A week passed beneath a sky that seemed to stretch forever. The forest fell away behind them, replaced by rolling fields and the occasional crumbling stone wall. John could feel the weight of the days behind them: each night a campfire, each morning a little less tension in Tamara's shoulders, and each evening a little more trust in the way she looked at him.
By the time they reached the village, the sun was dipping low. The place was small—roofs sagging under the weight of time, villagers' eyes wary of strangers. When they stepped into the inn, the innkeeper—a rotund woman with a mischievous twinkle in her eye—looked them up and down.
"One room?" she asked, her voice lilting with amusement. "A cute couple like yourself doesn't come here often."
John felt the tips of his ears heat up, but he managed a dry smile. "Two rooms will be fine."
Tamara just rolled her eyes, though there was a faint smirk on her lips. "We'll pay the extra, thanks."
Once settled into his own room, John finally had a moment of quiet. He sat by the small wooden table, the alchemy book laid open before him. Its pages shimmered in the lanternlight, each diagram of herbs and vials sketched with a precision that felt almost alive.
He ran a finger along a recipe for a weak healing potion. Lightwort, Fireroot, and a pinch of powdered horn from a low-level beast. Simple enough, but it still felt like trying to learn a new language.
He exhaled and closed the book. Tomorrow, he'd look for the ingredients. For now, he let the soft glow of the Lumibear cub's fur lull him into a light doze.
---
Morning came with the bustle of the village market. John and Tamara moved from stall to stall, trading the spider eyes, wolf claws, and bear hide he'd stored in his ring for pouches of dried herbs and a few empty vials and Tamara found a sword to use. The shopkeeper only raised an eyebrow at the glowing cub but took their coin without question.
As they left the market, a group of rough-looking men appeared, blocking their path. This was their first encounter with the bandits, and their smirks made it clear they were used to getting what they wanted.
"Well, look who's wandered into our little corner of the world," one sneered. "Think you can just flash a bit of coin and walk away?"
John's eyes narrowed. He didn't need a spectacle. He simply let a faint shimmer of Light ripple across his skin, a quiet but undeniable warning. The bandits' bravado faded instantly, and they muttered curses as they backed away and fled.
It was only after the bandits had gone that the
The old man's cane clicked softly against the cobblestones as he stepped closer. His robes were worn, his hands thin and gnarled, but his voice carried strength.
"You handled them well," he said, nodding toward the alley where the bandits had vanished. "Those men have been bleeding this village dry for months. You've done us a kindness."
John gave a small nod. "Didn't do much. They ran before it came to that."
The elder smiled faintly. "Sometimes strength doesn't need to be used to be seen. But you've only cut the tail. The head still lives."
Tamara folded her arms. "The leader?"
The elder's eyes dimmed. "A cultivator, like yourselves—only his Light has soured. He rules from the ruins east of here, an old place older than the merging. He and his men raid caravans, take what they want, kill those who resist. The villagers have stopped sending patrols. Anyone who goes near never comes back."
John's brow furrowed. "If he's a Light cultivator, then why is he still here, terrorizing a village? What's the point?"
"Power rarely needs a reason," the old man murmured. "Sometimes it's enough just to have it. But for the rest of us, we must live with the consequences."
Tamara looked away, her expression hardening. "You want us to deal with him."
"I want you to survive him," the elder said softly. "If that means killing him, then perhaps the world will be lighter for it."
He glanced at John, his old eyes sharp beneath the wrinkles. "Be careful when you walk toward power, boy. It always wants to keep you there."
Before John could reply, the man turned and began his slow walk back toward the village square, leaving them standing in the growing dusk.
The walk back to the inn was silent. The villagers gave them wide berth now, watching from doorways and shuttered windows. The faint glow from Ember's fur was the only light between them.
Inside, the innkeeper had set a pot of stew on the fire. She greeted them with a warm smile.
"Hungry "
"Something like that," he said, sliding a few coins across the counter.
Tamara motioned toward the stairs. "I'll get some rest. Try not to blow yourself up with those potions."
He smirked. "No promises."
John's room was quiet save for the steady crackle of the lantern flame. He laid out the alchemy book and the supplies he'd bought from the market earlier that day: dried Lightwort, Fireroot powder, a small flask of clear water, and a handful of cracked vials.
The manual's pages shimmered faintly, the script shifting as though alive. Each recipe looked simple—until he tried to follow it.
He measured the herbs carefully, added the powder, and channeled a small pulse of Light through his palm. The mixture hissed, bubbled—and exploded in a puff of acrid smoke.
John coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "Alright… maybe too much Light."
He tried again. And again.
Half an hour later, his table was littered with cracked vials, burnt residue, and one—only one—successfully mixed potion. A faintly glowing red liquid swirled inside a bottle no bigger than his thumb.
[Weak Healing Draught]
Heals shallow cuts and bruises. Efficiency: 47%
He turned it in his hand, the soft light reflecting in his eyes. "Not perfect," he muttered, "but it's a start."
Ember yawned from where it lay curled on the bed, the creature's soft glow washing the room in gold.
John sat cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes. The memory of the elder's words clung to him—be careful when you walk toward power.
He inhaled deeply, feeling for the faint warmth at the center of his chest where the Light Core pulsed. Each breath seemed to pull the world a little closer, the faint hum of the Light resonating against the quiet rhythm of his heart.
It wasn't power yet. It was potential—something fragile, uncertain, and painfully slow to grow.
But it was his.
He exhaled and opened his eyes.
Outside, thunder rolled softly across the distant plains. Tomorrow, they would go to the ruins. Tomorrow, they'd see what kind of man twisted Light into darkness.
For now, the only sound was the faint crackle of the lamp and the slow, even breathing of a sleeping bear cub.
And John, for the first time in days, felt something close to calm.