Ryan staggered back to his shack on the edge of the Cipher Woods, his body screaming with every step. His legs were heavy, his arms burned from swinging his sword and drawing his bow, and his face was a wreck—dirt smeared across his cheekbones, sweat cutting tracks through the grime, a fresh cut on his cheek crusted with blood. The bull chase, the bandit camp, the chaos—it had wrung him dry. He kicked the door open, dropped his Void-forged bow and quiver in a corner, but left his longsword outside, propped against the wall, its leather leash coiled neatly.
No need to raise suspicions in town; a kid carrying a sword openly invited questions. He only brought it inside when he needed to clean or sharpen it, keeping it out of sight otherwise. He collapsed onto the creaky cot, not bothering to eat or wash. Sleep hit like a sledgehammer, and he was out for a full day, his snores shaking the thin walls.
When he woke, the sun was sinking, casting a dull orange glow through the shack's single window. His stomach growled, but his body felt functional again—sore, but ready. He splashed water from a cracked basin onto his face, scrubbing at the dirt, and got to work. Four months until the academy admissions, and he wasn't close to ready. Not yet.
For two months, he hunted relentlessly in the Cipher Woods, targeting wild hens—fast, twitchy, but predictable once you learned their tells. His archery was rough at first, but he ground it out, day after day, until his shots started hitting consistently.
By the end, he'd reached novice level—nothing fancy, but enough to drop a hen at twenty yards, even in a gust. "Good enough," he muttered after pinning one mid-sprint, its body thudding into the dirt. He retrieved the arrow, his hands steady, the motion automatic now. Archery wasn't his focus; it was a tool to stay versatile.
In the Void, he pushed his sword skills harder. He'd always been solid with a blade, but now he was building something new—a sword art, his first. It was rough, practical, not some flashy technique from a bard's tale. He called it "Slipstream," a name that fit how it felt: fluid, natural, like an extension of his body.
It wasn't about attacking; it was about surviving—deflecting, parrying, redirecting force. He drilled it thousands of times in the Void, his muscles screaming as he turned clumsy blocks into smooth counters. "Not bad," he said, panting, after deflecting a Void construct's strike, his blade humming as it glanced off the target. It kept him alive, and that was all he cared about.
He pulled more gear from the Void—a full set: a sturdy leather cuirass, bracers, greaves, all lightweight and fitted to his frame like they were made for him. Each piece cost five days of training, a brutal price, but he needed the protection. He wore the armor under his clothes—patched shirt, worn trousers—to avoid drawing eyes. It was snug, hidden, but reassuringly solid. The Void's rules were ironclad: one extraction per week, nothing beyond his skill level.
No mythic blades, no enchanted armor—just gear he'd earned through sweat. He stashed it all in the Void's limitless storage, calling it forth only when needed. His guild card, earned from his days as a butcher's assistant, went into the Void too. No sense risking it getting lost or stolen; it was his ticket to the academy, and he wasn't taking chances.
His senses were sharpening fast. The sonar-like ability, once a strain that left him with splitting headaches, was now effortless. He could map his surroundings with sound—every rustling leaf, every snapping twig—without the mental ache. His vision had grown razor-sharp, picking out a hen's flicker through dense brush at fifty yards. Paired with the sonar, it was deadly. "This is who I am now," he said one evening, standing in the woods, eyes closed, letting the sounds paint the world around him. It felt as natural as breathing.
Four months to go, and he was nearly set. The Aurelian Dukedom's academy sector demanded a valid identity proof for entry. His guild card, safely tucked in the Void, covered that. Without it, he'd need ten to twenty silvers—a fortune for a kid from a nowhere town like this. He'd earned the card gutting game and carving meat, bloody work that paid for his food and secured his future. He wasn't rich, wasn't connected. That card was everything.
In the final days, he prepped for the journey. He locked up the shack, its weathered boards creaking as he pulled the door shut. The lock clicked, heavy and final. He stood there, hand on the splintered wood, staring at the place that had been home. "Guess that's it," he said, voice low, no one to hear. His gear— sword,bow, arrows, armor—was stashed in the Void, ready to be called. He wore his armor under his clothes, the leather pressing against his skin, hidden but solid. His guild card stayed in the Void, safe. He carried a small, sturdy canvas bag, just big enough for a waterskin, some dried meat, and a flint. Nothing to weigh him down.
He set out at dawn, the sky heavy and gray. The road was a rutted dirt path, eroded by rain and cartwheels. His boots crunched with each step, a steady rhythm. The Cipher Woods loomed to his left, their silence familiar but heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder, its weight light but grounding. The academy was days away by foot, a long haul from this speck of a town in the Dukedom's outskirts. No horse, no coin for a cart—just him, his gear, and the road. "One step at a time," he muttered, adjusting the bag's strap. He didn't look back. The academy was his shot, not for glory, but for a life where he could stand tall. He was selfish, always had been. Survival was all that mattered, and he'd claw his way to it, one gritty step after another.