After they passed through the gate that marked the threshold of the Empire's lands, the mercenaries continued their journey steadily. The sun began to set gradually, drawing with it the last strands of light that illuminated this world. The sunset was enchanting, its colors fading slowly as the gray curtain of dusk descended upon the sky.
The land around them had transformed dramatically during their march—from barren earth sewn with sand and dust, nearly void of any greenery, into fertile ground covered with pale green grass, rolling into emerald-tinted hills. As night approached, a dense forest appeared on the horizon—thick, intertwined trees that marked their destination for the day.
At the forest's edge, where the foliage grew thick and deep, the mercenaries pitched their shabby tents. These weather-beaten, sandy-yellow shelters bore the scars of harsh desert winds and sun. Yet, despite their wear and tear, the mercenaries wore satisfied smiles—they had entered the Empire's territory, where the air was milder, more humid, and their bodies no longer stiff from relentless heat or biting wind.
None of them showed discomfort at the Imperial soldiers' sneering glances or taunts. They lit a fire and gathered around it, their coarse laughs and harsh voices echoing among the trees and fading into the heart of the forest.
Even Zephyr, usually tense and vigilant, felt a rare sense of ease. This new environment, free from a sun that beat down like hammers and air that made breathing laborious, granted him a moment of peace.
But not everyone shared that tranquility.
Hidden among the dense thicket, eyes watched the camp with greed and murderous intent. A lone figure observed silently since their arrival, counting them, memorizing their positions and weapons.
"Twenty-five… twenty-six… twenty-seven."
He finished the count precisely, imprinted their layout in his mind, then spun swiftly and dashed through the undergrowth. His speed was inhuman—more akin to a wraith than a man—making it clear he was not an ordinary human, but one of the "Ascended."
Minutes later, he slowed down and came to a stop before a chilling scene.
Dozens of figures loomed in a muddy clearing: dangerous-looking men with shaggy hair and unkempt beards, their clothes tattered, their demeanors filthy and violent. They jostled each other, gnawing on roasted meat, tossing scraps on the ground with savage indifference. A few turned to glare at the newcomer, then sneered and turned away, returning to their grim revelry.
The newcomer pressed on toward a large open tent, inside of which sat an extremely fat man sprawled in a massive chair. His cheeks and belly overflowed with flabby flesh, his eyes almost hidden in folds of fatty skin, narrowed to slits.
His clothing was torn apart at the midriff, unable to contain his bulk. Beside his chair lay a massive cleaver that gleamed in the firelight.
Next to him was a woman in her thirties, wearing ragged scraps that barely covered her swollen body. A metal collar encircled her neck, its chain linked to the fat man's chair. Her swollen limbs and lackluster, hollow eyes reflected only emptiness.
The newcomer fixed his gaze on the woman, desire clear in his eyes. The fat man noticed—yet said nothing—and finally asked, voice heavy with gluttony, "What is it?"
Every word he spoke made his fat ripple.
The newcomer answered in a harsh, grating voice, "Heh heh—leader, a group of armed men arrived from the western walls. They've camped near the forest."
The fat man shrugged off the news. His flesh quivered at the slightest movement. "How many?"
"Twenty-seven."
The leader squinted until his eyes nearly vanished. "Prepare to attack them as soon as they enter the forest."
The newcomer licked his lips, eager. "Yes, leader."
"Go, then! What are you waiting for?"
He chuckled maliciously. "Leader… where's my reward?" He pointed at the chained woman.
The leader coldly tossed the chain at him. The man grabbed it, yanked, and the woman collapsed to the ground. He pulled her with delight, ignoring her groans.
Elsewhere in the camp that night, as most of the mercenaries slept, Zephyr stood beside Zacrox, who was holding a bow and aiming an arrow at a target carved into a tree about thirty meters away.
He released the arrow—it shot straight and true, penetrating the designated target.
Zephyr, heading toward his tent, was halted when Zacrox placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not time to sleep yet," he said, guiding him to a cleared spot away from the main fire, then began teaching him how to use the bow properly.
After demonstrating, he handed the bow to Zephyr and placed a quiver of arrows on the ground. "Your turn."
Zephyr accepted, recognizing every moment of teaching might save a life in this harsh world. He raised the bow with his left hand, anchored himself, nocked an arrow, drew the bowstring with all his strength, and aimed at the same tree. Just before release, Zacrox spoke:
"Every arrow in combat must hit. Missed shots waste time, risk your life, and give away your position. A stray arrow invites death. But one that strikes might save a comrade."
Then he added: "You're not just drawing a bow—you're drawing a lifeline."
Zephyr listened, impressed by Zacrox's wisdom—more than what many soldiers possess, especially mercenaries.
He drew a deep breath, held it, let go—
Whoosh The arrow flew, but missed. It grazed the bark, and slid past the target.
Zacrox observed quietly. "Not a bad start."
He continued: "Control your breathing. Before release, hold your breath. Breathe out as you let go."
Zephyr nodded and drew another arrow. He inhaled, focused, exhaled—
Whoosh—again, he hit near the mark, though not dead center.
Zacrox nodded approval. "Better. Keep at it."
Then he turned and walked back to his tent, without any fanfare. Zephyr barely noticed—he was wholly absorbed in his practice. Arrow after arrow flew until the quiver was empty.
He stared in mild surprise. "I guess I overdid it."
He retrieved arrows from the tree (now resembling a porcupine) and returned to camp. He placed the bow and empty quiver near Zacrox's tent. The other appeared asleep, still with eyes closed.
Zephyr smirked inwardly: "Like you could fool me—I'm sure you're awake, you sly snake."
He headed to his own tent, sat upright, and closed his eyes.
It was time for the difficult part.
He released his muscles and entered a meditative stillness. His heartbeat slowed, breaths evened out, and awareness drifted into a luminous field of tiny stars—particles of ascension.
He focused on finding the tiniest particle he could sense. He recalled Arlond's words: the desert brimmed with ascension particles due to its emptiness, unlike populated lands. Though his current surroundings had fewer, he did not hesitate.
He identified a small particle and directed it toward his body. It pressed against his skin, and—
Ouch…
He forced it into his body. Pain struck like needles, sharp and precise. He endured it as it traveled inward until halfway, at which point the pain peaked, then faded… and the particle disappeared inside him.
Without pause, he refocused, guiding the next particle through his skin into his bloodstream, until it reached his heart. There, it moved of its own accord toward its counterpart particle.
Thunk… gone…
Thunk… returned…
This repeated over several heartbeats until the two particles merged, settling quietly within his heart.
Zephyr lifted his awareness, lay flat on the grassy ground, wiping sweat from his brow. The pain was intense, but there was comfort too—he was drawing closer to a greater power… to the realm of the Ascended.
A faint smile appeared on his lips as he thought: "One day… I will ascend."
He closed his eyes and drifted into slumber.