In the clearing beside the training ground, Loa thrust his sword again and again. Its tip hissed through the air, faster and heavier than usual. The flames he had seen that evening still flickered through his mind, and he almost felt the wind from the Velociraptor's sweeping claws scraping his face again. He shook his head, trying to shake those images away, but he could not rein in the force of his hands. Each thrust was fiercer than the last, as though he meant to drive that feeling in his heart-whether excitement or something else he could not name-out through the tip of his sword.
Linley did not move.
He sat cross-legged on a large, flat rock nearby, watching Loa practice, yet seeming to take none of it in. His fingers unconsciously picked at the rough grains of the stone. The Black Ring tucked against his chest was hard, pressing into him.
"Hey." Loa stopped his sword and caught his breath, sweat running down his temples. He walked over to Linley and gently prodded his calf with his scabbard. "What are you spacing out for? Did that scene and the magic scare you? That's not like you."
Linley looked up as though startled awake, his gaze still a little unfocused. "Scared?" He tugged at the corner of his mouth in a somewhat forced smile. "No, not really." He looked at the sword in Loa's hand, then at his own hands. "It just... felt different."
"What felt different?"
"Power." Linley's voice dropped, carrying a bewilderment he had not even noticed himself. "I used to think being strong meant having plenty of strength, tough bones, and heavy fists. Like Uncle Hillman. Today..." He paused. Those blazing fire serpents that had appeared out of thin air flashed before his eyes again, along with the magician sitting on the back of that terrifying beast, cold and aloof. "That magician today... he seemed to... barely make any effort."
Loa sat beside him, laying his sword across his knees. He understood what Linley meant. The magician had not even climbed down from the Velociraptor's back. The fire serpents he unleashed had easily torn apart the formation of those seemingly formidable mercenaries. That kind of power was nothing like swinging a hammer to forge iron or fighting desperately with a sword. It was powerful, and more overbearing too.
"You mean magic?" Loa asked.
Linley nodded without answering right away. His mind was a jumble. It had all begun when his father told him about the glory of the Baruch Clan and the legends of the Dragonblood Warriors. But those legends were too distant, as distant as clouds on the horizon. The reality was that the thin trace of that bloodline within him could neither let him transform and gain invincible power like his ancestors nor free him from its shackles. It pinned him firmly to the narrow path of doing nothing but relentlessly tempering his body. He trained harder than anyone because that was all he had. Yet today, another path had abruptly burst into his sight, carrying the breath of flames and destruction. That path seemed... less dependent on his ancestors' gift?
"Loa," Linley suddenly turned to him, looking at him very seriously, with a hesitation and searching quality rarely seen in his eyes. "Do you think... there's any chance I could become a magician too?"
Loa froze. He looked at Linley's tightly pressed lips and the longing held deep in those dark eyes, something Linley himself might not yet fully understand. Yes, when he had first crossed over, hadn't he also fantasized about having an aptitude for magic and becoming a magician? But his identity was merely that of a poor boy. Even if he had the talent, what good would it do? Did he have the money to get tested? "Magicians... I don't know much about them either. All I know is that they need talent, they need to be tested, and they need to study profound incantations and knowledge. It all seems several worlds away from Wushan Town, from forging iron, from working ourselves to death with physical training every day."
"As for the specifics, I don't really know much either." Loa scratched his head. "I'm just a blacksmith's boy. Old Jack never taught me about this. Magicians... they're too far removed from me."
At his words, the tiny flame in Linley's eyes seemed to dim a little, veiled beneath a layer of disappointed ash. Linley lowered his head and fell silent again, his fingers only digging harder at the stone.
Loa felt a little uneasy. He knew what weighed on Linley, and the discontent hidden beneath that desperate drive he showed every day.
"Hey." Loa nudged Linley with his elbow. "Are you stupid? What good does asking me do? Who should you be asking about something like this?"
Linley looked up blankly.
"Your father!" Loa thought it could hardly have been more obvious. "Lord Hogg is knowledgeable and well-traveled, and he's the mayor. He must know plenty of things we don't. Your Baruch Clan was so impressive, with such powerful warriors in the past. Maybe... has the clan ever had any magicians? What exactly is a magician, and how do you become one? Wouldn't going home and asking Lord Hogg be a hundred times better than listening to me guess?"
Linley's eyes suddenly lit up, like sparks streaking through the night. Of course! Why had I gotten so stuck on only talking to Loa? Father! Father must know something! The Baruch Clan has such a long history. Even if it has declined now, perhaps those memories and knowledge passed down contain records of clan elders becoming magicians? ...
He sprang up from the rock so abruptly that he nearly tripped.
"You're right!" Energy returned to Linley's voice, his bewilderment replaced by urgency. "I'll go back and ask Father right now!"
He gave Loa a hurried nod, turned, and ran toward town. His steps were swift and urgent, and his figure soon vanished into the gathering dusk.
The training ground fell quiet again, leaving Loa alone. He sat on the rock, in no hurry to resume his sword practice. The evening breeze blew past, carrying a faint scorched smell from far away that seemed not to have completely dispersed. Linley's question had stirred ripples in his heart as well.
Magicians... another path to strength?
He lowered his head to look at his callused hands and tightened his grip on the sword across his knees. That path might be good, might be wondrous, but it was not his path. His path lay in the weighty iron sword in his hands, in the "qi" circulating through his body day and night, in the endlessly monotonous thrusts, swings, and forging blows. Seeing the view from greater heights had instead made him see more clearly the ground beneath his feet that he needed to tread firmly.
He practiced his sword alone for a while longer. Only when night completely shrouded the land and the stars lit up one by one did he return his sword to its sheath.
Back at the smithy, he closed the door and lit the oil lamp. Its dim yellow glow illuminated only a small circle around the table. The scenes from that afternoon-the savage Velociraptor, the roaring flames, the splashing blood-still churned through his mind. His fingers felt strangely itchy, unable to settle.
He found the charcoal pencil left over from last time, then dug out a scrap of leather that had been tanned relatively soft and fine, spreading it across the table.
The tip touched down, first outlining the enormous Velociraptor, emphasizing its hind legs brimming with explosive strength and its pair of chilling, hooked foreclaws. Then came the figure of the magician on its back, his staff pointed forward, the air around him warping with the sense that flames were about to erupt. In the distance stood several tiny, bedraggled figures, still holding shields and swords as they tried to form ranks and resist.
He drew with deep concentration, but it was different from the last time he had drawn Old Jack, when his entire mind had been drained empty and immersed in memories and emotion. This time, he was more like a calm observer, using lines and shading to record a stunning encounter and sort through the shock it had dealt him. Anger, fear, yearning, resolve... all those emotions mingled, but he kept them under control, channeling them into the tip of the pencil until they became part of the picture.
It was finished. Loa put down the charcoal pencil and let out a long breath. Charcoal dust had stained his fingers black, and he felt the mental fatigue that followed an outpouring, but none of that sense of growth from last time, as though his spiritual power had been washed clean and suddenly become clearer. He carefully rolled up the drawing and stored it with his earlier portrait of Old Jack.
The road to strength was still long and far-reaching. Magicians had their mysteries, and warriors had their hardships. Linley had found a possible new direction, while he, too, would continue steadily onward, step by step, along this road strewn with iron and sweat, swords and blood.
Outside the window, the night in Wushan Town remained peaceful, punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog. Yet in the hearts of the two boys, certain seeds had quietly broken through the soil, pointing toward futures that differed, but were equally filled with peril and light.
Before you continue