Ambush

The path to Sárvár unfurled like a reluctant scroll, its twists and turns revealing glimpses of a world both beautiful and brutal, a duality that tugged at SP's senses with every breath—the vibrant green of ferns unfurling like delicate fans against the dark soil, contrasted by jagged rocks that jutted like forgotten bones from the earth. Sunlight filtered through the thickening woods in golden shafts, piercing the canopy with ethereal grace, dappled the ground in patterns of deceptive warmth that played tricks on the eye, making shadowed hollows seem inviting one moment and treacherous the next.

SP's construct-horse trudged onward with unwavering rhythm, its flanks rising and falling in a steady cadence, hooves sinking slightly into the softening earth with a soft squelch, each step a muffled protest against the mud's greedy pull that threatened to slow their progress, the ground clinging like a possessive hand reluctant to release its grip.

The air hummed with the subtle symphony of life—birds trilling high-pitched warnings from hidden perches in the branches above, their melodies sharp and urgent like alarms in a dream, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze like whispered secrets exchanged among ancient guardians, the foliage sharing tales of winds long past, and the distant murmur of a stream bubbling over rocks like laughter echoing from afar, a joyful gurgle that mocked the tension coiling in his chest.

Yet beneath this veneer of serenity lay an undercurrent of tension, a coiled spring waiting to snap, as if the land itself sensed his intrusion and held its breath in anticipation, the very trees leaning in closer, their shadows lengthening like fingers reaching to ensnare.

His body, a canvas of accumulated aches painted by days of relentless travel, sang its own discordant tune: thighs raw and inflamed from the saddle's unrelenting grip, the skin chafed to a tender red that burned with every shift, the earlier leg wound throbbing in sync with his pulse like a persistent drumbeat, a rhythmic reminder of discomfortness that sent waves of heat radiating outward, and his thoughts frayed at the edges from the isolation that wrapped around him like a fog, thick and impenetrable, leaving him adrift in thoughts of home and his own comfort zone.

The domain of Báthory drawing ever closer with an almost magnetic pull, her influence evident in the thinning threats along the road—bandits growing scarcer, their ambushes fading like ghosts at dawn, as if her name alone warded off the lawless like a potent talisman, her reputation a shield woven from fear and legend that cleared the way, though it left him wondering what price such power exacted on the one who wielded it.

A sudden hush descended upon the woods, the transition so abrupt it felt like a spell cast by unseen hand. Instinct prickled at the back of SP's neck, a scholar's intuition warning him of impending danger with a chill that raced down his spine like icy fingers tracing his vertebrae—another ambush by the bandits?

He had maintained his decoy illusion throughout the day, a clever veil drawn from the principles of optical deception, a neat trick where light itself became a canvas for trickery—"what am I thinking right now? I've been attacked!" the thought flashed through his mind like a bolt, adrenaline surging as realization hit, his focus sharpening to a razor's edge amid the chaos—bending light through conceptual lenses to project a "wrong-position" mapping of himself, a spectral double that rode ahead, mirroring his every motion but displaced just enough to draw the eye of any watcher.

The spell's foundation lay in alchemical groundwork, a hasty alchemistic experiments performed in the first few hours after he arrived in this realm, by the roadside where he'd gathered a handful of coarse sand, transmuting it into flawed glass fragments—their bubbles and distortions serving as perfect mediums for light manipulation, irregular surfaces that refracted rays in unpredictable yet controlled ways, like flawed diamonds channeling deception.

By extending his presence via space-warped projections, he created a phantom rider dozen feet ahead, a live target that consumed minimal energy in this feedback-stingy world—drawing only a trickle of his reserves to sustain the mirage—while granting him precious seconds for reaction, a buffer of time that could mean the difference between evasion and calamity.

The payoff came swiftly, a heartbeat's grace bought by his cunning veil, as a stone whistled through the air with lethal intent, its trajectory a deadly arc slicing silently from the underbrush like an assassin's blade drawn in shadow.

It struck the decoy's side with unerring precision, but instead of piercing flesh, it rippled the projection like disturbed water on a pond, the illusion undulating in waves of distorted light that shimmered and fractured, and them stablized back into it's previous form like nothing had happened.

The attacker was exposed in that instant: three outlaws lurking in the foliage, their forms hunched and feral, cloth tattered from hard living and stained with the grime of the wilds, faces scarred and weathered under unkempt beards, eyes gleaming with the desperate hunger, they all looked very skinny. Armed with slings fashioned from leather strips and…sticks—wooden sticks that looks like been through a lot.

Their surprise registered in widened eyes as the "hit" failed to fell their prey, the air thick with their muttered curses and the rustle of shifting positions. SP wasted no time, his heart pounding a hush rhythm against his ribs, adrenaline flooding his veins like liquid fire, sharpening his senses to a razor's edge in this moment of raw Insecurity—after all, as a scholar, alone against numbers, would not be considered as a daily routine for him.

Reflex took command, his hand delving into the leather pouch at his waist with a swiftness born of urgency, fingers closing around a handful of sulfur powder—coarse grains that bit into his palm like tiny embers waiting to ignite. This alchemical primer symbolized elemental fire, almost in all civilization from his home relam, countless records and lores have linked those together, such as revered in Kabbalistic sephirot mappings where Geburah's destructive force bound infernal and natural energies into harmonious fury, a conduit for chaos tamed by will.

The chain of concepts ignited in his mind like a spark on dry tinder, synapses firing in rapid succession: sulfur as the bridge to flame, a primordial link evoking volcanic birth; flame escalating to explosion, a burgeoning force of expansion and release; explosion channeling into blistering heat, waves of radiant agony; and heat culminating in targeted wound, a precision strike that seared without slaying. Compressing this sequence into a spherical conceptual field required intense focus, a mental forge where he hammered each link with willpower to overcome the world's reluctant resonance—its biotic and natural feedbacks resisting like stubborn locks, forcing him to layer intent upon intent, infusing the chain with pulses of his essence until the structure solidified into a cohesive orb, humming with contained potential.

In fantasy realms, such spells erupted from pure thought, unburdened by materials, a effortless symphony of mind and magic; here, the powder anchored the incantation like a keystone in an arch, stabilizing the low-efficiency output to prevent fizzle or backlash, a necessary crutch in a realm that doled out power in miserly drops.

In less than half a second—a breath suspended in eternity—the basin-sized fireball materialized behind his illusion figure, emerging from where he truly stood under the veil of deception, a surge of heat and light that burst forth with a whoosh of displaced air, the atmosphere crackling as if torn by invisible claws. It hurtled toward the foes like a vengeful comet, trailing a tail of flickering embers that scorched the path in its wake, grass singeing at the edges with acrid pops, heat waves rippling outward like shockwaves from a distant thunderclap, carrying the sharp, biting scent of ozone mingled with brimstone that stung the eyes and throat, making vision blur and breaths come short. And then another fireball, and another after that, and another after that.

The roar of explosions reverberated along both sides of the road, a chain of blasts that SP counted methodically in his mind—seven? No, eight, he concluded with a mental note, chastising himself for the overkill. He shouldn't have expended so many; his energy reserves were finite, meant to be rationed for true emergencies, not squandered on impulse, even if the sudden ambush had tested his composure. Still, the outcome justified the excess: the three gaunt bandits, their emaciated frames more akin to desperate refugees than hardened threats, had been thoroughly routed by the barrage, scattering in blind panic and vanishing into the underbrush like smoke on the wind, their ragged forms swallowed by the foliage in mere seconds.

Those weren't true conflagrations, at least not in the bulk of their makeup—after all, what could one reasonably expect from a mere handful of sulfur? A missile attack? Hardly the case in this realm.

Most of those "fireballs" were illusionary facsimiles, crafted from advanced evocations of perceptual deceptions as outlined in Enochian tablets, where angelic scripts encoded veils of false reality to ensnare the senses—one reason he could unleash eight in rapid succession without fearing actual overkill or igniting nearby plants.

The design encapsulated cognitive triggers with exquisite precision: inducing terror through simulated flames that roared in the mind's ear, phantom explosions that rattled the senses with bone-jarring force, and illusory burns that seared the skin with imagined agony, nerves firing as if kissed by real fire, without ever touching flesh or leaving a mark. Physical sparks flew for authenticity, tiny flecks of ignited sulfur dancing like fireflies to sell the deception, but the core remained non-lethal, the pain and shock will probably scar those bandits psychologically for the rest of their life as the punishment of their action, but not ending their life once for all.

An ethical compromise born of his scholarly creed, a deliberate choice to wield power with restraint rather than abandon. This calculated approach preserved his resources and aligned with his principles, ensuring threats were neutralized efficiently while minimizing collateral risk.

Any life's trampling is a loss to the cognitive tapestry, he held firmly in his heart, a philosophy etched into his being like runes on sacred stone, one that clashed with his fellow apprentice's brutal pragmatism—killing as the most efficient expression of intent, a cold calculus that viewed mercy as weakness.

Their debates had been going on for a while, each defending their path with the passion of converts; yet paths diverged without acrimony, for realms apart bred different truths, and SP chose mercy as his anchor, a guiding light in the moral fog, even if it demanded more finesse, more ingenuity to achieve ends without staining his mind with needless blood.

Although the bandits had already fled, SP paused. His heart still pounded from the skirmish, but he made no move to give chase.

Rushing blindly after danger—that kind of reckless bravery belonged in stories, not in his skillset.

He wove a few subtle, low-costing defensive spells around himself: a layer of "Intimidation Ward" that would trigger on approach, scrambling an intruder's senses with illusions of dread; and a "Evasion Charm," ready to snap into action, sharpening his reflexes and guiding his body through dodges for a precious few moments. These were simple, reliable passives—no need for constant focus, just a quick thought to set them humming, then they were on autopilot.

Keeping his optical illusion frozen in place—a perfect decoy of himself—he quietly steered his horse into the shadows, positioning for a swift escape if needed.

About twenty minutes ticked by in tense silence before SP cast "Detection" again. His awareness rippled outward like a gentle wave, mapping the terrain, foliage, and whispers of wind into a vivid mental tapestry. No signs of life stirred ahead, no lingering magical residues or hidden heat signatures. Just to be thorough, he also performed a divination, confirming the path was clear of threats.

Only then did he nudge the reins, urging his mount forward once more.

Of course, the illusion stayed active.

That false image of him galloped on, dozen feet ahead, drawing any prying eyes away like a loyal shield.

It wasn't paranoia; it was survival smarts.

In this world, death to SP wasn't just a failed quest—it could shatter his consciousness anchor, ripping at the very fabric of his mind. For a scholar like him, that kind of damage hit harder than any botched job.

He couldn't afford it. Wouldn't risk it.

Before riding off, SP doubled back to inspect the spot where his fireball had landed. The forest was so thick and wild here; the last thing he wanted was to spark a blaze by accident. That would be a disaster for everyone—and everything—involved.

In hindsight, maybe a lightning bolt or a sonic blast would've been smarter in this lush greenery, no fire hazard to worry about. But he hadn't gone that route. The polite excuse? He lacked the materials to channel it properly— acid. The plants here were all "different" compared to what he knew from his time. And it definitely has nothing to do with him not good at Botany.

SP muttered a justification under his breath as he half-heartedly sorted through the underbrush, brushing aside the raw plants with little interest. He dismissed them with a shrug, citing modern alternatives. From where he comes from, essential oils were the standard—convenient, pre-blended, and widely available through online delivery platforms. They came with five-star reviews and carefully composed scent profiles, each layered with top, middle, and base notes, as if tailored more for luxury than for necessity.

Back in his home realm—a concrete jungle wrapped in logic and Wi-Fi signals—nature's vibes were muted at best. Magical energy flowed like molasses, and folks' grasp on how the universe ticked was locked down tighter than a glitchy OS refusing updates.

Every boost to a spell was a rare gem. Why forage for some buggy, ancient herb in the woods when a drop of concentrated lavender oil did the trick? It wasn't disrespecting tradition; it was practicality. Oils worked, plain and simple.

He couldn't even tell which berries in this forest were safe for human consumption versus the ones that'd drop him like a poison dart—they all screamed "danger" in neon. So naturally, he'd skipped the easiest natural acid sources out there.

These past few days had been a slog of inefficient trekking, draining his body and scattering his thoughts. In this state, any unwanted damage to his well-being, such as poison, would be forcing him to spent mental energy just to keep this borrowed form going. Talk about self-sabotage.

Mid-thought, SP froze—why not harness friction for heat, build up static electricity as the catalyst and guide for a lightning spell? The idea hit him like a spark; he'd never pondered it before, but that chaos earlier had ignited something new.

He shook his head, dismissing it for now. In the heat of battle, there'd been no time for fancy rubbing process—fingers barely warmed, and the enemy could've been on him.

Moreover, lightning spells carried their own set of complications, two issues that made them a poor fit for the moment, as SP weighed the options with the cool precision of a strategist mapping an uncertain battlefield.

First, their sheer speed bordered on unruly. In ideal conditions, they delivered devastating instant damage, a bolt of raw energy that could end threats in a flash. But relying on "friction-generated electricity" as the casting material introduced wild variables—discharge strength fluctuating like a storm's whims, guidance accuracy as unpredictable as a river's bend. It lacked the reliability needed for tactical dominance, a gamble where one misfire could turn advantage into disaster.

Second, those bandits… SP wasn't convinced they were organized bandits at all. More likely, they were a desperate band of refugees, hollowed by famine or shattered supply lines, teetering on the brink of survival instinct. And in that fragile state, a mild strike could backfire spectacularly—like wounding a cornered animal, only to unleash its feral rage rather than drive it off.

In such volatile encounters, failing to deliver overwhelming deterrence invited miscalculation—the foes might see him as "equally weakened" prey, igniting escalation instead of quelling it. This wasn't about control; it was about igniting a powder keg.

From that vantage, opting for the fireball spell emerged as the most logical choice: independent of environmental whims, it broadcast clear, visible peril with its blaze and heat, non-lethal in essence yet commanding retreat without provoking a fight-or-die frenzy. It was a calculated play, a symphony of sight and sensation that tipped the scales toward flight, preserving his path without unnecessary entanglement. In a realm that rewarded foresight over fury, this was the move that aligned with his scholarly core—precise, effective, and ever mindful of the threads that wove survival into strategy.

Still, the concept lingered, begging to be explored. What if he use static, piezo effects, or raw friction as casting material? It could spawn self-sustaining spells in low-mana zones, no old-school primers needed. Research goldmine!

Even if it never saw combat, it was a fresh path to wander—a spark of innovation in his future explorations.