Dawn bled pale gray over the smoldering ruins of the Voss manor.
What had once been a proud stone house was now blackened beams and collapsed roofs, smoke still curling lazily into the cold morning air. Church bells from the nearest village tolled solemnly in the distance—too late for the dead.
In the courtyard, Inquisitor-Lord Kael Draven stood motionless, gloved hands clasped behind his back, staring at the ashes as if they might yield answers.
His men—twelve of the Order's finest—gathered in a loose semicircle, faces grim beneath their hooded cloaks. Blood stained some sleeves. One limped.
The leader of the assassin squad stepped forward, mask removed now, face pale and drawn. He dropped to one knee.
"My lord," he said, voice hoarse. "We… failed."
Kael Draven's eyes—cold steel gray—turned to him slowly.
"Failed," he repeated, the word flat.
The man swallowed. "The boy was there. We had him. Then… he vanished out of thin air. We searched the hall, the grounds, the treeline until first light. No trail. No body. Nothing."
A long silence.
One of the Church knights shifted uneasily. "The wards detected abyssal taint, my lord. Strong. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared."
Kael Draven's gaze returned to the ruins.
"He is still alive," he said quietly. Not a question.
The assassin leader kept his head bowed. "Yes, my lord."
The inquisitor's jaw tightened.
"Then the Cardinal will not be pleased."
He turned away from the ashes, cloak sweeping the soot.
"Double the patrols along the Shadowvein border. Send word to every outpost. The boy is dangerous."
His voice hardened.
"And next time, do not fail."
The men bowed as he strode toward his waiting horse.
Behind him, the ruined manor continued to smoke—a silent warning that something dark had slipped through their grasp.
And it was already gone.
***
Hael leaned heavily against the rough bark of an ancient pine, chest heaving, sweat mixing with blood on his forehead. His side burned like fire, and his head pounded with every heartbeat, but he had done it.
The last Void Grasp had been the hardest—a heavy rock yanked from the earth with a grinding crack, shadows coiling visibly around it before it thudded back down. His hand had trembled afterward, the chill lingering too long in his bones.
But the letters had finally changed.
[Void Grasp: 3/3]
[Tutorial complete.]
The main thing about Void Grasp was intent. Intent with the manipulation of shadows. If Hael intended to grasp something he has to have strong intent. Then he had to reach out to the cold sensation inside him. That sensation would act as a link and complete the Void Grasp.
It wasn't easy. Hael had to try several time before he succeeded.
He slid down the trunk until he sat on the cold ground, legs splayed out like a child's. His breath came in ragged gasps. The forest around him was still dark, the first hints of dawn only a faint gray on the horizon.
Then the new message appeared—larger, brighter, almost celebratory in its steady glow.
[Congratulations!]
[You have completed the Basic Training Tutorial.]
[Reward available:]
Minor Healing Potion (1)
+1 Strength
+1 Vitality
[Claim reward? Y/N]
Hael stared at the words, eyes wide.
Congratulations.
No one had ever said that to him before. Not like this.
His throat tightened. He didn't move for a long moment. The letters pulsed gently.
He thought of the potion—healing. Of the numbers rising, even if only a little.
He thought of how far he still had to go.
His hand lifted slowly, trembling.
He didn't speak this time. Just thought it.
Yes.
The letters brightened.
[Reward claimed.]
A soft glow formed in the air in front of him—crimson light coalescing into a small glass vial filled with shimmering red liquid. It dropped gently into his waiting palm, cool and solid.
At the same time, warmth spread through his tired muscles—just a little. The throb in his side eased, not gone, but bearable. His arms felt fractionally less heavy. Hael's hands shook as he fumbled with the cork.
The vial was small—no larger than his thumb—its glass dark and cold against his skin. He didn't remember finding it. Only that it had been there when the shadows released him, tucked into his coat as if placed deliberately. The liquid inside caught faint moonlight, thick and murky, almost black.
He hesitated.
His side throbbed again, sharp enough to steal his breath. Warm blood had soaked through the torn fabric, dried, then started again with every movement. His head swam. Even sitting upright took effort now.
He couldn't afford hesitation.
Hael pulled the cork free.
The scent hit him first—metallic, sharp, layered with something bitter and cold. Like iron left out in winter. Like crushed berries frozen too long on the vine.
He raised the vial to his lips and drank.
The liquid burned as it slid down his throat, cold and biting. His stomach clenched hard, and for a heartbeat he thought he might retch it back up. The taste lingered—iron and frost—coating his tongue, sinking deep.
Then the pain changed.
Not vanished. Not dulled.
Changed.
The sharp, tearing agony in his side receded into something heavier, deeper—an ache that spread outward instead of screaming inward. His breathing steadied, slow and unwilling at first, then easier. The dizzy haze behind his eyes thinned just enough for the forest to come back into focus.
Hael sagged against the tree, chest rising and falling.
It wasn't miraculous.
The wound still hurt. His body still trembled with exhaustion. Every muscle felt bruised from the inside out. But the bleeding slowed. The burning weakness faded into something manageable—something he could endure.
He flexed his fingers.
They obeyed.
That alone felt like a victory.
A quiet pulse stirred in his chest—cold, distant, familiar. The same chill he had drawn on before. It felt… steadier now. Thinner, but less frayed. Like a blade that had been reforged just enough not to shatter.
Crimson letters surfaced at the edge of his vision, steady and precise.
[Minor restorative effect detected.]
[Physical integrity stabilized.]
[Status: Operational.]
Hael let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Operational.
Not healed. Not safe. Just… not dying.
He tipped the vial upside down. A single dark drop clung to the rim before falling into the dirt. The glass was empty now—light, useless.
He closed his fingers around it anyway.
The letters appeared again.
Vitality: 5 (injured) → 8
Strength: 6 → 7
Then faded.
Hael clutched the vial, staring at it in the dim light.
It was real.
All of it was real.
The pain dulled further. The bleeding slowed.
He leaned his head back against the tree, eyes closing.
He was not strong yet. But stronger than yesterday.
And that was enough.
For now.
Hael sat with his back against the pine, the empty vial still clutched in his hand. The minor healing potion had done its work—the bleeding had stopped, the worst of the pain dulled to a steady throb. His breathing came easier. The new warmth in his limbs from the added Strength and Vitality felt real, if small.
But the quiet that followed was heavier than the pain had been.
He was alone.
Truly alone.
For the first time since waking in the dark, his body wasn't screaming at him to move or die. There was space to think.
And thinking hurt in a different way.
He stared at the empty vial, turning it slowly between his fingers.
What now?
He couldn't go back. The manor was ash. He knew Eldren would be crawling with Church soldiers and bounty hunters by now. Every road, every village—he would be recognized.
They would hang him as a heretic. Or worse—drag him to the Cardinal for questioning.
He couldn't go forward blindly either. The Shadowvein Wilds stretched for hundreds of miles—full of Abominations, bandits, and worse things in the old tales. A wounded boy wouldn't last a week.
He had power now. Very little. Enough to move through shadows. Enough to grasp from nothing.
But it wasn't enough.
Questions crowded his mind, sharp and relentless.
Who were those assassins? Why his family? They had never spoken against the Church. Never hoarded forbidden books. They were loyal. Ordinary.
The leader had said "the price of heresy." But whose heresy?
And the letters—the voice in his head. What was it? Why him?
It had saved him. Given him strength. But it spoke of "the heir" and "the Abyss" and "cost." It didn't feel kind. It felt… patient. Like it was waiting for something.
Hael's fingers tightened around the vial until the glass creaked.
Could he trust it? He didn't.
But did he have a choice? No.
He thought of running to the nearest town anyway. Throwing himself on someone's mercy. Telling the truth. But what if they handed him over to the church ?
He thought of hiding forever in the wilds, becoming a ghost.
But then the men who killed his family would walk free. Laugh. Sleep soundly.
No!
He couldn't let that happen.
The questions circled, unanswered.
Why me? What am I becoming? How far will this power take me?
He didn't know.
But one thing he did know, small and certain in the chaos:
He would live long enough to find out.
Hael pushed himself to his feet again—steadier this time. The forest was growing lighter; dawn wasn't far off.
He looked deeper into the trees, where the shadows still clung thickest.
Then he took a step.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Just moving forward.
One careful step at a time.
The questions stayed with him. But he didn't have the answers to them.
He only had a path in front of him. He didn't know where it led. But he had to move.