Who had he apologized to? Oliver couldn't say. The words had left his lips instinctively, as though whispered to the air itself. He had no answer, and it unsettled him.
The wound on his body was closing, the torn flesh knitting itself back together as warmth slowly seeped into his limbs. The once-frigid cold that had threatened to consume him was fading, replaced by the sharp sting of pain. Oddly enough, he welcomed it. Pain, after all, meant life. Cold and numbness? Those were the harbingers of death.
Still, the recovery came with a price. The heightened sensitivity to the elements around him, the extraordinary clarity he had felt moments before, was ebbing away. The elements danced just out of reach again, as elusive as they had been before his injuries. He sighed inwardly.
His mind turned to the fight ahead. Recovery meant little if he couldn't figure out a way to defeat the enemy. No potion, no matter how potent, would save him if he didn't act decisively. He analyzed the situation, his thoughts racing as he considered the source of the enemy's resilience: the magic circle.
The earth beneath them thrummed with vitality, feeding the enemy's regenerative powers. Destroying the circle might cripple his recovery; but it wouldn't be that simple. The moment they attacked the circle, the enemy would intervene. And if they focused only on repelling the enemy, the circle would continue to sustain him.
Oliver frowned, or at least he tried to. His face felt stiff, unresponsive. The conundrum gnawed at him: how to neutralize both threats at once?
His thoughts wandered to the fire that had fallen from the heavens the day before. Its power had been immense, devastating. But relying on such a chaotic force was reckless. Could he even control it? And with so many allies nearby, could he risk the collateral damage? No, an attack of that scale was out of the question.
Precision was key. The blow needed to be decisive, crippling the enemy while sparing those around them. Yet, as he sifted through his options, nothing useful came to mind. Frustration bubbled within him, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. He didn't know if anyone else heard it or cared.
The swordsman's thoughts shifted. He had never been one for grand ideals of vengeance or glory. No, from the very beginning, his sole focus had been survival. Whether he was burying a rusty sword in the dirt or sharpening it for battle, whether he was starving in the wilderness or dining on a full stomach, the belief that he must survive had never left him.
But survival, he realized, was a tenuous thing. It was bound to his hatred like a rope around his leg. The moment that hatred faded, so too would his will to live. It was a sobering thought, but now? Now he had found something more.
---
The enemy, a young man who had been effortlessly deflecting every attack thrown at him, paused mid-strike. His sharp gaze caught sight of a figure sprinting in the opposite direction, a long sword slung across his back. He lowered his raised left hand and dismissed the runner with a bored glance. It wasn't who he was looking for.
---
Oliver's recovery was progressing faster than expected, though his state remained unnoticed by the enemy. Two allies were keeping the opponent occupied, buying precious time.
Ziggy, ever-pragmatic, decided to maximize the potion's effectiveness. Without hesitation, she tore Oliver's shirt open, exposing the cracked, bleeding skin beneath. The potent medicine seeped directly into the wounds, its effect immediate and visible.
As she worked, a small, leather-bound book slipped from the torn fabric, landing with a soft thud on Oliver's right hand. He reflexively caught it, his newly regaining sensation startling him.
The book was familiar, impossibly so. He recognized it as the one that had been flung free when the mountain exploded. Despite the incredible force of the blast, the book was largely intact, though its cover was frayed and barely clinging to the spine.
He turned it over carefully, marveling at its survival. His weak fingers twitched as he tried to grip it tightly. The movement sent a page fluttering free, its weight surprising him. A pang of guilt struck him. How could he have been so careless?
"Ziggy," he called softly, his voice tinged with regret. "Can you help me with this? It might be important."
Ziggy glanced at the scattered papers, her hands already moving to gather them. "What is it?"
"I don't know yet," Oliver admitted, clutching the book tightly. "But it survived the mountain collapsing. That has to mean something."
For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in his chest. Perhaps the book held answers, something to turn the tide. Perhaps it was more than just a relic of the past. It might very well hold the key to the future.
Before Oliver could even attempt to make sense of the situation, his attention was drawn to something unusual, a piece of paper that appeared to be part of a book cover. Its surface was rough and worn, with uneven handwriting scrawled across it. The words etched there seemed almost cryptic:
"The process of holy water transforming from elements to magic power takes place in the stomach and intestines. What is in the mouth is still an element."
Oliver stared at the text, his mind spinning. It was such a basic concept, something his teacher had drilled into him countless times. She had often urged him to carry holy water with him, insisting he would one day understand its true significance.
But he'd never truly appreciated her advice. Carrying holy water was cumbersome, and over time, he'd simply stopped bothering with it. Now, faced with the words again, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something crucial.
---
When Oliver and his group set out earlier that morning, they had moved swiftly, but their pace slowed with the size of their company. Traveling in a larger group was safer, but also slower. Chi Xinrui, moving ahead alone, had reached the destination far earlier than they did. By the time Oliver's group arrived, the sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows. It was nearing four in the afternoon when they encountered the young man who radiated menace.
Time ticked relentlessly onward, but for Oliver, it seemed to fold in on itself, dragging him backward through his memories.
---
Elsewhere, Rosa, Oliver's teacher, gazed up at the summer sky. The light lingered lazily, stretching the day as if reluctant to let the night take over. She noted the heat, oppressive and heavy, a hallmark of summer's rule.
Her thoughts drifted to the meteor she had seen streak across the heavens not long ago. It had been bright and fleeting, a flash of raw power that left an indelible mark on her mind.
"So," she murmured to herself, "this matter will end with something tied to a meteor."
To her, this wasn't idle speculation but a prophecy, albeit of a different nature than those from the stars. The Sun School's predictions often came not in vivid dreams but in sudden insights, unbidden and fleeting. Even the smallest, most fleeting notion could carry the weight of destiny.
But a single meteor wasn't enough. Its power alone couldn't defeat the enemy. She knew that much.
---
Meanwhile, Oliver's thoughts snapped back to the present. He turned to Ziggy, his voice calm despite the turmoil in his mind. "Did you bring any holy water?"
Ziggy raised an eyebrow but nodded. "I did. Why?"
"Just wondering," Oliver said, his tone nonchalant, though his mind churned with unanswered questions.
His body had regained some of its functionality, but his vision remained a blur. His wounds were healing, but the deeper injuries, those that had taken away parts of him, would take longer to mend.
---
Plamon rose unsteadily to his feet, every movement a battle against the unrelenting fatigue threatening to consume him. He could feel the effects of the blessings reaching their limit; his wounds had stopped healing. Worse, his opponent no longer bothered to block his attacks. Instead, the young man dodged effortlessly, waiting for the perfect moment to land a decisive blow.
Plamon clenched his fists, blood pounding in his ears. He understood the situation all too well. His strength and magic reserves were depleting faster than he could replenish them, while his opponent, sustained by the very land beneath their feet, remained almost untouchable.
And yet, he refused to give in. His heart beat like a war drum, driving him forward. Desire burned within him; a primal, unyielding need to see someone, anyone, match him. No rules, no restrictions. Just a fair fight.
---
Oliver, however, wasn't focused on the battle. He mulled over his teacher's words, dissecting them in his mind. Something about the phrase on the book cover nagged at him, as though it were dangling the answer just out of reach.
"The process of holy water transforming from elements to magic power takes place in the stomach and intestines. What is in the mouth is still an element."
Holy water. The absence of magic. His current inability to use magic power. His mind clicked.
It wasn't about the magic; it was about the elements. The absence of magic power didn't equate to the absence of elements. His teacher had always stressed the importance of holy water, and now he understood why.
His eyes widened as the realization struck him. What he had missed was so simple, so obvious, yet so profound. The potential had always been there, hidden in plain sight.
"Of course," he whispered, a newfound clarity lighting up his face. This wasn't just about magic. It was about transforming what already existed into something far more potent. He had uncovered a secret so fundamental that others likely overlooked it entirely.
Now, he just needed to put it into action.