Darkness.
It had been days since the hunt, but the storm had not relented. The world outside remained hidden behind an endless veil of white, the wind howling with ceaseless fury as if winter's unyielding grasp had swallowed the very land itself. Time had lost its meaning within this frozen prison. Day and night had blurred into one indistinct void, and without the sun or stars to mark their passage, Elyn could not say whether it was morning or midnight.
The only light came from the flickering glow of candles, their flames dancing unsteadily, casting elongated shadows against the rough wooden walls. The house groaned in protest against the blizzard's relentless assault. Every now and then, a heavy creak would echo through the dim interior—timber bending, shifting under the weight of ice and wind. Yet, none of it disturbed him. The sound had become a distant murmur, barely registering in his mind.
Elyn sat in his room, motionless.
A chair, placed close to a broken, patched window, bore the weight of his weary frame. The edges of the glass had been hastily repaired with thin wooden slats and strips of cloth, yet the bitter cold still seeped through, biting at him. Beyond the fragile barrier, the storm raged on, thick snow flurries descending in an endless cascade. He watched, silent, as the world beyond the glass remained shrouded in white, his crimson eyes tracking the chaotic dance of falling snowflakes.
The weight of his injuries pressed against him like an unseen force. Layers of cloth wrapped around his body, each inscribed with healing seals of his own making. They worked—partially. The dull ache beneath them was a reminder that their effectiveness was limited. Local herbs had been crushed into the wrappings, their alchemical properties aiding in the slow, painful process of mending his wounds. But it wasn't enough.
Each bandage bore a deep stain of blood, drying into dark patches that told the story of the battle that had nearly taken his life. The pain was a constant companion, dull in some places, sharp in others. He would need to change the wrappings again soon.
With slow, deliberate movements, Elyn reached for the edge of the bandage wrapped around his side. The rune-inscribed cloth had done its part, but now it was time to remove it. His fingers trembled slightly as he began peeling it away, the dried blood causing it to stick to his wounds. A sharp jolt of pain surged through him, and he bit down on a piece of cloth to stifle the groan threatening to escape. His breathing turned ragged, each breath measured as he endured the sensation.
The fabric came away gradually, revealing the angry, partially healed wounds beneath. The sigils had burned faint marks into his skin, remnants of their magic. He exhaled slowly, blinking away the haze of discomfort before setting the bloodied wrappings aside. The pain was sharp but bearable. It had to be.
His fingers twitched slightly as he exhaled, shifting his posture in the chair. The movement pulled at the deep gash along his ribs, and a slow burn flared through his side. He ignored it. The pain was something he had already accepted. Chosen, even.
Albert had potions. Intermediate ones—better than nothing. He had used one on Elyn when he had first carried him away and Elyn had relented to keeping it for emergency use. But now? Now he was alive. He could endure this much. That was enough.
Money was not the issue. He could send Albert to Velinora to acquire high-grade potions, but the risk was too high. Velinora was not a place to move in, not yet. And besides, he needed those resources for the future. For the path he had already chosen.
As his hand moved instinctively to adjust the bandage at his neck, his fingers brushed against something rough—scar tissue. His eyes flickered toward the small, dust-coated mirror propped against the far wall. The reflection it cast was warped, but even in the dim candlelight, he could make out the deep mark running across his face.
His breath remained even, his posture relaxed—yet something within him was not at ease. The storm did not bother him. The cold did not reach him. The sound of the house shifting, the distant howling of the wind, even the faint lingering ache of healing wounds—none of it stirred a reaction. And yet, something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, an unseen weight pressing down on him.
His fingers lightly traced the worn armrest of the chair, the rough texture grounding him in the present.
When he first awoke in this world, disoriented and burdened with a fate he never asked for, the system had seemed like a lifeline, a beacon of hope. But that illusion shattered quickly. The system was no divine gift, no omnipotent force granting him untold power. It was only a basic tool different from the one from the novel. And tools alone did not forge legends; they merely assisted those who could.
His only path forward had been the Mystic Nights, a distant goal that might as well have been a dream. The distance between him and that future stretched endlessly, filled with trials he had never anticipated. On the way somehow he had believed himself to be the chosen one, the protagonist of some grand tale—an illusion of importance fed by arrogance. But the fight had changed everything. It had been a harsh awakening, stripping away his delusions and forcing him to confront a cruel truth: he was nobody.
Yet, deep within him, that fragile ego still lingered. It had taken root over years of hardship, whispering to him that he was meant for something more. Even in suffering, even in failure, it had given him purpose. But now, he saw it for what it was—both a strength and a flaw. His arrogance had blinded him, his self-importance had led him astray, and worst of all, he had viewed Albert as nothing more than a stepping stone.
Albert—the old man who had saved and guided him. Albert, whose presence had become a constant in his journey. The realisation hit like a blade to the gut. He had seen Albert as a tool, but the truth differed. The old man was a person, just like him. Flesh and blood, suffering, enduring, surviving. This world, for all its fantasy, was not a place of grand destiny—it was brutal, unforgiving, and deeply flawed.
A new, unfamiliar weight settled in his chest for the past few days. A gnawing, quiet pain. He had watched Albert, seen the lines of exhaustion on his face, the quiet burden he carried, and it stirred something within him. A dull ache, a recognition of another's suffering beyond his own. His curse of chains, his struggles, his pain—none of it was unique. None of it made him special. And that, more than anything, was what truly unsettled him.
More than once, he had considered abandoning his ambitions. Staying here, hunting, surviving—not chasing the unreachable. It would be easy. The temptation was real. But deep inside, something refused. A part of him still yearned, still clawed for something greater.
His mastery of runic sorcery was crude at best—a mere scratching of the surface. What he could create was unstable, dangerous, and tainted by the corrupted mana that hung in the very air. And yet, he had wielded it recklessly, mistaking blind experimentation for progress. Looking back, he saw the folly in it—the arrogance of believing that trial and error alone would lead to mastery. He had played with forces beyond his comprehension, thinking himself a pioneer, when in truth, he had merely been lucky.
Luck had carried him far. But without Albert, luck would have abandoned him long ago. He would have died—ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times over.
The storm raged on outside, but for the first time in a long while, clarity settled in his mind. He had a long way to go. The path ahead was uncertain, dangerous, but this time, he would not walk it blindly.