After buying the map from the old shop in the market alley, Christopher left through the city's southern gate, carrying his bag and wearing new clothes of a simple aristocratic style a long black robe and a long purple scarf draped over his shoulders just like a young nobleman.
The road to the forest wound through scattered plains and autumn cherry trees. With every step, the air grew purer, as if nature itself were breathing freely, far from the city's clamor.
After half a day's walk, the outlines of a small village called "Sylvia" began to appear on the horizon. He decided to stop there to rest. But suddenly, just as he was about to cross a simple wooden bridge, a boy no older than ten stood in his way.
The child stood nervously, his face covered with an old cloth. In his right hand, he held a wooden sword barely good enough for play. Nevertheless, he raised it at Christopher and said in a trembling voice: "Give me the money you have… or…!"
The boy stuttered at the end of his sentence as if the words had betrayed him, then gathered his courage and added, in a hesitant, soft voice: "I'll hit you..."
Christopher almost laughed, but his expression remained stiff. He decided to teach him a lesson. He took a single step forward, looked the boy straight in the eyes, and said in a low, deep voice:
"Do you want to die, boy? Do you understand what it means to raise a weapon in my face? Do you want your family to be killed because of your recklessness?"
The boy trembled, but his eyes remained locked in defiance. Then he screamed in a broken voice:
"I don't care who you are! My mother died because of people like you… selfish nobles! And my little sister is sick now… she needs medicine! I won't go home without money!"
At the mention of his sister, it was as if his heart ignited with sudden courage. He gripped his sword tighter and said:
"Hand over the money… or I'll fight you!"
A moment of silence fell. Christopher said nothing but approached slowly, with confident steps that made the boy instinctively retreat.
Christopher spoke in a calm voice, tinged with sarcasm:
"This is how you steal? So sloppily? You'll be killed if you meet someone other than me, kid."
The boy blinked in confusion and said: "What?"
Christopher smiled, gestured at his stance and the cloth on his face, then added mockingly: "First, you cover your face with a torn rag? You announce to people you're a thief before you even speak. Second, a wooden sword? Even small children would laugh at you. And third… you threaten someone you don't know, with no plan, no exit, not even confirming if he has money?"
The boy felt embarrassed and angry. He shouted: "You talk like you're an expert in stealing!"
Christopher suddenly laughed, a sarcastic laugh: "Me? No, but I've met much better thieves than you. And you, kid… you're just a miserable amateur."
The boy's face turned red, and he shouted, his eyes filling with tears:
"Don't mock me! I'm Ron Killen! Son of Leon Killen! I'll become strong like my father, and I'll make you regret your words!"
Christopher raised his eyebrows slightly, then laughed again, louder this time:
"Ron Killen? That's a big name for a child like you. Don't tell me your father was an adventurer?"
The boy raised his head proudly and defiantly:
"He was a strong warrior! He died fighting a demonic beast to save the village… three years ago!"
Christopher fell silent. His eyes stared into space for a moment, then he rubbed his chin, which had no hair yet, and said with unexpected gentleness:
"Alright then… son. I'll help your sister. Show me the way."
"Son?" Ron repeated the word in disbelief, then frowned and said angrily: "You're not that much older than me! Why are you acting like an old man?"
Then suddenly, his expression froze. He went silent, then opened his eyes wide and said in astonishment:
"What? Help… my sister? You?"
Christopher nodded. He said nothing. Then after a moment of silence, he added:
"But… not for free."
Ron's eyes narrowed in suspicion: "What do you want?"
Christopher looked at him, a faint mocking gleam in his eyes:
"Just let me rest at your house tonight."
Ron hesitated, not knowing how to respond, then said slowly: "Just that?"
Christopher nodded, then walked past the boy with steady steps, saying without turning around:
"Show me the way… before I change my mind."
Ron hesitated, looked at his wooden sword, then at Christopher's back heading toward the village calmly, as if the matter didn't concern him much. His face hardened, and he quickly followed behind him, shouting:
"If you're lying to me… I'll make you regret it!"
Christopher chuckled softly and didn't reply.
He continued walking with steady steps, never looking back. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, even though he had never visited the village before. As for Ron, he kept following him with quick steps, clutching his wooden sword as if it were the last shred of his dignity.
They passed over the rickety wooden bridge, then descended a narrow path between rows of tall trees that shaded the road with their cool canopy. The air here was different, filled with the scent of old wood and damp earth, as if the village was hidden in the very embrace of nature.
Ron suddenly said in a low voice:
"My mother used to say strangers can't be trusted. She also said nobles only help themselves."
Christopher replied without slowing down: "Your mother wasn't wrong… but I'm not a noble."
Ron went silent, then muttered: "But your clothes… your appearance…"
Christopher gave a side smile and said: "Just clothes. Clothes don't make a noble, kid."
After a few more minutes of walking, the outlines of simple wooden houses began to appear among the trees. Some were leaning, with broken boards and windows covered in tattered cloth. Ron whispered:
"This is… our village. And that's our house."
He pointed to a small shack on the edge of the village, so rundown it looked like the wind alone could knock it over.
Christopher followed him inside without hesitation. Inside the shack, everything was as humble as could be: one bed made of straw, a wooden table with a water bowl on it, and a cold fireplace in the corner.
On the bed lay a small girl, her beautiful face pale, lips dry, and breathing labored. Christopher approached her quietly and knelt to examine her condition.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked softly.
Ron replied in a faint voice: "Fever… started four days ago. We don't have money for medicine anymore."
Christopher thought for a moment, then took out a paper and pen and carefully wrote down the names of herbs. He handed it to Ron and said:
"Quick… bring them."
Ron ran out, and after fifteen minutes, he returned with a small pouch emitting a fragrant scent.
"Here are the herbs!" he said proudly.
Christopher took them and carefully placed them on the battered wooden table, then pulled out a small knife and a simple grinding tool from his bag. He began chopping the leaves carefully, grinding some and mixing them in measured proportions, while Ron watched in awe, as if it were some strange, incomprehensible magic.
The sound of grinding herbs harmonized with the weak breaths of the little girl.
Ron whispered, as if afraid to break the silence:
"Do you… do you know what you're doing?"
Christopher replied without looking up:
"More than you can imagine. This mixture will reduce the fever and give her body a chance to fight."
After a few minutes, he poured boiling water into a small bowl, then added the mixture and began stirring it slowly. Steam rose with a strong aroma.
He approached the girl again, gently supported her head, then began dripping the medicine into her mouth using a small wooden spoon. The girl mumbled incoherent words, her eyelids trembled, but the medicine slipped down her throat, and her breathing gradually slowed from ragged gasps to a steadier rhythm.
Ron breathed a sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his chest. He looked at Christopher with a mixture of admiration and confusion, and asked in a trembling voice:
"Who are you really? You're not a noble… nor just an ordinary traveler..."
Christopher answered quietly, sitting on the floor leaning against the wall:
"I'm just someone searching for nature and fresh air."
A short silence fell, then Christopher muttered, as if speaking to himself:
"Tomorrow, I'll continue my way to the forest… but tonight, I'll stay here."
Ron quickly replied without thinking:
"You're a real hero!"
Christopher opened his eyes and looked at him with a sarcastic expression and said calmly:
"No, kid… heroes die in stories. Me? I prefer staying alive."
He cast one last glance at the girl, then closed his eyes, ready to spend the night in that simple place, far from the city.
---
Christopher woke just moments before sunrise, as soft light crept shyly through the shack's wooden slats, and the cold dawn breeze brushed his face. He rose quietly without making a sound, glanced at Ron and his sister her fever having eased then sighed silently, tied his black robe, and strapped his bag to his back.
He stepped outside the shack, greeted by the morning songs of distant forest birds and the whispers of the wind flowing through the trees. He walked out of the village slowly, watching the light mist rising from the damp soil before resuming a brisk pace toward the forest.
His journey took five hours. He walked on an unpaved path, through gentle hills and green slopes, following the instructions on the old map he had bought from the alley, until the forest trees began to appear ahead.
But he did not head straight into the forest's depths. Instead, he followed a clear plan: to reach an elevated plateau marked on the map as a distinctive spot west of the forest. Christopher's theory was simple: "If mana is like air or mist, it makes sense that it would accumulate or become denser in elevated places, away from the ground."
If his hypothesis was correct, the plateau would be the best place to begin meditation.
After an hour of cautious climbing through a narrow mountain path, he reached the plateau. The area was relatively flat, surrounded by scattered rocks, overlooking the forest on one side and facing the mountains on the other. There, Christopher stood, taking deep breaths, feeling that the air here was different… lighter, purer.
He sat on a flat rock in the middle of the plateau and closed his eyes, recalling the steps of the "Great Sky Refinement Technique" which he had memorized by heart:
First: Calm the mind.
He began to slow his breathing, listening to his heartbeat, ignoring the sound of the wind and birds.
Second: Regulate the breath.
He took a deep inhale through his nose, and a slow exhale from his mouth. He repeated the process again and again, until his breathing became harmonious, rhythmic, as if it were a part of the nature around him.
Third: Sensing the mana.
Here, the challenges began. In the city, he had failed repeatedly at this step; mana was nonexistent. But this time, amidst the stillness, the altitude, and the fresh air… something happened.
In a fleeting moment, he felt a cold but painful point, very small, just below his chest. A sensation that hadn't been there before. As if a thin thread of mana had touched his consciousness then vanished.
He opened his eyes suddenly, his breath shaky, but his face was filled with surprise and triumph.
He had felt it.
No matter how faint… it existed.
He smiled, then whispered softly, as if speaking to himself:
"So, I was right… the plateau holds mana."
He steadied his posture again, closed his eyes, and returned to meditation.