The orc's blood was mine. That was the hardest part. Or at least, that's what I told myself. But as I stared at the dark, thick liquid inside the vial, the weight of my situation settled in. The spell required an absurd amount of mana—more than I had ever used in my life. And if I attempted to cast it now? It would tear me apart before it even took effect.
I needed a solution. More mana. A way to store it, shape it, control it—or even borrow it if necessary.
Mana wasn't like a physical muscle you could train. It was like fire—burn too much, and you're left with nothing but ashes and ruin. But some people found ways around that. Artifacts. Rituals. Forbidden techniques that the magical academies refused to teach. If I was going to pull this off, I needed one of them.
As I traveled west, I asked around in filthy taverns and crumbling villages, listening for rumors, whispers of anyone who had once pushed past their magical limits. I got mostly nonsense—legends of long-dead mages, old folk tales about wells blessed by spirits. Fairy tales. Useless.
But then, I heared of A town, not far from here, where a "miracle worker" had set up shop. Someone healing the sick, mending wounds beyond any normal cleric's ability. The people called him a saint. Said he was curing everything and everyone. If that was true, he could be a serious problem.
If this so-called miracle worker was real, the king's reward would go to him. I wasn't about to let that happen. Either he was a fraud, in which case I'd expose him, or he was real, in which case… he needed to be eliminated.
I pulled my hood tighter ,the distant glow of the town barely visible in the dying light. One thing was certain—whether I found a liar, a healer, or something else entirely, I would make sure the prize remained mine