Chapter 8 - 08: Dying Wish VIII

Chapter 8: 08: Dying Wish VIII --- When the coins ran out, he slept in barns or under trees. He curled up in hay piles and prayed the cold would pass before his breath froze. Wild dogs chased him more than once, snapping at his heels until he climbed walls or trees. Many more thieves cornered him in alleyways, ready to rob him blind. They always left empty handed. He had nothing worth taking. Except the ring. And they could never take that. But he kept moving forward. He kept surviving. The world tried to crush him, but it never broke him. Because the ring still pulsed. Always faint. Always distant. But alive. At night, when the stars blinked overhead and the wind whispered through dry grass, he would lie on the ground, hold the ring to his chest, and whisper into the dark. "You’re still building. Aren’t you?" No answer ever came. But he knew. He could feel it, even without words. Something inside was waiting. He turned seventeen beneath the broken arch of an abandoned shrine. The stone walls were overgrown with ivy, and the ceiling had long since collapsed, leaving the altar exposed to the sky. A full moon watched him from above. He had no candle. No feast. Only a strip of dried meat and a river nearby. He washed his face in the water and stared at his reflection. Lean. Scarred. Pale. But not weak. His eyes had changed. They no longer looked like those of a child. Something else stared back from within them. Something deeper. A storm that had not yet begun. Crack! Thud! Suddenly a branch snapped behind him. John turned fast, instincts sharpened by months of living with beasts and worse. A man stepped from the trees. He wore a brown cloak soaked from the mist and mud stained boots. A scar ran down one cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanent smirk. John recognized him instantly. ’Loric.’ His half brother Julian’s old servant. Years ago, the man had followed Julian like a shadow, always two steps behind, always silent. John had seen him once standing over a servant with a blade pressed to their throat, grinning as they begged for mercy. He stood now with the same grin. "Well well," Loric said. "Look what the worms forgot to bury." John said nothing. His hand inched toward the dagger hidden beneath his tunic. It was dull, rusted, and old. But it had saved him before. Loric stepped closer. "You’re not easy to find, you know," he said. "Your big brother’s been looking for you." "I have no brother." John finally spoke. "Oh, but he has a use for you. Filthy blood or not." John didn’t move. Loric’s smile widened. "There’s a place not far from here," he said. "A mine. Hidden between the hills. Rich in mana stones. Forbidden to outsiders." "I’m not interested." "You will be." Loric raised one hand. Snap! Three more men emerged from the woods. All of them wore the same brown leather. All of them carried blades. John reached for his dagger, but pain exploded across the back of his head. Thud! A guy hit his head. The world spun sideways. He fell to his knees. Mud filled his mouth. Cold water splashed over his cheek. A boot struck his ribs. Thump! The last thing he saw was Loric leaning down, his face inches from John’s. "Don’t worry," he whispered. "You won’t die yet." Then darkness swallowed him. The mine stank of death. When John opened his eyes, the air was thick with damp rock and old blood. A flickering lantern hung from the ceiling above, casting weak light across the tunnel walls. Chains rattled softly in the distance. Stone tools clinked against harder stone. His wrists were bound. His ankles too. He had been dragged into a narrow shaft cut into the side of a hill, deep underground. The walls pulsed with veins of glowing blue crystal. Mana stones. He had heard of them. But he had never seen one. Mana stones infused with magical essence. Used to forge weapons. To enchant armor. To power entire cities if refined. This mine was illegal. And from the looks of the gaunt men chained to the walls, it was also lethal. He coughed once. Loric’s voice drifted down the tunnel. "You’re awake." John turned his head slowly. The man approached with a casual stride, holding a pickaxe in one hand like a walking stick. "You’ll be useful," Loric said. "Half the nobles want these stones, but no one wants to be caught mining them. So we let the unwanted ones dig. Quietly. Efficiently." "You’ll never get away with this," John said, his voice dry. "Oh, we already have. For years." He pointed at the glowing veins along the walls. "The mana here is pure. Stronger than what most Circle Mages can handle. It will kill the others slowly." He crouched beside John. "But you? You have a bloodline. Even if it’s trash, it might help you live long enough to dig out a fortune." Then he stood and turned to leave. "Get to work." The chains were unlocked. A pickaxe dropped at John’s feet. Clink! He picked it up with numb fingers. Every movement hurts. Every breath burned. But he stood. And he began to dig. The first swing of the pickaxe nearly shattered his fingers. John grit his teeth and adjusted his grip, hands trembling as the old wooden handle bit into his palms. The weight of the tool was awkward, heavier than he expected, and the chain around his ankle dragged with every step. The stone wall ahead of him pulsed faintly with veins of glowing blue mana, but it was solid. Too solid for a single pickaxe to break without effort. Clang!