Chapter 15 - Mosquito

Taron’s hammer struck the wooden practice target with inhuman strength. But it remained unbroken. The simple doll was not so simple at all—it had numerous runes carved into it. However, a crack did appear, which was extraordinary for a First-Rank Talent Holder to achieve.

Still, he grimaced, unsatisfied.

He was racked by guilt lately. He hated lying to Erik, especially about the truth behind Talent Awakenings. But it had to be done.

He knew that if he told his friend, he would have attempted it and most likely died in the process. He just wasn't cut out for a life of danger, always scrawny and timid. It was best that he acquire his Talent with the help of the Mirmirsker—even if it was not going to be a good one.

So, he kept it a secret that he had actually started walking on the Path of Refinement inside a Whisper.

Taron's thoughts were interrupted as he felt a presence.

“What do you want?” he said, in a cold tone.

At some point, a young man with red hair, similar to Taron’s, had appeared at the entrance of the private training ground. He wore intricate grey furs and finely crafted grey armor, adorned with silver decorations and engravings. It was clear that these were no ordinary pieces of equipment.

“That was a powerful strike… for someone like you,” he said, his face impassive.

Taron turned around with an inscrutable expression, saying nothing. The two studied each other in silence.

The young man snorted. “The patriarch has called for you.”

Taron’s hammer dissolved into red mist, seeping into his skin. He proceeded to leave the training grounds, but as he passed, the youth leaned in and whispered in a cold tone.

“Keep going, and you’ll find yourself in dangerous waters… who knows what might happen.”

Taron’s fist clenched, but he kept walking.

A little later, he was kneeling in the grand hall. Only a few torches were lit, casting long, shifting shadows. He kept his gaze on the ground—he had not been given permission to look upon the patriarch yet.

He hated this place. Every nook and crevice was made to intimidate and oppress those who came to meet with the head of the clan. Intricate shields and weapons were hung on the walls. Each one having left its mark on the clan's history. There were numerous murals of previous heads of the clan or notable battles that were fought and won. All of this had one purpose—to display unshakable strength.

Despite the patriarch often giving Taron special treatment. There was no room for the weak. If a little bit of intimidation was enough to oppress you, then you were not a worthy investment for the clan.

But it was not this that irritated him so much. No, it was that this was all a farce, a cowardly technique, a parlor trick, instead of real might.

Of course, his face remained perfectly neutral as he kept his eyes on the floor.

"Raise your head, boy," a timeworn voice called from the throne ahead.

And Taron did.

He saw the ancient visage of the patriarch. The man had a long brown beard, interspersed with streaks of gray and white, braided into thick plaits adorned with golden rings inscribed with runes. His hair nearly mirrored his beard in both length and style.

His armor and traditional furs were no ordinary garments but exuded power as well, like the man himself.

High-Rank aura emanated from him, despite the old man suppressing it. This was an existence at the peak of society.

Golden runes covered his face and arms. And his golden eyes pierced Taron. Despite his neutral expression he felt like his thoughts were laid bare before this higher existence.

With a barely noticeable amused smile, the old man snorted and muttered, "Still so young."

Taron kept his face impassive, only his jaw tighten a fraction.

"I hear your training is going well," the ancient Rune Bearer remarked in a calm voice.

"Yes, patriarch. I am ready," Taron answered serenely.

The man observed him for a while and nodded.

"You will not undertake the Whisper."

Taron's eyes widened. For a few moments, he was stumped for words. Then, a bizarre thought went through his mind.

D-Do they actually care…? No… there must be another reason.

"Patriarch, I am ready. I do not require more time to prepare."

The old man smiled.

"You have already Awakened a True Talent. There is no need for you to prove yourself further."

Taron did not want to let this go pressed on.

"Is there a reason why I cannot proceed with this?"

Normally, someone questioning the head of the clan would be punished for the transgression, but he was favored, and the old Rune Bearer seemed to be in a good mood.

The ancient being observed him for a few moments before replying.

"We have made a pact with Yaren of the Snow Fox clan. He will be challenging the Whisper."

The young man gritted his teeth. This trial was supposed to ensure his position in the clan, allowing him to finally use their resources to pursue his own goals. He had prepared extensively for this. Now it was all going to be for naught.

Yaren was from a very ancient clan—one of the major ones of humanity. And depending on his standing within, things could become very complicated.

Curses! I'll need to find out what he is up to.

***

“Run!” Erik shouted, jolting awake.

Pain raced through his body as he sat up in the small fishing boat. He had passed out the moment he escaped the dire situation in the ruined city.

He looked around and realized that he had drifted off to the middle of the lake. Its calm, still surface reflected like a mirror the bleak clouds and valley. Creating both a beautiful and haunting scene. It was deathly quiet and peaceful on the lake. It was such a stark contrast to the earlier chaos that Erik's mind had trouble catching up with the change.

His gaze moved back to the city as the late afternoon light shone upon the ruins. There was no movement. The place had reverted back to its desolate state. But Erik was under no illusion that the abominations had not simply deserted it.

Exhaling a deep breath he could not believe that he had actually survived that. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips.

That was a mistake, however, as his whole body protested in agony. If not for his improved physique, he probably would have died.

Groaning, he shrugged off his backpack and used his supplies to bandage himself as best as he could. Even with his preparations, and one day into this expedition, he was already running low on provisions.

After bandaging himself and taking a few bites of dry rations, washing them down with gulps of water, his thoughts inevitably grew more despairing by the moment. In this condition, he could barely do anything. How was he supposed to survive this nightmare?

The ruins were a dead end. Although he learned a bit about the valley, he wasn't any closer to getting out of here. Well, maybe it wasn't a complete waste of time as he noticed that he had another Blood Rune for a second Mischief kill. He wasn't sure which one it was exactly that he had dealt the final blow to, but it was most likely the last one he faced. It probably died from the wounds his minion had inflicted on it.

Speaking of which, he did not feel any connection to any Undead like before. He was sure that his minion that had held back the red-haired vermin was destroyed, but the second one had most likely become inactive on its own.

Thinking about the abominations he faced... he was simply stymied at the level of Nilgrim in this Whisper. He realized that up close, he was able to feel what Rank and Grade they were without the need to observe their Blood Runes.

The Shackled King was undoubtedly a Horror, which confirmed his initial observations about it. But the black butterfly... that abomination was an Accursed Eerie. That would make it a monster of the Second-Rank and Third-Grade. It was not cunning like Frights or those of Higher-Grades, but its Higher-Rank, its capability for flight, and its deadly Ability to put others to sleep made it just as lethal as the Horror.

One overly powerful Nilgrim didn't seem to be enough for this nightmare, so there were two.

Erik couldn't help but wonder which deity he had offended for things to turn out this way.

He swore to himself that if by some miracle he survived this nightmare, he would never listen to Taron's appraisals of Whispers. Sure, his friend never imagined that his information would prompt him to do this, and it was Erik's fault for doing things behind his back, but still! This was too much.

He wasn’t lamenting out of fear. He wasn’t timid, as everyone assumed—just cautious. If it meant braving death to achieve his goals, he would do it without a doubt. He just liked to be as prepared as possible.

Erik lay down in the fishing boat again. The gentle swaying was almost lulling him to sleep, so he allowed himself a moment of respite. His fingers brushed against the old wood, which brought nostalgic memories to mind.

There was one time when his parents took him and all four of his childhood friends to a river not far from their hometown. They taught the children how to swim, build a camp, and fish. It was one of the best memories of his early years.

His father had bought a fishing boat from one of the locals just for that occasion. It was very similar to this one, barely fitting all of them in the small space.

Naturally, his poor father had failed to keep the kids in line, and they had all capsized into the river. This had earned the beautiful and melodious laugh of his mother... Erik still remembered it to this day.

With grace she had raised the plants growing at the bottom of the river to an extraordinary size. And used them to keep herself and the children dry, while his father grumbled soaking wet in the water. Playfully he had pulled all of them into the water, and they had all ended up laughing for a long time.

With a sign, Erik sat up again. Daylight was running low, and he needed to find shelter before night came.

He looked around and saw that the eastern shore of the lake was the closest. And even better, there was another small wooden harbor like the one in the city. It too was in a similar state, molded and half sunken into the water.

There weren't any oars in the boat, but there was an arms-long plank. Good enough to row with.

It was only now that it occurred to him to check the water for dangers. Peering at its depths, there didn't appear to be any creatures in it. And he could almost see the bottom. Nonetheless, he was out in the open too much. Sooner or later, something would see him. And trouble would follow, so he needed to find cover and shelter.

Using the plank and whatever strength he had, he started paddling his way towards the shore.

Dammit, why isn’t there a skeleton in the boat? It would be great if I could get an Undead to handle this. Maybe one day, my minion will take care of such tasks for me, he mused, trying to pass the time.

Pain suddenly raked his body. Without immediate danger breathing down his neck, every movement was arduous. He stopped paddling and decided to just let the boat drift to the shore. He'll just have to make do with a camp there, if it got too late.

Erik lay back on the floor of the boat, reflecting on his experience in the Whisper so far as he stared up at the sky.

Something about it felt off. The monotone grayness was… strange, almost fractured in places. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why—until he noticed it.

As the boat drifted closer to shore, thin, white-translucent spiderwebs came into view, stretched high above the water. They shimmered faintly, woven into the sky itself.

Huh... weird.

That was when a light buzzing noise reached his ears, and he lazily looked towards it.

Hovering a few yards above him and staring at him with blood-red eyes was a... mosquito.