Ariel returned to the makeshift campsite in the dimly lit slums, the scent of smoke and the faint hum of distant conversations lingering in the air. By the flickering fire, the old raider was stooped over a simmering pot, methodically stirring its contents with a calm precision.
"Back so soon?" the old man asked without looking up, his focus unwavering.
Ariel hesitated for a moment, his thoughts carefully measured. "That man," he began, his tone cautious, "is he, by any chance, a criminal?"
The old raider's hand stilled. He lifted his gaze to meet Ariel's before methodically removing the pot from the iron stand. His movements were deliberate, exuding a sense of practiced ease
"Do you know what this is?" the old man inquired, his voice steady but probing as he gestured toward the pot.
"It's… a potion?" Ariel replied, uncertainty lacing his words.
"And what kind of potion might it be?" the old raider pressed as he poured the liquid into a flat metal container, its shifting hues glinting faintly in the firelight.
Ariel's brow furrowed as he studied the peculiar substance. "I don't know," he admitted, glancing back at the old man. "I've never seen a potion of this hue before."
Why is he asking me this? Ariel wondered, his thoughts tangled with unease.
"Would you drink it?" the old man asked abruptly, his hand hovering over the container as he activates his specialty.
Ariel straightened, his voice steady despite the suddenness of the inquiry. "Of course."
The old raider's lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile. "Why?"
"Because you're an alchemist," Ariel replied, though his voice betrayed a hint of doubt. He couldn't help but feel as though he were navigating a trap.
The old man chuckled softly, a sound more thoughtful than amused. "Ah, my mistake," he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a ring. "Then tell me this; would you drink anything an alchemist hands you?"
Ariel's brow furrowed as he mulled over the question. "No," he replied, his voice cautious. Is this some sort of mind game? he thought, suppressing his growing irritation.
With a faint smirk, the old raider extended his palm toward the ground. The ring on his finger began to emit a faint, ethereal glow. Moments later, three glass vials appeared, their surfaces glimmering in the firelight.
"Then why agree to drink this, knowing nothing of its content?" the old man asked, his voice calm yet sharp, like the edge of a blade.
"You're the leader," Ariel replied simply, his gaze fixed on the old man's practiced movements as he began filling the vials with the potion.
Once the task was complete, the old raider secured the vials with stoppers and, with another activation of his ring, vanished them into thin air. Holding the final vial aloft, he extended it toward Ariel.
"This," he said, his tone heavy with significance, "is an invisibility potion. For emergencies."
Ariel accepted the vial, its unusual color holding his gaze. An invisibility potion? That invisibility potion? His thoughts churned as he turned the vial over in his hand.
The old man stored the remaining items with a practiced gesture before breaking the silence once more. "Do you think I would send you after a criminal," he asked, his gaze sharp and unwavering, "alone?"
'This man and his infernal games,' Ariel thought, his irritation simmering beneath a forced, polite smile. "No," he replied curtly.
"Good," the old raider said, leaning back against the firelight's warmth. "You may go. Use it wisely."
Rising to his feet, Ariel slipped the vial into his ring and nodded. "Thank you, old man," he said, his voice tinged with both respect and exasperation.
The old raider watched him depart, a faint smile lingering on his face. His gaze then shifted to the small, weathered house nearby, its dilapidated walls barely holding against the chill of the night.
Hopefully, the child won't misinterpret our intentions, he mused, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. The irony of their encampment's proximity to the dwelling struck him as faintly humorous, though he said nothing more, allowing the night to reclaim its silence.
Once Ariel was far enough from the campfire's glow, he retrieved the vial from his storage ring, holding it up against the moonlight to examine its contents.
I've heard of such potions before, but this is the first time I've actually seen one, he mused, turning the vial between his fingers. The liquid within shimmered faintly, its color shifting subtly with each tilt.
Should I test it now? No… If the old man gave it for emergencies, then I should hold onto it. But what if I never get another chance to verify its effects? His thoughts wavered between curiosity and caution, the weight of uncertainty pressing against his mind.
Letting out a quiet sigh, he returned the potion to his ring and refocused on the task at hand.
As he roamed through the dimly lit streets of Luneford, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and distant smoke, a peculiar thrill settled within him. Unlike the monotony of typical scouting missions, this one carried an air of challenge.
Minimal details, a vast district, and the late hour working against me… Finding someone under these conditions is no easy task.
Seconds bled into minutes, minutes stretched into hours, yet not a single figure he encountered matched the description.
He observed workers making their weary journey home, their faces drawn from long shifts. Further ahead, a couple lingered in the shadows of an alley, lost in their own world.
This is getting me nowhere, Ariel thought, his expression shifting to one of mild frustration.
He exhaled sharply, glancing around the emptying streets. The realization slowly dawned upon him—he had been walking in circles for hours, yet the person he sought remained elusive.
Perhaps it's time to retrace my steps and reconsider my approach, he conceded, already plotting his next move.
---
After the commotion, Jim left the slums, completely ignoring their task.
"That cocky bastard," he said, looking at the blood from his finger that came from his nose.
As he wandered through the quiet streets, seeking both fresh air and a moment of clarity to process the recent turmoil, a sudden blur darted past him—so swift it seemed to slice through the night itself.
He hadn't even registered it with his eyes, though he had been looking straight ahead.
In an instant, he was thrown off balance, his body hitting the ground with a thud.
What the hell was that?
Dazed, Jim pushed himself up, the sting of his pride sharper than any bruise. He clenched his jaw—he couldn't simply let this go.
Fueled by a stubborn sense of defiance, he took off in the direction the figure vanished, chasing after the figure.
But the chase led him back to the camp nestled within the slums.
The fire still crackled. The same faces remained.
The air felt thick, tense, as Jim returned to the camp—and the scene before him only deepened his confusion.
A boy, no older than his late teens, lay sprawled on the ground. Ariel stood before him, expression unreadable. The old raider rested a firm hand on Ariel's shoulder, whispering something in a voice too low to catch. There was weight behind it—command, perhaps, or caution.
Jim approached one of the nearby raiders, keeping his voice low.
"What happened?"
The raider gave a shrug, eyes still flickering toward the boy.
"Not sure. Old Neil came out of that house with the kid, tossed him to the ground. There was a lot of noise before that—like a scuffle. Probably fought inside."
Processing the explanation, Jim's eyes returned to the teenager now rising to his feet, trailing after Ariel who had already turned back toward the house.
That's him.
When the old raider had first invited Jim to visit the underground arena, he reluctantly agreed. There was always something more pressing—his own body, battered and slow, needed honing.
Jim, unlike the others, had no grasp of magic. He had no affinity for arcane formulas or elemental spells. So he turned inward, training his body to its limits, driven by the humiliation and helplessness of the incident that had scarred him. It became his obsession.
Eventually, curiosity—or perhaps restlessness—led him to the arena.
He watched as usual, arms crossed, face stoic. Most fights were predictable. People stepped into the pit for the same reason: coins. Few truly sought the art of combat. To Jim, fighting wasn't about victory—it was about discovery. Growth. Every loss, a lesson. Every defeat, a new piece of knowledge.
He found joy not in overpowering an opponent, but in being pushed—battered, cornered, taught.
He had no teacher. No master to guide his fists or his footwork. Everyone around him relied on magic. He sought discipline from pain, understanding from failure.
One evening, as he stood in the shadowed alcoves of the spectator ring, a new match caught his eye. A small-framed teenager, darted around the arena, weaving in and out of the reach of a towering opponent.
Jim narrowed his gaze.
The boy wasn't using magic. Just speed, instinct, movement.
Branches erupted from the ground, the terramancer calling forth a wall of vines and roots. But the boy slipped past them like water, ungraceful yet oddly effective.
Reckless, Jim thought, gaze already shifting. A fool's bravado.
But then the ground trembled.
A massive tree exploded upward, bark spiraling, its roots lashing out.
Jim's attention snapped back.
A massive hand of bark and branch surged from the earth, wrapping around the teenager's entire body like a child seizing a toy. The arena seemed to still, dust hanging in the air as silence replaced the earlier roar of the crowd.
Jim observed with detached disinterest, eyes half-lidded.
That should do it.
He watched as the terramancer's creation held the boy aloft.
I hope you learned something, he mused inwardly, already turning away. Recklessness like that never lasts long.
But in the very next breath, reality bent.
There was no sound—no cry, no cracking bark—but in the blink of an eye, the giant hand shattered. It did not split, nor did it break. It exploded, as if something inside it had simply decided it no longer wished to be restrained.
Jim's breath caught.
What... just happened?
A wave of confusion rippled across the onlookers. Even the seasoned crowd grew hushed, eyes widening, unsure of what they had just seen. Beside Jim, Old Neil's eyes narrowed, a wry grin tugging at his lips.
"I told you," he muttered, voice low but steady. "There are people like him among them."
The teenager crashed to the ground with force, his frame skidding across the concrete before lying still. Jim's mind raced. Some kind of technique? Pressure point? Burst of raw strength? Whatever it was, it worked—and Jim could feel it in his gut: this was worth understanding.
He pushed past the stunned audience, cutting through the mass of stunned faces and murmuring voices. He had to see him—the boy. Throughout the match, the angle, the movement, the chaos—he hadn't once caught a clear view of the teen's face.
But just as he reached the edge of the platform, a pair of guards lifted the limp form and turned away.
"Wait!" Jim barked, but his voice was drowned in the post-battle commotion.
He stood there, shoulders rising and falling with frustration, as the crowd slowly returned to life. When he returned to his companions, his face was shadowed with regret—until Neil approached, smug satisfaction resting easily in his expression.
"Interested now, are we?" the old raider asked, voice teasing.
Jim didn't answer. He didn't have to. His silence was answer enough.
"Don't worry, lad," Neil continued with a knowing nod. "I plan to recruit him."
They moved to the bar area, the smell of stale ale and pipe smoke filling the air. Beers were fetched, glasses clinked, and laughter bubbled around them. But Jim remained quiet, brooding, eyes distant.
Then—movement.
A small figure passed nearby, carrying an unconscious man slung over one shoulder. At first, Jim barely registered it. His thoughts were cloudy from drinking, his attention dulled.
But the old raider called out to the youth, tossing him a coin. As the figure turned slightly, heading for the elevator, the flickering light caught the face of the unconscious boy.
Jim's heart skipped.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came. The world spun, a drunken haze rose up to meet him, and before he could take another step, darkness claimed him.
---
As the guy disappeared into the house, Jim's mind clung to the image—that back, firm and steady, vanishing into shadow.
He remembered now.
Due to the earlier conflict with Ariel, Jim found himself unable to approach the guy inside the house—not while Ariel stood on his side. The tension between them still lingered like the residue of a fresh wound, and Jim knew that stepping forward now would only ignite another confrontation.
Then, with a faint exhale and a half-hearted scoff, he turned his back on the scene.
There'll be another time, he told himself, walking away from the camp.
Jim usually trained his body in the stillness of midnight, when the world was quieter and distractions faded into the dark. It was during those late hours that he pushed himself the hardest, where every breath and muscle strain echoed the resolve he had carved from pain.
So, naturally, he figured that by the time he returned, whatever conversation or business Ariel and the guy were engaged in would have concluded.
Let them finish their talk. I'll bide my time, he thought, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the shadows of the night, the cool air brushing past his skin like a silent challenge.