Proclamation Of One’s Invasion

The retreat from the goblin encampment was a chaotic, painful blur. My analytical processes were largely overridden by basic survival imperatives: breathing, movement, and evasion. Rovy’s desperate cries, Bane’s grunts under impact, and Sylv’s frantic, arrowless movements were auditory indicators of a system in critical disarray. The forest, once a quantifiable environment, became an unpredictable obstacle course. Each step was a struggle against the throbbing behind my eyes—a residual effect of the mana interference—and the diffuse pain from various physical contacts.

Our desperate flight continued until the city walls loomed into view. We burst through the nearest gate, a chaotic, unannounced entry. The guards stationed there, initially startled, shouted warnings and demands for explanation, but our momentum was too great, our state of panic too evident for any coherent response. We simply surged past them, a blur of grime, blood, and desperation, leaving them no choice but to follow, their own alarm rising as they witnessed our condition.

We burst through the Guild doors, a stark contrast to the quiet morning we had left. The air, usually thick with stale ale and low murmurs, was now a cacophony of shouts, the scraping of chairs, and the clatter of dropped tankards. Rovy and Bane, despite their visible injuries and exhaustion, immediately began to vocalize the alarm.

"Goblins! An army! Deeper in the Whisperwood!" Rovy shrieked, her voice hoarse, her remaining dagger still clutched in her hand. Her face was streaked with grime and a thin line of blood from her cheek, her eyes wide with an emotion I categorized as extreme alarm.

Bane, leaning heavily against a sturdy wooden pillar, his breath coming in ragged gasps, added his own guttural warning. "Orcs! Big ones! They're organized! It's an invasion!" His voice, usually a low rumble, was strained, the effort of speech visible. His shattered shield, a testament to the recent encounter, lay discarded near the entrance.

Their frantic cries cut through the Guild's morning calm like a discordant frequency. Adventurers, who moments before had been idly chatting or examining mission boards, froze. Their conversations ceased, replaced by a collective intake of breath, a ripple of unease. Faces turned, expressions shifting from curiosity to disbelief, then to a dawning comprehension of the gravity in Rovy and Bane's words. The data of their collective emotional response was clear: fear, rapidly escalating into panic.

Sylv, however, was silent. She stood beside me, her chest heaving, her golden eyes wide and unfocused. Her light armor was torn in places, her blonde hair disheveled, and her face pale beneath the grime. She was a static entity in the midst of the escalating chaos, merely observing, just as I was. Her silence was a deviation from her usual highly reactive emotional output, a curious anomaly. Her gaze was fixed on the unfolding scene, her breathing still ragged, a testament to the physical exertion she had endured. I noted the subtle tremor in her hands, a residual physiological response to stress.

The cacophony of panicked shouts and desperate warnings intensified around us. Adventurers, now fully roused, began to cluster, their voices rising in a confused chorus of questions and exclamations. Guild staff, initially stunned, moved with a newfound urgency, attempting to ascertain the full scope of the reported threat. Amidst this escalating chaos, Sylv's continued silence struck me as a significant deviation from her established emotional patterns. Her usual response to stress involved high-frequency vocalizations and erratic movements. This stillness was an anomaly.

"What is wrong with you?" Sylv's voice, though still hushed by exhaustion, cut through the din, directed at me. Her golden eyes, now focused, narrowed slightly. "Why are you just... standing there? Say something!" Her question, while emotionally charged, presented an opportunity for data acquisition.

"Aside from the Adventurer's Guild and the City Guard, what other factions exist within the city of Raven?" I responded, my voice flat, devoid of the panic that permeated the air. My gaze remained fixed on her, observing her reaction to the unexpected redirection of her inquiry.

Sylv's brow furrowed, her expression shifting from exhaustion to profound confusion. "What? What are you talking about? Now is not the time for... for questions about city factions! Don't you see what's happening?!" Her voice rose slightly, bordering on a frustrated shriek.

Rovy, overhearing my question as she stumbled back from a brief, agitated exchange with a group of adventurers, turned to me, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Einar, are you serious? We just escaped an army of goblins and... those things! And you're asking about factions?"

Bane merely grunted, shaking his head, his confusion evident.

"The acquisition of comprehensive data is always relevant," I stated, my voice unwavering. "Understanding the complete organizational structure of this urban environment is crucial for optimal strategic planning in the event of a large-scale hostile engagement. Therefore, the existence of additional factions is a pertinent query."

Sylv let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "He's hopeless. Look, yes, there are mercenaries. A lot of them. They mostly stick to themselves, take contracts, fight for coin. But they don't really get along with the Guild, or the City Guard. Too many… 'differences in methodology,' as you'd probably put it." Her tone was laced with exasperation, yet she provided the information. A predictable response, given her inherent need to explain.

I processed the information. Mercenaries. An independent, combat-oriented faction, operating outside the direct control of the established Guild or City Guard. Their presence introduced new variables into the city's defense matrix. The stated ‘differences in methodology’ suggested a lack of cohesive strategy, an inefficiency that would need to be addressed. My mind began to run simulations, integrating this new data. A multi-factional defense, if properly coordinated, could optimize resource allocation and tactical deployment. However, the reported animosity presented a significant obstacle to such coordination.

Perhaps, a direct intervention is required to optimize the information dissemination. My thought registered the need for a more direct approach. The current method of relaying information through emotionally compromised individuals was proving inefficient. The language barrier, though subtle, was also a factor. I needed to simplify my output.

I took a step forward, moving away from Sylv and the others, towards the growing cluster of agitated adventurers and confused guards. My presence, a static point amidst the chaos, drew a few curious glances. I raised my voice, projecting it with calculated force to cut through the din.

"Attention!" My voice, flat and devoid of emotion, was nonetheless amplified by the sudden silence that fell over the nearest group. "I possess information regarding the current hostile threat."

A few adventurers turned fully towards me, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and a desperate hope for clarity. A City Guard captain, a burly man with a scarred face, pushed through the crowd, his hand on his sword hilt. "Who are you? And what information?"

I paused, a microsecond of processing. My initial phrasing had been too complex. I needed to adapt. "Listen," I began again, simplifying my vocabulary, "we encountered a large group of goblins. More than usual. And with them, were orcs. Their presence indicates an alliance, a coordinated effort." I paused, allowing the image to form in their minds. "They were organized. Their pursuit was... controlled. They allowed us to escape."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Guild. Disbelief, fear, and a dawning understanding flickered across faces.

"This indicates a strategic manipulation," I continued, my voice steady, my gaze sweeping across the faces. "We were not merely escaping. We were sent. We are couriers. The information we carry is their intention: a large-scale assault on Raven. An invasion."

My pronouncement, delivered with a detached certainty, ignited a fresh wave of chaotic vocalizations. The murmurs escalated into shouts, questions, and arguments. The Guild Hall transformed into a volatile system, its components—adventurers, guards, Guild staff—now reacting to a new, more precise data input.

"An invasion?!" A burly warrior, his armor dented, slammed a fist on a nearby table. "Are you mad, boy? Goblins don't invade! They raid!"

"And Orcs? We haven't seen Orcs this close to Raven in decades!" another adventurer, a grizzled archer, added, his bow now clutched tightly in his hand. The collective emotional output shifted from generalized panic to a more specific, agitated skepticism.

The City Guard captain, his face grim, stepped forward. "This is a serious accusation. Do you have proof of this 'alliance' and 'manipulation'?" His gaze, sharp and analytical, fixed on me, attempting to ascertain the validity of my claims.

"The proof is in the observed anomalies," I stated, my voice unwavering. "Their numbers, their coordinated tactics, the presence of larger, more intelligent entities, and the deliberate cessation of pursuit. These variables deviate from established goblin behavioral patterns. The logical conclusion is a planned, strategic offensive."

Arguments erupted. Some adventurers, those who had witnessed larger-scale conflicts or possessed higher analytical capabilities, began to consider my words. Others, driven by fear or ingrained disbelief, dismissed them as the ramblings of a traumatized, or perhaps insane, individual. The Guild Master, a thin, balding man who usually managed the administrative flow with quiet efficiency, now looked overwhelmed, his hands trembling slightly as he attempted to restore order.

"Silence! Silence, all of you!" he finally bellowed, his voice surprisingly strong. "This is not the time for bickering! If there is even a chance of an invasion, we must act!" He turned to the City Guard captain. "Captain, what do you propose? We need to fortify the city. And we need every available hand."

The Captain nodded, his expression grim. "Indeed. We'll need to mobilize the City Guard fully. I will send runners to the Lord's manor immediately. But even then, our numbers are limited. We'll need the Guild's full cooperation." He swept his gaze across the assembled adventurers, then hesitated, his eyes flicking towards the entrance. "And... we will need to speak with the mercenaries."

Just as the Captain finished speaking, the heavy wooden doors of the Guild Hall swung open with a creak that cut through the lingering tension. A group of hardened individuals entered, their presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. These were the mercenaries, their expressions unreadable, their gear well-maintained, a stark contrast to the battered adventurers already present. Their arrival was not a quiet entry; it was a deliberate, almost challenging intrusion into the Guild's space, immediately drawing all eyes. Among them, I noted the scarred mercenary woman, her gaze sharp as she surveyed the chaotic scene, a cynical smirk playing on her lips.

"Well, well, well," the scarred mercenary woman drawled, her voice low but carrying, addressing the room at large. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on the Captain. "Looks like the Guild's finally having a bad day. What's the fuss, Captain? Did a stray goblin raid your pantry?" A ripple of uneasy laughter, mostly from her own ranks, followed her words.

The Captain's jaw tightened, but he held his composure. "This is no raid, mercenary. We have an emergency. An invasion is imminent. Goblins and Orcs, organized. We need your blades."

The mercenary woman raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine interest, or perhaps amusement, in her eyes. "Orcs, you say? That's a big claim, Captain. And a big payday, if true. But what's in it for us? Your Guild's always been quick to push us aside when the easy coin's flowing. Now you need us, suddenly?" Other mercenaries around her grunted in agreement, their gazes flicking between the Captain and the agitated adventurers, clearly enjoying the Guild's predicament.

"The survival of Raven," the Captain stated, his voice firm. "And fair compensation, of course. The Guild will pay for your services, proportionate to the threat. We need every able body on the walls. This isn't a raid, it's a war."

A heated debate erupted. Adventurers from the Guild voiced their distrust, citing past grievances and the mercenaries' perceived lack of loyalty. "They only fight for coin! They'll abandon us the moment things get tough!" one shouted. "They're unreliable! Untrustworthy!" another added. Mercenaries countered with accusations of the Guild's arrogance and unwillingness to share lucrative contracts. The air crackled with resentment, a predictable outcome of their established antagonistic relationship.

"Their fighting skills are useful," I interjected, my voice cutting through the renewed clamor. "Their reason for fighting, while money, is clear. If we set up clear agreements, using them in our defense plan would make everything work better." My statement, while logical, was met with blank stares and renewed grumbling. The idea of "making everything work better" was clearly not a priority for these emotionally driven entities.

The Guild Master sighed, running a hand over his bald head. "He has a point, however... difficult to swallow. We need every blade, every spell. Captain, approach them. See if we can negotiate a temporary alliance. For the city's survival."

The scarred mercenary considered the proposal, her eyes narrowing. "Separate gates? No overlapping patrols? No Guild interference in our operations?"

"Precisely," the Captain confirmed, a hint of relief in his voice. "Each gate, its own command. But unified under the city's defense."

After a tense silence, the mercenary woman finally nodded. "Fine. A temporary alliance. For Raven. But if your 'invasion' turns out to be a few stray goblins, we'll be having a very different conversation about payment." Her words were a grudging acceptance, a conditional agreement based on the perceived severity of the threat. Other mercenaries, seeing their leader's decision, began to grumble less, some even nodding in agreement. The immediate crisis had forced a temporary, albeit fragile, cohesion.

With the grudging agreement secured, the Guild Hall erupted into a flurry of organized chaos. The Guild Master, now with a renewed sense of purpose, began barking orders, directing adventurers to gather supplies, prepare defensive positions, and relay messages to the city's Lord. The City Guard Captain, his face still grim but with a hint of grim determination, dispatched his own men to reinforce the city walls and organize civilian evacuations from the outer districts. The mercenaries, surprisingly efficient despite their earlier protests, began to move with a practiced discipline, checking their weapons and armor, forming small, cohesive units.

I observed the process, my analytical mind cataloging every detail. The deployment of resources, the allocation of personnel, the inherent inefficiencies of human coordination under duress. My gaze swept over the various groups, noting the strengths and weaknesses of each faction's approach to defense. The Guild relied on individual prowess, often chaotic. The City Guard, on rigid hierarchy and limited numbers. The mercenaries, on self-interest and brutal effectiveness.

As I compiled this data, a figure detached itself from the mercenary group, moving with a fluid grace that caught my attention. She was tall, with long, straight purple hair that cascaded down her back like a silken curtain. Her pupils were a striking, opaque white, contrasting sharply with her dark skin. Her attire was practical, yet elegant, a mage's robes that seemed to flow around her with an almost ethereal quality.

She approached me directly, her presence radiating a subtle, yet distinct, mana signature. It was different from the ambient mana, more refined, more controlled. She stopped a few paces from me, her gaze fixed on my grey eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips, a hint of amusement or perhaps something more profound.

"An interesting aura you have," she drawled, her voice low and resonant, like distant chimes. It was a voice that held both power and a subtle, teasing quality. "And those eyes... a rare shade indeed. A canvas, they say. Untouched." She paused, her gaze deepening, as if probing my very essence.

"What is the meaning of eye color here?" I inquired, my voice flat, my gaze unwavering. The correlation between physical attributes and mana capabilities was a variable I had not yet fully cataloged.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to resonate with the mana around her. "Ah, straight to the point. I like that. I am Asverta." She offered a slight, almost imperceptible bow of her head. "And to answer your query, Einar, eye color often hints at one's innate magical affinity and uniqueness. White, for instance, suggests purity, perhaps light, or an unblemished connection to mana itself. Black, shadow, or darkness. But grey..." Her gaze lingered on my eyes, a peculiar intensity in her white pupils. "Grey is a void, a potential. A blank canvas, indeed. And I sense... a peculiar flow of mana around you. Unrefined, but undeniably potent. You are not from around here, are you?" Her tone shifted, a subtle probe into my anomalous existence, a question that was less a query for information and more a statement of observation.

"My past is not important for this fight," I stated, my voice flat. "But your words about eye color and magic are quite useful. I need to know more about how to use mana, especially how to change it into… ‘elements’." My gaze remained fixed on her, a challenge in my gaze. My previous attempts at direct mana application had been inefficient. This individual possessed knowledge I lacked, a valuable resource.

Asverta's smile widened, a genuine curve of her lips. "Straight to the point, huh? I appreciate efficiency, Einar. Very well. The city will be fortifying its defenses, and a mage with your... potential... could be a useful hand. Come with me. We can begin your education." Her tone was light, yet carried an undeniable authority, a subtle dominance that I registered as a new, interesting variable.

She led me away from the main chaos of the Guild Hall, towards a less crowded corner where a few other mages were already preparing. Asverta began her instruction, "Mana, Einar, is everywhere," she explained, gesturing with an elegant hand, a faint shimmer appearing around her fingertips. "It flows through the air, the world, even within living beings. To convert it into an element, you must first understand the essence of that element. Fire is passion, destruction, warmth. Water is flow, adaptability, life. Wind is freedom, swiftness, dispersion."

I listened, absorbing the data, attempting to reconcile her poetic descriptions with my own cold, hard logic. "These are abstract concepts," I noted. "How does one quantify 'passion' for elemental manipulation?"

Asverta chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "You'll learn. Sometimes, Einar, the most logical path isn't always the most direct. Try this." She demonstrated a simple hand gesture, a focused breath, and a small, flickering flame appeared in her palm. "Focus on the sensation of heat. The desire to burn. The raw energy of combustion."

I replicated the gesture, attempting to mimic the flow of mana I observed in her. My fingers twitched, a familiar hum of energy building. I focused on the concept of 'combustion,' the rapid oxidation of matter. A faint warmth emanated from my palm, then a tiny, unstable flicker of orange light. It was crude, inefficient, but undeniably fire. "…It works" I stated, observing the nascent flame.

"Good. Now, try water. Think of fluidity, pressure, the crushing force of a wave."

I shifted my focus, attempting to visualize the properties of water. The mana in my hand coalesced, becoming denser, colder. A small sphere of shimmering liquid formed, then dropped to the floor with a soft splat. And then, wind. The sensation of movement, of air currents. A gentle breeze, barely enough to stir a loose strand of Asverta's hair, manifested.

"Impressive, for a beginner," Asverta commented, a genuine note of surprise in her voice. "Most struggle with even one element on their first try. You grasp the concepts quickly, Einar. But your approach… it's almost too detached. You understand the mechanics, but not the feel." She paused, her white eyes studying me. "What are your limitations? What are your boundaries?"

"I am currently assessing all variables," I replied. A new hypothesis was formed. If mana was a neutral energy, and if my body was merely a vessel, then the application of mana should be universally applicable. "Can one's own mana be used to inflict harm upon oneself?"

Asverta's smile faltered slightly. Her expression became unreadable, a flicker of something I couldn't immediately categorize. "Why would you ask such a thing, Einar?"

"To understand the parameters of its application," I stated. "If the energy is neutral, its direction should be entirely subject to the wielder's intent. Therefore, self-infliction of damage should be a viable outcome."

Before she could respond, I extended my hand, focusing the nascent fire mana into my palm, directing it inward. A surge of heat, a sharp, burning sensation. My skin reddened, the smell of ozone filled the air. But then, abruptly, the heat dissipated. The mana, instead of intensifying, simply dispersed, leaving a faint warmth and no lasting damage. It was as if an internal failsafe had activated.

Asverta watched, her white eyes wide, a gasp escaping her lips. She quickly reached out, her hand hovering over mine, a subtle wave of mana emanating from her, assessing. "Einar! What were you thinking?!" Her voice was sharp, laced with an emotion I now recognized as concern, though it was quickly masked by her usual composure. She pulled her hand back, her brow furrowing. "No. Your mana, your magic, cannot harm you. It's a fundamental law of this world, Einar. A protective mechanism inherent in all living beings who wield mana. It's... it's a part of you. You cannot truly turn it against yourself."

She shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. "You really are... something else. Most people would recoil at the thought of self-harm, let alone attempt it with magic. What drives you to such... extreme logical conclusions?" Her gaze softened, a hint of something akin to pity, or perhaps a deeper understanding, entering her white eyes. "You wish to understand everything, even the pain, don't you? Even the limits of your own existence." Her words were not a question, but a statement of observation, a surprisingly accurate analysis of my internal programming.

"Understanding is the primary objective," I stated. The data from the failed self-incineration was valuable. A new law of this world, a fundamental constant.

"Indeed," Asverta murmured, her gaze still fixed on me. "But some things, Einar, are perhaps best understood without direct experimentation." She paused, then a sudden commotion from outside the Guild Hall cut through the air. A distant, muffled roar, followed by the unmistakable clang of metal against stone, and then the high-pitched, frantic shouts of someone.

My head snapped towards the sound. Asverta's white eyes widened, her earlier composure replaced by a grim realization.

"It's starting," she whispered, a new, serious tone in her voice. "The invasion."