Aldric stood alone beneath a sunless sky, his breath rattling through torn lungs. Above him, clouds hung low and heavy, unmoving—a ceiling of ash cast in dead light. There was no warmth, no breeze, no life. Just a grey expanse that pressed down on the world like a shroud.
The road beneath his feet wasn't a road at all—just a worn path beaten down by beasts and bones, carved by the weight of suffering. Cracked stones stretched in either direction, flanked by jagged hills stripped of color. Even the earth looked diseased. A place abandoned by gods and time alike.
From somewhere beyond the horizon, wolves howled. Long, low, and hungry.
Aldric turned toward the carriage. It had moved far ahead, a shambling silhouette dragged by dying horses. His fingers twitched. Even as his skin screamed and his bones throbbed, he began to trace the runes.
Ignis. Veln. Orum.
They flickered faintly—lines of fire born from memory and rage—but as quickly as they formed, they dissolved into nothing. Gone. His mana slipped through him like water through broken hands. Too much blood lost. Too much pain. The system barely recognized him as living anymore.
He clenched his fists, staggering forward. Again.
Ignis. Veln. Orum.
Nothing.
Again.
Again.
Blood spilled from his nose. Then his eyes. A line of red ran down his cheek, dripping from his chin, warm against the cold.
But the rune held.
A simple fireball. Child's play for someone like him. But now, it burned behind his eyelids like a sun trying to be born.
He hurled it.
The fireball flew, a sputtering orb of hatred, trailing sparks behind it—and struck the rear of the carriage.
The explosion tore the silence apart.
A bloom of red and orange devoured the wood in an instant, flames reaching out like claws. The horses shrieked—inhuman, panicked—as their flesh caught fire. They bucked and flailed, pulling the burning wreckage behind them for a few feet before collapsing in a tangle of limbs and smoldering hair.
Inside the carriage, the animals screamed. Aldric didn't look away.
Charred hands reached through shattered planks. Faces melted. One of them, the wheezing one, crawled through the fire, his skin black and bubbling, begging—mouthing words through melted lips.
"F-Forgive…"
Aldric stepped over him.
He tore apart the wreckage with what strength he had left, flames licking his arms as he searched. Wood cracked, glass shattered beneath his feet. Then he found it.
A metal reinforcement bar, warped and glowing, buried beneath the wreckage. He grabbed it without hesitation. The sound of searing flesh filled the air as the heat branded itself into his palms. The stench—burning meat, blood, and smoke—curled into his lungs.
He didn't flinch.
Sitting in the embers, he forced the last of his mana into the bar. It shimmered faintly, resisting. But his will pressed on, pushing through the splitting pain in his skull. Sparks danced across the metal. With a sudden hiss, he slashed down at the iron cuffs.
Chains snapped.
He tore the remnants off, chunks of skin peeling with them, and threw the restraints aside with a ragged snarl. Blood streamed freely now, from his wrists, nose, mouth, ears. His vision blurred, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him.
He crawled away from the wreckage, dragging himself on torn limbs, every movement birthing agony. The flames crackled behind him, devouring everything.
He collapsed on his side, body trembling, blood pooling beneath his cheek.
He couldn't even conjure a basic healing spell. Could barely stay conscious. The cold began to seep in now, deeper than before. Death whispered.
But he knew.
He would not die.
He would not.
Aldric woke again, face pressed into dust and dried blood. Every breath stung like knives. He didn't even jolt upright—his body was too broken for sudden movements now. He simply opened his eyes, blinking away caked blood and the reek of charred flesh.
It was becoming routine.
Wake. Bleed. Collapse. Repeat.
He'd lost count of how many times in the past few days he'd faded in and out of darkness, each time a little weaker than before. But that was the Wasteland's rhythm. You either rose above it—or sank beneath it and howled.
Wolves again. Closer this time.
He turned his head slowly, the sound of soft pads and snarling breath rising from the distance. Likely drawn by the scent of scorched meat, maybe even the blood still leaking from his own body. His fingers twitched, and he reached down deep—not into memory, but into instinct.
He traced a single rune in the dirt beside him. Velor-Saen—lesser healing.
It flared weakly.
The energy dissolved into his body like a whisper of warmth, not enough to mend even a broken nail, but the pressure in his skull eased. His headache dulled slightly, replaced by a bone-deep ache and the slow churn of rage.
He stood. Slowly. Every joint cracked like splintering glass. His arms trembled. He was still slick with blood, still barely upright—but he stood.
The wolves came into view then—twelve, maybe more—cresting a small black hill. Their fur was ragged, their ribs visible beneath patchy hides. Starvation had made them reckless, blind to threats. They saw the fire-charred corpses of the horses and prisoners and didn't hesitate.
They leapt.
They snarled and bit, tearing each other apart in their frenzy to reach the flesh, climbing over one another just to bury their faces in burnt meat. One limped away with half its jaw torn off, dragging entrails. None looked at Aldric.
They thought he was already dead.
Like her, he thought, watching them.
Like Seraphina. Back in that gilded hall, she hadn't spared him even a glance. Turned her face like he was dirt—no, less. Garbage. Something to be swept away while she played the part of a beautiful bride in that hero's shadow.
Rage bubbled inside him.
Aldric spread his arms and slammed his blood-caked hands together, forming the core structure of a mid-tier invocation—Volgari Saethern—a condensed fire-lance meant for combat, not hunting.
He shouldn't have been able to cast it. Not like this.
But hatred was its own kind of fuel.
"Burn," he growled, voice more beast than man.
A flash. A sharp hiss as fire roared from his hands—condensed, narrow, furious. The sword of flame shrieked through the air and slammed into the heart of the wolf pack.
It detonated.
A surge of heat blasted out in a ring. Fire engulfed fur and bone. The smell of burning fat hit his nose like a hammer. Limbs flew. Shrapnel from the blast—teeth, claws, splinters of bone—pelted his skin. One piece buried itself just under his eye. He barely flinched.
The force knocked him back, toppling him into the dirt. His face struck a rock, reopening his lips, blood rushing into his mouth—but even then he only laughed.
And then it hit him.
The noise. The light. The smell.
Every monster in a mile would have felt that. Heard it. The Wasteland was not just empty land and dying dogs. There were worse things. Things that waited.
He pushed himself up with shaking arms. No time to linger. No time to celebrate.
"Stupid," he muttered, spitting blood. "You're not strong enough for this yet."
He staggered into a run—or something like one—feet dragging, tripping, catching himself again. He moved as fast as ruined limbs allowed, putting distance between himself and the burning corpses. He didn't stop until he stumbled over a boulder the size of a carriage wheel and collapsed behind it, sliding to the dirt, gasping.
Breath in. Hold. Breath out.
Again.
That was enough for now. Just enough to live another hour.
He sat there, eyes wild and half-blind, blood crusted on his face. The taste of smoke clung to his tongue. Then, slowly, deliberately, he focused his gaze on the air before him.
"Status window," he rasped.
The familiar hum of the system's response tickled the back of his eyes. A dull flicker. And then—It opened.
[Name]: Aldric
[Title]: The Exiled
[Former Title]: Son of Duke Malrec Vaugren (Revoked)
[Race]: Human
[Level]: 249
[HP]: 1,374 / 18,600
[MP]: 52 / 14,000
[STR]: 212 → 112
[AGI]: 197 → 97
[END]: 189 → 89
[MAG]: 254 → 154
[INT]: 230 → 130
[CHA]: 176 → 76
[Titles Lost]: Scourge of the Eastern Front, Flame General, Archduke's Right Hand, Warden of the North
[Territory Influence]: 0%
[Achievements]: Nullified
[System Note]: Title [The Exiled] enacts permanent penalty: -100 to all base stats.
His hand clenched as he read it.
He had once towered over generals. Slain armies. Held command of cities and tens of thousands of men. Level 249—an apex most mages died dreaming of. Now?
Now, he was barely better than a tier 2 beast. Everything he'd bled for was stripped away. Achievements erased. Titles gone. Land burned. His name—his very name—reduced to ash.
Not Aldric Vaugren.Just Aldric.
A husk. A wretch. A walking corpse no better than the filth he'd burned.
He stared at the flickering status window, feeling something crack deep inside his chest.
And then, as the wind howled faintly over the rocks, he smiled.