"This should be here... right?"
Arvind muttered as he scanned the old books he'd brought from the family estate. Brushing away the dust, he laid out a dozen volumes—each possibly holding the key.
Why was he doing this?
Because he couldn't ignore what had happened to Faelan.
The terrifying consequences of depleted life energy had left Arvind shaken. But he wasn't someone who simply looked away. If there was even a sliver of hope—through potion, medicine, or some obscure lore—he would chase it.
He had already consulted his mage advisor.
The answer?
A forbidden domain.
What kind of response was that? Vague. Useless. So Arvind decided to dig himself.
He stacked the books on the table and flipped through the pages. One, The Candle Soul Treatise, caught his eye. Bold title. Sounded promising.
But after a few minutes, he slammed it shut.
"What a joke. Who are they trying to fool?"
Its solution? Merge another soul with the victim's—to stabilize it. Sure, it wouldn't replenish life energy, but it might prevent collapse.
Might.
Insane. Soul fusion was delicate—any imbalance could lead to death or madness.
Another book: Dialogue of Death, authored by Ethrin the Silent.
It suggested anchoring life energy through near-death experiences or extreme emotional resonance.
"Yeah... great. And a side of madness with that," Arvind muttered.
He rubbed his forehead.
"Damn it… I don't even understand what life energy truly is."
Frustrated, he turned to his last resort—his so-called golden finger.
He exhaled, steadying his mind, and summoned the system archive.
A soft hum echoed in his head as ethereal text bloomed before him.
He typed a single phrase:
Life Energy Recovery.
A dozen static-laced records blinked open—cold, clinical.
> "Life energy is non-transferable and non-synthetic. All records suggest irreversible loss once the core threshold is breached…"
> "Stabilizing methods: meditation, rest, aetheric environments (low efficacy), rare rituals. No successful restoration cases recorded."
He scowled. "Useless."
He searched again.
The next window loaded with brittle fragments—case studies and failure logs:
> Varnuus, Aetheric Scholar: partial depletion. Retired early.
Linu-Faar, Beast Whisperer: ambient aetherion bond. Partial survival.
Fae case study: intra-species vitality sharing. Non-applicable.
He closed the interface, lips drawn tight.
"Damn this so-called all-knowing system…"
Still… he'd learned something.
He scanned his own body using mental energy. His fighting spirit flowed steadily. That alone brought a faint smile.
He stood.
"Even if I didn't find a cure... at least I understand the framework. There might be a way to support Faelan and the captain—indirectly."
---
During breakfast, a thought struck him.
Wait—Anika's learning magic. Could that help Faelan?
He looked up. "How's your magic training going?"
Anika, caught mid-song, blinked—then smiled.
"My lord, it's going great! Magic is fascinating. Aetherion is everywhere—woven into everything. Even this bread," she said, lifting a piece, "is infused with tiny amounts. I can feel it."
She casually spread jam across it.
"My teacher, Erik, is amazing. His apprentices are kind too—they even call me Miss Anika. Unlike those other maids who glare at me like I'm a demon."
Arvind frowned. Jealous little goblins, he thought. They probably just want her favor because she's close to me.
But as she kept talking—eyes bright, voice light—
something shifted in his chest.
She sounded like someone touching the stars.
He, meanwhile, was still fumbling in the dark.
Still, his mind lingered on magic.
"How do normal people survive around aetherion?" he asked. "Faelan made it sound dangerous. I've seen what exposure can do."
Anika nodded knowingly.
"Oh, that's simple. Think of it like honey in water. One drop, you won't taste it. Same with aetherion—most places have such low levels that non-aetherics can live normally. The danger comes when magical beasts are nearby—or a surge hits."
Arvind clenched his jaw.
Damn my mediocre talent.
If he had higher potential, he could walk the mage path himself. And he needed magic—for his vision of industrialization to take root.
Before he knew it, his breakfast was gone.
He wiped his hands with a cloth and stood. Today, he needed to visit Ashford's city hall.
"City hall" was a generous term. The current one was half-broken, under-furnished—barely usable. Still, Eldrin had informed him that the new building was nearly complete. Soon, they'd have a proper structure—a tangible symbol of Ravengarde's progress.
He nodded to the maids and servants. They bowed in unison as he stepped out toward the carriage.
---
Upon arriving in Ashford, Arvind passed beneath the newly raised outer walls—walls that had devoured coin and labor like a bottomless pit. He remembered Eldrin's and Bramir's endless complaints. Necessary, yes. Affordable? Barely.
"Money's always short," Arvind muttered. "Even with the trade from the two baronies."
The carriage rumbled along the main road. Children ran freely, laughing. Mothers bartered over fresh produce. The townsfolk looked healthy, hopeful—nothing like the husks Ravengarde had housed when he first arrived.
A smile touched his lips.
Sorry, dear neighbors. I know the leyline crisis is bleeding you dry… but for Ravengarde, it's like we've struck gold.
Inside the half-finished city hall, clerks and workers rose the moment he entered, bowing with respect. Arvind returned it with a nod, then followed Faelan's apprentice upstairs.
Faelan sat at a desk drowning in parchment. He didn't notice Arvind until the young lord pulled out a chair and sat—startling him.
Faelan looked up.
He was worse than before.
Skin pale, hair nearly white, features haggard. He looked like a man in his sixties—not someone in his thirties.
"My lord… you startled me. What brings you here?"
Arvind frowned.
"I'm here because I'm worried. Just resting isn't going to cut it anymore. You're working every day like nothing's wrong. I've been reading the archives—I think I've found a better recovery option."
Faelan sighed, hand resting lightly on the desk.
"I appreciate it, truly. But I can't afford to stop. This department needs someone at the helm. If I step back now… I'd feel like I'm wasting your trust."
It wasn't just duty. Arvind saw it clearly—becoming a respected official had been Faelan's dream. How could he walk away from that?
"You don't look like someone who just needs a nap," Arvind said bluntly. "Look in the mirror. You look like a father of seven."
Faelan smiled weakly but didn't argue.
"So—here's what's happening. You're going to study under Erik."
"Eh?"
"Yes. You'll learn magic. Heal faster. Help Erik. You'll still work with documents, but your recovery is priority. No arguments."
Faelan paused, clearly stunned. Then slowly… he nodded. Moved by Arvind's insistence.
"That's more like it," Arvind said. "Becoming a mage is nothing to be ashamed of."
With that resolved, Arvind left. The shadows of Ravengarde were still shifting. He had no time to waste.
---
In the Deep Forest...
Tension choked the camp.
The bandits sat in silence, chewing what barely counted as lunch. Cold bread. Bitter meat. Stale air.
Bang!
A plate hit the dirt.
Heads turned.
One of the men had fumbled. Some glared. Others froze.
The bandit leader didn't speak. He let his life force ooze outward—a silent pressure, heavy as storm clouds. The man who'd dropped the food scrambled to pick it up, eyes lowered, muttering to himself.
The leader's lips curled into a crooked smile.
Their good days are long gone. Damn that merchant.
Next time, I'll slice him apart, piece by piece.
Then—
"Hey, Brother," came a taunting voice. "You're supposed to be our mighty leader. But you're eating mud like a starving rat."
A man approached, smirking. A peak-level 1 warrior—ex-guard captain turned arrogant parasite. He relied on the bandits but still strutted like he ran the place.
"Why don't you go back south?" someone muttered. "Didn't the nobles there put a price on your head?"
The leader stood.
"You think I like this?" he snapped. "You think I wanted to be here?"
He turned on the captain.
"You want better food? Better women? Then go get them. Don't act like a king when you're just another leech."
The captain stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
"Gladly. I've been itching to stretch. Let's see how you handle real Dwarven martial arts."
Weapons were drawn. The camp bristled. One spark—and it would ignite.
---
Back in Ashford...
Faelan stood at the loading dock. Porters bustled around him, stacking crates into wagons. This shipment—swords, spears, shields—was for trade.
Demand was skyrocketing.
Weapon shortages had plagued them for months. Even with a steady flow of new craftsmen, it wasn't enough. Bramir's side had been forced to rush ore shipments, straining every link in the chain.
He turned to Jen and Maren, who stood nearby.
"Out there," he said quietly, "act like goblins—clever and ruthless. Don't get distracted by what shines. Stay sharp. Stay steady."
They nodded, faces solemn.
"You both have better futures than you think—especially under our lord's banner."
"Take it easy. And remember—bring back more refugees if you can. Most importantly, come back safe. I don't want either of you in a coffin."
Arvind's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the weight behind the words.
Beside him, the newly appointed caravan captain stood tall, nodding solemnly with each instruction. The man had listened quietly, absorbing every detail.
"Your top priority is the safety of the entire crew. But if things fall apart—if hope crumbles—take the core team and run. Don't try to be a hero. That's an order."
With a breath held and released, Arvind waved the group off.
Faelan stood beside him, smiling bitterly. He could see it in Arvind's expression—that fear of history repeating itself. That unspoken guilt. He doesn't want to lose anyone again… like he almost lost me.
Though Faelan still walked and talked, the price had been steep. He had aged prematurely. Sometimes, madness clawed at the edge of his mind. But the children and families they saved now lived safely in Ravengarde.
What more could I ask for?
Arvind turned to him, tone lighter now.
"Have you been going to Erik's place? How's magic training? Fun, isn't it?"
Faelan groaned. "What choice do I have, when my lord nags like a father? Yes, I've been going. And… thank you."
Arvind chuckled and turned his attention back to the departing wagons. The caravan was rolling out, creaking down the dirt road. He saw Jen and Maren wipe away tears when they thought no one was watching.
Leading without their mentors—this was their trial. Responsibility over comfort. Arvind watched them go, eyes unreadable.
Grow strong. Come home.
He caught the knight captain's nod and returned it, finding peace in the silent promise between soldiers. Faelan waved until the last wagon vanished into the distance, then quietly wiped his eyes before speaking again.
"...Selling discounted weapons to the baronies—doesn't that violate our original plan?"
Arvind didn't answer right away.
He understood the risk. Supplying other lords—even minor ones—meant arming possible rivals. But he was human. He couldn't always be ruthless.
The bandits had shattered the region's balance. While the baronies hadn't sponsored them, Arvind knew this: Ravengarde needed stability. Trade. Goodwill. And weapons opened doors to all three.
Even if the baronies grew stronger, they lacked Ravengarde's infrastructure. They'd still lag behind—unless they had some hidden ace.
Sometimes, leadership meant compromise.
If we don't seize opportunities, fate will spit on us anyway.
"My lord, I'll take my leave," Faelan said.
"Mm."
Faelan turned toward River Village, where a sugar plant was undergoing its final tests. If successful, it could replace honey—a nobleman's luxury—and flood the market with a new source of wealth for Ravengarde.
---
Meanwhile… in the Deep Forest
The search operation was grinding into frustration.
"Sir," a scout reported, "the camp's empty. Just broken plates and some terrified slaves. The bandits are gone."
The knight captain arrived moments later. Slaves huddled in corners, flinching at the sight of armor.
"Search everything," he ordered. "Every stone. Thirty meters out."
"Already done. No blood. No bodies. Even their weapons are gone."
The captain clenched his fists. Where the hell did they go? Are they farming now?
The frustration simmered under his skin. These knights had hunted for days—no sleep, no real food—only to find ghosts.
They had to keep going. If they gave up now, the bandits would recover. Rebuild. And return worse than before.
He exhaled, then barked:
"Everyone—stay sharp. We're close. They can't hide from Aetheric Knights forever."
He clapped one soldier on the shoulder.
"You—ride to Lord Arvind. Tell him to stay vigilant."
The knight saluted and took off at a gallop.
Another approached, brow furrowed.
"Sir… what if this is bait? What if they strike the villages while we chase shadows?"
The captain's face darkened.
He nodded.
"Then we follow the road they would take. Move. No delays."
The formation shifted and vanished into the trees—leaving only slaves behind, shaking in silent relief.
One of them stirred, gaunt eyes fixed on the path the knights had taken.
His voice barely rose above a whisper:
"too late."