As Mortis refilled his flask with fresh water from the river, the cool current flowed over his hands, washing away the remnants of bone powder and crushed herbs clinging to his skin. He took a moment to rinse out the last traces of his potion-making, ensuring nothing was left behind. Then, with a grunt, he lifted the larger of the two deer-like creatures and began to walk back to camp.
The forest had grown darker now, the last hues of dusk fading into deep indigo. Trees loomed around him like silent sentinels, their silhouettes shifting in the breeze. Every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig made him reflexively tense—though he knew the predator from earlier was likely long gone, but the memory still prickled the back of his neck.
As he walked, Mortis's thoughts drifted back to the conversation he'd had with the mysterious man.
'How am I supposed to choose a pathway that suits me?' he thought, frustration settling in his chest like a stone. 'I don't even know the names of these twelve pathways.'
He sighed, watching his breath mist faintly in the cool air. 'Thankfully, I still have some time. Before I even get the chance to choose, I'll need to reach the final rank of Apprentice… and I'm not even Rank 1 yet.' The realization stung more than he expected.
When he finally emerged into the clearing, the soft crackle of the campfire greeted him. The mysterious man sat exactly where Mortis had left him, cross-legged beside the flame, staring into the fire with an expression that looked distant and burdened, like he was deep in thought about something important.
"Sir, I've returned," Mortis said, his voice steady despite the swirling thoughts.
The man nodded without looking up and gestured toward the fire. "Put the deer here, next to the flame."
Mortis obeyed, laying the animal down carefully. As he did, the man glanced over. "By the way," he said casually, "do you know how to skin an animal?"
Mortis nodded, pulling the hunting knife he got from him before. The blade flashed faintly in the firelight as he got to work.
He made quick but careful cuts, peeling away the hide with practiced efficiency. The smell of blood and fresh meat filled the clearing, mingling with the woodsmoke. Once the skin was removed, Mortis gathered a few sturdy branches he'd seen earlier and crafted a makeshift grill-like structure to roast the meat.
He turned the carcass slowly over the fire, focusing on making sure it cooked evenly. The flames hissed as fat dripped down into the embers, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach, he remained silent, so did the mysterious man across from him.
The silence between them stretched on, thick and impenetrable. Neither of them said a word.
Only after the meat was thoroughly cooked did they finally eat, pulling strips of hot flesh from the bone and chewing quietly. The warmth of the food spread through Mortis's body, slowly, but surely recovering some of his fatigue.
Once they'd eaten their fill, the man stood, brushing ash from his hands. Without speaking, he lay down to sleep, and Mortis followed suit. The forest was quiet again, except for the occasional crackle of the dying fire.
As Mortis lay down beneath the stars, the questions still flowed in his mind, but for now, at least, his body was warm, his hunger was sated, and sleep was awaiting.
|>>======|✦|======<<|
The next morning, Mortis and the mysterious man moved in silence, methodically destroying their camp. They extinguished the fire, scattered the ashes to avoid leaving traces, and packed away what little they had carried with them. Once everything was cleared, they set off into the forest once more.
"If nothing goes wrong," the man had said before they left "we should arrive to testing grounds by nightfall."
They had been walking for hours when Mortis finally spoke, his voice hesitant. "Sir, could I ask something?"
The man glanced sideways but gave only a short nod in reply.
Mortis hesitated. "What will the test be about?"
There was a long pause, the only sound between them being the steady crunch of leaves underfoot. Eventually, the man sighed and responded in his usual calm, almost detached tone. "Basically, it's a test to determine your magical aptitude and elemental affinity. It's not complicated—just a series of measurements. If you pass, you'll be eligible to apply to one of the organizations present there."
He turned his gaze toward the path ahead. "Of course, they can still decline you. Passing the test only gets you the chance to join, but nothing more."
Mortis digested that in silence, his brow furrowing. He wasn't sure what to expect from these tests, but the idea of being judged by people he hadn't even met filled him with a slow-burning anxiety.
Then the man added, in a more relaxed but pointed tone, "By the way, just a piece of advice. Even if you don't end up joining our Myriad Demons Academy, I'd suggest you stick with the dark magi organizations."
Mortis raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
The man gave a dry chuckle. "Because your personality isn't exactly suited to being a Light Magus."
Mortis blinked, then let out a small laugh of his own. "I suppose you're right."
He didn't try to deny it. Heroism, compassion, nobility—those ideals were like distant stars to him, beautiful but utterly irrelevant. He was driven by ambition and survival, not altruism. If he helped someone, it was because he stood to gain. If he hurt someone, it was because it made sense to do so. That was the kind of person he was—and he was fine with it.
|>>======|✦|======<<|
After arduous travel, they finally reached the periphery of the place where the test should be.
The mysterious man halted, his cloak fluttering in the breeze, and turned to glance at Mortis with a rare spark of expression in his eyes.
"We've finally arrived," he said. "Welcome to the Ashfell Plain."
As they stepped forward, the terrain opened up revealing a broad field filled with scorched pieces of blackened earth and dusty soil. At the far end of Mortis's vision, a large encampment began to take shape like a mirage becoming reality.
Dozens of tents, each bearing the colors and insignias of different magical organizations, were arranged in organized chaos. Some were grand like miniature fortresses, while others were barely larger than a merchant's stall. A ring of carriages surrounded the encampment, all of them similar in design to the one Mortis had ridden before the monster destroyed it.
But what truly captured his attention were the people.
Candidates. Hundreds of them.
Boys and girls around his age filled the area. Some conversed in groups, others stood alone staring nervously at the central tent. Their expressions were a mirror of conflicted emotions: wide-eyed excitement, tense anticipation, quiet fear, and on more than one face—a subtle despair, as if reality had struck harder than expected.
Mortis watched a few individuals exiting the largest, most sophisticated tent near the heart of the encampment. Their faces spoke volumes, some elated, some blank with shock, others on the verge of tears. One boy walked like a hollowed shell, as if everything had been stripped from him inside.
"This," mysterious man said, his voice calm, "is the place of your test. You'll undergo a simple evaluation of your aptitude and elemental affinity. If you pass, you'll be allowed to approach the organizations present and try to join them. From there, if you'll manage to join one of them, you'll return to your chosen academy and begin formal training."
He fixed Mortis with a rare serious look. "You may inquire about all the organizations present and even visit their booths. But once you sign a contract… there is no turning back. Switching organizations is forbidden. Anyone who tries will be considered a deserter and executed on the spot."
Mortis nodded. He didn't need the warning twice. It was already clear to him what would be the consequences of doing something like that to the Magus organization.
As they began walking again, a sudden shout broke the air.
"Hey! Valthor! You're late this time!"
A tall, elderly man stepped out from beside a familiar-looking carriage, grinning as he approached.
"There were… complications." Valthor replied simply.
The elder chuckled. "Complications? What happened to your carriage and your candidates?"
"Destroyed. All dead." Valthor gestured toward Mortis. "He's the only one who made it out."
The elder's face stiffened. "For real?"
Valthor nodded grimly. "We encountered one of those monster overlords in the Withering Peaks. But thankfully it had wooden body, and was relatively vulnerable to fire. If it had been anything else, I would be dead too."
"Damn," the elder muttered, brows furrowing. "You were really unlucky. Those things rarely leave their territory. You just happened to cross paths with one…"
He sighed and patted Valthor's shoulder. "It's good you made it back alive."
Valthor inclined his head and sighed.
"I'll take him in from here," the elder said. "You should go fill out the report and rest."
Turning to Mortis, he extended a hand in greeting. "Come on, kid. I'm Jareth. From Myriad Demons Academy, same as Valthor."
Mortis shook his hand cautiously.
As they began walking into the camp, Jareth gave him a sideways glance. "Listen. You can check out the other organizations if you want, but if you're smart, you'll pick ours. Myriad Demons Academy doesn't just teach techniques like other organizations; our entire organization is based and functions on power of individuals. In our academy the stronger you are, the biggest benefits and power in organization you have. And considering you're the sole surviving candidate of a monster overlord attack… that can't be completely thanks to luck alone."