Valen stood in knee‑deep, foul water.
"So this is the river?" he muttered. "Feels more like a swamp."
Murky water hid everything beneath its surface. Anything could be lurking there—from scaled river crocodiles and venomous snakes to the oversized catfish beasts mentioned in the Academy bestiary. Each slow step stirred up dark silt that curled around his boots like grasping fingers.
Half‑dead trees jutted from the water at twisted angles, their bark blackened and peeling. Moss and pale fungi clung to their trunks like infections. The air was thick, warm, and wet; every breath dragged the stench of rot and stagnant mud into his lungs. It smelled like a graveyard left to ferment—sour, damp, and faintly metallic.
Amber studied her pocket‑sized map as they slogged forward. "Be grateful I managed to secure this from my seniors," she said. She glanced up, gauging distance through the grey mist. "Without it, crossing this marsh would have taken an entire day."
"But this shortcut is dangerous." Valen shifted, feeling something slick slide past his boot before darting away. Spirits moved poorly through water; the interference disrupted their cohesion. Iris and the three auxiliary constructs could not scout effectively here.
"According to the map, there should be a dry path that way." Amber pointed ahead, doubt flickering in her eyes. "Though with the recent rains, I doubt it will be truly dry."
"At least we can rely on sight," Valen said. "Assuming the fog will be charitable."
After several minutes of trudging, they reached marginally higher ground where the water only covered their ankles. The change in depth was barely noticeable, but it felt like a blessing.
The smell, however, grew worse. Pockets of gas bubbled up now and then, popping on the surface and releasing sharp, eye‑watering fumes. Mosquitoes swarmed them in hungry clouds.
"Here," Amber said, fishing a small tin from her bag. "Repellent salve. I remembered the stories."
They smeared the pungent cream over their hands and faces. The biting insects buzzed close but veered away at the last moment.
A sudden shift of movement tugged at Valen's attention.
A large swamp python launched itself from beneath a rotting tree stump, jaws gaping wide.
Amber's saber flashed. One clean arc—and the head separated from the body, splashing into the water. The decapitated serpent thrashed in reflex before going still.
Valen waited for the corpse to settle, then extended his hand. A translucent grasp of mana plunged into the water, prying loose the faintly glowing Core Crystal from within the python's chest.
"Rank 1," he noted, dropping it into his pouch.
The sun sagged toward the horizon, a pale disc blurred by fog and low cloud. Perhaps half an hour of true light remained. Mist thickened between the dead trees until distance dissolved into grey.
They moved now by faith in Amber's map and compass more than sight.
Something surged from the mud and clamped around Amber's ankle.
She reacted on instinct—kicking hard, twisting, and leaping back. Mud sucked at her boot as she tore free.
A skeletal hand, caked in black muck, groped blindly where her leg had been. With a wet sucking sound, an armored figure hauled itself upright from the marsh—a skeleton knight, its bones stained dark, rust‑eaten armor fused to its frame. A cracked helm covered its skull; two pinpricks of corpse‑light burned where eyes should be.
The knight swung a heavy axe straight at Valen.
A wedge‑shaped barrier materialized between them, angled like a shield turned into a ramp. The axe struck with a dull, jarring thud. The barrier did not shatter. The blow slid along the slope of the wedge and deflected harmlessly past Valen's right side, sending the skeleton a step off balance.
Impact redirection works as intended, Valen observed.
The undead recovered with unsettling fluidity for a creature without flesh. It shifted weight, stabilizing itself like a veteran fighter, then raised its free hand. Frost gathered around its fingers—the pattern of an Ice Breath spell forming.
Before it could release the spell, a second barrier snapped into existence—this one enclosing its casting arm in a tight translucent dome. Frost burst against the inside of the barrier, harmlessly contained.
"As one draws close to a mage," Valen said calmly, "it is easy to believe distance favors the warrior. In truth, the mage's control over his domain only grows stronger."
He doubted the skeleton had enough brain remaining to appreciate the lesson.
He reinforced his right leg with hardened mana, wrapping foot and shin in the same barrier material, then drove his kick into the knight's waist. Bone cracked; the undead staggered sideways.
Amber darted in. Mana flared around her fist, forming a glowing gauntlet. Her punch slammed into the skeleton's jaw. The skull snapped back, helm denting, and the whole body toppled into the shallows with a splash.
Valen extended Mage's Hand again and lifted a dark, faintly pulsing crystal from the remains.
"Master, that is a Soul Crystal," Iris said in his mind, her tone delighted.
"An unexpected harvest," Valen replied. Useful for later.
Not far from where Valen and Amber trekked through the swamp, another drama unfolded in the mist‑shrouded forest.
Raylan, Marcus, and Elara stood in a rough triangle, backs nearly touching, facing off against five figures wearing mismatched armor and dark cloaks. Metal glinted beneath ragged cloth. Symbols sewn inside their collars, visible up close, marked them as members of a Dark Guild.
Dark Guilds were not simply mercenary groups. They were structured bands of criminals who ignored laws, hunting people as readily as monsters. Some among them used Core Crystals harvested from humans and other protected races—devouring compressed essence meant to be returned to the Cycle, forcing rapid growth in spirit power at the cost of corruption and sanity.
One of the Dark Guild's Rank 2 warriors—a large man with corded muscles and a nose that had been broken more than once—punched Marcus hard in the gut.
Marcus flew backward, armor scraping bark as he collided with a tree.
"Marcus!" Elara shoved her own opponent aside with a burst of wind and dashed to his side. She caught him before he fell, uncorking a potion and pressing it to his lips.
He coughed, swallowed, and struggled back to one knee.
"Hahaha!" The big man's laugh boomed across the clearing. "You Academy brats are softer every year." His eyes gleamed with ugly amusement. "We come here every hunting season, you know. Best time of the year."
Minutes earlier, these men had worn friendly smiles.
They had stepped out of the fog in formation, claiming to be a registered guild party that had lost its bearings on the way to Worm Outpost. Their leader—a gaunt middle‑aged man with sharp eyes—had spoken smoothly, proposing they travel together for safety.
Raylan had hesitated, but the offer seemed reasonable. Their aura signatures aligned with Rank 2 and 3, nothing overwhelming, and the leader had kept his mana tightly restrained.
So the trio had agreed.
The betrayal came at a natural choke point—a narrow corridor where thick trees pressed close and twisted roots formed unstable footing. The path ahead bottlenecked between two fallen logs, forcing them into single file.
Raylan had stepped forward to scout the passage when killing intent erupted from behind.
A blade had missed his spine by a hand's breadth only because the ghost in his Ghost Catcher screamed a warning at the last possible moment.
Now, that same ghost's voice grumbled in his mind. Told you they smelled wrong, boy. Should have listened.
You said that after we joined them, Raylan thought back bitterly.
The Rank 4 leader stood further back on slightly elevated ground—watchful, arms folded, staff planted by his side like a banner. He did not bother to involve himself yet. The Rank 3 mage beside him provided long‑range support, casting binding and disruption spells when openings appeared. The three Rank 2 fighters engaged the trio directly, toying with them like cats with trapped birds.
Raylan's chest burned from a near‑miss fire spell. Elara's shoulder bled where a blade had grazed past her guard. Marcus's breathing was ragged.
At this rate, we will be ground into paste, the ghost said. Its tone had lost its usual mockery. There is one way out, but it will demand much.
Raylan's grip tightened around the Ghost Catcher in his hand—the dream catcher‑shaped artifact humming with contained power. "Tell me."
I take over, the ghost said. Just for a short while. I burn what remains of my essence to force an opening. You and your friends run. But in return, you will fulfill my last wishes.
"L‑last wishes? Now?" Raylan parried a strike, barely. "Can this not wait?"
It has already waited years, the ghost replied. I want my bones properly buried. My family protected. And revenge upon my killer.
Raylan hissed as a blade clipped his arm. "Fine. Just—do not let them die."
Agreed.
Spirit energy stirred within the Ghost Catcher, testing the boundaries of its seal.
Back on his vantage point, the Rank 4 leader scanned the foggy expanse of swamp and forest with practiced ease.
"Anything?" he asked the mage at his side.
The Rank 3 mage-with hollow cheeks and cold eyes—raised an enchanted monocle to his face. The glass glowed faintly as he invoked the long‑distance sight spell
"Two signatures," the mage said after a moment. "Northeast. Moving slowly. Rank 1 each, but…" His brow furrowed.
The leader cut him. "Distance?"
"About two kilometers. Perhaps a bit less."
The leader smiled, thin and sharp. "Then we clip the extras before they even know a hunt has begun."
He tapped his staff and pointed it toward the distant swamp.
"Do not waste time with theatrics," he said. "End them quickly."
The mage inclined his head. Mana gathered at the tip of his staff, slow and deliberate at first, then faster as he wove multiple rune circles into existence—one nested inside another. Instead of a simple fireball, he constructed a layered spell: an outer shell of compressed flame, an inner core of volatile gas, and a thin stone casing to hold them together until impact.
When the final rune locked into place, the mage flicked his staff.
The projectile streaked into the sky like a falling star in reverse, vanishing into the clouds before arcing down toward the swamp.
"Master," Iris said sharply in Valen's mind, "incoming spell. High‑temperature, large radius. From the northeast."
Valen did not hesitate.
He stepped to Amber's side and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. With his free hand, he traced rapid runes in the air. Mana surged out of him in layered waves, forming a dome around them—a barrier of interlocking plates, each plate braced against the next.
"Valen?" Amber's voice trembled. The swamp gas hissed softly around them.
"Do not move."
The sky above them flared orange‑white.
The spell struck the swamp a short distance away.
For an instant, there was silence—just a point of impossible light, small and concentrated.
Then the world ignited.
The compressed heat shattered the stone casing and ripped through the unstable gases lurking just beneath the marsh's surface. Blue‑green flames roared outward in a chain reaction, racing along the water as pockets of gas detonated one after another. Fire rolled across the swamp in a burning tide, devouring mist, trees, and anything unfortunate enough to be caught in between.
The shockwave hit Valen's barrier with a deafening boom.
The outermost layer fractured immediately, cracks spider‑webbing across glowing plates before they shattered like glass. The second layer flared, absorbing the bulk of the energy. The third rippled, but held.
Inside the dome, the air heated sharply but remained breathable.
Amber squeezed her eyes shut and pressed herself against his back, instinctively hiding behind him. For a heartbeat, she felt like a child again, standing too close to a ceremonial bonfire that had suddenly burned out of control.
If this shield fails, we die, she thought, fingers clenching on Valen's cloak. Rank 1 mages have no business surviving something like this.
But the barrier did not fail.
When the flames finally subsided and the roar faded into a distant crackle, Valen allowed the dome to dissolve in stages, letting cooler air seep in.
Charred trees smoldered all around them. The murky water boiled in places, sending up gouts of steam. The swamp's foul smell had been replaced by the sharp tang of smoke and scorched mud.
Valen's expression remained calm, but his eyes were cold.
"It seems," he said quietly, "someone has decided to hunt students."
"From that far away?" Amber whispered. Her hands were still trembling slightly. "Who could—"
"Iris?"
"I have the trajectory," Iris replied. "Source located on higher ground to the northeast. Multiple mana signatures. The one who attacked is likely Rank 3."
"Good." Valen adjusted his cloak. "Let us return the greeting."
On the ridge, the gaunt mage peered through his enchanted monocle, expecting to see nothing but scorched ruin where the Rank 1 signatures had been.
Instead, he saw two standing figures in the clearing smoke.
The young man's cloak fluttered in the heated air, intact. The girl stood just behind him, unharmed.
The mage blinked, adjusted the monocle, and checked again.
"They survived," he breathed. "My spell connected directly, and they—"
The leader's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. Either your aim has grown poor, or that boy is not a mere Rank 1."
"I hit the exact coordinates," the mage snapped, stung. "He erected a barrier strong enough to endure the blast and the gas ignition. Multiple layers, from what I can tell."
Before the leader could respond, a flicker of mana tugged at the edge of the mage's senses.
He turned his sight spell back toward the clearing.
The boy was casting.
Amber watched as Valen raised both hands slightly, fingers spread.
The ground around them responded.
"Stay behind me," he said. "And do not step forward. The footing is unstable now."
He extended his awareness through the earth beneath the shallow water, feeling the scattered stones and buried roots. With precise transmutation, he coaxed several fist‑sized rocks out of the mud, lifting them into the air. They hovered in a slow circle before him.
Next, he shaped one of the stones.
Runes of compression and spiral motion etched themselves across its surface in faint lines of light. The rock softened at the edges, turning partially molten, then hardened again—like cooled metal forged under invisible hammers. Thin grooves spiraled from base to tip, forming rifling.
Above it, another construct took shape: a barrel formed from transformed stone, reinforced with layered barriers along its interior. A crude cannon, born from swamp mud and mana.
Simultaneously, Valen wove a triad of Force Runes, each compressed to the limit his Rank 1 core could safely sustain. He felt the strain—that fine, brittle edge where power and collapse met—but held steady.
"Mana circulation at eighty‑nine percent of safe threshold," Iris reported. "Do not exceed ninety‑five."
Noted.
Amber watched, wide‑eyed, as the cannon lowered itself, aligning along an unseen line in the distance.
"Can you even hit anything from here?" she asked, voice hushed.
"If their mage can see us," Valen said, "then our lines of fire are already connected."
He slotted the prepared projectile—a dense, rune‑marked stone bullet—into the barrel. The Force Runes locked into place behind it, ready to detonate.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Then he fired.
The explosion was not loud so much as deep—a concentrated boom that punched through the humid air. The cannon belched light and steam. The projectile tore free, spinning along its spiral grooves, wrapped in invisible pressure that howled as it broke the sound barrier.
Trees between them and the distant ridge blurred as the bullet passed, bark splitting from the compressed shock wave alone.
On the ridge, the mage felt something terrible bearing down on him.
Every instinct he possessed screamed at once.
He snapped a barrier into place—a quickly woven shield of overlapping circles, the sort that had shrugged off many desperate counterattacks over the years.
The projectile hit.
The barrier might as well have been parchment.
The stone bullet punched through his shield, through his chest, and out his back without slowing, leaving a gaping hole where his heart and lungs had been. It continued on, carving through two trees behind him and leaving neat, smoking tunnels before finally losing cohesion and crumbling into harmless shards.
The mage never even had time to scream.
He simply collapsed, staff falling from nerveless fingers.
For a moment, no one moved.
The Rank 4 leader stared at the corpse, then looked toward the distant swamp, where faint ripples of residual mana still hung in the air.
His pupils shrank.
"Retreat," he said at once. "Now."
"But the students—" one of the Rank 2 men began.
"If that was a Rank 1 spell," the leader cut in, voice like iron, "I have no intention of discovering what else he can do. Move."
His survival instinct, honed by years of walking the edge between profit and annihilation, shouted that this hunt had just turned into a massacre waiting to happen—with him as the quarry.
He turned and fled into the trees without a backward glance. The remaining Rank 2s exchanged a single look, then scrambled after him, abandoning the battlefield and their half‑finished prey.
Back in the choking haze of the earlier fight, Raylan felt the oppressive pressure of the Rank 3 mage's spells vanish all at once.
The ghost in his Ghost Catcher let out a low whistle. Well now. Someone out there is very angry and very talented. That was not my doing.
Raylan risked a glance toward the ridge and saw only scattered silhouettes retreating into the forest.
The ghost seized the moment. Boy. Now. Use that wind spell I showed you.
Raylan raised his staff, gathering air mana, and swept it in a sharp arc before him. A crescent of compressed wind roared out—not at the men themselves, but at the ground, trees, and undergrowth between them, tearing roots from earth and snapping branches.
Dust, leaves, and splinters exploded into the air, forming a blinding curtain.
"Run!" Raylan shouted.
Elara hauled Marcus to his feet, and the three of them plunged into the gap the spell had created, vanishing into the swirling debris and fog.
Behind them, one of the remaining Dark Guild men cursed and gave half‑hearted chase before the ghostly voice reached his ears—a whisper carried on lingering mana.
If I were you, it said, I would not linger. You are already abandoned.
That was enough.
The man spat, turned, and followed his fleeing leader.
Amber stared at the smoking cannon remains as the last of the recoil echoes faded.
"That…" She swallowed. "That was a Rank 1 spell?"
"Rank 1 mana," Valen corrected. "Creative application."
"Target destroyed!" Iris chimed in with a military tone. She really likes to roleplay.
Amber's hands had finally stopped shaking. She flexed her fingers once, grounding herself in the simple motion, then looked toward the distant ridge hidden by fog.
"Do you think they will come again?"
"If the leader is competent," Valen said, "he will not."
He dispelled the remaining constructs and adjusted his cloak. The swamp was still smoldering in places, but the worst of the heat had begun to fade.
"We should move. Others may investigate the explosion."
Amber nodded. She took one last look at the blackened water around them, then stepped to his side.
As they walked, the marsh slowly gave way to firmer ground.
Out in the forest, Raylan and his companions ran for their lives, unaware of the stranger who had just turned the tide of their battle with a single spell.