First Ember of Ascent

The march of the mercenaries had finally come to an end for the day.

One by one, the men dismounted from their exhausted horses, each beast snorting and pawing at the sand, eager for rest. With slow, deliberate movements, they drove sturdy metal stakes into the arid soil to tether the animals in a broad semi-circle that formed the perimeter of their makeshift camp. Despite the weariness etched into their faces, none of the mercenaries moved sluggishly. Every action was performed with mechanical precision—repetition had honed their efficiency until setting up camp had become second nature, almost ceremonial.

As the sun dipped behind the endless dunes, casting long shadows across the desert, the fires were lit. Flames flickered to life, dancing hungrily in the fading light. The tents went up swiftly, worn canvas forming humble sanctuaries from the biting night wind.

Around the main fire, the men gathered without ceremony, sitting in a loose circle as they began to eat. Tonight's meal, like every night before, was nothing more than strips of dry, flavorless jerky—meat so tough it felt like chewing on leather. No one complained. It had been over a month since their diet had changed, yet not a single grunt of disapproval escaped them. These were hardened warriors. Their joy wasn't found in delicacies or comfort; their satisfaction came from surviving another day, another battle, another contract.

All of them accepted this grim routine.

Except for one.

Zephyr.

He sat slightly apart from the group, close to the elder mercenary, Jones. The old man, always eager to speak, was recounting tales of their past missions—each story more violent and bizarre than the last. Zephyr listened intently, his mind absorbing every word like a sponge. For him, these stories weren't just entertainment—they were education, survival manuals disguised as campfire tales.

Zephyr was an outsider, a stranger tossed into this world without warning. Its geography was foreign, its culture brutal, its power structure beyond comprehension. Every day, every hour, he learned something new. And Jones… Jones was the closest thing he had to a teacher. Perhaps even a friend. After Jones, the only other figure Zephyr had begun to trust was the commander—Arnold.

Now, Zephyr struggled to swallow a piece of the dried meat, his jaw aching as he forced it down with sips from Jones' leather water flask. The water was lukewarm and metallic in taste, and worse, it was running low. Their remaining supply, as Jones had estimated earlier, would barely last four or five more days. Still, there was little concern. They were nearing their next destination—a city on the edge of the Sky Dusk Empire. There, they would restock, rest, and perhaps enjoy the illusion of peace for a while.

Jones leaned back, his voice thick with pride as he began another tale. "Our last mission before this one," he said, lighting a crude cigar, "involved a politician. Northern kingdom. High-ranking. Greedy bastard was planning a coup against the crown."

Zephyr raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"We got paid, that's what happened," Jones grinned. "One of the royal princes put a bounty on his head in the black market. A big one."

He exhaled a puff of smoke into the desert wind. "We struck in the dead of night. Silent. Precise. Slit his guards' throats before they could even scream. He panicked. Got on his horse and fled."

"Did he get away?" Zephyr asked, curiosity plain on his face.

Jones chuckled darkly, his grin wide and toothy. "Straight into his grave. Zakrox—the deputy commander—was waiting for him, hidden behind a ridge. Arrow notched. Bow steady. The moment that snake showed his face—thunk!—arrow right through the eye. Dropped like a sack of bricks."

He laughed again, louder this time. "You should've seen his soldiers' faces. Pure terror. They scattered like frightened mice. No leader. No orders. Just fear."

Zephyr managed a faint smile but returned quickly to gnawing at his ration. Jones noticed the lack of enthusiasm.

"You'll get used to it," he said with a shrug. "This life doesn't come with hot meals. Out here, we eat to survive."

Then he leaned in with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "But… there's a silver lining. Every time we reach a city, we find the best damn tavern they've got. Good food. Strong drink. And the finest women in the region, ha!"

Zephyr's expression faltered. Part of him warmed at the mention of a real meal, but alcohol and women didn't stir much in him. In his previous life, those things had never brought him joy… maybe they never would.

Jones continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "They say the Western River City has a tavern run by a powerful faction. Their meat comes from mutated beasts, and some of their rarest dishes use flesh from creatures at the peak of transformation."

"And the liquor?" Zephyr asked, despite himself.

"Oh, the liquor," Jones nodded. "Brewed from plants that have absorbed Ascension energy—plants that gained a sliver of sentience. You're not just drinking alcohol. You're drinking living magic."

Zephyr blinked. That… was something he hadn't expected.

When the meal ended, Jones rose and brushed sand off his robes. "That's enough storytelling for one night. Time for sleep."

He paused, then smirked. "You, on the other hand, have an appointment… with bruises. Arnold and Sarin are waiting! Hah!"

Chuckling, he vanished into his tent.

Zephyr stared into the fire. His thoughts were distant, his fists clenched. One day, old man… I'll make you eat those laughs.

Gradually, the other mercenaries retired to their tents, leaving Zephyr alone by the fire.

And then—they arrived.

Arnold and Sarin.

Arnold's tone was teasing. "Waiting for us, are you? Eager for tonight's lesson?"

Zephyr rolled his shoulders, feigning calm. "Oh, I've been dying for another round of bone-crushing fun."

Arnold laughed heartily. "Good! Because tonight's lesson is in two parts. First, Sarin will help you refine your hand-to-hand combat. Second… I'll teach you how to touch the power that fuels this world."

Zephyr's breath caught.

Ascension energy.

He had heard the term before, but now… now it felt real.

Arnold stepped back, giving the two room.

Sarin crossed his arms. "What are you waiting for? Attack."

Without hesitation, Zephyr charged forward. He threw a kick toward Sarin's knee—but the seasoned warrior lifted his leg, absorbing the blow with ease.

"Lesson one," Sarin said. "If you can't avoid a hit, minimize the damage."

Zephyr spun, launching two punches in rapid succession. Sarin weaved around them effortlessly, then landed a brutal palm strike to Zephyr's chest, sending him sprawling.

"Lesson two: Never expose your center without defense. That's how you die."

They continued for what felt like hours.

Every move Zephyr made was countered.

Every mistake punished.

Until finally, breath ragged and muscles trembling, Zephyr dropped to one knee.

Arnold approached.

"That's enough," he said. "You fought well."

Then he offered a hand.

"Now rise. It's time… to taste your first drop of Ascension."