The cultivators are extinct. Their sects and pagodas withered, their sacred scriptures crumbled, and the martial mages passed into legend.
The northmen inherited the strength of their qi.
They called it magic.
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Pirin screamed in pain.
It wasn’t that he’d never felt pain before. A wizard-king always knew pain. But this was a different kind. It was innate, instinctive.
He was dying, and it was an inner pain—loss, terror, missed opportunities, and fear of the darkness beyond.
He lay in the frigid snow, bleeding, body broken. The beast had gotten the best of him. His vision blurred, and the darkness of the forest enclosed on him. Fresh pine scent mixed with ferric blood. He couldn’t stop gasping and shouting, trying to cling to life for a second longer.
His soul was slipping away, and he needed it to stay. He needed to keep living. But his leaking blood told a different story.
The moment felt infinite while it lasted, but a then woody crack tore through his mind. A branch swayed in front of him. The karebain, a spirit beast, was probably coming to finish him off.
But instead, an elf emerged from the trees. He wore a golden robe with white trim, and light radiated off his ageless form, like he was basking in a ray of sunlight. Long auburn hair floated behind him as though they were underwater.
An invisible hand reached into Pirin’s mind and wrenched something inside it. A wave of disorienting pulses shot through his head. The pine trees stopped quivering in the wind and the snowflakes paused mid-air.
The elf stretched a hand out toward Pirin.
“You’d think the Embercore would’ve learned by now,” the elf said, “that he is useless.”
Pirin’s breaths quickened, but nothing else did. The snowflakes in front of his mouth didn’t even quiver. Waves of pain still rolled through his body, but no more blood leaked from the gash across his chest.
“What’s happening?” Pirin gasped. He tried to push himself up, but his arms were too weak. His head dropped back into the snow, crushing his own pointed ears and flattening his dishevelled black hair. “Who are you?”
It wouldn’t be unusual to see an elf. This was a nation of elves, and Pirin was their wizard-king. But in the middle of a forest, a week’s trek from the royal palace, in the middle of the night? That was what made it unusual.
Not to mention, it was an elf who glowed with the light of the sun, even in the middle of the night.
“I am…you could say that I’m an ancestor of yours,” the elf said. “We’re disappointed.”
Pirin clenched his teeth. Well, get in line. “I was trying my hardest.” It was true. But an Embercore could only do so much before their magical deficiencies caught up with them. He was still stuck at the Kindling stage—no enhanced body, poor Essence control, a limited arsenal of arcane techniques.
That was why he was out here. There had been rumours of a karebain in these forests, and he had tracked it. He needed its manabulbs.
Being an Embercore, he’d failed. He just wasn’t strong enough.
Giving up wasn’t in his bones, though. His fingertips grew cold, but a furnace blazed in his chest.
“But you have no heirs,” the glowing elf continued. “At…twenty years? Twenty one?” He tutted. “A king should know better. Alas, it would be a pity to let your Bloodline go to waste, and with how tight you’re clinging to your soul, you’re becoming a bit of a problem. It’s stuck somewhere between your body and the Great Way beyond. You’re turning into an error, and you’re giving us all a headache.”
“Who are you?” Pirin gasped.
“I am called Hir Venias, Ferrier of the Dead. I do have matters to attend to in the realms above, and your soul is wasting my time.”
He was an immortal, then. An elf who’d grown so powerful he didn’t age at all, and who’d ascended to the heavens above.
“So let’s see…I’ll give you a choice,” Hir Venias continued. “I let your soul drift off, gone forever, and you fade into peaceful nothingness. Or I hammer it back into your body, fix that gash on your chest, and we get on with our business. One last chance.”
Pirin blinked. What kind of choice was that? Of course he would—
“Your soul has been drifting for around a half-hour, now. Your memories have degraded. If I put your soul back in your body, it will be missing something—forever tarnished by this encounter, forever left wanting.”
Pirin swallowed. “My memories…gone?”
“Not gone. Damaged. With your Bloodline abilities, you may be able to recover them, but they will be different, and a part of you will be lost. You will always feel like you are missing something, no matter what. You will always hunger for more.”
Pirin stared at the man. Hungering for more than a meagre existence of twisted, unstable Essence channels and unusable arcane techniques? He already hungered. What else could change?
“I’d appreciate it if you made it quick,” said Hir Venias. “Make your choice: save yourself. Give yourself one last chance to advance and find greatness…at the cost of your memories.” He motioned the other way with his other hand. “Or cease to exist.”
“I—”
“Be warned: if you choose to live and keep advancing, I will not provide this lifeline again. Your good fortune runs out at this very moment. No matter how desperately you cling to your soul, I won’t give you another chance like this.”
“Bring me back,” Pirin whispered. “I won’t fail again.”
He’d track the beast that killed him. He’d take it down, and he’d keep moving. He had to.
“Very well.” Hir Venias snapped his fingers, and the world snapped back into motion. Pirin’s blood slipped out of the snow, flooding back into his body like a river in reverse. His flesh knitted itself together, fixing the gash that the karebain’s antlers had left. His ribs snapped into place, elven bones un-shattering and moulding back together. It was like nothing had ever been broken.
Stolen story; please report.
As the blood flowed back into his veins, needles prodded in his head and at the base of his neck. With each stab of phantom pain, a chunk of memories drifted free, damaged or destroyed. He tried to cling to them as tightly as he could, but they were just memories, not a rope.
Images of his childhood? Dashed upon the rocks. Memories of his friends, mentors, tutors? Shattered. For most minor memories, the details ceased to exist. He couldn’t call them up by will. Some stayed, and some didn’t. Most of his specific memories? Gone. Some of the knowledge they had imparted stay, and some didn’t. He couldn’t remember how long he’d king of this nation, but he still knew what he was.
King. Embercore. He was born with a faulty Essence system, doomed to never wield magic properly. Doomed to eternal disappointment.
That ended today.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been out in the woods, but he remembered his target—and the reward it bore.
Pirin pushed himself up, clinging to that singular drive as the memories slipped out of his mind. Hir Venias disintegrated into mist and golden sparks, and a strong gust of wind carried him away like he’d never been here.
Pirin had a spirit beast to hunt.
For the past…amount of days, he had been tracking his prey. He was close. If he kept going, he’d catch up to it in an hour—if not sooner.
The karebain’s tracks were fresh in the snow and its raw Essence tinged the wind. A trail of blue sparks still lingered in the air, begging him to follow.
But snowflakes filtered through the mesh of branches above. If he didn’t move fast, the flakes would wash the Essence out of the air, and the tracks would disappear. His prey would escape.
Pirin tightened his coat and kicked the snow out of his boots, then pressed onward. The trail of Essence grew thicker. When he inhaled, he could practically smell his prey’s power twisting into the scents of pine and fresh snow.
He ducked under a low branch and wove between a pair of gnarled trees, then leapt across a gully and scrambled over a fallen log. Every step he took, the floating blue sparks grew brighter and brighter.
Just when he was about to jump over an iced-over stream, he caught a pale blue glow rippling across the ice. It couldn’t have been the moons or stars; the sky was too cloudy. He slipped behind a bushy pine tree and crouched down, hiding himself.
The karebain stood upstream. Shimmering blue manabulbs hung from its antlers like fruit on a tree. The cherry-sized orbs were bright and full—they were ready to be harvested.
The manabulbs could be what he needed. As an Embercore, he absorbed Essence into his body much slower than other wizards, but a direct infusion from the manabulbs would overcome that.
The karebain stood at the edge of the shore, testing the ice with its hooves. It was reindeer with an extra foot in every dimension, and it would be just as unpredictable. Pirin had to be careful, but if he was too careful, the beast would notice him.
Pirin wasn’t equipped to hunt. He didn’t have a bow or a spear; there hadn’t been time to gather proper equipment before he had snuck away from the palace. (He was here in secret; if he had told anyone his plans, they would have stopped him.)
He had a sword, and a sword only, which wouldn’t do much good against a karebain. For its whole three-century life, the beast had been gathering Essence. With a single kick, it could implode his skull or crush his ribs—or tear his chest open with a swipe of its antlers.
He crept along the edge of the stream, staying hidden behind coniferous bushes and shrivelled winter trees. A breeze gusted through the forest. It pressed his ears against the side of his head and juggled the frayed ends of his coat. He stopped for a moment, waiting for the breeze to stop ruffling his clothes, then continued.
The fresh snow kept his footsteps soft as he approached. As soon as he could see the karebain’s beady, dark eyes, he stopped.
If he could see its eyes, he could defeat it.
He reached out a hand, moving slowly, and inhaled. The air around him shivered. He might not have much power, but he had just enough to reach into its mind.
As Pirin breathed, his own whispers Essence swirled around his body, circulating and powering his magic. For just a moment, he held a vignette of the karebain’s mind in his hand. An orb of colourless mist swirled above his palm. He could feel the creature’s memories, thoughts, urges, and impulses all fizzing and popping on the surface of his skin. If he tried hard enough, advanced high enough, he could manipulate it.
That was the Bloodline Talent of the elven kings.
But for Pirin, manipulating it was a stretch. A little arcane nudge, and he could put the karebain to sleep. Sometimes even a little nudge was too much for his spirit. Being an Embercore, his Essence channels were knotted and tangled. Rarely did his magic cooperate.
The misty orb jittered, destabilizing like a spinning top about to fall over. The tingle in his hand turned to a burn. The karebain’s mind slipped out of his grasp, and it evaporated into empty air. A jolt of pain blasted through Pirin’s arm. He clenched his fist and gasped.
It was too loud.
The karebain’s eyes widened. It pranced back a step and let out a surprised snort, then skittered on the ice. There were two options: either it ran, or it attacked.
The karebain lowered its antlers, preparing to charge. It hadn’t deemed Pirin strong enough to run from—and, just like the first time, it wasn’t wrong. But Pirin wasn’t here to die again. The karebain charged, and Pirin dove out of the way. He slid out onto the icy stream and set a foot on the opposite shore to steady himself.
The karebain turned back towards him and dropped its head. Pirin locked eyes with it and held out his hand. The beast charged. Pirin only had seconds. Pushing with his small well of Essence, he reached inside the karebain’s mind, conjuring the misty orb again. He searched for its center, where his small prod of Essence would be most effective.
Before he found it, his Essence fought back. It gnawed at his skin and seared his channels. Needles pierced into his hand, and his blood couldn’t decide whether it wanted to freeze or burn. After a few heartbeats, it settled on acid. He couldn’t hold it. He tugged his hand back and clenched his fist, cutting off his Essence before it could hurt him.
The karebain didn’t stop. Pirin jumped to the side, but he wasn’t fast enough. The tip of the karebain’s antler bashed into his arm and tore through his skin. He tumbled to the ground, one hand landing on the frozen stream and one hand on the snowy shore. Brands of pain blazed across his shoulder, spreading through the entire left side of his body.
Not like this…not again…
Panting, Pirin pushed himself up. He lifted a strand of messy hair away from his eyes. His arm seared with pain, but if he gave up now, the karebain would make sure he had more to worry about than a bleeding and maybe broken arm.
The creature skittered to a halt and pranced around to face him. Its hooves clicked against the icy surface of the stream.
Pirin held out his hand. All he needed was a little nudge, a little spike of Essence to roll through his veins—without exploding in his palm or ripping away his skin. Was that too much to ask for?
As the karebain approached, Pirin concentrated on its mind. He focussed on his breathing technique and stared into its eyes, and the misty orb reappeared in his hand. Knock it out, knock it out! On the next exhale, he pushed a thin tendril of his Essence through his skin. His blood flared with a neutral warmth and a trickle of blue power seeped out of his hand, manifesting in the air. It snapped against the misty orb like a whip.
The karebain stopped abruptly. Its eyes rolled back into its head, its legs collapsed, and its head hit the ice with a hollow thud. It slid towards Pirin, unconscious, and came to a halt at his feet. He exhaled with relief, but he didn’t have long. Soon, the karebain would wake up, and it would be angrier than ever.
To steal the manabulbs of a spirit beast like the karebain would kill it, and slowly. While he was here to hunt, he wasn’t here to hunt mercilessly. He knelt beside the creature and whispered, “Thank you. And…I’m sorry.”
He stepped back, then drew his sword. Shutting his eyes, he raised the weapon, then slashed downwards as hard and fast as he could. The blade’s tip hacked through the beast’s throat. Its skin and flesh were tough, like cured armour-leather, and he barely cut through.
He wiped the tip of the sword on the karebain’s mottled fur. For a moment, he sat still, panting. But it was the middle of winter, and northern elves weren’t immune to the cold. He tugged his haversack open, then shifted around the contents to make room for his prize.
As soon as the karebain’s flanks stopped rising and falling, he started slicing and sawing with his sword, cutting the manabulbs free. He stuffed them in his haversack. It would be all he needed.
For once, he’d be useful—not just an embarrassment, stuck at the lowest stage of magical advancement.
Anticipation boiled in his stomach, and it was almost enough to keep his fingers from going numb. Almost.
He pulled his haversack over his shoulder, heaved a sigh, then set off back through the forest. He had to get back sooner than later.
For once in his life, he had a chance.