I woke with a start, the first rays of light were clawing over the horizon, casting an orange glow over the camp. The ground beneath me was cold and unforgiving, every inch of my body aching as if I’d been crushed under stones. Dew clung to my clothes, the damp seeping into my skin, chilling me to the bone. As I tried to sit up, bruises from yesterday’s battle screamed with each movement, reminding me of where I was.

Around me, the camp stirred with a quiet, relentless energy. Soldiers sharpened their blades, the scraping of steel filling the air. Mages murmured in low tones, barely sparing a glance at one another as they readied their spells. Each face was etched with lines, each movement a testament to years of violence. They all belonged here, molded by the brutality of a world I was only beginning to grasp.

A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. I looked up to see Roran, the soldier I’d fought beside yesterday. He handed me a chunk of stale bread and a battered waterskin, his expression unreadable.

“Morning, kid,” he grunted. “Get something in your stomach. We’ve got a long march ahead.”

I took the bread without a word, biting into it. It was tough and tasteless, a poor substitute for real food, I was beginning to really hate it. Thoughts of bacon and eggs lingered in my mind, and even though I’d only been away from how for a few days, it felt like years.

Around us, the dawn light gave the camp a washed-out look, casting harsh shadows that only made the soldiers’ faces look more hollow, more haunted.

“We’re heading into the Mourning Ridges,” Roran said, his voice low. “A cursed place. It’s where the rift opened years ago, and the land’s been rotting ever since. We’re about to step into hell.”

A chill prickled down my spine, but I forced myself to stand a little straighter.

“What exactly… are these creatures?” I asked, my voice cracking despite myself.

Doran’s gaze turned sharp, his eyes narrowing. “Darklings,” he said. “Spawned from the rift—a wound in the world that refuses to heal. They’re shadows with claws and teeth, creatures that hunger for life. They don’t just kill, they consume. And the rift keeps spilling them out. We’ve nearly lost everything. Holding on by a sliver.”

I nodded, letting his words sink into me. Darklings. Shadows given form, creatures driven by an endless hunger. Back home, the worst I’d faced were wild animals. But this… this was something born of nightmares. Fear curled in my gut, but beneath it, a spark of determination flared. I’d have to find a way to survive here, I had to get home—or die trying.

Roran’s eyes studied me a moment longer. “Where are you from, kid?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Just a small village,” I mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t pry. “Not used to… all this.” I gestured around, taking in the hardened faces, the soldiers preparing like they’d done this a thousand times.

Roran’s expression tightened, his jaw clenched. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

For a moment, his face twisted with something like disgust. “Fourteen? They sent a child out here?”

“I’m not a child,” I snapped, heat flaring in my chest. “I can hold my own.”

Roran let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Hold your own, huh? Prove it.”

Before I knew it, he was in front of me, a line of soldiers forming around us. They watched with hard, knowing eyes, their faces a mixture of amusement and pity. But I couldn’t back down.

I took a deep breath, falling into drifting breeze, the first form of my sword art. It was the foundation, the bare minimum of control and balance. My mana hummed beneath my skin, a faint, pulsing energy that sent goose bumps down my arms.

Roran’s mouth twitched with something like disdain. “Nice stance,” he muttered, then lunged.

His blade was a blur, faster than I’d anticipated. I barely shifted into Swirling Gust in time, sidestepping with a surge of mana, feeling my body respond with instinctual speed. But Roran didn’t let up. Each blow hit like a hammer, his attacks sharp and unyielding. I grounded myself in Rooted Oak, pulling on the form’s defensive stability to withstand his onslaught, but he slipped around my guard with terrifying ease.

One of his strikes caught me across the shoulder, and pain flared, hot and immediate. I bit down on a curse, shifting into Rising Gale and channeling a burst of mana into a powerful counter aimed at his midsection. But he dodged effortlessly, the edge of his mouth twitching in satisfaction.

“Not bad,” he said, voice cold. “But you’re barely keeping up.”

In a flash, he disarmed me, his blade resting against my throat before I could react. My heart hammered, the blade’s edge biting into my skin.

“You’re strong,” he murmured, his voice a harsh whisper. “But strength alone won’t save you out here. You’re holding onto something—let it go, or it’ll be the death of you.”

The words struck like a blade. In my mind, the shadow of my brother loomed, every expectation, every legacy that wasn’t truly mine pressing down like chains. Was I even fighting for myself? Or was I still just a boy trying to escape a shadow that would never let go?

I met his gaze, my eyes hard. “Then teach me,” I said, voice raw and desperate. “Teach me how to survive out here. How to be stronger.”

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For a moment, he just stared at me, unreadable. Then he nodded, the hardness in his face softening slightly. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But don’t expect mercy. Where we’re going… there’s a good chance none of us are coming back. Where in the end days now.”

He sheathed his sword and motioned for me to follow. I fell in beside him, ignoring the looks from the other soldiers. Some nodded with faint approval; others looked away. I didn’t care. I’d found someone who could teach me, help me get out of this twisted world and back home.

As we walked, Roran gestured toward the dark peaks of the Mourning Ridges. “That’s where the rift lies. Darklings spill out like an endless plague. The land itself is poisoned, and we’re the only thing keeping it from swallowing the world. But we have lost.”

His words sank into me, cold and final. With each passing moment I realised more and more that I needed to get out of here.

As we marched, Roran stopped me from time to time, kicking at my feet to fix my stance, adjusting my grip. Each time, he’d mutter, “Sloppy,” or “You’re too stiff. Flow with the movement, don’t fight against it.”

I practiced each correction, forcing myself through the exhaustion, every part of me aching. But I kept going, gritting my teeth as we trudged on, proving with each step that I wouldn’t break.

By nightfall, exhaustion lay over me like a shroud. We set up camp in a small clearing, the peaks of the Mourning Ridges dark and foreboding against the sky. I sank down by the fire, watching Roran as he sharpened his blade, his face lit by the flickering light. Around us, soldiers moved in silence, their faces set in hard lines, preparing for whatever came next.

“Get some sleep,” Roran said, his eyes never leaving the fire. “You’ll need it.”

I nodded, lying back on the cold ground, my hand resting on my sword. But sleep wouldn’t come. My mind churned with fragments of the day, of Roran’s words, of my brother, my mother and even my father. Out here, I was nobody. But part of me wanted this—wanted to forge something real but another part of me dreaded what come next.

Just as my eyelids began to grow heavy, a faint rustling reached my ears. Then the clink of armor, the sharp hiss of breath. My eyes snapped open, and I held my breath, listening. Another rustle, then a low, guttural growl from the darkness beyond our campfire.

Roran was on his feet instantly, his sword flashing in the firelight as his eyes scanned the shadows. Around us, other soldiers rose silently, their faces set, their bodies ready. Then, without warning, the night exploded.

Dark shapes burst from the trees, swift and silent as shadows with claws. Darklings—twisted forms with elongated limbs and eyes glowing an unholy red—rushed us in a frenzied wave, a living darkness intent on tearing through anything in its path.

I scrambled to my feet, drawing my sword, my heart slamming against my ribs. Roran was beside me before I could even process the movement, his blade already cutting down the first darkling, its shriek piercing the air as its body dissolved into dark mist, vanishing like smoke. The sound chilled me, but there was no time to dwell on it. Darklings were everywhere, closing in, their twisted forms writhing as they lunged for flesh.

“Stay close!” Roran barked, his voice rough and commanding. “Remember what I taught you—don’t overextend. Stay in control.”

His words hit like a slap. I forced myself into Drifting Breeze, grounding my stance, feeling the pull of mana stabilize me as I tried to let fear slip away. The chaos of the battlefield roared around me, every scream and clash of steel amplified, but I pushed it all down, focusing only on what was in front of me.

A darkling lunged, its jagged teeth flashing as it closed in. I shifted into Swirling Gust, sidestepping as I brought my sword down in a swift, precise strike. My blade connected, and the creature screeched, its form flickering before it disintegrated into mist. But before I could take a breath, another darkling replaced it, snarling as it clawed toward my face.

I felt my body tense, instinct pulling me into Rooted Oak. The defensive form held, grounding me like a rock against the creature’s assault. Its claws raked across my armor, but I held my stance, deflecting its strikes with gritted teeth. The mana within me pulsed, but I could feel it draining, each block and deflection eating away at my reserves as I strengthened myself to take the blows.

Beside me, Roran fought like a storm unleashed. His movements were fluid and brutal, every swing and parry cutting through darklings as though they were made of paper. His blade didn’t waver, each strike deliberate, efficient, ruthless. Watching him, I felt clumsy, every strike I made a desperate attempt to keep these monsters at bay.

A darkling lunged at me with a snarl, jaws snapping inches from my throat. Panic clawed at my chest, and I forced myself into Rising Gale, channeling my mana into a powerful strike aimed straight at its core. My blade tore into its chest, and it collapsed into mist, but the effort left me gasping, my muscles screaming in protest.

Another darkling leapt at me from the side, its claws flashing in the firelight. I staggered, my legs like lead, my mana drained to the edge. The creature’s claws grazed my shoulder, pain erupting as I stumbled back, struggling to stay on my feet.

Around me, the sounds of battle grew louder. A scream cut through the night as one of the soldiers went down, dragged into the shadows by a horde of darklings. They were everywhere, an endless tide, closing in from all sides. I felt my resolve falter, the terror gnawing at my insides as I tried to keep the blade steady in my hands.

“Stay focused!” Roran’s voice cut through the chaos, pulling me back from the edge. His eyes met mine, fierce, unbreakable. “We’re not done yet.”

I nodded, trying to swallow my fear, to lock it down as I readied myself. But just as I braced for another onslaught, a surge of light blazed from the edge of the camp. I turned, squinting, and saw a figure standing on a rise, hands raised as arcs of lightning crackled around him.

The mage. I hadn’t paid him much attention before, but now he commanded the battlefield, raw power radiating from him like a storm. He thrust his hands forward, and a bolt of lightning shot from his fingertips, tearing through the darklings in a blinding flash. The creatures shrieked, their forms disintegrating under the assault, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh.

I watched, awestruck, as he unleashed another wave of lightning, the bolts branching out like the limbs of a great, ancient tree. Darklings fell in droves, their bodies vanishing into mist. The earth trembled under the weight of his power, and a mix of awe and fear twisted in my gut. This was strength—real, devastating strength. The kind that could change the course of a battle, that could stand against the horrors spilling from the rift.

The darklings faltered, their advance slowing as they recoiled from the mage’s onslaught. Around me, soldiers rallied, their spirits lifted by the display of raw power, pushing back the creatures with renewed ferocity.

As the last darkling fell, dissolving into mist, the mage lowered his hands, the lightning fading. Silence blanketed the camp, broken only by the ragged breaths of those who’d survived. I staggered, the exhaustion crashing over me like a wave as I sank to my knees, every muscle shaking, my sword slipping from my grasp.

Roran was at my side, placing a hand on my shoulder. His face was grim but softened with something like relief. “You did well, kid,” he said, voice rough. “Held your ground.”

I nodded weakly, too drained to respond, my mind reeling from the battle, from the sheer force of what I’d just witnessed. Every doubt, every weakness I’d tried to ignore came roaring back, and I knew, then and there, that I was nowhere near ready for what lay ahead. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to find my place among these warriors, I’d have to push harder, dig deeper, become something I’d never been before.

As I sat there, chest heaving, I felt a spark of determination ignite in the hollow of my exhaustion. This was only the beginning.