Marcellus stood still, his breath slow and deliberate, as he turned his newfound senses inward, navigating the labyrinth of his enhancements.
"The extent of my perception has expanded beyond the confines of a Sword Saint," he marvelled internally.
The potion had sharpened each of his senses to an Enhanced level. He could isolate these enhancements, choosing perhaps to hone his sight to spy a whisper of movement in the dead of night or to focus his hearing on the distant beat of a heart.
Marcellus extended a hand, his palm facing the void, and with a thought, a barrier sprung forth. "A ward? a barrier? or a Veil?" his inner voice intoned.
From a mere whisper of a shield encasing his body to an expansive dome, the barrier stood firm. And with the knowledge that it could act as a trap, he envisioned how it might ensnare a foe, a strategic advantage he would not squander.
Marcellus opened his eyes. They held no fear, only a quiet resolve. The potion's blessings were manifold, each a thread in the new cloak of power he now wore.
There were two main abilities a Hollowed had, one of them was called Auspex a discipline and Ranged Barrier.
Aulus, acting as both a mentor and a conduit of mysticism, laid bare the intricacies of the potion and the path Marcellus had embarked upon.
"You stand at the threshold of the Hallowed Pathway," Aulus began, his tone steeped in an almost ceremonial gravity. "Yet with each step forward, you must tread with respect for the delicate tapestry of existence—spirit, body, and mind. They are the pillars that uphold the very essence of your being."
Marcellus, still attuning to the heightened senses the potion bestowed, listened intently, his newfound clarity catching every nuanced inflexion in Aulus's voice.
"The triad of your existence must maintain harmony," Aulus continued, locking eyes with Marcellus to underscore his point. "Should you seek to hasten this process unduly by ingesting another potion prematurely, the balance could be disrupted."
Marcellus's mind sharpened to a razor's edge, envisioned this 'deviation'—a term that carried with it the weight of catastrophic consequence.
Aulus painted a stark picture: one of a being torn asunder by their ambition, a soul unmoored from the anchor of sanity, a creature twisted by the grotesque malformation of its nature, or worse, a traveller cast adrift in the void between worlds, a fate synonymous with death.
"The spirit, the body, and the mind are akin to a triad" Aulus elucidated with precision. "Each must be given time to adjust, to find its place in the wake of the changes you have undergone. This is the rule that must be respected—sequence eight, for the hallowed pathway, is called Revenant, I don't have the potion formula."
The gravity of the situation was not lost on Marcellus. He knew that the allure of power could be as intoxicating as it was perilous.
Aulus's cautionary tale served as both a beacon and a warning, a guidepost by which Marcellus could chart his course forward.
"Deviation," Aulus said, "is the antithesis of control. It is the unravelling of self. One might lose their grip on humanity, becoming a monstrosity driven by base instinct, or their essence could unravel, casting them into realms from which there is no return."
Marcellus nodded.
As Aulus finished his explanation, the silence that followed was not one of uncertainty but of acknowledgement—a silent pact between the master of mysticism and the acolyte.
With the heavy air of the room still echoing Aulus's words, Marcellus prepared to part ways.
He stood up, feeling the push and pull of his enhanced senses, attuned to the minutiae of existence in a way that he had never experienced before. The potion's effects were profound, altering the very fabric of his perception.
Marcellus could hear the distant hoot of an owl, sense the subtle shift of the breeze through the cracks of Aulus's home, and see the room in sharper detail than he deemed possible.
"Thank you, Aulus," Marcellus said, the words rich with genuine gratitude.
The night's work had been taxing, yet the reward was beyond the scope of mere silver or gold. "Your guidance will not be forgotten. I will heed your counsel and proceed with the caution it warrants."
Aulus nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his otherwise stoic features. "Remember, Marcellus, life is a tempestuous sea. Ride the waves with respect, and you shall reach distant shores. But take heed—disregard the storm's might, and you will find yourself swallowed by the abyss."
With a final nod, Marcellus turned towards the door. He stepped out into the cool embrace of the night, the darkness seeming less oppressive, more like a familiar shroud, an ally to conceal his movements.
As he made his way through the streets of Mythralis, the shadows danced at the edge of his vision, no longer mere absences of light but entities in their own right.
Marcellus took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the chilled air. He felt alive in a way that was foreign yet exhilarating.
He felt strangely calm.
With the blend of Aulus's wisdom and the strength of Hollowed coursing through him, Marcellus embraced his new reality.
The whispered warning, "That is him, he is coming," brushed against his heightened senses like the flutter of a moth's wing against the night.
Echolocation—an aspect of Auspex—bloomed within his mind, revealing the world in a symphony of silent echoes.
With a faint smile curving his lips, Marcellus slowed his pace, a sense of anticipation building within him.
The Sequence of a Hallowed bloomed, its gifts unfurling like the first leaves of spring. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing the heightened acuity of his senses to map the world around him in ways he could never have imagined before.
The sound of his heartbeat became a steady drum, a rhythm he felt more than heard. Each beat sent out ripples, a sonar pulse that painted a vivid picture in his mind.
The presence of the seven men materialized within this mental landscape as clearly as if they were sketched in ink.
He could sense their positions, the tension in their bodies, the shallow patterns of their breath.
Thugs or pirates?
These were no mere thieves, Marcellus realized.
They were hunters, but this time, he was not the unwitting prey.
Their shadows cloaked in the dark crevices of the alley, their silent breaths and suppressed whispers as loud to Marcellus as a shout.
Their numbers were indeed greater, and Marcellus conjectured that they could be the remnants of the first group he had encountered—emboldened by their increased ranks, likely assuming that there was strength in numbers.
But they were unaware of the transformation that had just taken place within their intended target.
It was not fear or concern that sparked within Marcellus at this realization, but rather a sense of opportunity. He was not the same man who had previously let them go, assuming their intentions were rooted in desperation or petty crime. These men were organized, and they had laid a trap with him in mind.
The echolocation afforded Marcellus not only the vision of their immediate locations but also a deeper understanding of their intent. It was a tool that turned the darkness into his ally, stripping his adversaries of their element of surprise.
They were spread out, each hidden but unknowingly unveiled to Marcellus's new senses.
As he took a silent breath, readying himself for what was to come, Marcellus could almost taste the night air, each particle rich with the scents of Mythralis. He could differentiate the odours of the men hiding—the leather of their boots, the oil on their blades, the sweat of their anticipation.
A pulse of thrill went through him, a predator's grin splitting his face in the gloom.
They thought to ambush him, to capitalize on his supposed ignorance, but Marcellus was a step beyond, a shade among shades, a whisper that could not be silenced.
With strategic precision, he began to advance, the stones beneath his feet cold and sure.
Tonight, the hunters would learn what it meant to become the hunted, and Marcellus would be the one to teach them.