Date: October 25, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The white wasteland stretched to the horizon, and Rosh, standing atop a low rock outcropping, felt the wind—a rare guest in this world—tug at his silver hair. Three days. Three days he had walked through the white lands, fought, gathered leaves, slept under the open sky. Three days of silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the crunch of sand beneath his boots.
The zone he had found that morning was inhospitable. White cliffs, sharp as blades, jutted from the sand, forming a natural labyrinth where his vectors worked with errors—the lines bent and dissipated before they could fully form. But he managed. The five guardians hiding in the crevice never even understood what happened. His vectors, accelerated by the energy control technique, moved faster than he could ever have imagined.
Rosh knelt and began gathering the leaves. They lay on flat stones, on pedestals, in depressions—silver, pulsating, they gave off a faint warmth that could be felt even through the fabric of his gloves. He worked quickly, methodically, without looking around. Twenty-three leaves in this zone. Not many, but enough.
He poured them into the bag—the same one Datuk had made for Sobra, and then, when the bear returned, reworked for him. The bag was rough, hastily stitched, but Rosh did not complain. He rarely complained.
Finished, he sat on a stone, leaned his back against the cold rock, and closed his eyes. His body ached—not from wounds, from exhaustion. Three days without rest, three days of constant concentration were taking their toll. But he could not stop. He had a week. Only a week to prove to himself and the others that he was worth something.
*The others,* he thought, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
---
He remembered how they had seen him off.
It was three days ago, though it felt like an eternity. Ulvia stood at the tower's exit, her left hand, the living vine, pulsing with silver light. She was smiling—that rare, warm smile he had seen only a few times.
"You'll manage," she said. "We'll be waiting for your return."
He didn't answer. Just nodded. But something inside him stirred.
Datuk came next, slapped him on the shoulder—hard enough that Rosh nearly lost his balance.
"Find a strong opponent and have a good warm-up," the dwarf said. "And if you try to lose, I'll dig you up from the ground and kill you myself."
"As you say," Rosh replied, and in his cold, even voice, for the first time in a long while, something like a smirk sounded.
Datuk laughed—loud, booming—and slapped him again.
Sobra stood a little apart, his amber eyes, calm and trusting, looking at Rosh with the same expression as at Datuk. The bear approached and nudged him in the stomach with his head—and in that gesture, that silent support, there was something that made Rosh feel warm. Not physically—otherwise.
*Friends,* he thought then, and that word, which he had never applied to himself, suddenly seemed fitting.
He didn't thank them. Didn't hug them goodbye. Just turned and stepped into the white light. But they knew. He was sure—they knew.
---
Rosh opened his eyes. The white wasteland still stretched before him, silent, boundless. He rose, brushed the sand from his clothes, checked the bag's straps. Time to move on.
He took a few steps and stopped. Before him, on the sand, lay a small stone—smooth, white, with faint silver veins. Rosh bent down and picked it up. Nothing special. An ordinary stone in this world. But for some reason, he wanted to take it with him. As a memory.
He tucked the stone into his pocket, where his daggers also lay, and continued on.
---
The zone he chose for this evening was unusual. The white sand here was not loose but compacted, and on its surface, if you looked closely, faint patterns appeared—not writing, not runes, something else Rosh couldn't name. The air was still, heavy, and smelled not of ozone but of something sweet, cloying, that made his head ache.
*Strange place,* he thought, but he didn't stop.
The guardians appeared unexpectedly. Four white goblins—Warriors, judging by their auras—emerged from behind the rocks, their black, empty, cold eyes fixed on him. They held short spears and round shields.
Rosh didn't wait. His fingers, folded in their familiar pattern, began to move. Vectors—thin, nearly invisible lines of force—shot toward the enemies, but the goblins, experienced, scattered, not letting him catch them all at once.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Energy gathered in his legs—a smooth, natural flow. The energy control technique he was mastering required concentration, but he had learned to combine it with his vectors. Now his lines moved faster, more precisely, and each strike found its mark.
The first goblin collapsed before it could even cry out—a vector, accelerated by the technique, slit its throat before it could raise its spear. The second tried to attack from the side, but Rosh was already moving. His legs, obeying not so much his mind as months of practice, carried him out of the way, and a second vector, more powerful than usual, plunged into the enemy's chest.
The third and fourth attacked simultaneously. Rosh dodged one spear, parried the second, and used it to strike back. A short lunge—and the third goblin crumbled into white dust. The fourth tried to flee, but a vector caught it three steps later.
Rosh stood in the middle of the zone, breathing heavily, looking at what remained of his enemies. White dust slowly settled on the sand. He touched his left side—blood, red, crimson, stained his fingers. The wound was shallow, regeneration would handle it quickly.
*Third day,* he thought. *Only the third day.*
He gathered the leaves—there were about twenty—and moved on.
---
He met the evening at the foot of a low cliff. He didn't light a fire—in this world, fire was a luxury he couldn't afford. Too many guardians might come to the light. He just sat, leaned his back against the cold stone, and took dried meat and a piece of bread from the bag.
The food was bland, tasteless, but he chewed, feeling no flavor. His thoughts were far away—in the tower, where Ulvia, Datuk, and Sobra remained. He thought about how they were training now. Running the circles, practicing the technique, arguing about something. Datuk was probably grumbling again. Sobra snorting. Ulvia smiling.
*Friends,* he thought again, and the word no longer felt foreign.
He remembered Ulvia treating his wounds after the fight with the kobolds. Datuk, grumbling, repairing his daggers. Sobra, when going to sleep, always positioning himself closer to the exit—to protect them if danger came.
They had become his family. The one he never had.
Rosh closed his eyes. In the darkness, images surfaced—his mother, her screams, his father, who left without even saying goodbye. He pushed them away, like annoying flies. Not now. Not here.
*Tomorrow will be a new day,* he told himself. *New zones. New guardians. New leaves.*
He took the white stone from his pocket and ran his fingers over its smooth surface. A simple, unremarkable stone. But it reminded him that even in this white, lifeless world, there was room for beauty.
He tucked the stone away, pulled the bag closer, and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would be the fourth day. And the day after, the fifth. And so on until the seventh, when he would return to the tower. To them. To his family.
Rosh fell asleep, and for the first time in a long while, he didn't dream of nightmares.