A peculiar hush had settled over the third-floor office of the tavern, a silence broken only by the faint, sputtering hiss of the kerosene lamp casting long, dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The air was thick with the smell of old wood, dust, and a faint, metallic tang that seemed to permeate everything in this world. John the Minotaur shifted his considerable weight, the wooden floorboards groaning in protest. In the flickering, amber light, the coarse hair on his arms seemed to glow, and his single, large eye was fixed on the man lounging across from him.
The man, Harry Potter Michael, sprawled in a salvaged armchair that had seen better centuries, looked entirely too casual for the conversation at hand. He idly tapped a finger on his knee, his expression a mixture of impatience and thinly veiled curiosity. He'd demanded knowledge, the secrets of what passed for power in this broken land, and John, loyal and ponderous, was assembling his thoughts with the slow, deliberate care of a stonemason.
"Lord," John began, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "The Aura... it is not a thing that is found. It is a thing that is... grown." He spoke carefully, choosing simple words, explaining the foundational truth known to every would-be fighter in the Wasteland. It started with the body. Relentless grinding, pushing the flesh and bone to a threshold where it became a vessel, capable of sensing the invisible energy—the Aetherium—that drifted, thin and elusive, in the very air. Then, and only then, came the breathing. A specific, controlled rhythm of inhalation and exhalation designed to draw that energy inward, to guide it to a point deep within the core, just below the navel. A place the old tales called the Crucible.
"The goal," John continued, his thick finger tapping his own lower abdomen, "is a seed. A spark of concentrated will and energy. If the spark catches... you have the gift. If not..." He shrugged his massive shoulders, a gesture of fatalistic acceptance. "Then not."
With that seed, a warrior could nurture it. They could pull in more of the ambient Aetherium, feeding the spark until it became a steady, manageable flame. In battle, this internal flame could be summoned. It might wreathe the fists in a barely visible shimmer, lending the strength to shatter rock, or coil around the legs, granting the speed to outpace a scuttling Rad-Scorpion. John himself had used it, a fleeting surge of power that had kept the ogre Zach's crushing blow from turning his own ribs to powder.
He explained the tiers, the rudimentary rankings understood by the survivors. A novice who'd just kindled their spark was a Initiate. Himself, a Second Rank, could manifest a more substantial, tangible enhancement. Beyond that were whispered ranks—Third, Fourth—beings of legend who could, it was said, project their Aura as a shield against the chattering guns of the Ancients. John's own grandfather, a pure-blood Minotaur of the Fourth Rank, had been such a warrior. He'd died, John added with a grimace, not in glorious battle, but torn apart by a pack of feral Ghouls on a routine scavenging run. Such was the Wasteland.
"And the spark," John finished, his voice dropping. "It is... choosy. For ten who try, nine find only emptiness. They are the Unlit."
A long silence followed, broken by a sharp, exasperated sound from Michael. "Blimey," he muttered, slumping back into his chair and running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "All that just to get started? It's a bit much, innit?"
The chasm between the description and his own reality was laughably vast. The 'relentless grinding'? His post-university years of irregular sleep, cheap takeaway, and frantic sales calls had left him with the constitution of a soggy paper bag. Even with the curious, invigorating side-effect of his portal jumps, the idea of whipping himself into anything resembling a "vessel" was a project of months, if not years. A part of him, the part that had been a lowly, scraping salesman, quailed at the sheer effort. But a newer, more arrogant part, the part that had walked between worlds and been called 'Lord', snorted in derision. A chosen one, barred from a party trick like this? Preposterous.
A cunning, corner-cutting thought emerged. He leaned forward, a speculative glint in his eyes that John had come to recognize—and mildly fear. "John. Let's be practical. There must be a shortcut. A... faster ignition method. Something that doesn't involve me spending the next year doing push-ups. A way to get the seed planted, say, tonight. So I can get on with the actual work tomorrow."
John's reaction was immediate and telling. His broad face, usually so stoic, contorted into a mask of profound discomfort. He looked away, his horns seeming to droop. "There... is a way, my Lord," he stammered, the words dragged from him reluctantly. "But it is... uncertain. Costly."
"Out with it, man," Michael pressed, his voice sharpening.
"The Seeding," John blurted out, then lowered his voice as if the shadows might be listening. "A warrior of the Second Rank or higher... they can force a spark. They pour a portion of their own Aura into the Crucible of another, trying to ignite a response. It is a... violation of the natural order. The success rate is low. Three in ten, perhaps. And the giver... it leaves an emptiness. A weakness that can last for seasons. Without good food, rest... the giver's own flame may never burn as bright again."
Ah. So that was the hesitation. It wasn't just about the act; it was about the devastating recovery. The man was worried about his future, about being left weakened and vulnerable in a world that punished weakness without mercy. Michael felt a flicker of understanding, quickly overshadowed by his own driving need. He needed this power, and he needed it now. Promises were cheap.
"John," Michael said, his tone shifting to one of magnanimous authority. "Do it. Seed me. Whatever the outcome, your loyalty will be rewarded. During your recovery, you will want for nothing. The best food from my... reserves. Clean water. And I will bring you something special from my travels. Something to speed your healing. You have my word."
The promise of "something special" did the trick. John's resistance crumbled, replaced by a look of grim determination. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion.
The ritual was absurdly simple in its setup. Michael lay back on the lumpy sofa, staring at the water-stained ceiling. John knelt beside him, his calloused, enormous hands, warm and rough, pressing against Michael's soft abdomen. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, John grunted, a sound of intense concentration.
A soft, buttery golden light began to emanate from the Minotaur's skin. It was faint, like the glow from an old incandescent bulb, but it was unmistakable. Well, that's a handy feature,Michael thought with a flicker of absurdity. Then he felt it. A warmth, seeping through his shirt, through his skin, a rivulet of liquid heat that bypassed flesh and fat, diving deep into his core. It gathered in the spot John had indicated, a point that seemed to physically opento receive the energy.
The warmth became a heat, then a distinct, uncomfortable burning sensation. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, following John's earlier, hurried instructions. He focused his mind, trying to ignore the alien feeling, to imagine gathering the invading energy, to coerce it into a stable point. It was like trying to clutch smoke with his bare hands. The energy swirled, chaotic and rebellious.
Minutes stretched. The flow of heat from John's hands began to falter, becoming intermittent. Michael could hear the Minotaur's breathing becoming ragged, labored. Through his closed eyelids, he could sense the golden light flickering, dimming. A cold knot of disappointment tightened in his stomach, entirely separate from the heat in his belly. It was failing. He had drained his most loyal fighter for nothing. The grand plan was already slipping, delayed by his own physical inadequacy.
And then, something shifted.
Behind his eyes, in the darkness of his own mind, the familiar emerald pinprick that was his gateway to another world suddenly whirled. It spun with a frantic, dizzying speed it had never shown before. As it spun, tendrils of pure, vivid green light, finer than spider silk, unraveled from its edges. They streamed downward, through the intangible pathways of his body, a silent, emerald comet tail aimed straight for the struggling knot of golden energy in his Crucible.
The effect was instantaneous and profound. The chaotic, rebellious energy, which had been on the verge of dissipating, was suddenly seized by an invisible, impossibly precise force. The green tendrils didn't add to it; they organizedit. They wove through the golden Aura, braiding it, compressing it with an efficiency that was almost cruel. In the space of a single, shocked heartbeat, the swirling maelstrom was gone. In its place sat a tiny, brilliantly hot, and perfectly stable point of light. A seed. It pulsed with a gentle, rhythmic warmth, a miniature sun now permanently resident in his core.
John, oblivious to the internal miracle, gave one final, shuddering push of energy and then collapsed backward, his hands falling away. He was drenched in sweat, pale beneath his fur, breathing in great, gulping rasps. The office was dark again, save for the single lamp. He looked like a man who had run a marathon while carrying a truck.
But he had felt the success. "It... it is done, my Lord," he gasped, staggering to his feet. "The seed... it holds. You must... feed it. Draw the Aetherium. Slowly." He stumbled toward the door, his strength utterly spent.
As his hand touched the rough wood of the doorframe, Michael's voice stopped him. "John. This Aura. This... technique. Does it have a name?"
John paused, leaning heavily against the frame. "A name?" he repeated, his voice thick with exhaustion. "The old ones... they just called it the Foundational Combat Aura." And with that, he shuffled out, leaving Michael alone.
Foundational Combat Aura.The name itself was brutally utilitarian, devoid of any grand poetry. It spoke of a beginning, a base, something common. It was, Michael supposed with a wry smile, exactly what he should have expected.
He didn't move from the sofa. Instead, he shifted, pulling his legs up beneath him, settling into a cross-legged position. He closed his eyes, shutting out the gloomy office. He turned his attention inward, past the fatigue, past the lingering shock, to that new, impossible point of heat in his center. He remembered the breathing pattern John had described—a slow, deep inhale, a hold, a controlled exhale.
He breathed in.
And on the air, carried on the dust and the decay, he felt it. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer. A energy that was not heat, not light, but something else entirely. It was the Aetherium. And as he breathed, a few, scant motes of it were drawn into him, trickling down to that waiting, hungry seed.
It was a beginning.