My legs move forward—one step after another—each footfall sinking slightly into the uneven forest floor covered in dark leaves from last year that have not fully broken down. There’s a gentle give to the soil, soft and damp with last night’s dew. Despite all the effort I put into minimizing my load—taking only what’s essential—I’m still heavier than I want to be. And there’s simply nothing more I can do about it.

  I even left Heavy behind.

  It still feels wrong, even if I know it was the right call. Heavy hasn’t seen real use in some time, not since I switched over to Light. The difference between them isn’t even worth debating anymore—Light wins in every category: weight, balance, speed, mana conductivity. Heavy is nostalgic... but obsolete.

  Ahead, the long column of people continues to move steadily deeper into the forest. The formation stretches out in a slow, purposeful line—The Army leads at the front, uniforms neat, pace even, dictating direction and speed. Behind them follows a messy trail of adventurers, where no two people are equipped alike.

  And yet, the atmosphere isn’t tense. Quite the opposite.

  The sun filters softly through the canopy overhead, turning everything gold and green. Leaves rustle with the breeze blowing gently from behind—from the direction of Rockwall City. The temperature is perfect. The light is just warm enough, the wind just cool enough. It almost makes you forget why you’re here. Almost.

  I’d say days like these are made for leisurely strolls. A peaceful walk through an old forest, no pressure, no looming threat. Just sun, wind, and nature. Everything in me wants to close my eyes and breathe it in.

  But I can’t.

  Because under the surface—beneath the calm expression, the practiced posture—is a fucking volcano. And it’s erupting.

  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

  HOW?!

  Did that old fart of a healer or the incompetent pharmacist with hands growing out of their ass fuck up the dosage?!

  Only now—an entire day since the last dose—does my head finally begin to clear. And with that clarity comes the horror.

  It was like I was wrapped in fog. Like I was there, but... not quite me. A warped version of me that I never would believe existed. One with my face, my voice, but not my mind.

  And the shit I said. The shit I did.

  WHAT. THE. FUCK.

  These motherfucking healers... Fucking dilettante imbeciles!

  This isn't a case where side-effects caused some rash or nausea.

  This was a full-on personality hijack!

  Can I take legal action for this? There has to be some kind of recourse—an ethics board, a guild tribunal, something. Because this? This isn’t just negligence. This is a CRIME!

  As memories return in scattered, painful pieces, I flinch. Literal cringe. Each recalled word feels like a dagger of secondhand embarrassment stabbing my ribs.

  Where did that confidence even come from? The way I talked... It was like I was possessed by a fucking bard straight out of a poorly written third-rate romance novel for desperate noble ladies over forty.

  And speaking of romance—HOW THE FUCK DID I END UP IN BED WITH TARA AGAIN?

  I trace it back, piece by piece. Scene by scene. From the last moment in her room to the first step into the tavern that evening. We talked—gods, we talked for hours. About mana oil viscosity, reagent grades, trade routes, supply chain logistics. Riveting stuff, I know.

  But somewhere in that cascade of logistics and theoretical binding patterns... we just kept talking. The tavern emptied. Night fell. People left, and we didn’t notice. We kept walking. Walking and talking. Until we reached her place. Until the door shut. Until our clothes vanished.

  No words of invitation. No clear line where things turned. Just a seamless slide into—

  I pause.

  Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t enjoyable. But that’s not the point.

  It wasn’t me who made that decision.

  It was the other me. The drugged me.

  And that horrifies me.

  It’s just like what happens when I get drunk. Same blur. Same lack of filter. Same detachment from rational thought.

  So... what? Booze and pharmacy products are just two sides of the same coin now?

  Why the hell am I so weak to this kind of thing? Is it something about my constitution? The healer said that everything was fine...

  Hmph.

  Even with all that said, there’s something I can’t deny—the ‘me’ under the influence gets shit done.

  Got a temporary smith badge, trade permit and my name inked into the official Smith Guild register all in a single day. Everyone seemed much friendlier for whatever reason...

  And then there’s Mike. That stubborn bastard agreed to rent me a corner of his forge after ten minutes of casual banter. TEN. MINUTES.

  Joe found me dozens of customers who had already placed orders and were willing to pay in advance, not that I took the money. A handful of 'Harv Bow’, a few daggers, several swords and shields, a single set of basic armor and much much more. It got to a point that I was questioning if I should even skip the orc quest.

  Yet the drugged me easily explained to everyone that I’ll be gone for a week or two and that it may take some time before their orders are ready.

  And no one got angry.

  No one argued.

  They just... smiled and said they’d wait.

  HOW?!

  WHY?!

  If it were me—this me—they’d haggle, complain, threaten to cancel. But that version of me? People just agreed with him.

  HOW?!

  I DON'T UNDERSTAND!

  And that leads to another thing I don't understand.

  WHY THE FUCK DO THOSE DRUGS SPIKE MY LIBIDO LIKE THAT?!

  Why did I keep visiting Tara?

  I mean... I get it. I’m not blind. The way her bright green eyes lock on yours, that sly smile, those hips, and her large-

  A deep sigh escapes me.

  Nothing changes it seems.

  Once a cheater, always a cheater.

  Wait. Is it even cheating?

  I never slept with Ennie. And we haven't seen each other in years. It's over. Whatever I feel now... it’s just echoes.

  Maybe the problem here is me.

  Maybe I can’t just let it go.

  I let out another long, tired sigh.

  Time to move forward. Focus. The past is in the past. Now is the only thing that matters.

  And now... now I have to figure out how to deal with people when I’m... uh... me.

  That 'me' smiled like a buffoon at everyone, laughed at every joke, and was more... open about personal space... like some kind of-

  Huh?

  Wait.

  Was that the reason why people appeared friendlier? Because I was too?

  Wait a minute.

  Was all this time... I the problem?

  Am I to blame for how coldly people treat me?

  NO.

  NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT!

  IT’S THEIR FAULT.

  ...

  The light from the setting sun slowly fades, submerging the area into eerie half-darkness. The torches have already been lit around, but they don't provide enough light to fight against the coming darkness of the night forest. Around the camp, the low murmur of voices and sound of people moving around fade into a quiet rhythm—people are finishing up their tents, settling in before the night truly begins.

  Those assigned to the night watch are already curled in their bedrolls, catching what little rest they can before their long shift begins. The air is thick with the scent of canvas, firewood, and the distant crackle of cooking fat.

  My team’s already finished our setup. Tents pitched, gear secured, and the fire burning with a soft, steady glow. Joe’s hunched over the pot, stirring something thick and aromatic that still needs time before it becomes edible. He hums under his breath, half-tuned, half-absent, his focus locked on the simmering pot like it owes him money.

  And me?

  I’m on the other hand, finally doing something I’ve been meaning to for a while—something I hadn’t found the right time or space for until now.

  The hunting knife in my hand shimmers faintly as I channel mana through it. A thin, almost imperceptible film of energy coats the blade evenly. With careful focus, I nudge the mana toward the edge, compressing it into a sharper line, a razor-thin barrier of concentrated force.

  I pause. Inhale. Hold.

  Then I try again—for what must be the hundredth time today.

  And like every other attempt before, the mana trembles, spasms out of rhythm, and then collapses entirely, dispersing into the air like dust.

  "You're doing it wrong, Harv," Olev says beside me.

  He raises his own knife—still faintly glimmering from when he’d just sliced off a piece of dried meat—and gestures for me to look.

  "Here," he says, holding it out. "You're trying to force it. That’s not how it works. You don't move the mana—you let it oscillate on its own."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  I narrow my eyes as I lean in.

  A thin, uneven aura of mana clings to the edge of his blade, barely visible. And then, suddenly, it begins to hum, a low, steady buzz emanating from the blade, as though it were alive.

  I nod, slowly.

  I try again.

  Same result.

  The mana wobbles, twitches... then fizzles away.

  "Are you sure there’s no spell matrix involved?" I ask again, for who knows what time.

  Olev sighs with the fatigue of a man who’s had to repeat himself too many times. "Harv, for the last time—I don’t know. I’m not like you and Vana, always knee-deep in magic theory with your runes and sigils—"

  "Matrices," I interrupt automatically.

  "Yeah, yeah. Matrices, formulas, unicorn farts, whatever. I don’t deal with that. I just do what they taught us back in the Academy."

  "But that doesn’t make—"

  "Harv, stop." He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I don’t have your fine-grain control and don’t know the magic theory. I just know what works and what is being taught. ‘‘Oscillation Blade’ is all about the feeling. The image in your head. A bell. A gong. How it resonates. How it ripples through the air around it."

  I close my eyes and try again, replicating his method step by step, down to the imagined echo of the bell ringing in my skull.

  The mana shudders.

  No hum. No buzz. Just an uneven flicker. Again.

  A low growl escapes me, followed by a stream of muttered curses.

  "Hey. Chill." Olev pats my back. "You’re close, man. Took me months to get it right, and look how far you've reached in just a few hours."

  "Can you show me again?"

  "Dude, rest. You need a break. I do too. I’ve got more mana than you, sure, but it’s not bottomless. And I don’t regenerate it as fast as your weird ass does."

  "Sorry. I was just—"

  "It’s fine. I get it. Vana’s the same. You should see how she rambles on when she comes across a new spell, gets so deep and technical into it that I barely understand a third of what she says."

  He stands and stretches with a grunt. "Gonna take a leak," he says, and walks off between the trees.

  As soon as he’s out of view, I turn back to my blade.

  Frowning, I summon mana again.

  Same process. Same results.

  The mana wobbles around like a drunken bird trying to fly in a hurricane.

  Shit.

  Maybe the image is wrong? But he was specific—the bell, the way it rings, how it echoes.

  I’ve never struggled to move my mana before. It’s always obeyed. Bent to my will. But now... it’s not about control. It’s the opposite. I need to feel it. Let it move. Let it... oscillate?

  Whatever the fuck that means.

  I go slower this time.

  Mana to blade. Then to the edge. Picture the bell. Picture the oscillation.

  The line of mana quivers like a dying caterpillar.

  Still not right.

  Shit.

  Again. Faster.

  Fuck.

  Again. Less mana.

  Damn.

  Again. More mana.

  FUCK.

  And again, all while the curses continue streaming.

  "You’re not very creative," someone commented behind me.

  I turn, scowling.

  What?

  It’s that bald adventurer, a member of Olev's uncle's team. The one who invited us on this quest. Chainmail, smug smile, and too much confidence.

  "The swearing," he clarifies, stepping closer. "You’re stuck on the classics—‘shit,’ ‘fuck,’ ‘damn.’ They’ve got their place, but there’s a whole world out there, you know."

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond.

  "Here, let this senior help you." he says, clearing his voice "First things first. There is always a structure. There are core words, the lynchpin for the insult. The foundation. These can be used by themselves as well as in combination with others. ‘cunt.’ ‘bitch.’ ‘twat.’ ‘cock.’ ‘wanker.’ ‘slag.’ ‘fuckwit.’ ‘bastard.’ The classics. I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of them, some are widely used around, some are unique to specific regions or professions, and they have varying power from person to person and from context to context. But never forget to diversify your repertoire as new ones pop from time to time naturally as language is not a static thing set in stone, but rather an evolving creature constantly in motion."

  What?

  "Second. Only when you start using those core insults in combination with auxiliary ones, which aren't curses on their own but add context or a flavor so to say, do they truly shine. You should never underestimate how much more momentum a single word can give, even to the simplest of insults. And it’s not just an adjective, it can be a noun or even a verb! For example 'sleeping twatwaffle', 'damp shitstain', 'asscrack explorer', 'overexploited fuckface', 'shiny cumstain', 'shoe sniffer', 'arseclown', 'jizz gargler', and many more. You get the idea, right?"

  What?

  "But that’s not the limit! Only when you add personality, an identity to attach them to, and combine with the aforementioned, do you produce something truly unique, a masterpiece, something that people remember, something that sticks for years and becomes a second name for some, like 'bug-eyed ratwhore', 'baboon-faced needledick', 'goblin-nosed cockpolisher', 'piss drinking shitpusher', 'jizz smelling enthusiast'."

  What?

  "Still, even with all that said, there are times when a regular word can cut deeper than a direct insult—if it carries a context only those nearby truly understand. Like calling someone with one arm shorter than the other a ‘clock.’"

  I just stare at him, speechless.

  He stands there, utterly serious.

  No one around even reacts. Like this is normal.

  What?

  What?

  I never really thought about swearing like this. They just... come out when I’m angry. I don’t plan them. They’re reactions.

  But now I’m thinking...

  Why do people swear? What is swearing? An insult? A weapon? A kind of psychological warfare?

  Huh...

  It’s weird. I’ve used them all my life, but never thought about their purpose.

  "Ignore him," Olev says, returning from the trees. His tone is dry. "Brian just likes to hear himself talk."

  The bald one—Brian—turns his full attention to Olev with a grin.

  "Oh, Olev-boy. Still licking your wounds from last time? Come on. One more match. I’ll go easy on you. Promise."

  "Screw you, you walking hairless ballsack," Olev fires back. "I’m not playing that dumb game again."

  Brian cackles, moving beside him with exaggerated sympathy. "Aww, did it hurt too much? It's my bad, I was too rough. But hey, if you want to redeem your honor—"

  "No."

  "Just a little duel. I won’t even sing this time."

  "I said no."

  Brian nudges him with an elbow, practically glowing with mischief.

  I stare at the exchange, stunned.

  Olev—who’s always calm, collected, the composed team lead—actually looks flustered. Snapping back. His tone sharp, his expression unguarded.

  He looks... normal.

  Human.

  If someone asked me to describe Olev, I’d say he’s solid. Dependable. Reliable. Likely someone with a Warrior Class. The guy who always knows what to do. Cool under pressure. Confident.

  But watching him now—his voice rising, his eyes narrowing, his ears going slightly red under the teasing—I realize...

  That image?

  I built that.

  I decided who Olev was. Fit him into a tidy little mental box. Wrapped it with the label: "Leader".

  But he’s not that box.

  He’s just a guy. Like me. With his own quirks. His own weaknesses. His own temper. His own pride.

  His own dreams.

  And suddenly, I wonder—have I done this to everyone?

  Built them into versions of themselves that only exist in my head?

  And if that’s true...

  Is there a version of me that lives in their heads too?

  A fake one?

  One that isn’t me at all?

  ...

  We keep walking. One foot in front of the other, the rhythm so monotonous it’s like the world itself forgot how to change.

  My body moves automatically, but my thoughts? They seethe. A boiling pot with the lid half-on.

  It’s the third day now. Still a day—maybe two—before we reach the region where the orcs were last spotted. And I’m already sick of this goddamn march. Every muscle in my body feels like it's been sanded down with rocks. The soles of my feet hum with dull pain that flares each time I take a step. And there’s no sign of it easing up anytime soon.

  The last time I had to travel for long, we had a cart. The walking was mostly left to the horse, while I sat and kept watch for possible foes. That cart was a piece of junk—barely holding together with the tarp overhead filled with holes. But right now, I would pay actual gold just to sit under that holy mess again. Hell, I’d even ride in the back while sitting next to smelly farm animals if it meant I didn’t have to feel my legs anymore.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have joined this quest.

  I should be back at the smithy, hammering out orders, surrounded by metal, fire and opportunities to learn. I could be eating something savory and hot, or something spicy and crunchy—something that didn’t come out of a travel ration pack older than some of my tools.

  But no, I had to follow an emotional impulse.

  And because of me, Olev and Joe had to join too. I didn’t ask or force them to, not directly, but we are a team and they couldn't just leave me alone. And now I can’t exactly just turn around and walk back—not without causing a significant headache to all three of us.

  No matter how badly I want things to be different, I have to pay for a decision made in the heat of the moment.

  So I keep moving.

  With each step, I circulate mana through my limbs, letting it trickle into sore muscles and joints. Small pulses, just enough to ease the pain and stimulate the healing. It's not perfect, but it helps.

  In my right hand, the dagger glows faintly. A soft shimmer of mana dances across its edge, flickering like a candle in the wind. I continue working on it. The ‘Oscillation Blade.’ The thing Olev used against the troll and has been trying to teach me. The mana no longer wobbles like it did before—it’s steadier now, more refined, the vibration more uniform—but the control is still shaky. I can hold it for a second, maybe two, before it slips and dies out again.

  But there’s progress. And that counts for something.

  What I’ve figured out is that this isn't a spell. It’s not a structured matrix I can dissect, analyze, and reassemble like a puzzle. It’s not even unstructured freeform magic. No. It’s a skill.

  And skills are cruel bastards.

  You don’t learn a skill by studying it. You don’t read your way into mastery. You do it again and again, until your body just... gets it. Until your nerves remember what your mind can’t quite explain. Until something inside clicks, and the movement becomes instinct instead of effort.

  So I walk. And I work.

  One foot in front of the other. Mana pulsing. Blade shimmering. Mind churning.

  At least out here, I have the time.

  ...

  Yet another day of walking.

  The only light that reaches us filters down in rare beams, broken and scattered by the thick forest canopy above. It's the kind of light that makes everything feel distant, like we’re walking through an old, forgotten place.

  No one speaks anymore.

  The conversations, once a dull background hum, have died out. Everyone's tired—exhausted, really—and waiting for the order to stop. Waiting to drop their gear, sit down, and pretend their legs haven’t turned to stone. But the command doesn’t come. Instead, time slows to a crawl, drawn out by heavy breathing and the endless rhythm of boots on dirt.

  One foot in front of the other.

  One step.

  Another.

  Left.

  Right.

  One—

  A chill rips across my back like ice water being dumped over my spine. Every hair on my body stands on end, and before I even understand why, I react.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Mana surges into Light as it's halfway out of its scabbard.

  The people around me flinch, stepping away in confusion, but I barely notice.

  The [Echo Pulse] result returns quickly, but it's... useless. Everything it shows, I can already see. Trees, path, my companions. No signs of hostility. No movement beyond what’s expected.

  And yet—

  Now I notice.

  The silence.

  It isn't just quiet—it’s wrong. The kind of silence that makes the skin crawl.

  Middle of the day. Sun overhead. Not a single bird. No buzzing insects. No rustling in the underbrush.

  Nothing.

  I don’t wait. Mana wraps around me like a second skin, and [Force Aegis] flares to life.

  Some of the others glance my way, confused. A few start to whisper, then pause as they notice it too. One by one, they fall into silence.

  Then the whispers begin to spread, urgent and low.

  Someone runs ahead to warn the officers.

  Then it happens.

  Reality shatters like a mirror.

  And they’re just there.

  No warning. No sound. No movement from the trees. One moment, it’s just a forest path. The next, we’re surrounded.

  Orcs.

  Hundreds of them.

  A single heartbeat of absolute stillness.

  Then—

  A warcry shatters the air like a crack of thunder.

  Everything explodes.

  Arrows fly. Magic flares. The world turns into a storm of chaos.

  I move.

  An arrow bounces harmlessly off the [Force Aegis] around me, but there’s no time to think. An orc barrels toward me, a massive wooden club swinging. Light, now sheathed in mana, arcs once—clean and sharp—and splits him from shoulder to waist.

  Another comes, nearly on top of the first, wielding a claymore almost as large as he is. His blade glows with mana—real, structured, focused. My blade meets his, but the force behind it is overwhelming. I slide back a full meter, boots carving trenches in the earth.

  The orc doesn’t follow up. He leaps back.

  Why?

  I don’t have time to wonder.

  A moment later, a [Fireball] slams into the ground near me.

  Heat. Light. Pressure. Screams.

  The explosion turns the world white and red. My barrier absorbs the brunt, but it drains mana like water down a sinkhole. I grit my teeth and push more into it. Just enough to avoid turning into charcoal.

  Others aren’t as lucky.

  I hear them. Screaming. Dying.

  The air itself is too hot to breathe.

  I leap from the flames, coughing, eyes stinging. And he’s there again—the claymore-wielding orc. Already mid-swing. I can’t block. Not in time.

  More mana. I force it into the [Force Aegis] at the last second.

  Impact.

  Pain explodes in my side as I’m launched like a thrown doll. I hit the ground hard, all air forced from my lungs.

  Coughing. Gasping. Ribs burning.

  Move.

  Danger.

  Death.

  MOVE!

  I flood my limbs with mana. My body groans in protest but obeys. Muscles twitch and tense. I force myself upright, vision swimming.

  Light is still in my hand. Good. Losing the only weapon right would be catastrophic.

  [Echo Pulse]

  A shape near me—no time to look.

  I spin, Light swinging to intercept. Mana surging into my weapon. Metal screeches as I’m driven backward, back slamming into a tree. The tip of a mana-blazing claymore stops centimeters away from my face.

  My blade didn’t cut through his.

  How?

  Doesn’t matter.

  He’s stronger. Much stronger. Mana around his claymore is much thicker than around Light. My arms shake as I try to hold him back, mana pouring into my limbs, but I’m losing ground. Slowly, the edge of his blade crawls toward my eye.

  No.

  Closer.

  No.

  No.

  NO.

  The bell.

  I see it. A massive bell, suspended in stillness.

  And then—a gigantic hammer strikes.

  The world rings.

  Light vibrates violently in my hand. The claymore and its wielder explode in a wave of pressure and gore. Blood, hot and sticky, showers me, seeping into my eyes and mouth.

  I gag. Cough. Wipe furiously.

  Still blind.

  Still alive.

  Movement around me. Heavy footfalls. Breathing. Someone—something—is close.

  Ally or enemy?

  I can’t risk it.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Shapes bloom in my vision like a monochrome painting. Mana silhouettes locked in combat, falling, flaring, fading. A massive blob of mana surges toward me—hostile.

  I stop trying to clear my vision.

  The bell image floods my mind again.

  Light begins to scream in my hand, vibrating at a frequency that makes my teeth ache.

  Then—impact.

  Another shriek. Another body, shredded and thrown aside.

  I'm now covered in even more blood.

  I don’t care anymore.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Another outline falls.

  The pulses come faster now. My world is broken into brief images, like frames in an unfinished painting. Between each, I move. I strike.

  Again.

  And again.

  I don’t stop to count. I don’t stop to think.

  Hostile blobs of mana glow with chaotic instability, easy to pick out from the refined shapes of adventurers.

  I walk the line between them, a specter with a bell tolling in my mind.

  The screams become background noise. The heat, the pain, the weight of gore on my body—none of it matters.

  Only the next target.

  Only the next swing.

  Only the bell.

  Let it ring.