A man, cloaked in midnight blue and embroidered with stylized golden suns, stands on the battlements. Ash-gray woolen tunic and trousers cling to him in the cool air, weathered brown leather boots planted firm against the stone. His eyes hold a defiant golden glow, white hair stirring faintly as the shallow morning mist clings to the valley below.

  It’s me.

  Two weeks have passed since my search began, and now, on the day of the siege, frustration gnaws at me. I haven’t read everything yet, but most of what I’ve dug through is history and scattered, useless scraps. Not all of it is without value—but nothing I’ve found could win the coming fight.

  I’ve figured out what the “tide” is, but that’s not important right now. Every clue about MIND I’ve uncovered is a scattershot mess—philosophy, religion, and the occasional scrap about fringe mind-control magic.

  The mind-control angle caught my attention most. But it doesn’t fit. He didn’t control me, and the fanatics—fanatical as they were—still felt like they had their own will. The magic described in those pages was cruder, colder: turning people into hollow shells, breathing tools with no spark left inside.

  Ultimately, I only have guesses—nothing solid enough to build a solution on. I could try, but it’d be like building on quicksand.

  My best guess? It has something to do with emotion. Which, yes, is related to the mind, but I suppose Swart has to keep it cryptic and difficult—got to make the show entertaining, after all. So here’s my rough theory: that mage somehow tampered with my emotions.

  Why? Because I didn’t realize it at first, but the extreme emotion I felt after our one-sided defeat wasn’t like me—at least, not to that degree. It was… amplified. And just as suddenly, once I returned, my emotions settled back to normal.

  So I’m thinking this man amplifies emotions—maybe certain ones—to a crippling effect. If that’s true, it makes sense why their soldiers are so fanatical even with their so-called ‘free will,’ and why I was frozen with fear, then left with a hollowed-out mix of rage and sorrow. It’s not like I didn’t already have those feelings—hence why I think he amplifies rather than creates them. But who knows… maybe that’s possible too.

  Since I don’t exactly believe there are going to be tidy records of his ability lying around, I’ll have to go to an expert in the field—Riez. He’s clearly connected to that mage somehow, from the way he looks to the faction they both serve.

  I’ll grab him, ask—nicely and friendly—what the whole trick is, and then find a way to turn it against him. Win the fight, end the siege, and get on with my life.

  I hear the faint dragging again up on the hill—the foliage being cut, mortars being set. I signal to Alfrick beside me to get our marksmen ready for our little surprise. The layout of our defense is mostly the same as before—just a few tweaks, nothing worth writing a report over.

  Down in the valley, the shallow mist lingers, as if trying to hide the crimson stones buried beneath dirt. The treeline stands still, leaves swaying lazily in the breeze. Beyond that, thousands of men wait—ready to charge a fortified position without a shred of concern for their own lives.

  The faint slide of a shell. The bang we all hear. The rising whistle until it cracks against the wards. First one of many. This will drag on for hours—if they stick to schedule.

  ***

  The last explosion ripples across the ward. I signal again—everyone to stand ready. The plan stays the same: we detonate the gift, I storm their lines, crush them.

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  At least, that’s how it was. But now there’s this new interview section—I’ll have to work it into the plan. Which means dialing down some of the others.

  The first critter breaks from the treeline—then the rest pour out after him, a white-draped tide of soldiers. Their fanaticism knows no bounds; their boots hammer the earth, war cries tearing through the air like a declaration of loyalty.

  I wait for them to fall fully into our deception. The small tweak this time? The center’s more densely packed—generosity born from the ward mage’s ungratefulness.

  I lift my arm. Command.

  “Now!”

  The world goes quiet. My rifle rises—so does my machine. I fire first, they follow. Bullets streak through the thin mist, slamming into dirt. The ground erupts in blooms of crimson fire, imploding on impact, ripping their formation apart just as fast as last time.

  The left flank is gone. The right is only Riez. In the middle: the ward mage and ten soldiers—down from fifty. Still not perfect placement, but closer to clean.

  I let the rifle drop, grab my sword, and step clean off the battlements. The air roars past me in the straight drop to the valley floor—no stairs, no rope, just a fall you either land or don’t. I hit hard, knees bending to take the impact, then launch forward. Lightning crawls over my skin as I tear toward Wardy.

  Before the mundane can even register me, Wardy’s already barking orders. I slip between the small fry, sword raised overhead, blue-hot along the edge. I bring it down like a guillotine aimed to take his head—only it never touches his ward.

  The strike halts just short, lightning compressed within the blade breaking free in a violent burst, arcing around him and into the poor sods clustered beside him. They crumple smoking where they stand.

  I don’t relent. Pivot—slash down. The ground beneath us compacts from his mana redistribution. Again—lift—down. Each impact drives him lower into the earth until the soil packs hard as rock. Another swing, and I decide to spice things up.

  “Coward—” I say, blade screeching against his flaring ward. “You just sat there, hiding behind your shield, while the small fry following you died.” The ground around us splits with sharp cracks.

  Another strike.

  “Pathetic. You couldn’t protect anything—how dare you command.”

  He growls under the shimmer of his ward.

  “Shut it.”

  His formation warps—momentary rage breaking his rhythm. That’s all I need. I transition into my finisher before he even realizes his mistake. My blade cleaves through the gap.

  Lightning flares and clings tight.

  His ward flares the same and shatters.

  The stench of seared flesh cuts through the air.

  His execution.

  His head rolls—much quicker this time.

  Good. Now just Riez, the other coward.

  I scan the field for him. He’s still floating there, processing what just happened—probably still hung up on the whole “gift” business. Maybe his family’s just stingy.

  No wonder it took him so long to get over here—he was dawdling.

  I zip toward him now, ready for our impromptu interview.

  The distance vanishes fast. Lightning flares along my limbs; I’ve got plenty more mana to spare this time. Riez finally senses me, levitating as a dozen wind spears swirl into existence.

  They launch at once—ripping through the air with a deathly howl, descending on me like an execution.

  The first wind spear closes in—I absorb the force, drop my sword, snatch the spear mid-flight, and whirl it in my grip like a fan. Each sweeping arc smashes another spear out of the air and drives it into the dirt, gouging deep furrows in the earth.

  I hurl the one in my hands, lightning crawling over its length. My blade is back in my grip before the spear slams into his wind shield with a thundercrack, kicking up a burst of dust and parting the shallow mist. Cracks spiderweb through the barrier, but the spear shatters first.

  Pivot. Absorb. Grab another spear. Throw.

  Pivot. Absorb. Grab. Throw.

  One after another, the rhythm sharp and relentless, until there are no spears left. The final throw smashes through what’s left of his shield.

  My blade in hand again, I launch forward—leaping, streaking through the air, steel flashing.

  The wind shield knocks the spear off course—it scythes past his head.

  He flares his personal ward, bright blue, and in the same breath forms a slashing gust toward me. I know their capacity—just enough to slice a shallow line across my chest. My blade flashes forward; he conjures a spear in his grip, blocking. Lightning flares, the howl of wind and the shriek of steel grinding together.

  I drop my sphere, then throw myself upward on a gust. He lunges with a desperate strike that pierces my side, but I’m already above him, descending like a needle. He pulls his ward tight around his head, trying to reposition.

  Another gust—I launch down. My blade’s tip meets his ward; it doesn’t slide off. The barrier caves slightly, spiderweb cracks spreading across its surface. Riez’s face goes pale—he thinks this is the end.

  Not yet.

  I shift my aim at the last moment; the blade punches through and slices across his back instead. He can’t die just yet. I drop the weapon, grab hold of him, and we plummet. I’m on top of him when i hit—the impact jarring, my fist flaring with lightning. His wards flicker, trying to reform, but my strike drives into his head before they can solidify.

  We slam into the ground; he takes the worst of it, but my fist keeps going.

  He tries to form spells. I smash his limbs—apparently, he needs them to cast.

  I keep pummeling. Again and again, until I hear him plead.

  His face is now a battered mess, all defiance gone. Blood seeps from his mouth as he coughs; my fists and clothes are smeared with it. He’s been durable—annoyingly so.

  “Good—now we can talk.”

  He gurgles more blood, trying to form words.

  “W…what?” Another cough racks him.

  “Oh, you know—the mage that looks an awful lot like you. The one that’s really strong.”

  Even through the swelling and the blood, I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  “I… can’t.”

  “You can’t? Do you want to die?”

  Fear wells in his gaze, barely masked by the puffed ruin of his face.

  “…Fine.” He coughs and drags in a shuddering breath. “My brother… what… about him?”