The forest slowly thinned.
After hours of walking, Arman reached a dirt road, and at its entrance stood a wooden sign nailed between two posts.
Pine Village.
"So this is it," he murmured.
The village was small and quiet. Wooden houses lined the road, built from simple timber and straw-thatched roofs. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. Chickens wandered freely between barrels and carts.
Everything looked like it belonged to another age.
As Arman walked deeper into the village, he felt eyes on him. Not hostile—just curious.
"Hey."
He turned.
A woman stood a few steps away, her brown hair tied back, her clothes simple but clean.
"You're not from around here," she said. "Where did you come from?"
Arman hesitated for only a moment. "A small village far from here. I've been want to be an adventurer."
She studied him, then smiled.
"I'm Milea. Welcome to Pine Village. If you're tired, there's an inn down the road."
Relief washed over him.
The inn was warm and lively, filled with the smell of stew and bread. Arman paid for a meal and a room, carefully noting how much silver he spent.
Food was cheap—but not that cheap.
I can't just sit around burning money.
That night, lying on the wooden bed, he thought about his situation.
He had mana.
But no spells.
No occupation.
No way to earn money.
The next morning, he began training.
Every day, Arman woke early and sat outside the inn or at the edge of the village. He closed his eyes and focused on feeling mana—not forcing it, not shaping it, just controlling its flow.
Slowly, painfully slowly, it became easier.
His head no longer throbbed after a few minutes. The mana felt more responsive, less wild.
Still, spells were out of reach.
"I'm building the foundation," he muttered. "That's fine."
During the day, he talked.
A lot.
He asked villagers about the world, about mana, about monsters, about nearby lands. He learned that most people made money through farming, hunting, or trade. Adventurers earned well—but only if they survived.
"How does someone like me earn silver?" he asked an old farmer one afternoon.
The man laughed. "By working."
And so Arman did.
He helped clean fields. He carried harvested crops. He repaired fences. He spent hours bent over soil under the sun, his hands blistered and his back aching.
For each day of labor, he earned a few silver coins.
Not much.
But enough.
At night, he was exhausted—but satisfied.
This wasn't coding until his eyes burned. This was honest work. Simple. Real.
Between chores, he trained mana control again and again.
Day by day, something inside him changed.
Not power.
Discipline.
After several days, Arman understood the truth.
Pine Village was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
There were no books on magic. No teachers. No adventurer guild. No real danger.
He could live here.
But he would never grow.
One evening, while watching the sun dip below the fields, he made his decision.
"Staying here would be comfortable," he said quietly.
"And that's exactly why I can't."
He asked around once more.
The nearest town was called Rostam. Two days east by foot. It had a guild, mages, and real opportunities.
That night, Arman packed his belongings.
The next morning, with a small pouch of silver and calloused hands, he stood at the village gate.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Then he turned east.