We’re walking through the jungle—heading toward a supposed fortress.

  For once, there’s a break in the chaos. No panthers. No wars. No training sessions where I get rag-dolled by a freak with cryptic one-liners and an excellent right hook. Just me, Koln, and the sound of the canopy dripping around us. The jungle hums, but not with threat—just heat, bugs, and stillness.

  And with that brief, rare silence, my mind starts to wander.

  What really happened to the ship?

  Did Roman see anyone tampering with it? Was it sabotage? Or just a catastrophic failure waiting to happen? That satchel… and the Mystire family—what role did they play in all of this?

  And the crew—did they survive?

  I didn’t see any bodies. No wreckage. No screams. But I was unconscious when it all went down. They could’ve escaped. Or maybe they were swallowed whole by that disaster.

  Gone without a trace.

  And what about the Union? The Free States had planned to send a second ship six months after the first. If they stick to schedule, another vessel is already en route.

  But how’s it supposed to get here?

  Some of the books in Koln’s cave mentioned the storms near Old Aresia intensifying the closer you got—massive systems that never let up. Not just natural weather—no, this was spellcraft. A defensive curse woven into the very ocean. A wall of storms.

  Cast by King Aresia himself.

  How anyone broke through that to make landfall… is a miracle.

  Eventually, I ask what’s been gnawing at me.

  “—So, how did someone on a wooden ship make landfall on Old Aresia? I thought the coast was sealed by a storm wall.”

  Koln doesn’t even break stride.

  “There’s only one person who could traverse it—and that’s your father, with his foresight. Mine’s nowhere near as good. That’s why we warped. He made the medium.”

  So rediscovering Old Aresia wasn’t an accident. It was designed.

  Planned.

  By him.

  “Okay—but I also read the landing zones are crawling with monsters.”

  “They are,” Koln nods. “A clan that specializes in beast puppeteering resides there.”

  Puppeteer mages. Of course.

  “So… where are we in relation to that?”

  “Opposite side, basically. Aresia’s about the size of Hercues.”

  Wait.

  Old Aresia is as big as Hercues?

  How far did we warp?

  And I’m supposed to conquer this place?

  Alone?

  The wildest part is that I’m not even resisting. I’m just… accepting it. Like it all fits. Like it’s meant to be this way.

  It feels true. That’s the messed-up part. It feels true.

  I glance at Koln. “You… know about Hercues?”

  “Not personally,” he says. “Your father told me about his journeys.”

  Then silence again.

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  I take the hint. He’s said more in the past few days than probably the last decade. No need to push it further. Maybe he’s warming up to me. Or maybe I’ve just earned a sliver of trust.

  So here I am.

  Assigned to conquer a Pangea-sized continent—because someone said I should.

  Is that a good reason?

  Probably not.

  But go big or go home.

  If I can feel again—then I want to feel everything.

  There are other questions begging for answers—but I decide not to bother Koln any further. He’s already said more in the past few days than he probably has in the last century. Best to let the quiet be.

  So I turn inward.

  First: the technology.

  What I’ve seen so far of Old Aresia—their weapons, their warding tech—it feels eerily similar to what we had in New Aresia. Not identical, but built on the same logic. Same ward structures. Same gunsmithing principles.

  So did both sides reach these conclusions independently? Did two entire civilizations, isolated across centuries, just stumble into the same solutions?

  Or did someone… push them?

  Someone like my father?

  If he had foresight strong enough to plan for this, maybe he influenced both sides. Maybe he’s been guiding Aresian development from the shadows, turning two branches of the same tree toward the same fruit.

  Second: King Aresia.

  In New Aresia, he’s little more than trivia. A curiosity. A name that stuck. Brono’s books say he was a pioneer who migrated from Hercues—a continent away—and that the land was named in his honor. That version doesn’t mention a storm wall. Doesn’t speak of power. Just a name. An origin story shaped by settlers trying to make sense of old bones and borrowed myths.

  But here, in Old Aresia?

  He’s not a footnote.

  He’s a legend.

  A man of impossible magical might—someone who, according to these people, didn’t just rule the land, but sealed it. Trapped a Pangea-sized continent behind a never-ending storm wall. Alone.

  And the seal still holds.

  Years—centuries—after his death, that spell persists. Undimmed. Unbroken.

  So who was he, really?

  And more importantly—

  What kind of man was my father, to be connected to that?

  To move through a world shaped by giants and leave footprints of his own?

  And lastly—how exactly is this “training” supposed to help me refine my foresight?

  And how does foresight translate? Enlightenment made sense if I had actually looped through time. But to achieve enlightenment through foresight alone—that seems… powerful.

  I’ll ask later. It’s not that important.

  Not right now.

  ***

  We perch on a hill, still within the jungle’s treeline, overlooking a wide valley wrapped around another hill. The trees have been cleared, leaving the land scarred and open. Atop that central rise sits a fortress—stone-built, but not ordinary stone. It shimmers faintly with mana, veins of magic pulsing beneath its surface.

  Below it, the valley is a mess of tents and movement—temporary housing, makeshift camps, supply lines threading between units. Countless troops bustle about.

  They look like the cowards I fought first.

  So the brave ones must’ve tried—and failed—to take this.

  Koln finally speaks again after nearly a full day of silence.

  “This is your target. I’ll blow the gate. You kill them.”

  “Can’t I blow it?”

  “No. It’s made from some premium stuff.”

  “…Alright. Quick question—how does all this help my foresight?”

  “Experience. And we need you more powerful.”

  Then he leaps down the slope and vanishes.

  I follow.

  I’m running through the open field now. They’ve seen me. Alarms scream across the camp, soldiers scrambling into position. Guns rise.

  And then the fortress gate explodes.

  A blinding flash. A shattering boom.

  The shockwave hammers the valley—tents ripple, soldiers are flung backwards, some outright crushed. The blast vaporizes the men near the entrance. What’s left of the gate isn’t worth mentioning.

  Perfect timing.

  Now it’s my turn.

  I pick up the pace, my hefty sword in hand, boots thundering over churned-up earth as I tear across the field. The soldiers closest to me are still stunned by the blast—slow to react, mouths open, weapons lowered.

  I don’t give them a second chance.

  I carve through the first man, then the next. Lightning forks from my blade, arcing across bodies like wildfire leaping from tree to tree. The crackle, the heat, the screams—it all blends into a single, roaring rush. My heart pounds, not from effort but from exhilaration. This is what I’ve been craving.

  The bodies fall faster now—limbs flying, torsos ripped open, armor melted or shattered. I don’t need to think. Every motion is muscle memory. Lightning-enhanced instincts. I become the storm.

  And still they scream.

  “Lightning demon! It’s him—it’s really him!”

  Cringe. But I guess word travels fast. Maybe some of the survivors from the last camp talked. Maybe rumors grow legs faster than soldiers can march.

  Whatever the reason, the name has stuck—and I’m not exactly doing much to dispel it.

  I keep moving, unleashing arcs of lightning through thick clusters. Bodies drop in droves. Smoke curls from their corpses. The air stinks of ozone, charred flesh, and fear.

  At some point, the fighting dies down—not because they’ve stopped dying, but because they’ve started surrendering.

  Hands go up. Weapons hit the dirt.

  I don’t stop immediately. I cut down the last pocket of resistance, carving through maybe four hundred bodies total. There were two thousand stationed here, give or take. But now the valley is quiet. The ones left alive drop to their knees, praying I’ll spare them.

  I do.

  Not out of mercy. Out of disinterest.

  They’re beneath me now.

  No mages, no elite units—just desperate grunts. This isn’t a battle anymore. It’s cleanup.

  So I turn toward the fortress.

  The main path winds up the hill, the stone still scorched and smoking from Koln’s explosion. I start walking—slowly at first, then faster. The soldiers stationed along the slope do nothing. Not one gun is raised. Some look away. Others tremble.

  They’ve seen enough.

  I reach the gate.

  The damage is extensive—chunks of enchanted stone still hum with dying mana, smoke curling from the splintered runes. I step over bodies turned to ash and walk through the shattered arch.

  Inside the courtyard, it’s like parting water.

  They clear a path for me. Not a single order is barked. No one dares lift a hand. Some of them shake. A few piss themselves. Most just watch—quiet, wide-eyed—as I walk right down the middle, toward the looming doors of the main hall.

  And then—

  A voice cuts through the stillness. Loud. Commanding.

  A figure bursts from the hall’s entrance, his black cloak billowing behind him, the silver embroidery catching the light like starlight off a blade. He moves with purpose, power radiating from every step. The way the light clings to the threads, the way the cloth refuses to flutter too far—it’s not just clothing. It’s warded. Bound. Woven with intent.

  He doesn’t even glance at me. Instead, he starts barking orders—fast, sharp, and cold.

  A few soldiers try to follow them.

  The others? They scatter.

  The ones who hesitate, who flinch or stumble or fail to act fast enough—he kills them. Just like that. With a flick of mana, he snaps necks, burns hearts, rips lungs. It’s precise, surgical. No rage—just disappointment. Like swatting flies that didn’t obey fast enough.

  They choose to die by his hand rather than face mine.

  I must’ve left an impression.

  Still, a few fools rally to his command. Poor bastards. I cut them down with barely a thought, blade flashing through them like paper. I barely even slow down.

  And now—

  Now there’s nothing between me and him.

  The courtyard empties behind me, save for bodies and fleeing silhouettes.

  The mage stands tall, proud, draped in that shimmering black cloak stitched with silver veins—each glint reflecting the fading lightning still flickering across the stones.

  His gaze sharpens when he finally turns toward me. There’s no fear in him. Just contempt.

  Not because I killed his men.

  Because I interrupted him.

  I didn’t slaughter his brothers-in-arms. I ruined his tools. Broke his machine.

  And that—that—he cannot forgive.

  His hands flex at his sides, swirling with dense, crackling mana. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t posture.

  Just stares.

  Waiting.

  I grip my sword tighter. Lightning thrums along the metal, biting at the edges.

  I can feel the moment tightening between us.

  This isn’t another slaughter.

  This is the fight I came for.