boars were supposedly located was to the northeast, according to the mental map he had built from the guild clerk's directions.
Thiriel began to walk.
The forest grew denser as he moved east. The trees grew closer together, their canopies interlocking to block out almost all sunlight.
He found the Ironroot before reaching the river.
A small tributary, little more than a stream, wound through the moss-covered rocks. And there, clinging to the damp stones, grew dozens of low plants with rusty red leaves.
Thiriel knelt and began to extract them.
The Ironroot was sturdier than the Moonflower. He had to use the knife from his belt to cut the roots, which clung to the rock with surprising strength. The inside of the root was a metallic gray, almost as if it were made of ore instead of plant matter.
He gathered enough for several weeks of treatment. Arielle would be pleased.
As he worked, his mind returned to analyzing the combat with the wolves.
It had been easy. Too easy.
That was good and bad at the same time.
Good because it meant he could handle low-level threats without risking worsening his injuries. Bad because he wasn't learning anything new. He wasn't being pushed to his limit.
He needed to find stronger enemies if he truly wanted to sharpen his skills. But that would have to wait until his body was fully recovered.
For now, the guild missions would serve to generate income and maintain his basic training. Once he reached one hundred percent of his physical capacity, he could begin seeking real challenges.
Thiriel tucked away the last Ironroot and stood up.
The sound of the river was louder now. According to the guild's information, the magic boars had been sighted near the shore, where the water formed shallow pools.
He checked his status once more. The magic core had recovered part of the energy spent during the combat. He wiped the dried blood from his sword with a piece of cloth and sheathed it. Then he began walking toward the sound of the water.
The forest opened up gradually as he approached the river. The trees became less dense, allowing sunbeams to reach the ground.
And then he saw it.
The river was wider than he expected, perhaps ten meters from bank to bank. The water flowed forcefully, creating white eddies where it hit the rocks. Along the bank, deep tracks marked the mud—hoofprints, large, much larger than those of a normal pig.
Magic Boars.
Thiriel stopped at the edge of the forest, observing the open terrain.
The tracks were fresh. The mud was still wet where the hooves had pressed into the earth. Which meant the boars had passed through here recently.
He closed his eyes and extended his senses.
The river drowned out most sounds, but he could feel vibrations in the ground. Something large was moving upstream, perhaps two hundred meters away. Not one. Several.
A pack.
Thiriel opened his eyes and smiled.
The hunt continued.