The road stretched on, a dusty, monotonous ribbon winding through the rolling hills. The sun beat down, and the air was thick with the drone of insects. Astraeus walked, his body a symphony of aches and pains from Kha'Zul's brutal training regimen. His essence was slowly regenerating, a cool trickle of power in the barren landscape of his depleted reserves. He was so focused on the rhythmic plodding of his own feet that he almost missed it—a subtle shift in the air, a flicker of movement in the trees that lined the road ahead.
Stop, Kha'Zul's voice was a sudden, sharp command in his mind.
Astraeus froze, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the short sword he'd taken from the ruins. He scanned the woods, his eyes narrowed, his senses on high alert.
"What is it?" he whispered.
Five of them. Hiding in the trees. Amateurs. They're trying to set up an ambush, but their bloodlust is practically screaming at me.
As if on cue, a man stepped out from behind a large oak tree, blocking the road. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a scarred face and a cruel sneer. He held a rusted, notched sword in one hand, its tip resting casually on the ground. He was followed by four others, who fanned out, their movements practiced and predatory, cutting off the road in both directions. They were a pack of wolves, and they had just cornered their prey.
"Well, well," the scarred leader said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "What have we here? A lone traveler, far from home. Your purse, your sword, and your life. In that order."
They expected fear. They expected a quick, messy death and an easy payday.
They were wrong.
Left side, the one with the axe—he's the real threat, Kha'Zul's voice sliced through the rising tide of Astraeus's panic, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. The leader is slow, overconfident. Use it.
Time seemed to warp, the world slowing to a crawl. Astraeus's training, both from the academy and Kha'Zul's brutal lessons, took over. His hands moved, not in the rigid, formal gestures of a spell, but in a fluid, intuitive motion, guiding the Ethereal Essence that now felt like a part of him. Silver-blue light coalesced around his right hand, a sphere of raw, unstable energy.
The scarred leader was five feet away, his sword descending in a brutal overhead chop meant to split a man in two.
Astraeus didn't dodge. He moved. A single, deliberate step to the side, and he thrust his palm forward. The sphere of essence didn't just hit the bandit; it detonated. A wave of pure, concussive force slammed into the man's chest, and he flew backward as if struck by an invisible battering ram. His sword spun from his grip, and he hit the ground with a sickening thud that drove the air from his lungs. He lay there, gasping like a landed fish, his eyes wide with disbelief.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 35/50]
Good. Now the axe, before he closes.
Astraeus was already turning, gathering more essence. The bandit with the axe was charging from his left, the heavy weapon held low for a devastating swing. There was a cold, dead-eyed calculation in the man's face, the look of someone who'd killed before and wouldn't hesitate to do it again.
But Astraeus had died before. And that made all the difference.
He shaped the essence into fire, remembering the smell of burning fur, the satisfying yelp of the dire wolf. The sphere in his hand ignited, and he hurled it not like a spell, but like a rock. The fireball streaked through the air and exploded against the axe-wielder's shoulder. The man screamed, a high, thin sound of pure agony, stumbling as he frantically tried to beat out the flames that were consuming his leather jerkin.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 20/50]
Behind you! The warning was a mental shriek.
Astraeus dropped, pure instinct and Kha'Zul's warning combining into a single, fluid motion. A heavy club whistled through the space where his head had been a moment before, the wind of its passage ruffling his hair. He rolled, coming up in a crouch to face two more bandits—one with the club, the other with a short, wicked-looking sword.
They were more cautious now, circling him, their eyes flicking between him and their downed companions.
You can't fight them both at once, Kha'Zul stated, a cold fact. Not yet. Separate them.
"How?" Astraeus muttered, his eyes darting between the two.
The one with the club is slower. Create a barrier. Force him to go around.
A barrier. He'd never made one. But he understood the principle. Essence given form. Solid. Unyielding. He thrust both hands toward the club-wielder and pushed, not with his arms, but with his will. Ethereal Essence surged out, not as fire or force, but as pure, solidified energy. A wall of shimmering, silver-blue light materialized between them, humming with contained power.
The club-wielder, surprised by the sudden appearance of the barrier, stumbled to a halt. The swordsman, however, saw his opportunity and charged, his blade aimed at Astraeus's exposed side.
Astraeus spun, his own sword now in his hand, the cheap steel ringing as it met the bandit's blade. The impact jarred his arm, but he held his ground, his feet planted, his body a solid anchor.
Don't just block, you fool! Kha'Zul's voice was a frustrated snarl. Use his momentum against him! Redirect! Flow!
Astraeus gritted his teeth, the lessons of the past week echoing in his mind. He relaxed his grip, let the bandit's forward momentum push him back a step, and then, with a sudden twist of his wrist, he redirected the man's blade, sending it wide. The bandit, overextended and off-balance, stumbled forward, his chest exposed.
Astraeus didn't hesitate. He drove his sword forward, the point sinking into the soft flesh beneath the man's ribs. The bandit's eyes went wide with a mixture of shock and pain, a soft, wet gasp escaping his lips. He looked down at the sword protruding from his chest, then back at Astraeus, a look of profound, terminal surprise on his face.
Then, he collapsed.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 15/50]
Astraeus pulled his sword free, the warm, sticky blood a shocking, visceral reality. He had just killed a man. The thought was a cold, hard knot in his stomach. But there was no time for remorse. The club-wielder had found his way around the barrier and was charging, his face a mask of rage.
Astraeus met the charge, his sword a blur of motion. He parried the first clumsy swing, the impact vibrating up his arm. He dodged the second, the club smashing into the ground where he had been a moment before, sending a shower of dirt and pebbles into the air.
He was faster. He was more skilled. He was a trained mage, and this was just a brute with a heavy piece of wood. But he was also exhausted, his essence nearly depleted, his body screaming in protest.
He needed to end this. Now.
He feinted a thrust, drawing a wild, desperate swing from the bandit. As the club whistled past his head, he stepped in close, too close for the man to bring his weapon to bear, and drove the pommel of his sword into the bandit's temple. The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Silence descended on the road, broken only by the crackling of the flames on the axe-wielder's shoulder and the ragged sound of Astraeus's own breathing.
He had won. He had survived. He had killed.
The thought was a heavy, cold weight in his chest. He looked at the bodies on the ground, at the blood on his sword, and felt a wave of nausea wash over him.
This is war, boy, Kha'Zul's voice was a low, somber rumble. This is what it means to fight. To kill or be killed. Get used to it.
Astraeus didn't answer. He just stood there, his sword in his hand, the bodies of his enemies at his feet, and wondered if this was what it felt like to be a hero.
It didn't feel like he had imagined.