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The world beyond the gates was colder.
John stood alone on the dirt path that wound down from the manor hill into the surrounding countryside. Behind him, the towering walls of Evergrove Manor vanished beneath the shadows of storm clouds. Ahead, the road stretched endlessly, wet from recent rain, lined by trees already turning black with mold.
He had nothing.
No pack. No coin. Not even a cloak to protect him from the wind. The Duke had not offered him a single item for survival. Only the clothes on his back and the ring on his finger remained.
But John did not stop walking.
His boots sank into the mud with every step. His stomach clenched with hunger before the first night fell. The second day brought blisters to his heels and aches to his legs. On the third, he collapsed beneath an old bridge, curled beneath a broken cart wheel to block the wind.
No one came.
No one asked if he needed help.
This world, just like Earth, had no time for those with empty names and empty hands.
He learned quickly.
Villages sat like islands across the countryside, guarded by superstition and fear. Magic ruled everything. Farmers offered prayers to wandering magi. Inns had talismans carved into their walls. Strangers were treated like cursed things unless they could conjure sparks from their fingertips or show proof of Circle rank.
John had neither.
He found work where he could. Carrying stones. Mending fences. Scrubbing floors. Each day earned him just enough to buy stale bread or a cracked bowl of soup. When the coins ran out, he slept in barns or under trees. Wild dogs chased him more than once. Thieves cornered him in alleyways, only to find he had nothing worth taking.
But he kept walking.
Kept surviving.
The world tried to crush him, but it never broke him.
Because the ring still pulsed.
Always faint. Always distant. But alive.
At night, when the stars blinked overhead and the wind whispered through dry grass, he would lie on the ground, hold the ring to his chest, and whisper into the dark.
"You're still building. Aren't you?"
No answer ever came.
But he knew.
He could feel it, even without words.
Something inside was waiting.
He turned seventeen beneath the broken arch of an abandoned shrine. The stone walls were overgrown with ivy, and the ceiling had long since collapsed, leaving the altar exposed to the sky. A full moon watched him from above. He had no candle. No feast. Only a strip of dried meat and a river nearby.
He washed his face in the water and stared at his reflection.
Lean. Scarred. Pale. But not weak.
His eyes had changed.
They no longer looked like those of a child.
Something else stared back from within them. Something deeper. A storm that had not yet begun.
Crack.
A branch snapped behind him.
John turned fast, instincts sharpened by months of living with beasts and worse.
A man stepped from the trees.
He wore a brown cloak soaked from the mist and mud-stained boots. A scar ran down one cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanent smirk.
John recognized him instantly.
Loric.
Julian's old servant.
Years ago, the man had followed Julian like a shadow, always two steps behind, always silent. John had seen him once standing over a servant with a blade pressed to their throat, grinning as they begged for mercy.
He stood now with the same grin.
"Well well," Loric said. "Look what the worms forgot to bury."
John said nothing. His hand inched toward the dagger hidden beneath his tunic. It was dull, rusted, and old. But it had saved him before.
Loric stepped closer.
"You're not easy to find, you know," he said. "Your brother's been looking for you."
"I have no brother."
"Oh, but he has use for you. Filthy blood or not."
John didn't move.
Loric's smile widened.
"There's a place not far from here," he said. "A mine. Hidden between the hills. Rich in mana stones. Forbidden to outsiders."
"I'm not interested."
"You will be."
He raised one hand.
Snap.
Three more men emerged from the woods. All of them wore the same brown leather. All of them carried blades.
John reached for his dagger, but pain exploded across the back of his head.
Thud.
The world spun sideways.
He fell to his knees.
Mud filled his mouth. Cold water splashed over his cheek. A boot struck his ribs.
Thump.
The last thing he saw was Loric leaning down, his face inches from John's.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "You won't die yet."
Then darkness swallowed him.
The mine stank of death.
When John opened his eyes, the air was thick with damp rock and old blood. A flickering lantern hung from the ceiling above, casting weak light across the tunnel walls. Chains rattled softly in the distance. Stone tools clinked against harder stone.
His wrists were bound. His ankles too.
He had been dragged into a narrow shaft cut into the side of a hill, deep underground. The walls pulsed with veins of glowing blue crystal. Mana stones.
He had heard of them.
Stones infused with magical essence. Used to forge weapons. To enchant armor. To power entire cities if refined.
This mine was illegal.
And from the looks of the gaunt men chained to the walls, it was also lethal.
He coughed once.
Loric's voice drifted down the tunnel.
"You're awake."
John turned his head slowly.
The man approached with a casual stride, holding a pickaxe in one hand like a walking stick.
"You'll be useful," Loric said. "Half the nobles want these stones, but no one wants to be caught mining them. So we let the unwanted ones dig. Quietly. Efficiently."
"You'll never get away with this," John said, his voice dry.
"Oh, we already have. For years."
He pointed at the glowing veins along the walls.
"The mana here is pure. Stronger than what most Circle Mages can handle. It will kill the others slowly."
He crouched beside John.
"But you? You have a ring. A bloodline. Even if it's trash, it might help you live long enough to dig out a fortune."
Then he stood and turned to leave.
"Get to work."
The chains were unlocked.
A pickaxe dropped at John's feet.
Clink.
He picked it up with numb fingers.
Every movement hurt.
Every breath burned.
But he stood.
And he began to dig.