Escape—was it a trait of men? Absolutely not! Did Alan care? Absolutely not!
He darted through alleyways. He melted into crowds, ducked under awnings, and doubled back on his path. But it was no use. A pair of invisible eyes clung to his back, a pressure against his neck that no amount of running could shake.
The options were bleak. Leaving town would make him easy prey in the wilds, while staying meant being a watched mouse in a trap, waiting for the spring. It was only noon; he had time, but it was a currency rapidly devaluing. At least I'm safe while in a crowd.
Leaning against a wall, he pretended to rest while scanning the rooftops and windows. Nothing. The feeling was a ghost, intangible yet suffocating. Maybe it's just paranoia. Please, let it be paranoia.
A new thought sparked. If someone is tracking me... how? Is there a mark? A scent? He focused inward, cautiously activating ｢Surgeon｣. He took it slow, feeding just a trickle of power, focusing the enhanced perception solely on his sight. The world sharpened to an unbearable degree. People became walking anatomical diagrams, a macabre ballet of bones and blood.
He scanned the rooftops, nothing. But then he saw it: a faint, glowing web of threads inside every person, concentrated in their chests. A near-invisible stream of this energy seeped from them, merging with the air itself. No, it's already in the air... It's everywhere.
He looked at his own arm. The threads within him glowed with an intensity that dwarfed everyone else's, a brilliant, blazing network. I remember a weird term in the skill information, is this that magicul—'
The world detonated.
It wasn't a headache; it was a cerebral avalanche. A tsunami of raw data, colour, sound, texture, the life-force of every person, the magical hum of the very stones, slammed into his consciousness. ｢Surgeon｣ buckled under the strain, its orderly diagnostics fracturing into noise.
He stumbled, his vision swimming with impossible hues. Red was a scream, blue a bottomless ocean. The chatter of the crowd wasn't just heard; it was felt, each syllable a physical vibration. His nervous system was a live wire, frying itself from the inside out.
Gasping, he drove the end of his staff into the ground, using it as an anchor. His knuckles were white on the wood. This wasn't a faint; it was a system crash. With the last shred of his will, he turned ｢Surgeon｣ inward.
[Internal Mapping] showed his own brain as a starfield of overloading neurons. [Microsurgical Control] was his scalpel. With brutal, precise focus, he didn't soothe the storm—he shut it down. He suspended the key cortical nodes, forcing a hard reset. [Blood Regulation] kept his body stable as his mind plummeted into a silent, black void.
For three seconds, there was nothing.
Then, the circuits re-engaged. His senses rebooted. He blinked, swaying on his feet, his weight heavily on the staff. He was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gulps.
"Son, are you alright?" a middle-aged man asked, his voice now crystal clear.
Clear? Alan thought, his mind sluggish. He activated [Accelerated Thoughts]. In a flash of mental clarity, he processed it all. The sensory overload, the shutdown, the reboot. And the new presence within his soul, nestled beside ｢Surgeon｣.
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Extra Skill: ｢Magic Sense｣
A perceptive ability that allows the user to sense their surroundings by detecting magical energy (magicules). It grants spatial awareness, enabling the detection of movement, shape, energy levels, and magical presence with precision.
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So that was it. The magical fabric of the world itself carried meaning, and by sensing it, he could understand the language. A brilliant, brutal side-effect.
Deactivating the accelerated thoughts, he accepted a waterskin from an elderly man. "Oh, thanks... Pfha!" He choked on the water, the simple act of drinking feeling alien. He waved off concerned offers of help. People here are certainly kind. The irony was not lost on him.
The feeling of being watched was gone, either scared off by his public episode or simply masked by his newly acquired, pounding headache. But he couldn't trust the reprieve.
He found a secluded spot under an eave as the sky darkened, the wind picking up. If I don't risk, I won't survive.
His plan was born of desperation. He returned to the cart, unhitched the tired horse, and mounted it. He rode not with confidence, but with the grim resolve of a man rolling dice with his life. He headed for the main gate.
"Hey, aren't you the kid from this morning? Where's your friend—hey!" the guard called out.
Alan ignored him, digging his heels into the horse's flanks. It surged forward, breaking through the space between the startled guards. Instead of taking the mountain road, he veered downward, plunging the horse down a steep, forested slope. Hooves slid on the damp soil, but the desperate animal kept its footing.
Deep in the woods, Alan dismounted. He removed the saddle and bridle, giving the beast a firm slap on the rump. "Go on. Get out of here." The horse needed no further encouragement, bolting into the trees. Alan went the opposite way, his staff held before him in a white-knuckled grip, his mind racing through half-remembered martial stances. Let's see what we've got here.
Darkness fell prematurely as storm clouds smothered the sun. Rain began to fall, first in drops, then in a relentless, deafening curtain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sodden world in stark, momentary relief. His vision was a bit blurred by fog, his coat a heavy, frozen skin. Each step was a struggle through the grasping mud.
He never heard the shot.
A thick, heavy arrow ripped through his right shoulder with a sickening thud, the impact slamming him back against a gnarled tree trunk. The force pinned him there, the metal tip buried deep in the wood behind him.
"AAAGH!" The scream was torn from him, lost in the roar of the storm. Rain hammered his face, mixing with the blood already soaking his coat. Through the watery veil, two figures emerged. They were not professionals; their clothes were mismatched, their movements lacking grace. A heavy-set man wheezed as he reloaded a massive crossbow. A thin, fox-faced man held a dagger low, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight.
"Damn it! That really hurts!" Alan gritted his teeth, his vision swimming. With a brutal, gut-wrenching pull, he tore himself free from the arrow, the movement tearing a fresh wave of agony from his shoulder. He tried to raise his staff, his body screaming in protest, his feet slipping in the mud. "Back off, or—"
The thin man was on him in a flash, his boot lashing out to kick the staff from Alan's weakened grasp. It flew into the mud, useless. "Or what?" the man mocked.
Alan clutched his chest, his strength abandoning him. He collapsed to his knees, gasping. "Why...? I didn't do anything..." His voice was a whisper, his body trembling from pain and blood loss.
"Eh? Why the hell would we care? Anyway, it was a good hunt. Goodbye," the thin man said, raising his dagger high.
"W–wait—AAGH!"
The blade plunged. Alan's body jerked, then went still. The light fled from his eyes, his form slumping into the bloody mire.
"Finally. Now we can head back." The heavy man grunted, hoisting the limp cadaver over his shoulder. The two figures vanished back into the weeping forest, leaving only the rain to wash away the evidence.
— • — Back in Zarethun — • —
The rain beat a steady rhythm on the tavern roof. Julian had completed his chores, and the old man had gone out to fetch supplies. The encounter with Alan and Elrik lingered in his thoughts. Elrik was currently resting on a table, much like a child who had spent hours begging for help.
The creak of the door broke his reverie. He looked up, expecting a rain-soaked traveller seeking shelter.
Every bone in his body tightened. His breath caught in his throat.
The man in the doorway carried an air of old aristocracy, though his clothes were of refined, practical black. His movements were economical and precise, from the tap of his cane to the adjustment of his gloves. Silver streaked his temples beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, its brim shadowing his face. But his pale, ash-grey eyes were unmistakable, as steady and unreadable as stone.
Luthern Varn removed his hat, placing it against his chest in a slight, formal bow.
"Long time no see, Mr Julian," he said, his voice calm and cutting through the rain's din. "I'm afraid to inform you that your holiday is... over."