The Crimson Mist felt thicker than usual that morning, as if it had woken in anger. Even inside the cathedral, its suffocating opacity dimmed the weak natural light, bathing the cracked walls in a sinister hue.
Arion stood silently in the grand hall, gripping a crude knife in his hand. His breath fogged faintly in the cold air. Kheron, floating a few steps away, watched him with his spectral, unwavering gaze. His lance, embedded in the stone floor, glimmered faintly with blue light.
"Today," Kheron began, his deep voice carrying through the silence, "we return to the basics of combat. A blade does not forgive, and neither do your enemies."
Arion nodded. His knife was not an impressive weapon: a simple, dulled blade salvaged from the ruins. Yet, in his hands, even this worn object could become an extension of his determination.
The training began with simple movements. Arion lunged forward in a series of rapid strikes, slicing the air around him. Kheron observed his every movement, his blue flames flickering softly.
"Keep your wrist loose," Kheron instructed. "If you force it, you'll tire your arm and lose precision."
Arion adjusted his grip and resumed his strikes. The knife cut through the air with greater fluidity this time, and Kheron gave a faint nod of approval.
"Now," Kheron continued, "imagine that every movement is a flow, a river. Combat isn't a series of stiff, disconnected motions—it's a dance."
Kheron gestured sharply, and suddenly, his spectral lance slashed toward Arion. The boy leaped back, barely avoiding the blow.
"Don't just dodge," Kheron commanded. "Your enemy won't retreat. Counter."
Arion narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, aiming the knife toward the blue flames where Kheron's heart would have been. The specter shifted effortlessly, sidestepping the attack before countering with another strike. This time, Arion parried with the back of his blade, a dull clang echoing through the cathedral.
"Good," Kheron said, his tone impassive. "But remember: every mistake could be your last. Again."
After hours of grueling training, Kheron finally relented.
"That's enough for combat today," he said. "Now for your next lesson: survival."
They left the cathedral through a concealed side passage, navigating narrow alleys cluttered with rubble. The Crimson Mist encircled them, vibrant and alive, reacting to their presence like a predator circling prey.
"In a world like this," Kheron began, his voice steady, "knowing how to fight isn't enough. If you can't feed yourself, hide, or bide your time, you'll die." He gestured toward a stagnant pool of water, its surface dark and tinged with crimson. "This water is poisoned. But if you're patient, you can make it drinkable. Watch."
He hovered a hand over the pool, and a faint blue energy radiated from his palm. Slowly, dark particles began to rise from the water, leaving it marginally clearer.
"If you can sense mana," Kheron explained, "you can purify water like this. It's not perfect, but it will keep you alive."
Arion crouched by the pool, staring at the water as if trying to unravel a secret. "How do I sense mana?" he asked.
Kheron turned toward him, his spectral form towering and imposing. "Mana flows naturally through the blood of most humans. It's an instinctive energy, like breath. But you…" He paused briefly. "You're different. Your body doesn't work the same way."
Arion frowned. "Why?"
"Because your nature is closer to that of a spiritual being. Your blood isn't enough. You must forge energy circuits, pathways within yourself, like I use as a specter."
Arion stared at him, his mind grappling with the idea. He'd always known he was different, but this felt like a confirmation of something far greater.
"Show me," he said at last.
Kheron inclined his fiery skull slightly. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Picture your body as an empty sea."
Arion did as he was told. The ambient sounds of the Mist and the ruins around him faded into silence. In the void of his thoughts, he sensed it—vast, empty, and waiting.
"Do you feel it?" Kheron asked, his voice soft but commanding. "That emptiness? That is where you will build your circuits. Start with a single point. A spark."
Arion furrowed his brow, focusing. Slowly, a faint warmth flickered in the center of his being. It was tiny, fragile, like the first spark of a flame. But it was there.
"Now," Kheron instructed, "guide that spark. Imagine it as a stream, and carve its path through you. Let it flow."
Arion concentrated, his breathing uneven. He tried to stretch the light, to draw it into motion, but every time he did, it flickered and threatened to vanish.
"It's too hard," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"It's meant to be," Kheron said calmly. "But you don't have the luxury of giving up. Your circuits won't build themselves."
Determined, Arion steadied his breathing and tried again. He envisioned a thin thread of light extending from the spark, weaving its way through his body. Slowly, he felt a faint warmth spreading—a tentative current coursing through a barren landscape.
"Good," Kheron murmured. "Keep going."
The spark wavered again, but Arion held it steady this time. He traced its path carefully, carving his first energy circuits* Each new pathway demanded immense focus, as if he were etching a fragile design into glass.
When Arion finally opened his eyes, his chest heaved with exhaustion. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his muscles trembled slightly.
"I did it," he whispered. "I think."
Kheron approached, placing a spectral hand on the boy's shoulder. "You've laid the foundation. But the work is far from over. These circuits will need to be strengthened, expanded, and harmonized. Each day, you must retrace them until they become as natural as breath."
Arion nodded, despite his fatigue. A glimmer of pride shone in his crimson pupils. He had always known he was different, but now that difference felt like a strength waiting to be realized.
"That's enough internal work for now," Kheron said. "But before night falls, I want you to attempt something practical."
He led Arion to an overgrown courtyard outside the cathedral, where a broken fountain trickled a thin stream of cloudy water. Kheron gestured toward the fountain with his lance.
"Use what you've built. Feel your mana, and apply it. Try to purify the water."
Arion stepped forward, focusing again on the spark within him. This time, it felt stronger, more accessible. He extended his hands over the water, imagining his mana flowing outward. A faint golden light flickered at his palms, unsteady but present.
The water briefly cleared, its murky hue fading, but then the Mist crept back, reclaiming it. The golden light in Arion's hands faltered, and he stumbled back in frustration.
"I couldn't do it," he said, his voice low.
Kheron raised a hand, his tone firm but not unkind. "No, but you saw what's possible. That's enough for today."
Back in the cathedral, Arion collapsed onto his makeshift bed, his body heavy with exhaustion and his mind racing with thoughts. He stared at his knife, tracing its edge with his finger. Every lesson, every step he took in this cruel world, brought him closer to something he couldn't yet define. But he knew one thing: he didn't want to just survive. He wanted to understand this world, to master its secrets—and, someday, to change it.
From the shadows, Kheron stood watch as always. "Rest," he said. "Tomorrow, we continue. The Mist never sleeps, and neither can you afford to."