Date: October 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The mist swirled around him, thick and milky, hiding the horizon and turning the world into an endless, faceless void. Rosh stood in the center of that void, breathing heavily, and his blood—red, crimson—dripped onto the white sand, mingling with the white dust left from the slain Warriors. His clothes were in tatters, in several places the fabric was soaked with blood and stuck to his skin. His left arm, which he used most often to block attacks, was numb, and his fingers barely obeyed.
Three Pillars surrounded him. Their crimson, ethereal bodies shimmered in the mist like hot coals, and each radiated an oppressive, heavy presence that made the air around them tremble.
The first Pillar, which he had pierced with a vector at the start of the fight, lay at his feet, slowly crumbling into white dust. Three remained. They were in no hurry. They studied him. Waited for him to make a mistake.
*They're smarter than they look,* Rosh thought, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. The wound on his left side throbbed, his forearm burned, and the deep gash on his thigh still oozed blood. Regeneration was working, but slowly—too slowly for this pace of battle. He needed a break, but the enemies wouldn't give him one.
He gripped his daggers tighter. The hilts, covered in notches, settled comfortably in his palms. The artifact blades glowed dully in the diffused light. Vectors—thin, almost invisible—flickered around his fingers, but he didn't rush to attack. The energy control technique pulsed in his legs, ready to launch him forward or sideways. But it wasn't enough. There were three enemies, and each was a Pillar. In a normal fight, he could handle them, but after the skirmish with fifteen Warriors, his strength was nearly gone.
*I'll have to use what I've been saving,* he decided.
Rosh closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness, images flashed—Ulvia, smiling at him before he left. Datuk, slapping him on the shoulder. Sobra, nudging him with his nose. They were waiting for him. They believed in him. He couldn't let them down. Not now. Not here.
*I won't let them down.*
He opened his eyes. The energy in his legs, previously even and calm, suddenly flared—not in an explosion, not in a burst, but in a deep, powerful flow that rose from his feet to his knees, from his knees to his thighs, from his thighs to his chest. The energy control technique was now working at full power. His body became lighter, faster, and every movement now required less effort.
But that was only the beginning.
Rosh raised his hands. His fingers began to move, tracing vectors, but this time the movements were different—smoother, faster, more complex. He wasn't just creating lines of force—he was weaving the energy control technique into them. The energy from his legs rose higher, to his chest, his shoulders, his hands, and the vectors, fed by this energy, glowed brighter, became denser, faster.
This was what he had learned. Not just to use the technique to accelerate himself. To use it to accelerate his vectors. Now his lines moved twice as fast as usual, and each carried the power to cut through stone.
---
The first Pillar attacked. Its appendages traced a deadly arc, aiming for his head, neck, chest. The air whistled, sliced by sharp edges. Rosh didn't dodge. He met the attack with his vectors.
The lines of force, accelerated by the technique, moved faster than ever. They severed the appendages, cut off the blades, and the Pillar, not expecting such speed, froze for a moment. Its crimson body jerked, white dust gushed from the wounds, and it tried to retreat, but it was too late.
That moment was enough.
Rosh lunged forward, and his legs, obeying the technique, carried him straight to the enemy. The dagger in his right hand plunged into the Pillar's chest, piercing its ethereal flesh, while a vector released from his left hand severed its throat. White dust gushed from the wounds, and the creature crumbled without even a cry.
*One.*
---
The second Pillar attacked from the flank, using the moment when Rosh hadn't yet regained his balance. Its appendages, longer than the first's, aimed for his legs, trying to trip him. The blades scraped across the sand, kicking up white clouds.
But Rosh was ready. He didn't retreat. He jumped—not up, but sideways, using the technique for a sharp lateral dash. Mid-air, tumbling head over heels, he released three vectors at once. The lines of force, accelerated by the technique, pierced the enemy's body in three places simultaneously—the chest, the stomach, the throat.
The Pillar grunted—a strange, gurgling sound—recoiled, and its appendages hung limply. White dust gushed from the wounds like a fountain. Rosh, landing on the sand, didn't give it time to recover. He closed the distance in two bounds and finished the enemy with a short dagger thrust to the base of its skull.
*Two.*
---
The third Pillar, the largest, with the longest appendages, was in no hurry. It stood a few paces away, its crimson body pulsing in time with its heart—slowly, heavily, threateningly.
*It knows I'm dangerous,* Rosh thought, wiping blood from his face. Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with dried blood, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision.
He didn't wait. Rosh attacked first, his vectors, accelerated by the technique, shooting toward the enemy. But the Pillar was faster. It sidestepped with unexpected agility, and the lines of force pierced empty space, kicking up a cloud of white sand. In the same instant, its appendages crashed down on Rosh.
Rosh dodged the first strike, the second, the third. He moved like a shadow, slipping away from the blades at the last moment. But the fourth appendage got him. The blade grazed his right shoulder, leaving a deep, ragged wound. Blood sprayed, soaking his sleeve, and Rosh, roaring with pain and fury, kicked the enemy in the stomach.
The kick was powerful—the energy control technique amplified it several times over. The Pillar grunted, stepped back, and Rosh, using that moment, closed the distance.
The daggers in his hands moved faster than ever. The technique accelerated not only his legs and vectors but his strikes themselves. He struck without pause—at the chest, the shoulders, the appendages. Every blow found its mark. The Pillar retreated, bleeding white dust, its appendages, stripped of blades, flailing uselessly in the air like broken wings.
The final blow landed on its head. Rosh put all his remaining strength into it. The dagger sank into the creature's skull up to the hilt, and the Pillar, without even a cry, collapsed onto the sand and crumbled.
*Three.*
---
Rosh stood in the middle of the white wasteland, breathing heavily, looking at what remained of his enemies. White dust slowly settled on the sand, and in this light, in this silence, was something that made his heart beat more steadily.
He had won. Four Pillars and fifteen Warriors—and he had prevailed. His vectors, accelerated by the energy control technique, had proven their power. But the price was high. His body was covered in wounds—deep gashes on his left side, forearm, thigh, right shoulder. Blood flowed, but regeneration was already beginning its work, and the pain gradually subsided. He felt the edges of the wounds drawing together, muscles knitting, his body restoring itself.
*I need to gather the leaves and leave,* he thought, looking around.
He bent down to pick up the silver leaves scattered around. There were about thirty—a good addition to his stash. His fingers, still trembling after the battle, struggled to hold the slippery leaves. He put them in the bag, trying not to look at his bloody hands.
The mist around him began to thin, but not disperse—it seemed to be waiting for something. The air grew even heavier, and the cloying smell intensified. Rosh felt a chill run down his spine. Something was wrong. Something was approaching.
He froze, listening. His vectors, calm after the battle, flickered around his fingers again, ready for a new strike. The energy control technique in his legs also activated—just in case.
And then, from the depths of the mist, came a sound.
It wasn't the screech of the creatures. Not the rustle of sand. Not the whisper of wind. It was footsteps. Soft, almost inaudible, but Rosh caught them—his senses, sharpened by the technique, were working at their limit.
The footsteps approached. Slowly. Inexorably.
Rosh slowly straightened, turning toward the sound. His heart beat faster, but not from fear—from a strange, aching premonition. Something about those footsteps, their rhythm, their weight, was familiar. Too familiar.
The mist parted, and a figure emerged from its white depths.
A woman. Short, thin, with long dark hair that billowed in an unfelt wind. Her clothes were white, like everything in this world, and she hovered above the sand, not touching it with her feet. Her face was pale, almost transparent, and her eyes—black, empty, without pupils—stared directly at him.
Rosh recognized that face.
It was older than in his memories. The wrinkles were deeper, the gaze heavier. But he recognized it. Because he saw it every time he closed his eyes. Because it haunted his dreams. Because this face belonged to the one who gave birth to him, who cursed him, who beat him for looking like his father.
He heard a sound behind him and, turning, saw the one he hadn't expected to see here—his mother.