Hashet pressed onward, the tall grasses of the Argent Steppe parting before him as if acknowledging his passage. Their bronzed tips licked at his waist, creating a wavelike ripple that spread across the otherwise still landscape. Despite the mild temperature, the autumn sun bore down harshly on the plains, an all-seeing eye watching his every move. He welcomed its fiery gaze; to Hashet it was an old companion, following him on his road to greatness.

He had left behind the carcasses of the princess’s fallen clansmen over a fortnight ago. The Power surged through him, invigorating and sustaining his pace, but he was not impervious to the demands of the flesh. Two weeks of relentless pursuit had taken their toll—the stinging rays coming from the sky were nothing compared to the burn in his muscles.

Yet Hashet pressed on, his resolve renewed at the familiar sight on the horizon. Up ahead, a small cluster of Tica trees stood solitary, guarding the place he once called home. It had been years since he had seen them. As a child, he used to find solace under their expansive crowns, losing himself in the dream of becoming a Great Mage. The dream that never came to be.

With a final burst of speed, he closed the distance to the Tica grove. Their short trunks and wide, dense interlocking crowns formed an impenetrable barrier. Nothing had changed since his childhood. He dropped to the ground and began his crawl toward the center of the formation, his palms and knees sinking into the fallen needles beneath. The scent of Tica trees filled his senses, a bittersweet reminder of a different time, a different Hashet—a dead Hashet.

As he continued his slow, laborious journey beneath the crowns of Tica trees, the dry and brittle fallen needles prickled against his skin; their sharp edges an irritant he dismissed with casual indifference. It was merely an inconvenience he brushed aside, much like the tall grasses that had parted for him on the Argent Steppe. Such small things would not even slow him down.

Eventually, his long, relentless crawl brought him to his objective—a small glade nestled in the grove’s heart. The glade was barren, devoid of any vegetation. The far-reaching roots of the Tica trees, notorious for their greedy thirst, had monopolized the water in their vicinity, leaving nothing to share.

Dominating the glade was a single object—a solitary rock standing in the center of the clearing. Its form was akin to a crude cudgel—the top part was bulbous and imposing, tapering down toward the base. Pitted and weathered, the rock was a silent sentinel amidst the sea of needles.

“I’ve come as you wanted,” Hashet murmured, welcoming his long not seen friend. His gaze lingered on the rock. Boulders like this were a rarity on Argent Steppe, and their existence on the flattest of the lands was a mystery. But Hashet was not a geologist, and so he did not dwell on it, instead approaching the rock. His hand ran over its heated surface, a caress sparking another torrent of memories.

Discarding the unwanted thoughts, he drew out a silken lock of hair. The golden threads shimmered in the sunlight, bearing the radiance of the forsaken princess.

“I’ve come, so help me,” Hashet said, pressing the lock against the hot stone. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead gently meeting the rock.

His mind dived into the abyss of his being, following the path of the Power, deep inside, to his source. In this inner world, another cudgel-like rock awaited him. Cold and impassive in the shadows, it usually maintained a dormant silence, but today, when he stood next to its physical counterpart, light flooded the familiar darkness. An ethereal aura pulsed, ebbed and flowed around the rock. Hashet’s heart fluttered. His chest tightened. The sense of awe overwhelmed him.

“Tell me. Tell me where she is,” he pleaded, reaching out in the boundless void toward the rock. But his hand found only a stretch of space, his fingers seeming to distort the closer he got to the stone.

“Tell me,” he repeated, a desperate edge creeping into his voice. The vibrations from the rock amplified, its energy permeating the space within him. His sense of self wavered under the onslaught of the growing energy. Everything spun, colors swirling and coalescing into a whirlpool around him.

Hashet’s being merged with the frenzied vortex, spinning together as the speed intensified. Just as abruptly as it started, the whirlpool ceased, depositing Hashet back amidst the Tica trees. His senses, however, continued to spin—slower, and slower, until they settled, pointing like a determined compass needle toward the North-East.

(Northeast?) He frowned. (Why?)

As he mulled over the implications, a satisfied grin crept onto his hardened face.

(She’s not rushing toward the Empire. Is she trying to hide herself?)

Tribold, Melkar, Nadoo—each name flashed in his mind—possible destinations for the princess to seek refuge. (Nadoo is the farthest to the North, so it’s probably it, but it doesn’t matter which one she picks. With the Empire to the south and her home to the west now off-limits, she had effectively trapped herself in the northeastern corner of the world. I refuse to believe I won’t be able to locate her. With her appearance, she will stick out like a sore thumb.)

He glanced down at the lock of hair he still held against the rock. It had lost its shimmering golden sheen in the aftermath of the power surge. Its strands lay dull and lifeless in his grasp, any remaining energy from the princess now entirely gone.

With a resigned sigh, he let it fall to the ground, its usefulness spent; back to the conventional tracking methods he goes.

The lingering pulse still resonated in his mind, the remnants of the direction he had received from the rock. With one last glance at the mystic cudgel stone, he began his return crawl under the crowns of the Tica trees. The rock would remain, as always, waiting for his next visit.

Progressing through the Tica grove was more laborious than he recalled. The years had increased his size and, perhaps, diminished his flexibility.

A sharp neigh of a horse interrupted his musings. The sound was not far.

Hashet stilled, cocking his head in the direction of the sound, then altered his course toward it. As he neared the edge of the grove, where it met the open steppe, a murmur of conversation reached his ears.

Careful to not give away his presence, he peered through the fringes of the tall grasses, his ears straining to catch fragments of conversation carried by the wind.

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A loud, robust laugh echoed across the plains, causing Hashet to flinch. He raised his head, eyes narrowing on a lone Tica tree standing at a distance, its solitude marking it as an outcast of the grove, just like him.

“… Rammashet…”

Hashet’s nostrils flared, and his lips curled in recognition, uttering in a low murmur, “Boar Whisperers.” The name of the clan and the elder that ruled these lands, the clan responsible for obliterating Hashet’s own, stirred a bitter resentment within him. They had risen in status rapidly, amassing wealth and influence in recent years. He had watched their ascent with a simmering rage, revenge festering in his heart. But with every passing day, his dream of vengeance was slipping further out of reach as their power grew unchecked, protected by a Great Mage of their blood.

The decision took but an instant to form in Hashet’s mind, his vein pulsing with an adrenaline-fueled thrill. Patience was a virtue he never cared to cultivate; contemplation and hesitation were the weaknesses of those who feared failure. And Hashet was no weakling. Rising to his feet, a gleaming blade materialized in his grasp, the executor of his will. With a swift leap, he took to the air. They would notice him any time now.

The world around him froze. The undulating grass, previously rippling in the wind, became a still life painting. He hung in the air like a predator surveying its territory. His gaze, sharp as the edge of his blade, scanned the group nestled under the canopy of the solitary Tica tree. Eight people, possibly more hidden from sight.

His lips drew in a tight line. The numbers were not ideal, but manageable depending on their skill level. He released the acceleration effect, plummeting back to the ground. He steeled his resolve, plotting his onslaught even during the descent.

As he touched the soil, the dance of death began. His blade moved in an elegant ballet of carnage, sweeping from left to right, up and down, becoming a tempest of destruction, summoning scythes of Sharpness that carved through the air.

The grasses, once standing tall, were first to fall. They were reduced to fine, chopped strands and cleaved into disintegrated fragments even before gravity had a chance to start pulling them down. The crescent arcs of Sharpness raced towards the Tica tree, its branches succumbing first, tumbling down in a rain of foliage. Yet the trunk stubbornly held its place. Hashet’s brow furrowed in mild surprise; he must have encountered a tree with innate resistance to the Power. Nevertheless, under the relentless assault of the cutting ripples, the tree yielded, its mutilated trunk collapsing to the side.

In the aftermath of his devastating attack, Hashet stood amidst an eerie silence. The mowed path before him led to the dried area around the trunk of the Tica tree, now covered in a morbid mix of fresh and dry needles intermingled with chunks of flesh from both man and horse. Blood pooled in the dust, turning into a viscous, tar-like ooze, slowly hardening in imitation of cooling lava.

A flurry of projectiles sprang from the grass to his right, at the periphery of his vision. On pure instinct, he conjured a barrier just in time to shield himself from the first bullet. The impact force hurled him backwards, shock gripping him as he accelerated once again. At the moment the time slowed down, he saw a translucent streak of lightning zapping through the spot he had just vacated. Had the recoil not knocked him back, he would likely be dead.

(Careless! Too slow!) he berated himself. (The second attack came from the left; at least two of them survived,) he concluded.

Not seeing any signs of new barrages, Hashet resumed the normal flow of time, adapting his barrier to intercept and deflect the already incoming projectiles rather than block them head-on. As his body was still airborne, hurtling backwards due to the initial impact, he had no option but to brace himself for the impending crash landing.

However, the bullets were faster. They hit the barrier, igniting in a bright flash and sound like sizzling oil before skimming along the edge and spiraling outwards into the surrounding fields. Hashet could not identify their Power attribute, but he had underestimated their potency. The subsequent explosions sent shockwaves through the air, transforming the soil into a hailstorm of energy-infused shrapnel.

He barely had time to react. His thin protective veil, still in the process of forming into a proper shield, was shredded by the myriad of particles flung towards him. Pain flared across his body as he was peppered with countless tiny fragments. Searing cuts on his pelted skin were impossible to ignore, but ignore them he did. Gritting his teeth, he finally hit the ground, landing on his back. Without missing a beat, he rolled to the side, disappearing into the cover of the tall grass.

Hashet lay hidden, panting and exerting his energy to sense any Power coursing through the surrounding space. All was calm, with only grasses whispering in the wind.

In this deadly game, any action could betray one’s position. Neither Hashet nor his foes were keen on revealing themselves just yet. But Hashet knew his situation was more precarious. His opponents could attack from different directions, gradually wearing him down by forcing him to maintain a constant barrier all around himself. For now, they were likely still in shock, too wary to launch a full-frontal attack. But with each passing moment, the likelihood of them adopting that tactic was increasing.

The location of the second attacker remained a mystery. The one who had sent that translucent lightning could be anywhere to his left. How many had survived his initial onslaught was also uncertain.

Speculation was pointless; he needed to act. His mind raced back to the location from where the flurry of projectiles had originated. The enemy was likely still nearby, but any misstep in his estimation would give away his position for nothing.

Risk was inevitable. An idea flickered in his mind, difficult to execute but potentially rewarding. Laying flat on his back, he swung his blade in the direction of the presumed enemy. The horizontal arc of Sharpness surged forth, skimming just above the ground. He had to get the angle right; if it veered too high, it would ascend into the sky, too low and it would plunge into the earth. To be effective, it needed to remain parallel to the ground, a challenging strike considering his current body position.

Immediately after launching his first attack, he rolled, emerging from a slightly different location. He then started a flurry of frantic swings, sending vertical ripples of Sharpness tearing the air toward the general direction of his opponent. Once done, he dived back into the tall grass, rolling again to the side to further obscure his new position.

Hashet waited for any signs of retaliation, but none came. The ensuing silence was deafening. The pain from the multitude of burning wounds that marred his body was blinding; it broke his focus and clouded his judgment. Unable to bear it any longer, he surged to his knees, screaming to alleviate his pain, and charged forward like a frenzied bull.

He rampaged through the grass, keeping a firm barrier in front of him. Yet still, no attack came his way.

He stopped at the path his initial horizontal strike had carved out. A short distance away, he saw a body cleaved neatly in half, from the head to the feet, the upper part slowly sliding away from the bottom one. (It worked.) He laughed in disbelief, shaking his head as he marveled at the sight before him. (Too distracted by the vertical slashes to notice the horizontal one, eh?) His face lit up with a triumphant grin. (And it worked beautifully.)

There was no sign of the other survivors. The one who had sent the lightning should have attacked by now, especially given Hashet’s exposed position in the open field. But the tranquility remained undisturbed.

Movement in the distance caught his eye; too far to discern whether it was a man or an animal. (Did he escape?) Hashet wondered. His instinct urged him to give chase, for letting prey escape was not in his style. However, the searing pain from his wounds was becoming unbearable.

Gritting his teeth, he sent a scan through his body and discovered the shrapnel he had sustained earlier lodged in his wounds; they would not heal until he extracted it.

With a pain-filled sigh, he made his way trotting westward. (Heading directly north is out of the question,) he mused. (That’s Boar Whisperers territory. They’ll be on the lookout for me. A detour is necessary, but fret not, princess. You’ve boxed yourself into a corner, and escape from me is no longer an option.)

With a grimace that he willed into a smile, Hashet left behind yet another scene of carnage, the thrill of the continued hunt easing the pain coursing through his body. He was on his way north. Just taking a little roundabout route.