Elias lay on the straw mattress in Room 204 of the Sleeping Ogre Inn, staring at the ceiling.

  It was dark. The room smelled of old beer and unwashed feet. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the sound.

  Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

  It was coming from inside the mattress.

  Elias stiffened. He had spent three hundred years in a sterile, time-locked void where bacteria dared not tread. He had forgotten about the ecosystem of cheap bedding.

  "Bedbugs," he whispered, horrified. "I refuse to be food."

  He raised his hand. Just a simple hygiene spell. A Tier-1 cantrip used by hospital porters.

  "[Sanitize]," he commanded.

  He forgot to account for the emotional amplifier. He was disgusted. The mana responded to his disgust with extreme prejudice.

  FWOOM.

  There was no flash of light. Just a sudden, silent pulse of absolute sterility.

  The wave of white energy expanded outward. It hit the floorboards. The accumulated grime of fifty years vanished instantly. The wood didn't just get clean; it was bleached bone-white, stripped of all color, moisture, and organic history.

  It hit the walls. The peeling wallpaper disintegrated into nothingness.

  It hit the mattresses. The straw stuffing inside didn't stand a chance. The spell identified 'organic waste' and erased it. The straw turned into a fine, sterile white powder.

  "AHH!"

  Rylus woke up screaming as his bed collapsed beneath him. He sank two feet into a pile of white dust, flailing as if he were drowning in flour.

  "We're under attack! It's a... a snow demon!"

  Elias sat on the edge of his own bed frame. He brushed a speck of white powder off his knee.

  "It is not snow," Elias said calmly. "It is the bed."

  An hour later, the dust had settled. Rylus sat on the floor, leaning against the white wall, staring at his hands. He looked defeated.

  Elias sat on the windowsill, watching the moon. He felt... awkward. He wasn't good at people.

  "Why are you still here?" Elias asked.

  Rylus looked up. "Sir?"

  "Your friends. The Mage. The Archer. They ran. You stayed. Why?"

  Rylus laughed. It was a bitter sound.

  "They had places to go," Rylus said quietly. "Kael is a Guild Wizard. The Archer works for the Baron. Me? I have nowhere."

  Elias tilted his head. "You are a Knight. Do you not have a castle? A horse? A lovely maiden to rescue?"

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  "I am a Third Son," Rylus spat the words like a curse. "House Valerius. My eldest brother gets the title. My second brother gets the land. The third son? We get a sword and a pat on the back. 'Go make your own fortune,' father said."

  Rylus looked at his hands again.

  "The expedition to the Athenaeum was my chance. If I brought back a relic... a grimoire... I could have earned a title. I could have been someone. But I failed. We broke the door. We woke... you. If I go back alone, I'm a disgrace."

  He looked up at Elias, his eyes wet.

  Elias stared at him.

  He remembered Master Arion. The old man standing in the doorway of the Archive while the sky burned purple. Arion could have run. He could have portaled away. But he stayed.

  Failure is just moment-it's not a reality, Arion used to say. Survival is the only metric that counts.

  Elias reached into his Inventory. He pulled out a handkerchief. It was a simple white cloth, woven from [Cloud-Silk] in the 3rd Era.

  "Here," Elias said.

  Rylus took it. He wiped his face.

  The [Cloth of Infinite Dryness] activated. It didn't just dry his tears; it sucked every molecule of moisture off his face instantly. Rylus gasped as his skin tightened.

  "Ow," Rylus said, blinking dry eyes.

  "You didn't fail," Elias said, looking out the window. "You opened the door. That is... technically... a success. The lock was very complicated."

  Rylus lowered the cloth. He looked at Elias. A small, dry smile cracked his lips.

  "Technically," Rylus repeated. "I suppose that is true."

  "Besides," Elias added, "I need a guide. I do not know where the tea is. If you stay, I will pay you."

  "Pay me?" Rylus asked. "With what?"

  "I will find valid currency," Elias said. "Eventually."

  The next morning, they were woken by shouting.

  Elias looked out the window. A crowd had gathered in the street below. They were pointing at the spot where he'd crushed the rock yesterday.

  The rock dust was glowing with a faint blue luminescence.

  "Mana-Diamonds," Elias realized. "I compressed the carbon lattice and infused it with ambient mana."

  Near the pile of dust, someone had placed a basket. Inside were three rotten apples and a handful of copper coins.

  "Offerings," Rylus whispered. "They think a Spirit of Wealth passed through."

  Elias scoffed. "Copper? They insult me."

  However, his eyes betrayed his words. He seemed to be secretly pleased they recognized his worth, even if their tribute was garbage.

  BAM.

  The door to their room flew open. Standing in the doorway was a man in a pointed blue hat. He held a staff topped with a glass orb. He looked furious.

  "I found the source!" the man shrieked. He pointed a trembling finger at Elias. "White Necromancy! I sensed the Death Pulse last night!"

  Elias blinked. "[Inspect]."

  Entity: [Theodorus the Wise - Town Mage] Level: 12 Class: [Hedge Wizard] Threat: Negative

  "White Necromancy?" Elias asked. "I was cleaning the floor."

  "Lies! You have drained the life from the wood! You are a vampire of mana!"

  Theodorus began to chant. He waved his staff in wide, dramatic circles.

  "By the Pact of the Seven Stars! By the Breath of the Wind! I conjure thee! [Earthen Bind]!"

  A weak pulse of mana left his staff. The floorboards rattled slightly.

  Elias didn't move.

  "You talk too much," Elias said.

  He raised a finger.

  "[Mute]."

  Theodorus opened his mouth to scream a follow-up spell. No sound came out.

  The Wizard's eyes widened. He grabbed his throat. He waved his staff frantically. Nothing happened.

  In the Golden Era, mages needed incantations. Without his voice, Theodorus was powerless.

  The Wizard stared at Elias—at the finger that had silenced him—then dropped his staff and ran. His boots thudded on the floorboards as he fled, his mouth open in a completely silent scream.

  Elias lowered his hand.

  "Rude," Elias said.

  Rylus was already packing his bag. "Sir. We need to leave. Now."

  "Fine," Elias sighed. "But I refuse to walk."

  Thirty minutes later, they rolled out of the Oakhaven gates.

  Rylus sat in the front of a small, rickety wooden cart, holding the reins.

  In the back, sitting on a pile of hay, sat a man in a dusty grey robe. His hood was up. He looked miserable.

  Pulling the cart was a grey donkey with drooping ears and a look of profound stubbornness.

  "It cost all my silver," Rylus said apologetically. "His name is Barnaby."

  Elias glared at the donkey's rear end. Barnaby stopped walking to eat a patch of weeds.

  "I hate him," Elias said.

  The cart creaked forward, heading south toward the Capital. Toward the Leyline Towers. Toward civilization.

  And hopefully, toward tea.

  Status UpdateMana Consumed:Current Mood:Rylus Loyalty:Nemesis Acquired: