Chapter 05

Opposite Struggles

Finn stepped out of the bustling train station, blinking against the glare of the midday sun. The heart of the city stretched out before him, a blend of towering glass spires and bustling streets that hummed with life. Hover trains whizzed behind and above on elevated translucent tracks, and pedestrians navigated the sidewalks, their conversations blending into a low, constant murmur.

For a moment, Finn stood still, trying to take it all in. His heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. He hadn’t been to a place like this before—or had he? A feeling of déjà vu crept in once again. Maybe he had seen these scenes in pictures online? Yeah… that must be it, he reassured himself.

Shaking off the odd sense of familiarity, he glanced down at his wrist and tapped his watch. The sleek interface lit up, and a small holographic menu hovered above it. Finn swiped through a few options before selecting Transport. The watch chimed softly.

“Destination?” an automated voice asked.

“Magyo Academy!” Finn replied, his voice tinged with enthusiasm and excitement.

Moments later, a hover taxi descended from the sky, its chrome frame gleaming with magical runes that pulsed faintly under the sunlight. As it landed, the doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Finn stepped inside.

Sinking into the soft leather seat, he let out a relaxed sigh and made himself comfortable.

The door closed, and the taxi soared into the crowded skies of the magic capital. Finn leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the view.

Towers and spires passed in a blur, while enchanted billboards displayed moving images of famous mages and academy alumni. Finn’s anticipation swelled. He was finally on his way to Magyo Academy.

Only twenty minutes later, the hover taxi began to descend. Finn’s excitement dimmed for a moment, replaced by a twinge of nervousness. As the vibrant skyline gave way to sprawling greenery, he leaned closer to the window, marveling at the sight below.

The Magyo Academy campus stretched out like a living painting, its buildings an elegant fusion of ancient stonework and modern magical enhancements.

Surrounding the campus was a vast magical garden, a spectacle of shimmering trees and vibrant, shifting flora. Streams of crystal-clear water wove through the landscape, crossing under arched bridges and pooling in serene ponds that reflected the sky like mirrors.

Finn’s breath caught. He had seen pictures of the academy online, sure—but this felt more than familiar. It was like returning to a place he’d known intimately, though he couldn’t explain why.

Finn was left with no time to think as the taxi landed smoothly on one of many circular platforms made of white stone, each etched with the academy’s emblem—a radiant sun encased in a ring of stars. As the door slid open, Finn paid the fare, then hesitated for a second before stepping out.

“Welcome to Magyo Academy,” a soft, melodic voice greeted him. He turned to see a projection hovering above a nearby pedestal—a robed figure with indistinct features, hands raised in a welcoming gesture.

“Please proceed through the garden to the main gate,” the figure continued. “Your journey begins here.”

Finn nodded and began to follow a winding path through the garden, joining the flow of other students.

Each step revealed more wonders: butterflies with iridescent wings fluttered between the glowing blossoms, while small, luminous creatures peeked from the underbrush, their curious eyes tracking the newcomers.

Despite the beauty, a gnawing doubt began to creep into Finn’s mind. He glanced at the other students around him. Many of them carried themselves with an air of confidence, their fancy clothes and accessories marked with crests and sigils of noble houses or powerful mage families. Their conversations hinted at legacies, famous mentors, and elite training.

Finn swallowed hard. Compared to them, he felt out of place. He wasn’t a noble or the heir to a great magical lineage. He didn’t have years of private tutors or rare artifacts passed down through generations. Who was he, really, to stand among them?

His steps faltered slightly as the weight of his self-doubt pressed on him. But then he clenched his fists and forced himself to keep moving.

It doesn’t matter where I came from, he thought. I’ve made it this far, and I’ll prove that I belong here.

By the time he reached the towering gates of the academy, he had steeled his resolve. The gates loomed ahead, flanked by intricate statues of legendary mages. Beyond them, a large courtyard was bustling with students, all gathered beneath a floating banner that shimmered with golden letters;

‘Welcome, Initiates of Magyo Academy’

Unfortunately, a long queue had already formed at the gates. Even two days before the official opening, the academy grounds were packed. Students from every corner of the world had come, their voices blending into a symphony of anticipation.

Sighing, Finn stepped forwards into the line— queuing was a unique way to start his magical journey, at least.

The queue moved slowly, but surely, as Finn tried his best to wait patiently.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached the front of the queue. A tired-looking clerk sat behind a glass window, her eyes dull with exhaustion.

“Name?” she asked flatly, barely looking up from her holographic screen.

“Finn Travis,” he replied, forcing a confident smile.

The clerk tapped her screen, her movements quick and practiced. After a moment, a small slip of paper emerged from a slot beneath the window.

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“Your identification badge,” she said, her tone dry. “It’s your key to everything here. Lose it, and you’ll pay a hefty fine.” She lowered her voice. “Not that someone like us can afford it.”

Finn winced but nodded, taking the slip. “Thanks,” he muttered.

The clerk managed a faint smile and gestured for him to move along. “Welcome to Magyo Academy.”

Finn turned away, holding the slip up to examine it. Both sides were blank. His brow furrowed. A blank piece of paper? he thought, frustration bubbling up. How is this supposed to be my key?!

Finn racked his brain. A test? It would make sense. Everything about this academy screamed prestige, and nothing here would be as simple as it seemed.

Let me try this.

Gripping the slip tightly, he focused his mana, channeling it into the seemingly blank piece of paper. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened?! Finn thought to himself in confusion.

He furrowed his brows and tried again, this time channeling more of his mana into the card. The moment his energy flowed through it, the slip began to glow softly.

Intricate black runes emerged along its edges, replacing the stark white with complex patterns that pulsed faintly. A small emblem materialized in the top left corner—a radiant sun encased in a ring of stars, the academy’s crest.

Finn watched in awe as more details etched themselves onto the slip. His name appeared first, followed by his birthday, place of origin, magical status, and even a section labeled Titles.

The transformation was mesmerizing. The slip, once thin and fragile, now had a weight and sturdiness to it. Finn instinctively knew that it was nearly indestructible, imbued with powerful enchantments.

He turned it over in his hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. So this is my key… he thought, a sense of pride swelling in his chest.

Finn slipped his newly acquired identification badge into his breast pocket, its reassuring weight pressing softly against his chest.

Finn moved forward as the towering gates began to part with a low, resonant hum, revealing the courtyard beyond. Finn stood motionless for a heartbeat, his chest tightening with a mix of exhilaration and fear. This was it. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, the weight of his dreams and self doubt pressing against his chest.

Whatever problems or challenges awaited him, he was ready.

***

Far away, violent gales whipped around a makeshift group of survivors. They trudged up the jagged path of the Greyroar Mountains, their faces pale and drawn from exhaustion. The winds howled like tortured spirits, driving snow and ice into their faces, and the thin, biting air making every breath a painful battle.

Rudd, a towering man with a menacing presence, led the group. His heavy boots crunched against the frozen ground, leaving deep imprints in the snow—tracks one might mistake for those of a giant. Despite his powerful build, even he struggled against the relentless conditions. His broad shoulders hunched against the biting, violent wind, yet he pushed on.

Not far behind was Lark, his lean frame was a stark contrast to Rudd’s bulk. There was an unnatural ease to him. While the others stumbled and gasped for air, Lark moved with steady precision, his breaths calm, his pace unwavering. His stern, commanding expression gave no hint of fatigue, as if the mountain’s brutal challenges were beneath him.

The group pressed on, their progress agonizingly slow. The snow was ankle-deep in some places, waist-high in others, and each step drained what little strength they had left. The jagged peaks loomed above, sharp and menacing, as though mocking their effort.

Lark’s gaze swept upward, narrowing as he studied the distant peaks. His eyes landed on the highest of peaks, then widened suddenly as a chill ran down his spine, his heart skipping a beat. Greyroar, he thought grimly. These mountains were no place for hope. If there had been any other way, they would have taken it. But the mist had left no choice.

He turned, his expression darkening as he scanned the group. Their shivering forms stumbled over the uneven terrain, their faces etched with despair. His frown deepened as his gaze shifted to the west.

The crimson mist was there, an unyielding tide creeping higher along the mountainside. It swallowed the western horizon in its choking grasp, a slow-moving harbinger of chaos. Even from a distance, the mist felt oppressive, its presence gnawing at the edge of Lark’s thoughts.

We won’t make it, Lark concluded, his stomach knotting. But even as the thought took root, his jaw tightened. There was no room for despair now. If they faltered, the mist would ensure they didn’t falter again.

Lark’s focus snapped back to the group as a loud thud cut through the howling wind. He turned sharply to see one of the survivors collapsed on the ground, still and motionless. The group stopped in unison, their eyes darting between the fallen figure and the advancing mist.

“Damn it,” Lark muttered under his breath, striding through the snow toward the body. The biting wind clawed at his face and skin, but he ignored it. He knelt beside the fallen man as Rudd lumbered over, his heavy steps sending small avalanches of snow tumbling down the slope.

Rudd crouched next to Lark, his breath visible in heavy, rhythmic bursts. “Is he gone?” he asked, his deep voice laced with resignation.

Lark didn’t answer immediately, but his grim expression spoke volumes. He pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. Then he saw them—hideous black veins sprawling over the corpse’s frozen skin like an ominous web. His flinched backwards and his jaw tightened.

“Look at this,” Lark said, gesturing for Rudd to come closer.

Rudd leaned down, his shadow looming over the body as he examined it. The black veins were unmistakable, branching out like the roots of a dying tree, their edges faintly pulsing. His broad shoulders tensed.

“He’s going to turn,” Rudd muttered, his tone heavy with certainty.

Lark nodded, his gaze hardening. “We can wait for it to happen, or…” He trailed off, letting the alternative hang in the frigid air. “We leave him now.”

Rudd didn’t respond immediately. Around them, the group had started to gather, their fear palpable. Whispers spread among them, mixing with the wail of the wind.

“He’s not him anymore,” Lark continued, his voice low but firm. “You all know what this means.” He let his eyes sweep over the group, meeting their terrified stares. “We deal with him as soon as he turns, leaving only a newborn to deal with. Or we leave him for the mist, leaving him to only grow more powerful as a future enemy.”

A tense silence followed. Among the group an elderly man with wispy gray hair turned away with a distraught expression, and not too far from him stood a young soldier with a fleshy scar across his eyes who frowned and grimaced.

One of the younger survivors, a woman barely in her twenties, clutched her arms as if to keep the cold—or the truth—at bay. If Lark remembered correctly, the woman and the fallen man had spent a lot of time together in the camp.

“We can’t just kill him…” she suddenly said, her voice trembling. “He’s… He was one of us.”

Rudd straightened, his towering frame casting a shadow over the group. “And now he’s not,” he said grimly. “You saw the veins. He’s infected, one of them. In only a couple minutes he’s going to turn, and when he does, we are either gonna be long gone up the mountain, or we kill him.”

The woman looked away, biting her lip as tears swelled in her eyes. She knew the truth, she just couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Lark almost followed suit, but he needed to be strong, for the group's sake, for his own sake.

He hovered his hand over the hilt of his longsword. “It’s not about what we want,” he said, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind. Frost clung to his lashes, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “It’s about survival. The mist is coming, and if we stand here debating too long, the decision won’t make a difference.”

Rudd nodded and turned to Lark, his expression hard but resigned. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly. “You get the others moving.”

Lark hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between the group and the mist crawling up the mountain ever closer. A thought that he had long wanted to forget flashed in his mind—a harrowing image, the first person he had seen get infected by the mist. He remembered the bulging black veins and the hideous, gushing wounds. He knew the consequences better than anyone.

Beastly growls echoed in the distance, grumbling under the thick of the crimson haze.

Why? Why must we live like this? The thought clawed at his mind, bitter and relentless. Why can’t I just give up?

But he knew the answer. Giving up wasn’t in him—it never had been. He had sworn to lead this group to Rifeton, no matter the cost— even if only fragments of them remained in the end.

The faces of those he had failed haunted him, their eyes accusing, their voices silent but deafening in his memory. Each one was a weight he carried, a ghost that refused to leave him. The images lingered, sharp and unyielding, like wounds that refused to heal.

Finally, after several moments of silence, Lark nodded. “Fine. Make it quick.”

He turned away, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as if seeking comfort. The faces of the dead followed him, accusing and relentless. But the living couldn’t afford his doubt—or his weakness.

For a split second, he envied the dead— unburdened by choices, free from the guilt of leading others to die. But he brushed away the thought instantly. He had to push on. He had to make it to Rifeton alive.