CHAPTER 29 — The Travelers on the Mountain Path

The wind cut sharply across the narrow mountain trail, tugging at Ivan’s cloak and carrying with it the faint tang of mana. The cliffside above jutted into the sky, jagged and unyielding. Every stone under his boots seemed unstable, yet Ivan moved with practiced care. He had learned long ago that rushing through uncertain terrain could cost far more than just time—it could cost life.
A faint rustle caught his attention.
Voices. Hushed, strained… almost whispered.
Ivan paused, ears straining. Fear and desperation clung to their tone. He could sense it, faint threads of panic woven into the air around them. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, though not in preparation for combat. These weren’t enemies… but something was very wrong.
Creeping forward along the path, he followed the sound around a bend. A gnarled mana tree grew there, twisted and ancient. Its branches shimmered faintly with the energy of the mountain, casting shadows that danced unnaturally.
Beneath its shade stood a small group:
A tall, lean man, hunched, carrying a child on his back. A sword hung loosely at his waist, a reminder that even in desperation, he could defend his family.
A woman, clutching a bundle of supplies, her knuckles white, pale with worry.
A wizard woman, staff in hand, runes glowing faintly, leaning on it as if the weight of magic itself sapped her strength.
A knight, a man in silver-blue armor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning every shadow like a hawk.

And the boy… small, fragile, his skin tinged with a sickly blue light. Each breath came shallow, ragged. He seemed almost unreal—too thin, too delicate, and yet somehow alive.
Ivan’s heart tightened, as it always did in the presence of imminent death. He stepped carefully, not wanting to startle them.
“Who goes there?!” The knight’s voice rang sharp and commanding. He stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I’m not an enemy,” Ivan replied calmly, his tone steady. His eyes, however, never left the boy.
The wizard woman’s gaze pierced him, narrowing as she whispered, “…That mana… what are you?”
Ivan didn’t answer. He crouched slightly, keeping his hands visible, letting his focus remain on the boy.
Selra and Dorian, the parents, finally noticed him. Worry and fear clung to their expressions.
“Please… if you’re a traveler, we mean no harm,” Dorian said, voice trembling. “Our son… he’s sick. We’re trying to reach someone who can save him.”
Ivan studied the boy, taking in the shallow, uneven breaths, the faint blue veins running beneath pale skin, the way the boy’s small chest barely rose and fell.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Aren,” the mother whispered. “And we’ve tried… everything. No one can cure him.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed, his mind assessing the situation. This was not a common mana fever. Not a simple sickness. The energy clinging to the boy was old, ancient, malevolent. It had lived for decades—maybe centuries—feeding on life itself.
“I want to see him,” Ivan said quietly.
Dorian stepped aside, fear and hope warring in his expression. The sword at his waist glinted faintly in the setting sun. “Please… help him.”
Ivan reached out, his hand hovering just above Aren’s chest. He could feel the threads of corruption crawling through the boy’s body like tiny, writhing serpents. Something alive, clinging desperately to the boy’s life.