CHAPTER 157: THE TIDES

The mist in the lowlands was always there, thin but annoying, covering everything like a dull blanket. It hovered just above the ground, drifting around his ankles while he walked. The stone beneath his boots was cracked and uneven, pieces of old ruins scattered everywhere as if someone had smashed a whole city and left it to rot.

Tall grass pushed in from both sides of the path, wet with morning dew. It brushed against his legs with every step. Sometimes it moved on its own, something small or not-so-small rushing through it before going silent again. The animals down here didn’t hide well; you could always hear them before you saw them.

He passed broken archways and crumbling walls, all covered in moss and vines. Most of the structures leaned to one side, ready to fall if the wind pushed hard enough. The place smelled like damp stone, wet leaves, and the sea. You could hear the waves even though the water was still far away, smashing against cliffs over and over like they were trying to break in.

Every once in a while, the mist would thin out, and he’d see more of the landscape, the tall rocks sticking out of the ground at weird angles, the narrow rivers cutting through the dirt, the distant forest shaking even when the air was still. Then the fog would roll back in, swallowing everything again.

Creatures screeched from somewhere deeper in the lowlands. Some sounded close, others far. He didn’t pay them much attention.

The wind carried the cold smell of salt as he got closer to the coast. The ground became rougher, the cliffs louder. Pebbles rolled down the slopes whenever the waves hit hard. Even with all the noise, the lowlands felt strangely empty, like the world was holding its breath.

He kept walking. Nothing here was friendly, but nothing lied about what it was either. Just mist, ruins, monsters, and the sound of the sea. The same as always.

...

...

Three bandits sat around a small campfire, the flames barely strong enough to push back the mist drifting through the trees. The fire cracked quietly, sending sparks into the air before the fog swallowed them.

They looked tired. The kind of tired that came from running, fighting, or just living out here too long. One of them poked the fire with a stick, trying to get it to burn hotter, but all he managed was a puff of smoke that made him cough. The other two sat on broken crates they’d dragged from... somewhere, hoods down, faces half-lit by the orange glow.

Their weapons rested close, leaning against a rock, or lying across someone’s lap, just in case. In a place like this, you never really relax. Even when they talked, they kept glancing into the shadows between the trees, listening for anything moving through the grass.

The quiet made their voices sound louder than they actually were. They joked and complained about the same things everyone out here did: the cold, the fog, the lack of food, and how everything tried to kill you. Every now and then, one of them would laugh, but it came out short and dry, like they didn’t really find it funny.

The firelight flickered across their faces, carving sharp lines under their eyes. Their clothes were worn, patched too many times, stained from things they didn’t bother washing out. You could tell this camp wasn’t permanent, just another quick stop before they moved again.

Mist curled around the edges of the camp, creeping in slowly. The bandits didn’t notice at first. They just sat there, warming their hands, waiting for the night to pass, completely unaware that something was watching them through the fog.

These sayings were normal in Stormfell, especially in the lowlands. But they kept coming back to this place since it was the best place for their work, since most kids who think they can save the world come here.

Everyone knew the world was doomed, it was slowly falling into pure anarchy, that’s why many others like them had decided to become bandits, to addapt to this new world, and not die.

When you live in the same house with monsters that could easily kill you, adapting is a must, no matter how bad it might make you look.

As he was falling asleep from boredom, he noticed someone. A victim, he nudges the others, pointing to him, and without saying a word, they took out their blades. Slowly approaching from behind.

He was dressed in layered, dark-toned clothing that looked built for movement and combat. The inner layer seems to be a tight, high-collared shirt, almost turtleneck-like, that fits close to the body and keeps warmth in. Over it sits a loose, long-sleeved robe with wide sleeves, tied at the waist by a thick belt made from several overlapping wraps of fabric. The robe hangs unevenly, splitting at the sides and front, giving his legs freedom to move.

His trousers are baggy and gathered at the ankles, practical for running or dodging, and they match the robe’s darker shade. His gloves are fingered, but tight enough that they almost look like a second skin, giving him grip without bulk. The forearms have extra layers wrapped around them, almost like makeshift bracers made of cloth strips.

A shoulder piece sits over his left side, not armor, exactly, but a reinforced panel that gives a slightly sharper silhouette. The whole outfit flows behind him when he moves, especially the long lower part of the robe, which trails like a shadow.

As slowly raised his blade, thrusting it in his back, but unexpectingly, the boy had drawn out his blade too, blocking his attack from behind somehow. He staggered slightly as the boy turned to face them.

The boy’s hair was golden, yet a gold that had been saturated from years of shining, like a Sun that had lost most of its light, so it was really more of a light blonde tone than golden. His eyes, well, eye, since his eyes had two different colors, were of a dark blue color, like a sea troubled by storm and monsters. He had the pair of eyes that had witnessed the end of the world multiple times, the eyes of someone who had witnessed the death of too many to remember their faces.

His other eye was pure black, without any reflection; it was even darker than his pupil. His hair was of a medium size, in the front, his bangs getting to about half of his eye, but at his back, it was a lot longer, probably reaching his shoulders if it wasn’t kept in a bun by a silver hairpin shaped like a moonflower.

The blade in his hand, just like his eye, was made out of black steel, something he didn’t really see, especially in rapiers, meaning it was probably pretty expensive, perfect for him, and that complicated design of the guard had to be done by a great blacksmith.

The bandits all dashed forward at once, ready to kill the boy to get his stuff, but... the boy parried all three attacks, catching them off guard, then putting his dominant foot in front of him, and the other behind him, angled to the side, forming some sort of L shape. It allowed him to control his direction and, most importantly, explosive thrusts. He kept his knees bent, so they were more springy.

And his thrusts were fast, to the point he didn’t even realize that he had been pierced. He put his hand on his chest, watching the blood flow onto his hand. What had happened, and how did he not see it?

Who was this boy...?

...

...

Aether sighed, annoyed by the bandits, they seemed to multiply day by day, to the point where killing a group didn’t even matter, since there were other two coming the next day to replace it. It was at least nice that he got some shards, but still, it was tiring.

Plus, he had better things to do now.

He had heard that information had been given a task by his master, and he was going to fulfill it. After all, he owed him his life, after all he had done for him, this was just one of the many favours he still owed him.

...

He has already been here for a year... a whole year has passed... since.

He was already sixteen.

It... so weird to think that he was two years away from being an adult... he always wanted to become one as a child, and really, so to be so close to that goal... it didn’t feel real...

He had gotten far in his trial, but not far enough. He still had a lot to go.

After all, he still had to go back inside...

The Tides

...

He still remembered that place from when he first arrived in the trial, a land only of death and insanity.