Chapter 36: The Journey Begins

A cool wind stirred the leaves overhead, their rustling filling the quiet of the early morning. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth, and the first golden rays of sunlight stretched across the sky, casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. Ethan stood at the edge of a small clearing, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where distant mountains loomed like silent sentinels guarding the path ahead.

For the first time in three years, they were leaving the place they had called home.

Behind him, Ronan was crouched over an aged map, its parchment worn and creased from years of use. He ran his fingers over the inked lines, tracing a route through the treacherous Southern Ravines—a path whispered about in taverns and firelit gatherings as one fraught with danger.

"This is the fastest way," Ronan muttered, tapping a jagged line that cut through dense forests and narrow valleys. "But…" He hesitated, his brow furrowing.

Ethan glanced down at the map. He didn't need Ronan to finish the thought. They had both heard the stories—of mercenaries who hunted travelers, of rogue warriors who carved out their own law, of those who ventured in and never came out.

Yet, the alternative was a longer, meandering route, one that could delay them for weeks. Time they did not have.

Ethan exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling over him.

"If we want to make it to the Institution before the entrance trials begin, we don't have a choice," he said finally.

Ronan sat back on his heels, rubbing the back of his neck. "So we take the dangerous path."

There was no argument, no back-and-forth debate. They had trained under Veyrn for three years—three years of pushing their bodies and minds beyond limits they once thought impossible. If they weren't ready now, they never would be.

Ethan rolled the map carefully, securing it before glancing one last time toward the distant peaks that had been their home. He felt something tighten in his chest, a mix of anticipation and the quiet ache of leaving behind the familiar. But he pushed it aside.

With a final nod to each other, they stepped forward, their journey truly beginning.

The days passed in quiet motion, their pace steady but measured. As they moved through rolling plains and scattered villages, the world slowly began to unfold before them—one far larger, far wilder than they had imagined.

The small villages they passed through held glimpses of lives untouched by the ambitions of the powerful. Merchants called out their wares, farmers toiled in their fields, and children chased each other through dusty streets, their laughter ringing in the warm air.

Yet, even here, whispers of the world's greater forces lingered.

At a small roadside tavern where they stopped to rest, they overheard quiet conversations between seasoned warriors.

"The entrance trial this year will be brutal. Even the strong are being turned away."

"I heard about someone who fought with just a glance. No one knows what kind of trait that was…"

"The Institution has been too quiet lately. Something is happening."

Ethan and Ronan exchanged a glance but said nothing. There was no need. The world was not what they had imagined. It was stronger. Wilder.

And they were only beginning to understand it.

On the third night, they entered the Southern Ravines.

The terrain shifted subtly at first—the trees grew taller, their thick branches intertwining to block out most of the moonlight. The air was dense, carrying an odd stillness, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

By the time they reached a narrow pass between two steep cliffs, the silence had become deafening.

Ethan's grip on his sword tightened. His instincts screamed at him, a cold sensation creeping up his spine.

"Ronan—"

Before he could finish, the shadows moved.

It happened in an instant.

Dark figures emerged from the trees, their movements fluid and precise. They didn't stumble or rush like common bandits—these were trained fighters. Mercenaries.

There was no demand for surrender, no warning. The attack began the moment they revealed themselves.

Ethan barely had time to react as a chain whipped toward him, slicing through the air with deadly speed. He twisted, the links grazing his shoulder before embedding themselves in the ground where he had just stood.

Ronan was already moving, meeting a hulking figure head-on—a man whose body seemed to shift between impossible lightness and crushing density.

Three against two.

One wielded Shifting Mass, his weight changing mid-motion, turning his strikes into unpredictable weapons.

Another spun Vortex Chains, metallic links that coiled and slashed like living serpents.

The last, fastest of them all, wielded Piercing Thunder, his blade humming with a faint, deadly energy.

Despite their training, Ethan and Ronan were struggling.

These weren't mere thugs—they were experienced killers, each strike calculated, each movement refined through years of battle.

Ethan barely ducked in time as a blade whistled past his ear. His heart pounded, his mind racing. This wasn't a sparring match under Veyrn's watchful eye—this was survival.

And then—

Something changed.

As Ethan's hand gripped his sword, a strange sensation pulsed through him. The familiar resonance was there, but deeper. Sharper.

For a fraction of a second, time seemed to slow.

The steel in his grip did not just respond—it obeyed.

The air crackled as the sword trembled, and then—without him willing it—the blade moved.

It intercepted the chain meant to bind him, striking it with perfect precision. Sparks erupted as metal clashed against metal, the impact sending vibrations up his arm.

The mercenaries hesitated.

They had felt it too.

Ethan's breathing was steady as he slowly lowered the blade.

He focused.

"Again."

The sword twitched, responding to his will.

For the first time, Ethan wasn't just resonating with an object—he was controlling it.