The city streets seemed to stretch endlessly before Oliver as he continued his solitary search for supplies, his senses ever alert for the next threat that might emerge from the shadows. Each step echoed with a haunting reminder of the desolation that now characterized the world he once knew. The skyscrapers, once bustling with life, now stood as hollow sentinels against the ashen sky, their windows shattered and their walls scarred from battles fought and lost.
Oliver's heart ached with the weight of solitude. Isabella and her brother had been more than comrades in arms; they had been his lifeline, the threads of humanity that kept him grounded in a world spiraling into chaos. Now, with their absence a constant void beside him, he felt untethered, adrift in a sea of grief and responsibility.
He pressed on, drawing on reserves of strength he scarcely knew he possessed. The encounter with the mare had left him drained, his limbs heavy and his mind clouded with fatigue. Yet, he knew there was no alternative but to continue. Survival demanded it.
The next few hours were a blur of cautious movement and silent scavenging. Oliver's pack grew heavier with the essential supplies he managed to scrounge from the ruins of the once-vibrant city. He found canned goods, bottled water, and a sparse collection of medical supplies—bandages, antiseptics, painkillers. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him going for a while longer.
As evening descended, casting long shadows that melded with the debris-strewn streets, Oliver found a small, relatively intact building to take refuge in for the night. He barricaded the door with a few pieces of broken furniture, knowing it would only buy him a few precious seconds if something decided to break in. Exhausted, he sank to the floor, resting his back against the wall.
He allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, but sleep eluded him. The events of the past days replayed in his mind, a relentless montage of loss and struggle. The system's notifications still lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a stark reminder of his growing powers and the responsibilities they entailed.
"Thor's lightning control," he muttered to himself. "One point ten percent."
The progress was minuscule, a drop in an ocean compared to what he needed. But it was progress nonetheless. He knew that mastering Thor's powers wouldn't happen overnight. It would require time, practice, and a resilience he wasn't sure he possessed.
"I don't have time ," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the dim light. "I don't have time."
The next morning, Oliver awoke to the sound of distant thunder. The sky outside was overcast, heavy with the promise of rain. He gathered his belongings, took a deep breath, and stepped back out into the world. The air was thick with humidity, and the first few drops of rain began to fall, dotting the ground with dark spots.
Oliver's journey through the city continued in much the same manner as the day before, each step taken with caution, each alley and abandoned building explored for anything useful. His thoughts were a constant swirl of strategy and sorrow, his mind trying to balance the immediate need for survival with the long-term goal of mastering his newfound abilities.
As the afternoon wore on, he stumbled upon an old library. Its façade was crumbling, the once-grand entrance now a mere shadow of its former glory. But something drew Oliver inside. Perhaps it was the lingering hope that amidst the ruins, he might find some forgotten piece of knowledge, some scrap of wisdom that could aid him in his quest.
Inside, the air was musty with the scent of decaying paper and damp wood. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stood like silent sentinels, their contents scattered and disordered. Oliver moved cautiously through the aisles, his fingers brushing against the spines of books whose titles had long since faded.
It was in the back corner of the library, buried beneath a pile of debris, that he found it: an old, leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age. Curious, he opened it, the delicate paper crackling under his touch. The handwriting was neat, meticulous, and as he began to read, he realized that it was a record of someone who had lived through similar battles, who had faced creatures like the jotnar and the mare.
The journal chronicled the experiences of a warrior, someone who had not only survived but had learned to harness their powers with a mastery that Oliver could only dream of. There were detailed descriptions of battles, strategies for facing different types of creatures, and most importantly, insights into the use of lightning control.
As the rain continued to fall outside, Oliver sat in the dim light of the library, absorbing every word, every piece of advice the journal had to offer. The sense of foreboding that had weighed so heavily on him began to lift, replaced by a renewed determination.
He might be alone in this fight, but he wasn't without resources. With each passing day, he would grow stronger, smarter. He would learn from the past and prepare for the future. And one day, he would be ready to face the darkness with the full force of Thor's lightning.
Closing the journal, Oliver stood and slipped it into his pack. The road ahead was long and fraught with danger, but now, he had a map to guide him. And with that, a flicker of hope reignited in his heart, propelling him forward into the storm.