Chapter 29 - The Mural

The mural he saw...

There was not a single person whose have a figures like that.

No one. Among all the people he had ever met.

The first figure:

A dwarf. Short, thick-bearded, with a horned helmet. Stood firm, clutching a hammer crackling with etched arcs of lightning. The runes on the weapon glowed faintly, still holding power after all these years.

Beside him stood a tall, robed woman, her arms lifted high. Above her hands, a snowflake shimmered, delicate and sharp. Silver ash pressed into the wood.

Thunder and Ice? Ren asked silently.

Across from them, A group of figures with bare feet and cloaks like stone. Their arms stretched outward toward a rising wall of solid earth.

No weapons. Just hands.

Earth magic? That exist?

Questions flooded his mind. But there was no one to ask.

Then came another image.

A prince. Unmistakable in iron-plated armor, stood at the center. Fire flared from his chest, and the sword in his hand was carved with flame, dancing along its edge.

To one side of him, a man cloaked in waves, water flowing from open palms.

On the other side, a woman cloaked in light, her hands extended over a fallen figure.

Water… Healing… Ren murmured.

And finally, near the edge of the mural—

A lone figure.

His face was hidden under a cloth veil. He held a long, curved sword overhead, caught mid-motion as if suspended by wind. Around him, a cyclone spiraled. Frozen in the act of being unleashed.

Wind?

Then Ren saw it.

In front of them all loomed a shape. Massive, monstrous, coiled in smoke and fury.

Its wings stretched the full width of the mural, its mouth open in a roar of jagged flame.

A dragon.

But not just a beast.

Its body was streaked with long, curling lines. Veins shaped like rivers.

Not a monster, Ren thought. A force. The world? A god? Or something they created?

Each hero was carved mid-strike.

The dwarf's hammer flared with lightning toward the dragon's skull.

The ice mage summoned a storm from the sky.

Earth rose like a wall. Fire clashed with smoke. Water surged. Light healed.

Wind dove from above, blade pointed toward the beast's heart.

And then—

Nothing.

The mural ended.

No victory.

No graves.

No names.

Just a whirl of flame and chaos, and then, empty wood.

Ren took a step back.

The mural wasn't just a drawing.

It was a story. A memory carved into time.

His hands curled into fists.

Where did they go?

The warriors. The lands. The unity.

Why is this hidden?

He stared at the space where the carving stopped, his chest heavy.

One world. They used to be one unit.

Fight against something.

Each gifted a different kind of magic.

Thunder. Ice. Earth. Fire. Water. Wind. Healing.

And of them all, the fire prince burned the brightest.

Ren realized. The ones with fire. The ones with swords.

The question won't stop.

But what about the others? Were they forgotten? Or erased?

He knelt before the wall, tracing a line of the carving with one fingertip.

Then he pulled out the map.

Held it against the wood.

The ink pulsed.

Not with direction.

Not with relic.

A word began to form. Faint, curling across the page like smoke.

Then another.

And another.

The ink pulsed softly, writing not in a line, but in meaning.

'Magic isn't random.'

'It's geography. It's memory. It's origin.'

Ren stared, wide-eyed.

He hadn't thought that.

The map had.

The map was telling him.

Then, just as quickly as it came. The words faded.

Gone, like mist.

Ren sat in silence, breath caught somewhere between awe and unease.

The mural on the wall.

Fire, lightning, ice, wind, earth, dragon.

And now this.

This map never lies. Only truth. And proof.

Ren stood there a while longer, staring at the mural.

His hand lingered near the fading ink on the map, even after the last word disappeared.

Magic isn't random.?

It's geography? It's memory? It's origin?

Even now, the meaning pressed down on him. Like the weight of the world had shifted slightly off its line, and he was the only one who noticed.

But he couldn't stay.

Ironpeak still waited. People still needed supplies. Tools. Rope. Seeds.

With one last glance at the wall, Ren turned to leave.

The entrance tunnel glowed faintly with morning light now, soft enough to guide his steps. But just before he reached the threshold, something caught his eye.

An object, half-buried near the entrance. Where root and earth met stone.

He knelt and brushed the dirt away. It was stone, but not natural. Flat, palm-sized, with ridged edges and writing etched along its surface, symbols he didn't recognize. No language he'd ever seen.

He turned it in his hand, then brought out the map.

As soon as he held them close, the map pulsed again.

Not with direction. Not with a word. But with light, a faint shimmer of recognition. The stone plate hummed slightly, as if remembering a forgotten connection.

Ren narrowed his eyes. "You know this, don't you?" he whispered to the map.

He couldn't read the stone. He didn't even know what it was.

But the map had reacted to it. And the map never lied.

It had to be important. Magical. Useful.

Whatever this thing was, he would keep it safe. Until he found someone who could explain it.

He tucked it into his satchel with care, double-wrapping it in cloth. Then he stepped out into the daylight.

***

The wind greeted him first. Dusty, dry, but moving.

He took a breath and started walking. Westward. Toward Ironpeak.

Step by step, he left the great tree and the buried shelter behind.

But not the thoughts.

The mural clung to his mind like smoke.

The dragon. The veiled warrior. The unity. The silence that followed.

He didn't know what to do with it yet.

So instead, he focused on what he could control.

Trade goods. Materials. Anything valuable.

He couldn't afford to keep thinking.

His water would barely last till sundown, and the road ahead wasn't getting shorter.

He had to move.

Right away.

Ironpeak awaited.