The wall of shimmering, silver-blue light held for three seconds before it flickered and died, the last of Astraeus's accessible essence giving out. But three seconds was all he needed. The club-wielding bandit, his charge thwarted, stared at the space where the barrier had been, his expression a mixture of confusion and fear. The other bandit, the one with the short sword, hesitated, his bravado evaporating in the face of magic he didn't understand.
Now! Kha'Zul's command was a spike in his mind, driving through the fog of his exhaustion.
Astraeus didn't have the essence for another spell, but he still had his sword. He surged forward, his body screaming in protest, and drove the point of his blade into the sword-wielder's thigh. The man howled, dropping his weapon to clutch at the wound.
The last bandit, the one with the club, finally shook off his stupor and charged, swinging his weapon in a wide, clumsy arc. Astraeus, his movements clumsy with fatigue, barely managed to parry the blow, the impact jarring his arm to the shoulder. He stumbled back, his vision swimming.
You're spent, Kha'Zul stated, a cold, hard fact. But so is he. He's afraid. Use it.
Astraeus met the bandit's eyes. He saw no cunning, no skill, just a brute's fear and rage. He held his ground, his sword held ready, and let a sliver of Kha'Zul's cold, ancient menace bleed into his own expression. He didn't have the energy to fight, but he could bluff.
The bandit hesitated, his charge faltering. He looked at his four downed companions—one unconscious, one nursing a burned shoulder, one bleeding from a leg wound, and their leader still gasping for air. He looked back at the boy who had done all this, a boy who was now looking at him with the eyes of a predator.
He broke. With a cry of fear, he dropped his club and fled, disappearing into the woods.
Astraeus stood there for a long moment, his sword held ready, until the sound of the man's panicked flight had faded completely. Then, his strength gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering on the dusty road. He was shaking, his body drenched in sweat, his essence pool so empty it felt like a hollow ache in his soul.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 2/50]
Not bad, Kha'Zul said, his voice laced with a grudging respect. You survived. You even won. Now the real work begins.
"The real work?" Astraeus gasped, his head spinning. "I can barely move."
The spoils of victory, boy. Go through their pockets. They're bandits. They will have coin. And you are poor.
The thought of looting bodies made Astraeus's stomach turn, but Kha'Zul was right. He needed money. He forced himself to his feet and, trying not to look at their faces, went through the pockets of the four remaining bandits. He found a handful of copper and silver coins, a few tarnished rings, and a small, surprisingly well-made dagger. In total, it was more money than he'd ever had in his life.
Good. Now, get off the road. You're a vulnerable target out here. Find a place to rest and regenerate your essence. We're not moving until you're back at full strength.
Astraeus dragged the unconscious bandits off the road and into the woods, hiding their bodies as best he could. He didn't have the strength to dig graves, and he wasn't sure he could bring himself to do it anyway. He then found a secluded spot for himself, a small clearing hidden by a thicket of trees, and collapsed.
He spent the rest of the afternoon and the early evening in a state of semi-meditation, focusing on drawing Ethereal Essence from the environment and refilling his depleted reserves. It was a slow, tedious process, but as his essence pool gradually refilled, the exhaustion began to recede, replaced by a deep, satisfying ache in his muscles.
As darkness fell, he built a small, smokeless fire—a trick he'd learned in his academy survival classes—and cooked the last of his dried meat. He ate slowly, his mind replaying the fight. He had made mistakes. He had been clumsy, inefficient. But he had also been effective. He had used his magic creatively, adapted to the situation, and kept his head in a life-or-death encounter.
"I'm not the same person who died in those ruins," he said quietly, the words tasting of smoke and newfound certainty.
No. You're not. The question is: who are you becoming?
It was a good question. Astraeus didn't have an answer yet. But as he drifted off to sleep, the sounds of the forest a comforting blanket around him, he knew one thing for sure: he was becoming someone who survived.
The next morning, he woke with the sun, his body stiff but his essence fully restored. He doused his fire, gathered his belongings, and returned to the road. The events of the previous day felt both distant and intensely real, a dream that had left scars.
He walked with a new purpose, a new confidence. He practiced as he went, gathering Ethereal Essence and shaping it into spheres, transforming them from one element to another. Fire to ice to lightning to force. The transitions came smoother now, more natural. His essence pool was larger, his control more refined.
[SKILL EXPERIENCE GAINED: BASIC ETHEREAL MANIPULATION]
[PROGRESS: 98/100]
So close. Just two more points and the skill would evolve. Astraeus could feel it—a pressure building, like water against a dam, waiting to break through.
He pushed himself, gathering more essence, shaping it, transforming it, feeling the burn in his ethereal channels. He was so focused on his practice that he didn't notice the change in the road ahead, the way the trees thinned out, the way the air grew cooler.
And then he saw it. In the distance, nestled in a valley, was a city. Not a small village like the one he had grown up in, but a proper city, with stone walls and tall towers and smoke rising from a hundred chimneys. It was a beacon of civilization in the wilderness, a promise of safety and opportunity.
Thornhaven. He had made it.