I finally arrived at the village of the abandoned. These are people who, unfortunately, were not born with the gift of magic. Due to this and a lack of resources, they are forced to live in small, cramped houses that are stacked on top of each other. They hope to find protection, but the fragile, rotten wood cannot provide it. Every two or three weeks, a family attempts to build closer to the dark forest. However, even though there is a containment field created by the wizard, it is weak and cannot power advanced machinery from the past or present (even if they had the resources). The limits of their undertaking are marked by dozens of graves.

The counters of hundreds of bars, cabarets, and canteens are illuminated by small, dying lights. These utensils only contain two runes, 'store' on their base and 'release' on the metal resistance. Novice magicians would not bother to make them. The children make them before entering the training building. The dwarves are their inspiration, but they have not yet achieved the ability to burn at such intensity without being consumed. The wealthy in these slums use them as a symbol of power amidst the surrounding misery.

We are beyond the reach of the law. Even the most powerful mage has no way of knowing I am here. People do not approach. It is not an emotional spell; they simply know that their weapons could not harm me before losing their lives. Nothing like the knowledge of their mortality makes them appreciate their lives. I leave them alone. My intention is to enter the forest through this area. The mages gave me the entrance, even though they did not know it. The villagers are aware that their weapons contain some wood from the forest. However, the amount is limited due to its scarcity and the fear of entering the forest directly because of the containment field, enemies, or border patrols. Most likely, they fear the darkness that lurks in the logs obscured by the filth of the city.

Emerging from the village known as 'Goblin Head,' I contemplate the head of the poor wretch that adorns the exit. The deformed lips have an eternal grimace of terror, exposing sharp but harmless teeth on a body that never grew more than five feet. Beyond the borders lie the fishermen.If the villagers are poor, they have no comparison to the wretches without family, orphans, and the deformed. Through my confined field, I can feel the filth and pollution that abounds in these individuals. On the next slope, I can see why it looks darker. The two pipes release liters and liters of waste at regular intervals, dumped by 'Bloody Hammer'. The small towns on the borders are often used as dumping grounds for the waste produced by big cities. Due to their magical nature, forests were also used for this purpose. While some individuals protested, their complaints were often limited to after-dinner conversations. Their comfort prevented them from recognizing the excesses happening behind their backs. These excesses were taking place far away, hundreds of meters below, where the land was being contaminated by magic and rendered infertile for planting. The society, seeing no other use for this land, pretended not to see the damage being done.

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The children's hands are covered in a black, tarry substance. None of them are smiling, and most have never had much reason to. As I descend the slope, I catch sight of the roots of the enormous trees. I don't know if they have magical names; my teachers didn't seem to care, and the inhabitants apparently don't either. The people who come to 'fish' in this filthy pond are the most troubled, as I suspected. Some already show the beginnings of minor mutations. Bald heads raise watery eyes of different colors. For a brief moment, they pause before resuming their attempts to catch something. Some use scaly hands, while others have green or fish-like membranes. All of them seem to be in misery, waiting against all odds for someone 'above' to throw down something of value, such as a magic item, a higher quality garment, or money. What I see worries me; the degradation of these people has accelerated too quickly to have occurred in the few decades since my masters left the continent. If I want answers, I will have to sift through that garbage.

As I approach, some of them throw apprehensive glances. I guess they believe that, with my boots, I will be able to enter the center of the pond, unlike them, who are on the banks or in the multiple streams. They know that it burns to the touch, but they do not care. A good piece of lead or perhaps some cutlery would allow them to sleep in a stable. If they are lucky enough, they may be able to afford some wine and stale bread. From nearby, I can see that the water is not only black, oily, and thick, but also contaminated. It is not safe to crouch down surrounded by so many people, especially since even my armor cannot protect me from being attacked in an attempt to steal from me. I extend my field a little over the contaminated surface. I extend my field just a little bit over the contaminated surface and receive a response from it.

At the bottom of this debris, there may be a couple of magical objects that are attempting to absorb the weak magical energy. I selected the closest object, which is approximately two meters deep and only 30cm square. It is evident that the objects are attempting to maintain their original function. I cannot inject my strength into the object for fear of causing an explosion due to excess energy. Instead, I use a sheet of paper and engrave the word 'levitate' on each end. My energy feeds the runes, causing the target to levitate evenly. Most scrap fishermen move away, as it is one thing to try to steal from a mercenary and quite another to mess with a warrior magician from a fairy tale.

As soon as the water clears and reveals the object of my search, I feel a surge of anger. Despite my disgust, I apply some magic to the piece. A wooden plaque with a carving of a scantily clad woman is revealed. At first, nothing happens, but then a dreadful screeching noise begins. It may be intended as music, but it sounds terrible, with a mix of percussion and strings. In the painting, the woman begins to remove her skimpy dress while a brothel song plays. The movements are clumsy and the illustration is poorly done, likely fabricated by a student of the magician's. It is suggested that the magician himself had left the tower on more than one occasion to experience pleasures beyond magic. The object in question is no longer useful, so I discard it and continue on my way. As I activate the runes of movement and levitation inscribed on the black coffin, it follows me. However, I soon hear grunting noises, indicating that it may have fallen on the ground instead of sinking into the lake. Now I can hear more clearly. They argue and fight over a piece of wood, which is valuable to them but a waste to others. I follow the path of the largest creek, and just as I turn the corner, I hear the first scream of pain from a senseless fight.