Oblivion's First Shot

Six months had passed since Minato had first arrived in this land.

He moved through the village like someone trying on a new life: clumsy at first, then a little steadier. He fetched water and delivered milk, tripped over the same stone three times and made the same old woman laugh until her eyes crinkled. There were bruises and awkward apologies, but there was warmth too, humble faces that accepted him without questions. It was harder than he had expected, and yet, somehow, it was fun.

The only thing that still bothered him was the book. No matter how many times he prodded at it, the cover would not yield. Lady Caelestis had left him nothing but that sealed tome and a smile; Granny had been the one to explain the basics of magic.

Everyone in this world carries a soul, Granny had said, eyes distant with memories. That soul takes shape as Archana. Some lean toward destruction, some toward healing. Most people learn their way within those bounds.

Granny herself, soft hands, slow smile had been a Ruin Archana user in her youth. The thought of the sweet, flour-dusted woman tearing the world apart was ridiculous, but Granny’s stories had the kind of half-smile that meant she’d seen horrors and joys in equal measure. If Granny could be Ruin, then anything was possible. Minato kept asking, in the quiet of his chest, what shape his own soul would take.

He set down a milk jug at the door of a crooked house and felt the familiar thud in his chest. Granny’s voice rustled like dry paper behind him.

“What’s got you so down, my boy?”

Minato jumped. “Ah Granny! It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

She didn’t let that stand. Her hand found his back and squeezed. “You worry too much about your Archana. It’ll show when it’s ready. And when it does, it’ll be as wonderful as you are.” She chuckled. “You used to be so clumsy”

“Alright, Granny, that’s enough,” he said, heat rising to his cheeks.

Her laughter followed him down the path. It was the kind of sound that should have soothed him, but the peace shattered when Lygus barrelled into the square with blood seeping from his arm.

“Emergency! Dire wolves, a whole pack is coming!”

The villagers froze. Granny’s hand clasped Minato’s shoulders with surprising force. “Quickly forget the deliveries. Go warn the houses. Get everyone to the outpost. If reinforcements reach them, they’ll save the village.”

“What about you?” Minato asked before logic could stop him.

Ragnar, the village’s burly protector, landed in front of him like a thrown stone. “Granny and I will hold them off. The hunters, too. You get people out.”

Granny forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “We’re common folk. Most of us only ever awakened Pragma. It helps with chores cooking, a little hunting but it doesn’t grow into true power. Don’t be afraid; do what you can.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they landed like a stone. Pragma. Minato felt the book in his chest as if it might answer back. He ran.

From house to house he shouted, directions spilling out of him like breath. Villagers stumbled from their doorways, clutching children, grabbing sacks, eyes wide with fear. A young man first stepped forward.

“Minato, I’ll run ahead to get reinforcements. Lead the others behind me!”

Their urgency blurred into background noise in his head. Voices echoed as if through water. Minato... are you okay? A hand gripped his shoulder Lucas snapping him back.

“Go,” Minato forced out. “Hurry. Lucas, organize them.”

And then he ran the other way back toward the edge of the village where the hunters had gone to meet the pack.

His feet pounded the dirt. Branches whipped his face. What are you doing? These are monster wolves. You don’t even have proper magic yet. You can’t help. The thoughts were a chorus of doubt that only grew louder with his breath.

He rounded the last clump of trees and froze. Half the hunters lay broken on the ground. Ragnar fought on, teeth gritted as three wolves hunched on him and another chewed through his sleeve. Lygus stood over Preyas, who did not move. And there Granny faced down the pack leader, tiny and fierce and suddenly fragile.

The wolf advanced, enormous and grey, its fur bristling like steel. Granny mustered a thin spear of ice, but the leader’s paw shoved it away. She stumbled, blood blooming where she’d struck the earth. Three smaller wolves closed in, teeth bared.

Minato’s knees folded. He hit the dirt and felt the world tilt.

Move. The word wasn’t rational. It echoed from somewhere inside: Get up, Minato. You promised. You swore you wouldn’t be pathetic again.

Images of his life in the other world and the one before collided with his last breath from the old life, the flash of light, Caelestis smiling down at him. A smaller, broken version of himself mirrored his panic, an accusation in living flesh.

“You promised,” the reflection mouthed. “You wouldn’t run.”

Minato’s fist slammed into the soil. Pain immediately crawled up his arm. He swallowed it down, jaw set. He rose on one knee, chest heaving. Light seemed to gather at his sternum. For a heartbeat, ruinous shapes flickered behind him, like the skeleton of some ancient ruin peeking through fog. Granny, struggling, saw it and found the strength to smile. Her lips formed a weak command.

“Go get ’em, Minato.”

He did not think about fear or consequence. He never wanted to feel helpless again.

A sound tore out of him half scream, half vow and the air answered. The book at his side tore into existence as if pulled open by a hand unseen. Its pages split, revealing an imprint of a ruin carved into the parchment. Shadow uncoiled from the ink like smoke.

“Phantom Arsenal”

Shadows spilled into the clearing and folded into miniature portals, black mirrors humming with cold. From the first one a long, slender rifle of shadow formed, each edge humming like a caged thunderclap.

“Oblivion Rifle!”

The report cracked through the forest. Wolves fell like rag dolls where the rounds struck; smoke curled from charred fur. The villagers around them gasped, the sound thin and fragile.

The pack leader snarled and signalled the others to attack, but Minato’s hands barely stilled. Two more portals tore open behind him, and from each came a mass of dark barrels that began to spin with a bone-vibrating whine.

“Erebus Howl!”

Rotary barrels whirred to life, spitting a torrent of shadow rounds. The clearing became a hail of black light; wolves collapsed in columns. The air reeked of ozone and scorched hair. When the barrels slowed and clinked to a halt, only the pack leader remained, circling with a wary intelligence limned in its eyes.

Minato’s breath fogged in the cold after the gunfire. He cocked his head at the beast as if it were a nervous, receding dog.

“Why you running, huh? Scared?” His voice sounded theatrical even to his own ears. But it steadied him.

The leader lunged, jaws ripping at empty air Minato slid under the leap, breath sharp and close to the wolf’s flank. He rolled and rose in a single motion, and when the beast swung back around, Minato’s shadow hands had already shaped a broad muzzle before it could think.

“Stygian Scattergun. Bam.”

The blast hit point-blank. The leader collapsed with a sound like a struck drum. Silence slammed down on the clearing.

The weapons dissolved, folding back into the Schwarz fog that retreated into the book. Minato’s knees betrayed him; he sagged toward the ground and blacked out.

When he came to, Ragnar’s gruff shape was over him, steadying him. “Whoa there, little man. Rest now, you did great.”

Granny, battered but alive, hauled herself upright and found his hair with trembling fingers. She stroked his head as if tending a sore animal and smiled through the blood.

“Minato, my boy,” she whispered, voice soft with wonder. “You’re a hero. Without a doubt.”

Around them, the villagers moved like people emerging from a bad dream. They looked at him with something new in their eyes, fear braided with awe. Minato’s chest hurt, not just from the fight but from an emotion he had not expected to feel: the terrible, strange relief of not being helpless anymore.