The morning sun kissed the treetops, casting long shadows across the wide dirt road that led to Whitevalley Town. Birds chirped their greetings to the day, swooping low over the plains in search of a meal.
Dew clung to the grass, weaving glistening webs that sparkled in the early light, painting a scene of untouched beauty. The world here felt calm—an ecosystem at peace, undisturbed by tragedy.
But then came footsteps.
Soft but steady, they startled the feasting birds. Wings fluttered, and the creatures took to the skies, scattering from the approaching figure.
A boy, young and painfully thin, walked stiffly along the road. His emerald eyes were dull, clouded by fatigue and sorrow. His blond hair was matted with dirt, and his once-fine clothes—like his boots—were soiled and worn.
This was Michael Aurelius.
The last surviving heir of Velmara City.
He knew he looked like a mess, but he didn't care. After spending over half a month alone in the wilderness, Michael was beyond exhausted—both physically and mentally.
Even with his orange rings, he'd been nearly powerless against the forest's beasts. His only knowledge of magic was limited to chore-level spells, and he had yet to truly adjust to his newfound strength. Every day had been a struggle.
With no means to fight, hiding and fleeing were his only options. He snatched sleep in short bursts whenever safety allowed, always waking with one eye open.
He had thought surviving the mana-scarred lands had been difficult. But this? This was worse. At least in those lands, there were no beasts… and he didn't have to constantly fear being hunted.
What made things worse was that the monsters weren't only beasts.
He had encountered slave traders during his journey—men he had initially mistaken for law-abiding travelers. If not for his sharpened instincts, he would've been taken, sold into a lifetime of misery before his life had even begun.
Battered and bruised, the boy pressed on, driven by a single goal:
Whitevalley Town.
Michael raised his head and squinted, shielding his eyes from the sunlight cresting over the horizon. In the distance, a large stone wall rose against the backdrop of rolling hills—imposing, yet beautiful. A symbol of safety.
His heart surged. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. For the first time in weeks, hope felt real.
He had made it.
Before he even realized it, his legs were moving. He broke into a run. Every step sent pain jolting through his tired limbs, but he didn't stop. His vision blurred as tears streamed freely down his face.
He cried as he ran—releasing every ounce of pain he had buried deep inside. The last few weeks had been the darkest of his short life. He had lost everything that mattered to him. He had endured fear, suffering, hunger, and solitude.
Most ten-year-olds would have given up.
Michael almost had, too.
The only thing that kept him going was the burning need to avenge his mother.
But even that drive felt distant now. All that mattered was reaching the gates.
He was at the end of his rope. Exhausted. Spent. Hollow.
"Halt!"
A sharp voice cut through the air. A mage stood ahead, dressed in a tight-fitting white and black robe. He raised his left hand, prepared to cast at a moment's notice. Three glowing orange rings circled his wrist—proof of his strength.
Michael slowed, breath ragged, body trembling from exertion. He staggered to a stop and bent over, hands braced on his knees as he gasped for air.
"State your business, boy."
Michael lifted his head, eyes drifting to the badge pinned to the mage's chest—a magic circle set between two mountain peaks.
He recognized it instantly.
He had seen it before, in his tutoring sessions back at the City Lord's estate.
Thank the gods… I've made it to Whitevalley.
Michael opened his mouth to answer, but the world tilted. His vision swam, and a crushing wave of exhaustion surged over him. Darkness closed in before he could say a word.
He collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, unconscious at the city gates.
Perhaps it was the sudden relief after weeks of fear and survival—but his body had finally reached its limit.
"Tch. What the hell is wrong with this kid?" the mage muttered, clicking his tongue in irritation.
"He looks like a scrawny brat from the slums," another said with a sigh. "Check for a slave mark. He might've escaped from someone."
"Eh? I don't want to touch him—he's filthy."
Despite their complaints, the junior mage was eventually pressured into inspecting the boy. Grimacing, he crouched down and grabbed Michael by the collar, tugging at his ragged clothes in search of the telltale sigil that marked slaves.
"Hmm? Nothing?" he said, surprise creeping into his voice.
"Check his wrists. Some traders avoid branding the neck—it ruins the aesthetic of their 'product.'"
The young mage sighed and reached for Michael's right sleeve, rolling it up with a grunt. His movements froze for a moment as his eyes landed on something unexpected: a simple, worn ring wrapped around the boy's finger.
He quickly turned his back to his superior and tried to slip the ring off, biting his lip in frustration as it refused to budge.
"What's wrong?" his superior asked, narrowing his eyes.
"N-Nothing!" the junior mage replied quickly, muttering a curse under his breath. With clear irritation, he let the boy's hand drop, the failed theft souring his mood.
"Hurry up and check his other wrist. We've got merchants arriving from the south soon."
"Yes, sir," the man grumbled.
Roughly, he pulled back Michael's left sleeve—but stopped cold.
He didn't find a slave brand.
He found something else entirely.
Two audible gasps broke the silence—one from the junior mage, the other from his superior. Both stared in stunned disbelief.
Etched into the boy's wrist were three glowing orange rings. Dim, yes—but unmistakably there.
The junior mage stumbled back a step, voice catching.
"H-He's… he's an Ember Mage!?"