THE CHOICE OF PATHS

Marcus woke to the sound of cheering and rough laughter. He rolled from

his bedroll, squinting in the early morning light that filtered through

the canvas of their makeshift shelter. The refugee camp bustled with

activity—families packing their meager belongings, soldiers checking

equipment, and somewhere nearby, the distinctive sounds of a wrestling match.

He pushed aside the canvas flap and stepped outside, immediately spotting

the source of the commotion. A circle of soldiers had formed around two

figures grappling in the center—one was a lean soldier in leather armor,

the other was Big Tom, shirtless and grinning despite the sweat streaming

down his face.

Tom moved with surprising grace for his size, his enhanced strength evident

in every controlled movement. The soldier wrestling him was clearly skilled,

but Tom's combination of raw power gave him a decisive advantage. With a final

burst of speed, Tom swept his opponent's legs and pinned him to the ground.

The circle of soldiers erupted in cheers and good-natured ribbing. Tom

extended a massive hand to help his opponent to his feet, both men laughing

as they clasped forearms in the traditional warrior's greeting.

"That's three in a row, farm boy," called out Sergeant Harwick, pushing

through the crowd. Marcus recognized the grizzled veteran from their

journey—one of Commander Cain's most trusted men. "You've got something

special there."

Tom's face reddened slightly, but he stood straighter. "Just been practicing

what you taught me, sir."

"Practicing?" Harwick barked a laugh. "Son, you've been training for what,

two weeks? Most of these lads have been drilling for years." He gestured

at the defeated soldier, who was nursing his pride along with bruised ribs.

"Alex here is a five-year veteran."

The soldier named Alex shook his head carefully. "Never felt strength

like that, Sarge. It's like trying to wrestle a bear."

"That's what I'm talking about," Harwick said, his expression growing serious.

"You've got the Spark, boy, and you should learn to use it proper." He paused,

studying Tom with the eye of someone who'd seen many young warriors. "You

should consider joining up once we reach the capital."

Tom's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Join up with who, sir?"

"Lord Hammond's provincial forces," Harwick said without hesitation. "Good

men, honest leadership, and they fight for something that matters. None of

this royal guard nonsense—bunch of pampered city boys who wouldn't know

real combat if it bit them in the arse."

Marcus stepped forward, having heard enough to understand the conversation.

"Morning, Sergeant. You're trying to recruit my cousin?"

Harwick turned, his weathered face breaking into something approaching a

smile. "Morning, Marcus. Your cousin's got talent—real talent. Be a shame

to waste it on farming when there's fighting to be done."

"I'll... I'll ask Marcus," Tom said, looking between the sergeant and his

cousin. "What do you think?"

Marcus studied his cousin's face, seeing the mix of pride and uncertainty

there. Tom had always been strongest when he had clear direction, simple

goals to work toward. Military life might suit him, but Marcus had other

concerns.

"There might be good options in the capital," Marcus said carefully. "Schools,

academies, different kinds of training. We should look around first before

making any decisions."

Tom nodded slowly. "Yeah, Marcus always thinks these things through proper."

"Thinking's good," Harwick acknowledged. "But don't think too long. War's

coming whether we're ready or not, and men like your cousin could make the

difference." He clapped Tom on the shoulder. "You keep practicing, boy.

And if you change your mind, find me. Lord Hammond's always looking for

soldiers with both strength and honor."

As the sergeant walked away, Tom turned to Marcus with the open expression

that meant he was wrestling with something important. "What do you really

think?"

Marcus considered his words carefully. In his mind, he could already see

the possibilities—Tom's strength and magical abilities could be valuable

in many contexts, not just warfare. The capital would offer opportunities

for business partnerships, maybe even entrepreneurial ventures that could

use enhanced strength for construction, transportation, or manufacturing.

"I think," Marcus said finally, "that you and I could be good partners in

whatever we do. Your strength, my ideas—we could build something together.

But let's get to the capital first, see what's available, then decide."

Tom's face brightened immediately. "Partners? Like real business partners?"

"Why not? You've got abilities most people don't, and I've got plans that

could use someone I trust completely." Marcus grinned. "Besides, someone's

got to keep me from getting too clever for my own good."

"That's what family's for," Tom said, returning the grin. "Alright, we'll

wait and see what the capital has to offer. But Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"If things don't work out, and the kingdom really needs defending... I

might want to help."

Marcus nodded, understanding the sentiment. Tom's loyalty ran deep, and

the threat of Malachar was real. "When the time comes, we'll figure out

the best way to help. Together."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of horns—the signal to break

camp and resume their journey. Around them, the refugee caravan began its

daily transformation from temporary village to moving column. Families

loaded their possessions onto carts, soldiers checked their equipment, and

the organized chaos of two thousand people preparing to travel filled the

morning air.

"Come on," Marcus said, starting toward their family's wagons. "Let's get

our things together."

They spent the next hour helping pack the family's belongings and securing

their livestock for the day's march. Marcus's grandfather moved slowly but

steadily, his weathered hands still capable despite his age. The twins,

Tim and Tam, had appointed themselves official keepers of the family's

chickens, a responsibility they took with nine-year-old seriousness.

As the caravan began to move, Marcus and Tom found themselves walking near

the rear of the column, tasked with helping any families who fell behind.

Commander Cain had positioned his most reliable soldiers at the back—men

who could be trusted to protect the vulnerable and ensure no one was left

behind.

The morning air was crisp, and the rhythm of walking soon settled into a

comfortable pace. Marcus found his mind wandering to the future, to the

possibilities that awaited them in Drakmoor. Sister Korra had mentioned

academies, scholars, resources for unusual talents. There would be markets,

guilds, opportunities for someone with modern knowledge and a strong partner.

"Marcus," Tom said after they'd been walking for perhaps an hour, "what

kind of business do you think we could start?"

"I'm not sure yet," Marcus admitted. "Depends on what the capital needs,

what resources are available. But I've got some ideas brewing."

"Like what?"

Marcus smiled, thinking of the innovations he'd already introduced to their

village life. "Soap was just the beginning. There are dozens of things

people need that could be made better, faster, cheaper. Construction

techniques, farming improvements, maybe even basic machinery."

"And you think my strength could help with that?"

"Tom, in my—" Marcus caught himself before mentioning his other world.

"In my reading about other places, I've learned that strength and intelligence

working together can accomplish incredible things. We just need to find

the right application."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "I like the sound of that. Building things instead

of just fighting."

"Though if fighting becomes necessary," Marcus added, "I'd want you on our

side."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the steady rhythm of the

march and the weight of their possessions creating a meditative quality to

the journey. Around them, other refugees struggled with similar decisions—

what to do in a new city, how to rebuild their lives, how to survive in

uncertain times.

By evening, when they made camp for the night, Marcus had filled several

pages of his bark paper with notes and sketches. Plans for products that

could be made with medieval materials, business models that could work in

a guild-based economy, partnerships that might benefit both parties.

Tom watched him work by firelight, occasionally asking questions but mostly

content to sharpen his sword and practice the transmutation exercises

Sergeant Harwick had taught him. The simple, steady companionship felt

right to Marcus—complementary strengths working toward common goals.

Tom grinned. "With you planning and me lifting, how hard can it be?"

Marcus laughed, settling into his bedroll. "Famous last words."

But as he drifted off to sleep, Marcus felt optimistic about their prospects.

The capital would bring challenges, but it would also bring opportunities.

With Tom's strength and his own knowledge, they could build something

worthwhile together.

The question was: what would they wake up to find?

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Marcus Chen jolted awake to the insistent buzz of his phone alarm and the

horrifying realization that he had a chemistry midterm in exactly two hours.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," he muttered, scrambling out of bed while his brain

tried to process the abrupt transition from medieval campfires to fluorescent

dorm lighting. His body still ached from yesterday's walk alongside the

evacuation column, his muscles protesting the sudden shift from physical

labor to academic panic.

"Dude, you're up!" Jake called from his desk, where he was surrounded by

color-coded flashcards and three different textbooks. "I was starting to

worry. You've been sleeping like the dead for ten hours straight."

"Midterm," Marcus croaked, grabbing his toiletry bag. "How did I forget

about the midterm?"

"Because you've been weird and distracted for weeks?" Tyler suggested

helpfully from his computer chair, where he was editing footage from last

night's stream. "Also, you talk in your sleep now. Something about wagons

and bandits. Pretty atmospheric."

Marcus felt his blood freeze. "I talk in my sleep?"

"Yeah, it's like listening to someone narrate a medieval documentary.

Pretty entertaining, actually. Jake recorded some of it for you."

"You WHAT?" Marcus spun toward Jake, who held up his phone with a sheepish

grin.

"Just the funny parts! Listen to this." Jake hit play, and Marcus heard

his own voice, thick with sleep: "Tom, the oxen are getting loose again.

No, wait, that's not an ox, that's Professor Harrison in a chemistry

apron, and he's asking about molecular bonds but the bandits are coming

and—"

"Delete that," Marcus said quickly. "Delete it right now."

"Come on, it's hilarious! You sound like you're living in some epic fantasy

novel while doing homework."

"DELETE IT, JAKE."

"Fine, fine." Jake hit delete with exaggerated disappointment. "But seriously,

you've been having the most elaborate stress dreams. Are you sure you're

okay?"

Marcus grabbed his shower caddy, trying to think of a response that wouldn't

involve admitting that his "stress dreams" were actually memories of a

parallel life where he was currently fleeing magical threats with a refugee

caravan.

"Just... processing a lot of information. College stress, you know?"

Twenty minutes later, Marcus sat in Professor Wilson's chemistry classroom,

staring at a midterm exam that should have been terrifying but felt almost

absurdly simple. After spending subjective weeks worrying about literal

survival, questions about molecular structures and chemical reactions seemed

wonderfully straightforward.

"Mr. Chen," Professor Wilson said quietly, stopping beside Marcus's desk,

"you're working... enthusiastically today."

Marcus looked down and realized he'd been unconsciously applying the same

focused intensity he used for life-or-death problem-solving in Valdris.

He'd finished half the exam in twenty minutes and was attacking organic

chemistry problems like they were military strategic puzzles.

"Sorry, Professor. Just really concentrated today."

"No need to apologize. It's refreshing to see such engagement." Professor

Wilson glanced at Marcus's work. "Your approach to these synthesis problems

is particularly creative. Almost like you're thinking about practical

applications rather than just theoretical knowledge."

Because I am, Marcus thought. Because I've literally used some of these

principles to make soap that saved cattle and improved bread recipes that

fed families. But he smiled and said, "I try to think about how chemistry

works in the real world."

After the exam, Marcus walked across campus with Jake and Tyler, his mind

already shifting back toward Valdris concerns. What was happening with the

caravan today? Had they made good time? Were they safe?

"Earth to Marcus," Tyler said, waving a hand in front of his face. "You're

doing that thing again where you stare off into space like you're receiving

transmissions from another dimension."

"Sorry. Just thinking about the exam."

"Dude, you crushed it. I could practically see the confidence radiating

off you." Tyler pulled out his phone. "Hey, speaking of confidence, want

to celebrate by helping me with a stream tonight? I'm doing a strategy

game tournament, and chat keeps asking when 'the smart guy' is coming back."

"Maybe," Marcus said, then paused. "Actually, you know what? Yes. But can

we focus on defensive strategies tonight? Like, how to protect a group

when you're outnumbered?"

Jake raised an eyebrow. "That's oddly specific."

"Just thinking about asymmetric warfare theory," Marcus said quickly. "It's

fascinating stuff."

Tyler's eyes lit up. "Dude, yes! There's this whole meta developing around

survival tactics when you're the underdog. Chat will love it."

As they reached their dorm, Marcus felt something he hadn't experienced

in weeks: the stakes in the real world were low. The midterm had gone well,

his friendships felt solid, and somehow his Valdris experiences were making

him better at both strategic thinking and practical problem-solving.

Maybe, just maybe, he could succeed in both worlds.