Chapter 4 – Exile
The Southern Edge
The mountain pass behind him faded into fog, swallowed by the jagged stone ridges that marked the border of Southern Desolation.
Klaeton Whitley took his first steps into exile.
His blades were dull. His mana was gone. But his spirit burned brighter than ever.
I'll survive. I'll live. And one day… I'll make them proud again.
The twisted landscape of Southern Desolation welcomed him with silence.
Not peace.
Warning.
Back at the Village
While Klaeton fought to stay alive, the rest of the island moved on.
In the circular courtyard of the Whitley compound, the elders gathered with the next generation of fighters.
Lucian stood at the edge, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on his granddaughter.
"Lilian," he said, "You've grown stronger."
She nodded, sweat clinging to her forehead. "Not strong enough."
Dorian leaned against the wall nearby. "You're already above most of the other cousins."
"She has to be," Magnus muttered. "We don't have a successor anymore. Not until—"
"Don't," Amira Elden cut in, her tone sharp. "He's gone."
"But not dead," whispered Garrick.
"No," Isla added. "But if anyone could survive the Desolation…"
Lucian turned away. "We do not wait on ghosts. Lilian will carry our bloodline forward."
Just After Being Banished
Klaeton's first real opponent came fast.
A beast known across the island—the Palefang Lion. Its white-scaled fur shimmered with light shadow magic, absorbing and bending light around it, enabling deadly stealth attacks. It was said to kill grown hunters in minutes.
Klaeton spotted it from a ridge and ran the opposite way.
But it wasn't the only predator.
Bloodcoil Vipers slithered through the underbrush, their venom infused with poison magic that sapped mana as well as muscle, paralyzing victims in moments.
Glasshorn Deer, though graceful, wielded crystal ice magic—their jagged antlers could pierce bone and freeze flesh instantly.
Even the smallest creatures were dangerous.
Boneleaf Squirrels darted through trees, their tails tipped with nature thorn magic that could sprout razor-sharp barbs like living weapons.
Klaeton didn't try to fight.
He ran. He learned. He endured.
He avoided the worst of the powerful gates, whose auras throbbed with death.
The only safe water came from the central river—though "safe" was relative.
Beneath its surface, Duskfin Sharks twisted currents with water spirit magic, summoning whirlpools and slicing waves to hunt.
Nearby, Lanterscale Fish flickered with bioluminescent fire magic, their glowing scales warming the dark waters—and igniting sudden bursts of flame when threatened.
But water was water. And if Klaeton didn't drink, he'd die.
So he learned to trap. To ambush. To bleed the duskfins dry. To boil and dry every strip of meat. To use bones for tools and fur for warmth.
He didn't just survive.
He adapted.
Now, Age 18
The Southern Desolation no longer felt like exile.
It felt like home.
Klaeton stood atop a ridge overlooking the freshwater stream. He held a duskfin shark over his shoulder, bleeding from the gills. A few moments later, a Palefang Lion lunged from the brush—he didn't flinch.
He twisted, ducked under its strike, and slammed a dagger through its throat in one clean motion.
Too slow.
He was no longer the boy who lost everything.
He was something new. Something worse.
And still—no system, no mana, no message box.
Only a burning will.
Back at the Village
In the Whitley council chamber, Lucian spoke to the gathered elders.
"Years. No word. He could be dead."
"Or strong enough now to hide from us," Caspian Thorne said, tapping the table with an icy finger.
Amira's wind stirred. "I've felt odd gusts from the south. Whispers I can't translate."
"You think he's alive?" asked Dorian, arms crossed.
"I don't know what I feel."
Outside the chamber, Lilian Whitley trained in the yard—her form sharp, her daggers glowing with light magic.
She breathed heavy, sweat trailing her brow.
Brother… if you're alive, then I'll become strong enough to reach you.If you're not—then I'll carry your name.