Mike almost pushed the door open when he returned home that evening.
The exhaustion from the forest was still there, buried somewhere in his muscles, but it felt distant. Lighter. Something inside him burned brighter than fatigue.
His mother looked up from the hearth as he entered.
"You are back early," she said.
"We only caught horned rabbits," he replied quickly, already stepping closer. "The dragon scared everything else away."
Her hands paused.
"You saw it again?"
"Yes," he said, and now the words began spilling out of him. "It took off near the eastern ridge. It was massive, Mother. Bigger than I thought yesterday. Tork said most of the forest is its territory. He said it's the apex predator here."
She listened quietly as he continued, explaining how the ground had shaken, how the wings had torn through the air, how even the older hunters respected its presence.
Then he told her about mana.
About mages.
About knights.
About the blood test at fourteen.
It was as if the tired boy from the previous evening had disappeared. His eyes shone with intensity. His gestures were sharper. Even the cut on his elbow seemed forgotten.
Jule watched him carefully, a mixture of pride and concern flickering across her face.
"So there are humans who can rival such creatures," she murmured.
"That's what Tork said," Mike answered, almost breathless. "Some can shape fire. Some can strengthen their bodies beyond what should be possible."
"And you?" she asked gently. "What do you want?"
The question slowed him for the first time.
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I don't want to stay weak."
She stepped forward and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"You are not weak."
He did not argue, but he did not fully agree either.
After eating a simple meal of porridge mixed with small pieces of rabbit meat, Mike grabbed a wooden bucket and stepped back outside. The evening air was cooler now, the sky darkening into deep blue.
He lowered the bucket into the well, listening to the rope creak as it descended. The splash echoed faintly from below. He pulled it back up, muscles straining slightly from the weight.
Before lifting it, he glanced down.
The water's surface stilled.
His reflection stared back at him.
Brown hair, slightly messy from the day. Dark green eyes that seemed deeper in the dim light. His face was sharp for his age, jawline already forming clear angles, cheekbones pronounced. But there was no mistaking it.
He was still a child.
There was softness there. Youth. Unfinished edges.
Yet something else lingered in that reflection. A hint of what he might become. Not beautiful in a delicate way, but striking. The kind of face people would listen to. The kind that could command attention without shouting.
He stared a moment longer.
Fourteen.
Mana.
Dragon.
The water rippled when he dipped his hand in.
The image shattered.
He washed quickly, the cold water stealing the last of the day's heat from his skin. Dirt and dried blood disappeared. When he returned inside, sleep claimed him almost instantly.
That night, he dreamed of wings cutting through the sky.
The next morning, rain hammered against the roof.
Not a gentle drizzle. Heavy, relentless sheets that turned the village paths into mud within minutes. Water streamed off rooftops and pooled near the well.
Mike still left the house.
His boots sank slightly into the softened ground as he made his way to Tork's hut. By the time he arrived, his cloak was damp along the edges.
Tork opened the door before he could knock.
"You came," Tork said, as if mildly surprised.
"Of course."
Tork glanced at the sky. "With rain like this, tracking is nearly impossible. Prints wash away. Scents scatter. Even moving through the forest becomes dangerous."
Mike nodded, though a flicker of disappointment crossed his face.
"We stay inside today," Tork continued.
The hut smelled of dried herbs and leather. Weapons hung neatly along one wall. A rough map of the surrounding forest was carved into a large wooden board.
Tork gestured toward it.
"If you cannot walk the forest, you study it."
For hours, Tork explained.
Where deer preferred to graze during summer versus winter. Where boars nested. Which clearings were safe and which were deceptive traps of unstable ground. Where wolves sometimes roamed in small packs.
He marked areas with a piece of charcoal.
"Here," he said, tapping one section. "Confusing terrain. Dense trees. Easy to lose direction. Even experienced hunters avoid going too deep alone."
He moved to another area.
"Swamp land. Looks shallow. It is not."
Then further north.
"Rocky elevation. Fewer prey animals. But better visibility."
Mike listened intensely, committing as much as he could to memory. The information was overwhelming, layered and detailed. After a few hours, parts began to blur together.
Yet he did not interrupt.
He asked questions when something did not make sense. He repeated locations back to Tork to confirm.
It was clear he was not an ordinary village boy.
He absorbed quickly.
"You will not remember all of this in one day," Tork said finally, leaning back. "No one does."
Mike nodded. His head felt full, almost heavy from the flood of knowledge.
"But you understand faster than most," Tork added.
Mike did not smile widely, but a quiet satisfaction settled in him.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Inside, a different foundation was being built.
Not of muscle.
Not of strength.
But of understanding.
And for the first time, Mike began to realize that surviving the forest was not just about power.
It was about knowing where to step.