A thunderous roar split the sky.
Fireballs rained down, smashing into Helgen's stone towers and walls. Entire sections of the keep collapsed as Imperial soldiers were incinerated where they stood.
"Stop staring and kill it!"
"Get the villagers out!"
"I'm on fire—help me!"
"Our weapons aren't doing anything!"
Even the Empire's elite troops broke formation.
General Tullius shouted orders, trying to impose discipline.
Archers loosed volleys.
Battlemages hurled spell after spell.
None of it mattered.
Arrows bounced off Alduin's scales.
Magic fizzled against his hide.
One sweep of dragonfire turned soldiers into burning silhouettes.
Tullius made the only sensible call.
"Evacuate! Get everyone underground!"
As chaos erupted, Rowan snapped the ropes binding his wrists as if they were thread.
He grabbed a fallen Imperial sword and cut through the bindings on Ulfric and Ralof.
Simple.
Effortless.
He wasn't planning to join the Stormcloaks.
But favors cost nothing.
And having people who owed him might be useful later.
Ulfric gave a brief nod.
"Thank you. We're heading for that tower."
Ralof reached for Rowan's arm.
"Come with us!"
Rowan shook his head.
"Good luck."
He dropped the sword and turned toward the main gate.
Staying near the Dragonborn meant staying near Akatosh's gaze.
That was the last thing Rowan wanted.
Alduin's fireballs were deadly to normal people.
To Rowan, they were an inconvenience.
Even without using supernatural defenses, his body could tank the heat.
And with his speed, he didn't need to.
He weaved through falling debris, shadows clinging to the sides of buildings, knocking aside any soldier who got in his way without killing them.
Within moments, he reached the gate.
Locked.
If he could use magic, it would take a second.
He couldn't.
Jumping over the wall was possible.
But a flying human-shaped blur would absolutely catch a dragon's attention.
So Rowan chose the quiet option.
He leaned his shoulder into the gate.
Stepped forward.
The wood exploded outward in the shape of his body.
Rowan slipped through the hole and kept moving.
Compared to a dragon demolishing a fortress, the sound was nothing.
Outside Helgen, Rowan didn't slow down.
Behind him, Alduin circled, setting the town ablaze.
Rowan glanced back once.
"Not bad for a mage who can't use magic."
Then he turned north.
Riverwood lay in that direction.
He needed shelter.
He needed information.
Most importantly…
He needed money.
Walking along the road, Rowan began mapping out his path.
Riverwood first.
Buy books.
Learn how this world truly worked.
Then Whiterun.
After that, Winterhold.
The College of Winterhold was his real target.
Once he learned this world's native magic, he could safely start using power again.
Ilúvatar's advice echoed in his mind.
Use local systems.
Blend in.
Grow quietly.
But every step required coin.
He couldn't conjure gold.
He couldn't transmute rocks.
He couldn't even open a spatial pocket.
Stealing Imperial armor to sell was a terrible idea.
Marching into a blacksmith's shop with stolen military gear would end with him in chains.
He also couldn't identify alchemy ingredients yet.
A field of flowers was just… a field of flowers.
Rowan sighed softly.
"So the first boss isn't a dragon."
"It's poverty."
...
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