The town announced itself before it appeared.
Voices overlapped in the air—vendors shouting prices, children laughing, metal clanging against stone. After days of silence and forests that swallowed sound, the noise felt almost overwhelming. The narrow road opened into a cluster of tightly packed buildings, their walls sun-bleached and worn smooth by time and hands. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. Life, ordinary and stubborn, moved everywhere.
Tomora adjusted his grip on the stretcher. Tala walked beside him, her hands never leaving her father's arm, as if letting go might make him disappear. Jer led the way, eyes sharp, shoulders tense. Yora followed behind, guarding their backs.
People noticed them.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A hush rippled outward as villagers took in the sight of the unconscious man, the dried blood, the exhaustion written plainly on every face in the group. No one stopped them. No one spoke. They simply watched as the group pushed through the streets toward a small building marked by hanging herbs and the faint smell of antiseptic.
Inside, the air was cooler.
A man with graying hair and steady hands moved quickly, ushering them aside without ceremony. Tala hesitated, fingers tightening once more around her father's sleeve before she finally let go. The doctor's hands were already working—checking breathing, pressing gently at wounds, murmuring instructions to an assistant Connor wasn't there to hear about.
The group waited.
Time stretched thin in that small room. No one sat. No one paced. They just stood there, eyes drifting to the closed doorway, listening to the sounds beyond it—quiet instructions, the clink of tools, the slow rhythm of someone still alive.
When the doctor finally emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth, Tala's breath caught.
"He'll live," the man said simply.
Her knees nearly buckled.
---
Four months passed like a held breath finally released.
The volcanic mountains were silent except for the low groan of the earth far below. The sun hung low in the sky, painting the jagged rock in molten gold and deep shadow. Heat rose in slow waves, but it no longer bothered him.
Connor stood at the edge of the cliff, unmoving.
Purple fire burned in his hands—not wild, not raging, but fluid. It flowed like liquid light, curling around his fingers and wrists, dense with power. Lightning of the same unnatural hue snapped and arced between his palms, sharp and precise, never striking where he didn't will it to. Around him, stones lifted from the ground as if gravity had simply forgotten them. They orbited his body in smooth, deliberate paths, reshaping themselves midair—edges sharpening, surfaces smoothing, responding to the smallest shift of his thoughts.
He exhaled slowly.
The flames didn't flare.
They listened.
Behind him, the hooded figure watched from a distance, leaning on his staff. For once, his posture wasn't lazy. His head tilted slightly, eyes tracking every movement, every subtle adjustment in Connor's stance.
"…Wow," he said at last, voice awkward, almost shy. He shuffled his feet. "You're strong now."
Connor didn't turn, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth.
"Stronger than I expected, kiddo."
Connor finally looked down at his hands. The fire didn't burn him. It didn't even sting. It felt… light.
"I know," he said quietly. "It feels like my body became lighter."
The hooded figure hummed in agreement. "At this point? You could destroy three planets if you went full power."
Connor frowned. He glanced over his shoulder. "Planets?" He paused. "What's a planet?"
The hooded figure froze.
"…Oh." He scratched the back of his head under the hood. "Yeah. Forgot your time hasn't discovered that yet. You live on a planet."
Connor's confusion deepened. "My time?"
The hooded figure waved a hand dismissively, already backpedaling. "Look, what I'm trying to say is—if you use your full power, you can kill everyone on this world."
The stones around Connor faltered, wobbling midair.
"Really?" Connor asked, quieter now. "I'm that strong?"
He stared at his hands again, this time with something closer to awe than confidence. The flames pulsed gently, responding to the shift in his thoughts, but they didn't grow out of control.
"That's not all," the hooded figure continued. "At this rate, you might even be able to summon an incarnate."
Connor looked up. "What's that?"
The hooded figure stepped closer, tapping the ground with his staff. The rocks around Connor stilled, hovering in place. "You know how you create a domain? That space where the world bends to you?"
Connor nodded slowly.
"That's not your full power," the figure said. "That's just a fraction. If you get strong enough—strong enough to handle it—you can summon an incarnate."
Connor's pulse quickened. "And how do I do that?"
The hooded figure stopped.
Then he shrugged.
"I don't know," he said lightly. "Figure it out yourself."
Before Connor could respond, the figure turned away. His steps turned into a jog, boots crunching against stone as he headed down the mountainside.
"Bye, kiddo!" he called over his shoulder, not looking back. "My job's done!"
Connor stood there, stunned, watching the familiar silhouette shrink against the glowing horizon until it disappeared entirely.
The wind tugged at his clothes.
Silence returned.
He lowered his gaze to his hands once more. The purple flames curled tighter, denser, as if reacting to the spark of curiosity igniting in his chest. Lightning snapped softly, eager but restrained. The stones resumed their orbit, perfectly balanced.
"Incarnate, huh," Connor murmured.
A quiet smirk formed on his lips.
"I'll give it a try."
His eyes flared, purple light reflecting off the molten rock around him. Not reckless. Not afraid.
Focused.
For the first time, Connor didn't wonder how much of himself he'd lose to power.
He wondered how far he could evolve.